Alpha Omega Alphaette

ALPHA OMEGA ALPHAETTE: A LOVE STORY

For your perusal pleasure and entertainment, an Alpha tale

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Fred was a manly man. A man's man. College football. Gym rat. Controlling. Not just confident: cocky!

Alpha dawg for sure! Bordering on psychopathic. And he had the body to back it up. At 45 he was in better shape than most guys half his age. He was one tough dude. He wasn't afraid of trouble: He welcomed it.

He was happily married to Wilma. She was the commensurate Alpha man's wife. She was an Alphaette. She fed off Fred's alpha vibes and enjoyed the attention it got her. She too was fit. She too could probably whup any ordinary male. She was fully capable of protecting herself. And she was the complete package. In addition to being fit she was pretty. She exuded sexuality. Add to that she was gregarious. Outgoing.

They got a kick out of going to rougher bars and displaying and exercising their alphaness. This particular evening they went to a local bar where they were somewhat known but not regulars. It was a bar with a small dance floor, televisions showing sports, a couple of pool tables, dart boards, and of course plenty of seats and booths to drink at.

Fred and Wilma sauntered in and sat at a table. A younger obviously Beta couple recognized them and attempted to join them. No way! They were pesky bar flies to Fred and Wilma. Why degrade themselves with that kind of company. Fred put his hands on the chair backs and said those seats were taken. Fred saw some fellow alpha males playing pool and he figured he would exert his ultra-alphaness by beating them at pool. Besides, when alphas engage with other alphas they all appear super-alpha. So much testosterone exudes from these communions that it forms a visible mist.

Before he did that, though, he spent some quality time with his wife. He made sure everyone knew that she was his woman. They laughed and played and touched. Good for them! Every couple should have such fun! They both had some beers then some shots. He looked around to be sure everyone knew not to approach Wilma unless they accepted the peril that it entailed.

Fred was feeling good as he approached the pool tables. The other alpha dawgs sized him up and deemed him worthy to be with them. Their alpha brotherhood was faux but congenial. Their exclusive club made the ladies swoon and Beta males envious. Fred was having a good time.

Wilma sat by herself but not for long. Soon guys worked up the bravado, or really the false bravado, to go to her table. When they did they were unexpectedly rewarded. She was friendly and gave pleasant conversation. She was soon up and dancing with some of them. Fred wasn't concerned: he kept his eyes on her and she knew he would come to her in a heartbeat and kick someone's ass if he or she felt uncomfortable.

This continued for a while when some guys came in and sat near Wilma's table. They were the arch enemies of the Alphas: the Pretty Boys. The Pulchritudinous Pack. The Gorgeous Gang. Probably rock-n-roll wannabes or has-beens. One of them, the prettiest one, saw Wilma dancing. She was worthy of his pursuit so he turned on the charm.

He had longish hair and a thin face. He was tall and lean like a flower's graceful peduncle. His arms and legs protruded from the stalk like wiry tendrils, not bulky leaves, yet his overall corpus was muscularly svelte if there is such a thing. He was fit for his thin physique. He too was in his forties. He went up to Wilma as she was dancing with someone else and gently pushed him aside saying to Wilma: "Honey! I knew we would meet again. Let's get reacquainted and pick up where we left off. I've been missing my sweet angel."

The other guy sulked away. Wilma had no idea who this new guy was but he had nerve and he was cute. They touched as they danced. She smiled at him and he smiled back. He was a great dancer. It honored Wilma to be with a man who was clearly the best dancer there. After a few dances they returned to her table.

His name was Peter. Wilma had enough alcohol in her to make her ditzy. They told each other their names. She snickered at his name. He began asking her questions about herself. Peter sized her up as crass but fun. And pretty. And doable. She said she was there with her husband and he said he didn't mind. They tested each other's boundary for sexually suggestive innuendo.

He teased, "What do you do for fun, m'lady?"

"I enjoy music good sir," she playfully replied. "Do you play anything?"

"Oh, I'm a quite successful player." He snarked, "Maybe we could make some beautiful music together."

They both laughed at his purposefully lame pick up line.

"How about you? Do you play any musical instruments?"

" In high school I played the flute," she said proudly.

"The small flute? What is it called... the dickolo?" He chided.

"You mean the piccolo?" she responded.

"No, I meant the dickolo. The flesh flute. "

They both laughed out loud like two kids.

" Some Australian Aboriginese guys blow something called didgerodoo. Have you ever blown one of those?" He asked.

"No. I've never blown an Australian Aborigine. Did you enjoy it when you did?" She chortled.

"Oh my!" He exclaimed feigning embarrasment. "Touche!"

They both burst out laughing.

There was chemistry between them.

That brought them some attention. Some of the guys at the pool table said to Fred "Hey, it looks like your wife is enjoying someone else's company."

Fred looked over at them and said "I know. I've been watching them. He can have a little fun but I guess I'll go over there and take out the trash now."

Fred could sense his adrenaline pumping. It was liquid joy. Testosterone. Destroying this Beta was going to be a piece of delicious cake, especially since Alpha Fred got to do it in front of his Alpha cohorts. "This is going to be a bloodbath!" Fred thought.

He had never been more right. It was certainly going to be a bloodbath. Fred walked over to the table. He sized the guy up: no problemo. This guy better get up and walk away while he can. He stood in front of Peter and said derisively "Ok, dude, let's go."

"You aren't my type I'm afraid," Peter responded.

"You'd better be afraid," Fred threatened. "Now get up and move. You know that's my wife. "

"Yes. She's lovely. And a lot of fun!" Peter winked at her. She was impressed. "I think I'll stay here with the lady."

"That's it," Fred scowled. "Let's take it outside."

By now a crowd had gathered. There was going to be a fight. Alpha versus Beta.

Brawny versus Scrawny.

Mighty oak versus sprig twig.

Wilma was as surprised as everyone else when Peter got up and followed Fred outside. The crowd figured he was either too stupid or too stubborn to know he was about to get beat to a pulp. Pretty Boy was about to get pretty brutalized.

Once in the parking lot they squared off. "You deserve the ass kicking you're about to get." With that Fred extended his arm and mockingly nudged Peter's shoulder. "I'm going to..."

Before he could finish the sentence, before he could retract his arm, he provided Peter the opening he needed.

Peter wasn't super strong but he was fast enough and he knew what he was doing. He quickly hit Fred hard in the nose with his upturned palm. Instant epistaxis. Blood spurted everywhere. Before Fred could throw a single punch Peter commenced to beating the holy shit out of Fred. Both his eyes swelled shut. His bloody snoz hindered his breathing. The fight was over in mere seconds. Of course Peter ended it with an artful coup de grace MANdatory kick to Fred's balls. The sound of Fred's nuts squishing reverberated through the hushed crowd. The concussion to Fred's nether region also resulted in some involuntary anal expulsion. Peter had literally kicked the shit out of Fred.

As Fred sprawled on the gravel he looked up to Peter and gasped, "This isn't the end."

Peter chided: " This is the end. You see me again, I'll beat your ass again. You bring your buddies, I and my buddies will kick your ass again. Capiche?"

Fred wasn't done yet. "I'll sue you, you prick."

Peter guffawed. "Sue? Are you saying your name is Sue? A boy named Sue? Enjoy the rest if your evening, Sue. Get some rest. You are a disgraceful bloody mess. You... Alpha rabble-rouser... using your dear wife as bait, you shameless master baiter. You ne'er do well!"

Peter hovered over his pummeled adversary. The light from the equally spaced parking lampposts caused Peter to cast shadows with him at the center. The shadows formed a star-like ring, with Peter rising from the center like the pistil rising from the ring of the shady black petals of a flower. Peter proclaimed : "Alpha wannabe, you are now a beaten Beta. Ex-Alpha, you just got dawg pounded. You've been Alpha-Beta-ed. Alpha battered. But you aren't even a Beta now. Not even a Gamma or a Delta. Not even the lowliest Iota. You are excluded from the Greek alphabet society! You may have been an Alpha but I am the Omega: the end-all."

The Omega-Alpha.

The rabblement cheered. Omega-Alpha was a god. A pretty and proven worthy god.

Wilma was awestruck. Here was her new found drinking buddy and dance partner now a god. He elevated her.

Peter motioned to Wilma,"You coming with me? "

"You bet," She purred. " This heap won't be worth a shit for sex for quite a while."

"You'll leave hubby?" Peter inquired. "Don't you, his loving wife, love him?"

"Oh, I love him because he's a closet cuck. He knows I play around. He lets me. He likes it. He just dons his Alpha persona for show."

" Well then, let's away, m'lady. My Alphaette."

"Let's, my Omega-Alpha Manly Man's Man!"

(Exeunt)

It's just a fun fictional story. Geez