Breaking the Alpha Beast

by Ana Felix

  Breaking the Alpha Beast

  Copyright 2016 Ana Felix

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, or locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce this text or portions thereof in any form whatsoever except as provided by the U.S. Copyright Law.

  This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please return to your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Cover designed by Anne Hutchins.

  Main image: Pali Rao, iStockPhoto.com; all other images: pixabay.com.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  About Ana Felix

  Connect with Ana Felix

  ONE

  Twenty-nine days earlier…

  A high flung full moon, bright opal in the dark. Low moans of pleasure morph into intense screams of feral passion from deep within the bowels of the huge mansion’s amphitheatre off Sunset Blvd on the border between West and North Hollywood.

  Ian l’Argent, rock star and secret lycanthrope, feels the transformation begin even as he drives his thickening cock deep, deeper into his beautiful supplicant. He feels stiff follicles push through the skin of his back, chest, belly and limbs. He feels his canine incisors grow long and sharp, piercing the pillow of his bottom lip.

  He needs a partial transformation in order to perform before the audience waiting to enter the amphitheatre; what he doesn’t want is to become a massive wolf and rend that audience to bloody shreds. As the supplicant raises her hips to meet his thrusts, Ian senses the urge to kill and consume ebb as a cleansing orgasm wracks his body. The tingling climax worms up his shaft and he shakes all over as if he now possesses the fetters of a wolf.

  He isn’t finished. He must drink from the supplicant’s cunt, now damp from the comingling of her own juices and his spunk. She arches her back and offers herself to him, eyes closed and knees splayed wide apart. He grins, then grasps her kneecaps, pushing her legs farther apart until they are flat on the bed. The woman’s thighs tremble in anticipation as Ian lowers his face between her legs and begins to lap at her labia, twisting his tongue deeply into her. She throws her head backward and moans brokenly as he laps and drinks, his tongue opening her.

  In an hour he is onstage singing savagely into a microphone. His sweat-curled hair, cut just above his shoulders, tosses back and forward dotting his alpha-broadened chest with droplets of perspiration.

  Backstage the supplicant dresses quickly, not bothering to clean herself or take a shower. She slips out the back door, telling the roadie guarding it that she desperately needs a smoke. She has done this for years and so he has no reason to think she’ll slip away forever. He knows she’ll come back. But this time she will not return.

  Beneath the light of the high full moon she disappears into the warm Los Angeles night. Before they discover her missing she will be long gone. She knows they won’t bother looking for her—they will simply find another supplicant as they’ve done many times before her own tenure. They know where to find the right girls. They also know she’ll never tell Ian’s secret to the tabloids, nor to his fans on social media. No one would believe her even if she wanted to. She will simply vanish as if she’d never existed.

  Claire Pomeroy feels the heavy dull pull of jetlag fill her limbs with dense sand as she opens the passenger door of the black Escalade and slides against the cool leather. She closes her eyes for a brief moment, seeing bright flashes play against the backdrop of her eyelids.

  She listens as the driver opens passenger doors, ushering in the four giggling young women she’d escorted on the nine hour non-stop flight from Heathrow to LAX on the l’Argent private jet. Claire desperately craves caffeine, ibuprofen and her soft mattress—not necessarily in that order. She has only one task before she can indulge in those three remedies: turn her charges over to a chaperone at a nearby hotel. Fortunately the hotel is only a short drive down West Century Blvd and she’ll be ferried to her apartment in West Hollywood, stopping at a Starbucks or a Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf for a triple shot iced Americano along the way.

  As the driver starts the Escalade, Claire roots through her Balenciaga Arena bag for a packet of Advil she is certain is buried at the bottom of the handbag. As her fingers brush the edge of the packet her phone’s screen lights up with an incoming call. Her boss, Malcolm “Mal” Tranter. “Fuck it to hell and back,” she lip-syncs, rolling her eyes at the SUV’s ceiling. With a fake and rigid smile trembling her lips, she answers the call in a tone she hopes sounds cheerful. “Hi, Mal. Just touched down a few minutes ago.” Cautiously, “So…what’s up?”

  “I’ll tell you ‘what’s up’,” Mal Tranter’s nervous voice rumbles in her ear. “There’s a bloody full moon coming up in three days and no replacement girl for Ian, that’s what. Are you on your way to the Courtyard on Century with the girls?”

  “Yes, we’re almost there. I can drop them off and—”

  “And go home to nurse your jetlag I suppose? Well, we’ve no time for that. You’ll have to supervise with me. We’ll handle the…selection…process at the hotel. Ian’s with me now, waiting. So get your arse and those luscious Hastings arses over here. I’ll be in the lobby to escort all of you up to the rooms.”

  “I thought we were going to do this at the venue.”

  “There’s little time—particularly if the girls don’t work out. If there’s no chemistry with Ian, we’ll have to send for another group.”

  “It took me nearly three days to locate these girls.”

  Claire hears an exasperated grunt and a rushed exhale at the other end of the phone. “Well,” Mal says, his voice edged with sarcasm, “I guess we’ll have to cancel the concert and keep poor Ian chained up in bowels of his amphitheatre.”

  Claire sees the hotel looming in the distance. “We’re almost there. See you later.” She terminates the call before Mal can issue another expletive.

  She’d been in Mal Tranter’s employ little over a month and she was already regretting her career decision. She’d left a cozy social media management position at a San Diego PR firm who’d hired her after she’d served as an unpaid intern for six months upon her graduation from college. After three years her salary had increased but her duties remained the same and she hated her cubicle. She was allowed to telecommute a couple of days during the week, but she often ended up at noisy coffeehouses with flaky Wi-Fi. She also drank too much espresso and had a difficult time getting a decent night’s sleep. She craved variety beyond finding interesting articles to share on Facebook and Twitter for the firm’s clients.

  Ian l’Argent, feral rock star, was one of the firm’s biggest clients and she managed the social media for that account. Mal Tranter, l’Argent’s manager, was impressed with Claire’s writing and organization skills and offered her a position as his assistant—at double her current salary. She’d be little more than a gofer for the abrasive manager, but she’d also have the opportunity to travel across the country and overseas—and best of all, released from cubicle jungle.

  She knew that Mal Tranter was an
impatient and abrupt man, but she hadn’t realized that this behavior spanned a full 24 hour cycle. With every command she visualized fingers snapping in front of her face. His saving grace was that he was as lavish with praise as he was with criticism. Claire cherished the moment when she was allowed to go home, praying silently that her phone wouldn’t ring before she’d reached the parking garage of her condo complex.

  Claire feels a slight centrifugal force as the driver expertly swings the big SUV directly in front of the hotel entrance. She inhales a deep cleansing breath before pushing the passenger door open. She allows the driver to usher the girls out of the Escalade without her help. She gazes over the SUV’s hood at the entrance of the hotel as if it is the very maw of hell. She sighs again before shepherding the girls, who are no longer giggling, into the hotel.

  TWO

  Claire watches as Mal Tranter paces back and forth before the assembled young women like a drill sergeant reviewing new recruits. The girls have completely sobered up by the time they’ve entered the hotel room, casting their eyes downward and blinking nervously. Mal stops before the last girl and takes her jaw in his hand and says, “Hastings stock all right. Let’s hope at least one of them passes Ian’s…test.”

  Claire nods even though she has absolutely no idea what this “test” entails. Impatient man that he is Mal hasn’t yet bothered to explain such details to his new assistant. She’d been given instructions to travel to the Hastings borough of East Sussex on the south coast of England to fetch at least four local girls and bring them back to Los Angeles. Mal hadn’t mentioned anything about “testing” the girls beforehand and so she’d assumed they would be background dancers for the l’Argent concert. The only requirement had been that each girl had to have been born in Hastings.

  Still eying the girls, Mal walks a few steps backward and raps on the bedroom door of the suite with the back of his knuckles. “Okay, Ian,” he mutters at the door. “They’re here and they’re ready.”

  Ian l’Argent emerges from the suite’s bedroom wearing a white tee shirt and silk pajama bottoms. One hand reaches up and absently scratches and pulls at the collar of the tee shirt. Claire fights—in vain—the urge to look below the waistband of the pajama bottoms. He isn’t wearing underwear and the impressive cock beneath the smooth thin fabric sways and writhes like a thick snake as he moves.

  Claire has been in Ian l’Argent’s presence only a handful of times and he’d always tossed no more than a few monosyllables her way. She wasn’t sure if it was contemptuous arrogance or a weird form of brooding, introverted behavior that occurred only when he was off-stage. She secretly hoped it was the latter—he’d be flawed, but not a jerk.

  Ian walks past Claire, giving her only a quick sidelong glance as he moves. Idly he scans the four young women and favors them with a non-genial smile. “They’ll do, I suppose. Bring them along, all of them.” Tossing his head in Claire’s direction without looking, says, “Bring her, too. She needs to know and I’m certain you haven’t told her how things work, have you, Mal?”

  Mal clears his throat nervously. “Now, surely, Claire doesn’t need to witness the…test. I can explain after you’ve…”

  “No. She needs to see for herself. Bring her along.”

  Claire squares her shoulders. “It’s okay, Mal,” she says gamely. “I can handle anything.” Actually she isn’t sure about this, but her unease has given way to curiosity.

  Ian turns to look at her. He has never looked directly at her and she is amazed at his tawny eyes, like the turning of golden autumn leaves. “Well,” he says, one corner of his well-defined lips lifting in a half-smile, “you’re certainly the bold one, aren’t you?”

  Claire isn’t sure if she should respond, so she returns his smile in kind and lifts her chin slightly. Please, she thinks to herself, don’t let curiosity kill this cat.

  * * *

  The four girls stand a few feet from the queen-size bed wearing only their bras and panties. They appear feverish with anticipation as they scissor and grind their thighs together. It’s obvious they know what’s going to happen, and Claire assumes it will involve something sexual. Strange way to audition groupies, she thinks to herself. He wants an audience.

  Prurient interest keeps Claire from averting her eyes. And why should she pretend to be chaste and slightly offended by this performance? She wouldn’t be fooling anyone—including herself.

  Ian motions for the first girl to come to him. Obediently she lays upon her back on the bed and moves to pull her underwear down. Ian brushes her hand away from the waistband and grips it, dragging the panties from her hips, down her thighs and with a flourish tosses the undergarment aside. The girl allows Ian to part her thighs with his strong hands, bending the legs at the knee and pushing them backward so that her pelvis is slightly elevated. While one hand cups the girl’s buttocks he begins to knead the knuckles of his other hand against her cunt, priming her juices. She begins to pant and moan, her head lolling backward, forward, sideways.

  Despite herself Claire feels arousal begin deep in her core, stinging and tunneling its way to her sex. She presses her thighs together and feels a tiny blossom of orgasm. Not enough to emote, but enough to flutter her eyelids. She hopes no one notices—especially her boss.

  Meanwhile, Ian is lapping at the girl’s swollen labia and she’s arching her back and crying out a mixture of expletives and religious oaths. He doesn’t bother to bring the girl to full climax as he abruptly sits up and turns to face Mal, lips glistening with the girl’s vaginal sap. He shakes his head, voice grim: “She’s not the one.”

  Mal doesn’t answer, keeping his expression impassive, brings the rock star a can of club soda and a large glass bowl. Ian takes a swig of the club soda, swishes and gargles, then spits the liquid into the bowl. Wordlessly he gives the girl a gentle shove off the bed, motions for the second without looking at her.

  The girl he’d just sampled tumbles to the carpet and crawls a few steps, then shakily gets to her feet and heads for the bathroom, a hand plunged into her cunt. Claire knows that the girl needs release and so will masturbate before cleaning herself up. She glances at the three remaining young women. They have all been furiously rubbing themselves shamelessly, waiting their turn. Claire turns from them and arches her brow and puffs her cheeks as if to say, “Jeez, can you believe this?”

  Claire watches as Ian repeats his “test” on the three girls in their turn, one after the other. Each time he shakes his head and tells his manager that the particular girl is “not the one.” Mel Tranter rubs his face roughly in a circular motion, runs his hands through his hair in exasperation. “Well what the bollocks are we going to do?” he says, his voice raised a pitch at the end of the sentence. “We’ll have to cancel the fookin’ concert. There’s no time to fetch more girls.”

  Ian turns to face his manager, ignoring the discarded young women as they search for their underwear. He aims a curved thumb toward Claire. “What about her? Her name is Pomeroy; it’s a Norman name.”

  Claire blinks rapidly. “Are you serious?” she says, trying to be calm yet indignant. The reason for this test hasn’t ever been explained to her, yet the results are important—and urgent, apparently. Enough for her to sacrifice her dignity. Yet deep down at her core she feels something—a twinge—at the edge of her conscious mind. It’s always there, sporadically flooding her thoughts with impulses that inherent modesty tamps back, barely. Like when she watched the old Ray Harryhausen version of Jason and the Argonauts one night and dreamed of being fucked over and over again by the giant Cyclops’s horn, hurtling her toward a massive toe-curling orgasm in her sleep. Or in her gynecologist’s examining room with her knees bent and splayed open, feet in the stirrups, waiting for the doctor and feeling the cool air swirl into her. She had an irresistible urge to touch herself before the doctor returned to the room.

  Raw erotic thoughts always at the periphery.

  Now, having just witnessed something outrageously carnal, she
feels the barrier breaking. Despite herself she is aroused and prepped for sex, yet she must present some decorum, some modesty, to save the image she must present to the world. “Are you serious?” she repeats.

  Mel Tranter scowls at Ian. “Serious and quite desperate. If we’re forced to cancel the concert no telling what ten thousand angry fans will do to the amphitheatre. Not to mention that such a postponement will cause a major scheduling clusterfuck.” Turning to Claire, Mel’s face becomes uncommonly sympathetic. “I—we—wouldn’t ask something of you so…improper…were it not an emergency. I can leave the room whilst Ian…tests you, of course.”

  How can she acquiesce without betraying that guilty twinge of excitement? “All right…” she says, halting, hesitant, then gestures futilely, palms lifted and open. “What should I do…?”

  Mel Tranter glances quickly at Ian and leaves the bedroom without a word, obviously embarrassed for his assistant. Claire stares at Ian l’Argent, hoping he doesn’t note the slight tremble in her arms and legs. She suspects he has some sort of preternatural sense—an animal sense.

  The rock star’s smile morphs into a smirk as he approaches her carefully. Despite herself, Claire takes a step backward. “Don’t worry,” he says, reaching an index finger to release a lock of auburn hair from behind her ear. “I won’t bite you—unless you want me to, of course. You’re a strong sturdy girl, not like those four waifs—I’m quite sure you could adequately defend yourself.”

  Claire’s mouth is a firm straight line. “Sturdy girl”—a polite way of saying she is plump. Claire has heard it all. She stares at Ian, mute, and allows him to lead her to the bed. He gently pushes her down to sit at the edge of the bed, then guides her to lay flat. She feels him push her skirt up to bunch round her hips, then feels his knuckles gently graze her outer thighs, knees and calves as he pulls her panties past her ankles. Despite herself she gasps softly. He’s taking his time with me, enjoying this.