October 9th, xxxx (Night)
THE ELDERS DANCE LIKE swans in the central courtyard under the moon, legs slightly buckling forward when they rotate their middle in tandem to their hands.
In the darkest corner they could find, the soldiers not on night duty—all eight of them including the Cap—have begun betting on drinks, loudly egging each other on.
The squeaks of children fill the air like cricket music, excitedly running around—a rare adjust from their sleeping early on a school night while the adults cocooned in blankets and shawls sit on mats, rocks and balconies talking in hushed tones, observant eyes on the children and trained side-eye on the teenagers huddled in a circle nursing cold soft drinks playing a sort of board game.
Mates on the other hand munch on snacks—little sweet things stuffed of sugar, honey, cinnamon and butter—heads on their partner's shoulder or just lying around on carpeted grass gazing at the acne starred sky.
Everyone is preoccupied doing their own thing but not Kamil. Well, in a way it is his thing that he enjoys every now and then. Because you see, his eyes never leave the Alpha—a hidden long-time hobby of his.
The Alpha stands off-centre appearing casual. He's anything but. His hips lean against the back of the Alpha stool—an ancient cushioned high stool fashioned in teak, elegant cuts and swirls by the cuffs of the arm and the heels of the legs. He stands like a guard trying to be commonplace but fails miserably.
Alpha North. Beautiful Alpha North of hair like raven, eyes like midnight, generous mouth, marvelous body—on the lean muscular side than his bulk—that'll look good under him or above him, he isn't picky.
Better yet, Alpha North will look good on his knees; that well-manneredness of him coming undone as Kamil takes him over the edge and that suit—that forsaken suit crumpled, torn, thrown away.
On all fours panting for release, that tie bound around his neck like a leash—a leash Kamil will use to guide puckering lips to his erection, warm mouth sucking him in, swallowing him deep, soft-spoken voice reduced to a whimpering, moaning, begging mess.
Antsy, he adjusts, uncomfortable at the growing bulge in his trousers. Is so focused on the Alpha and trying to cool himself down at the same time he doesn't notice an Elder creep on him.
"He's worth a spectacle, don't you think?"
Jolting from daydreaming, Kamil plants a palm on his chest, heart swinging wildly like a sledgehammer. Taking a second to calm himself down before slowly turning to see Elder Yotu grinning from ear to ear, the big sized mole under her eye smudge like a stain, pasty face covered in a sheen of sweat but her white hair loosely braided rests peacefully down her spine cresting above her butt doesn't seem to have gone through the sweating strain.
Elders are the only family allowed to grow their hair longer than an Alpha's current style. The more aged and experienced an Elder is, the longer hair braided.
Collecting himself, Kamil instantly kneels to touch her feet, stands, presses a hand across his left chest and greets in their native tongue. The Elder nods, acknowledges and prattles off succinct blessings but the grin doesn't leave.
"Goddess, you walk like a ghost."
The Elder laughs.
"It's not funny. It'd embarrassing if a soldier such as myself dies by fluster."
Releasing a clasped hand from behind, she pinched his right cheek and he feigning affront, gasps.
"You are a cheeky little child. It's a good thing you're handsome." He returns her smile.
YOU ARE READING
Making The Alpha Submit (BL)
Werewolf"I can't do that," he says softly, staring absentmindedly in the whiskey glass, "I'm the Alpha." "So?" "So, I'm not supposed to be this.... submissive," he spits, eyebrow creasing as if the whiskey glass is a rotten tomato. "Come here." Kamil instru...
