‘Oh, Angus,’ I said to the boar, ‘it’s jus’ you and me pal.’ The boar’s head was not even polite enough to smile at my good humour, but I carried on talking nonetheless. ‘You’ll look after me, eh, Angus? You’ll impale those reekin’ wolves on your proud tusks, won’t you?’
I could feel sleep start to take me, so I crawled underneath what may well have been Angus’ hide, and dreamt of the moon.
Chapter 4
‘Well, well, well, what do we have here?’
I woke in a start and tried to pull the covers up to my chin. I couldn’t! There was something holding my arms tight, and when I looked down, I saw that I was held in place by leather cords, tied to the bedposts like a criminal. I looked up at the source of the sound, and saw, to my horror, that there was a man, sitting at the table.
‘I come back in the middle o’ the night to find a wee lassie in ma bed and a crew o’ scabrous hounds at ma door. Could there be a connection ‘tween the two, I thought to myself.’
I’d never seen a man like him before. If anything, I’d have said that he had more in common with the wolves which had chased me into this shack than with any other human being I’d beheld in my life. His hair was long and thick, matted and coarse, with twigs and leaves and what looked like mud worked into it, giving it a rough, layered appearance, like that of a beast. He had a beard, a thick dark brown mass of wiry hair which sprouted from a rugged, hard face. His eyes looked crazed, like two saucers of milk, and the tiny dark pupil at the centre of each of them was surrounded by a warm hazel colour.
Amazingly, he was wearing a jerkin cut from the tartan of the House Gordon, to which the Laird of Fort George was a member, as well as many other high-born Scots, but the green-blue checked pattern was faded and dirtied by whatever savage life this beast had lived. He had on a navy-blue kilt, with weather beaten sporran dangling in its centre, and the high leather boots of a wayfarer or a vagabond. The one thing which was missing from his outfit was his sgian-dubh, the small knife which he’d normally have tucked into his socks or boots. He was gripping his, which had a handle made from the finest stag’s horn, and it’s single razor-sharp blade dripped with blood.
‘Don’t…don’t hurt me, please,’ I said. I tried again to fight against my bonds, but found that I was securely fastened in place.
‘Hurt ye? You must be crackers lass, hurtin’ ye’s the last thing I want to do. I haven’t seen a woman in months, nae, years. Why would I want to hurt ye? And y’are so beautiful as well, among all this stinking marshland. It’s like I came home to ma very own Highland rose, peepin’ up through the shit and the heather. Why would I want to cut a rose’s stem, when I could just carefully pluck it?’
He stood up and wiped the blood from his blade on his jerkin, and when it was clean, he slid the knife into his right boot, so that its handle was on display.
‘I don’t know, it’s jus’, ya’ve got me strapped to this bed.’
‘Aye, that’s true enough, I have got ya strapped to ma bed. The thing is though,’ he said, and looked at me with a rakish expression, ‘the way I see it is, ye broke into my hoose, ate ma vittles, drank ma drink and slept in ma bed. Now, in ma reckoning, that either makes you a criminal,’ and then he looked at me with a wicked, lustful, piercing gaze, ‘or ma wife.’ That’s when I noticed something beneath his sporran, prodding the bag upward like a rod of steel.
Chapter 5
He sat again at his chair, this time with his legs open wide. I could see a darkness underneath his kilt and I must confess that I found it hard not to keep staring down there, wondering if I might catch sight of this mighty Highlander’s manhood. I felt so vulnerable like this, and the feeling of being strapped to a man’s bed, in his domain, as he watched me struggle fair brought juice to the place between my legs. No one knew I was here, and it felt to me for a moment that I had crossed into some other, wild world, with just the wolves and this monster for company. And I found that I like the way it felt, and I liked the way this monster looked at me, his highland rose.
‘Do you not recognise me,’ said the man, giving me an odd look, turning his head slightly to the side so that I could see his profile. That’s when it hit me. I did know his face. It was the nose. From this new angle he presented to me, there was something extremely distinct about it, something which I couldn’t quite put my finger on.
‘No my lord, I’m afraid that I don’t,’ I said, still wriggling slightly in my bonds.
‘Och, nae bother, it doesn’t matter whether ye know who I am or not,’ he said. I felt sure now that I could see something growing under his kilt. It was thick and long and its tip was lightly poking from the end of the material. If only I could turn my head a little more, I’d be able to see it fully…
‘So how long do ye plan to keep me trussed up for like this, like a common criminal?’ I said, trying to show a little defiance in the face of this man’s authority.
‘I’m no’ quite sure, ye see, I’d not really worked out what ma plan would be. I was thinking of tying ya up then ravishing ye on that bed.’ I felt a rush of blood to both my face, and to the little space between my legs which I sometimes touched when I was alone. No man had ever seen that space, let alone ravished it. My mother had warned me away from boys, particularly those from the fort.
‘Ravish me?’ I said, panting now, terrified and aflame with desire.
‘Aye, if ye’ll have me,’ he said, ‘but ye’d have to be a touch miserly to not want to lie with the man who saved ye from wolves, and from a night a’ boredom all by yerself.’
‘Ye didnae save me from the wolves, that was…’ I started.
‘Oh I didnae? Ye’d have been just fine without this hut I suppose, which I built and furnished with my two bare hands?’
‘Well I suppose…’
‘No. You’d be a pile o’ bloody gore or some wolves bowel movement by now missy, an’ you know it’s the truth,’ he said, a cruel curl in his lip. ‘But that’s not why ye should let me ravish ye, oh no. Here’s why: Ye’d like it. I’m a true highlander, a man o’ the mountains and o’ the streams. My appetite is insatiable and I haven’t seen a woman like ye let alone in months, I haven’t seen as pretty a rose as ye in my whole life. I want to show ye how thankful I am for ye comin’ by here, I want you to let me worship your tight, young little body with mine, I want to make ye happy that ye ever chanced upon me cabin. I want to fuck ye like a beast.’
I wanted it too. I know what my mother would have said, ‘Grab it wi’ yer hands’. With a soft little look, I nodded at him. I felt the cup of my sex full to the brim with my juice, and I wanted him to drink from it. ‘Highlander, come here and fuck me like a beast.’
Chapter 6
When he rose from his seat, I saw that I had not been imagining the lengthening of the meat between his legs. His kilt stuck out straight in front of him, hanging over the edge of his penis, which must have now be fully erect and huge beneath the tartan fabric. He took off his jerkin and cast it to one side, and I saw that his body was that of a hunter or a blacksmith, seemingly carved from stone and cast in human flesh. How I wanted to touch him, to see if he was real. I felt like I’d found my opposite, the male version of me.
He came up to the bed, with his kilt still over his cock, and placed one of his rough hands on my leg, before running up straight up, softly, over my quivering skin. I felt a rush of powerful lust pulse around my secure body, and when he flipped my skirts up and then pulled my undergarments down, I felt as though I was going to pass out due to the anticipation.
‘Ye’re such a bonny lass,’ he said, and I saw that it was his turn to pant now, his breathing had become ragged and deep, ‘I would have walked a thousand miles for a chance to kiss these lips,’ he trailed a finger over the soft redness of my mouth, ‘but all I had to do was to come back home.’
He leaned in and placed his lips on mine, cupping my face with his coarse hands. I was amazed by how soft his kisses were, how hot his
mouth was, how gingerly he caressed my cheeks. Then, I felt his tongue, warm and probing, asking to be let into my mouth, licking softly at my lips. I opened wide and let him into me, twisting my own tongue around his, dancing with him, slipping in and out of his mouth, claiming the territory of his insides as my own. Then, he bit lightly down onto my lower lip, and I felt a dart of pleasure tug at my quim, as though he’d grabbed it himself.
‘Och, you’re feisty,’ he said, and then, he drew the knife from his boot, ‘we can’t be having that.’ He reached down, and for a moment, I felt sure that he was going to run me through. I felt the knife against me body and then, with a little cut, he dragged it up my side, splitting my garments apart. How dare he!
‘Ye needn’t have done that, ye brute!’ I shouted, and then, I felt the shushing touch of his fingers on my thigh.
‘Shhhh,’ he said, ‘I’m a wildman, I don’t understand women’s garments. Don’t worry, I’ve a shirt ye can wear,’ then, he moved his hand higher, up to the tip of my entrance. ‘Have ye ever been touched by the hand of a man before, lassy?’ I shook my head nervously. ‘Och, this Highland rose has ne’er been plucked. Don’t worry, I’ll be as gentle as a lamb,’ and with that, he thrust his two thick fingers straight up my cunny. I shrieked, first with surprise, and then with unexpected pleasure. I felt as though a part of me which had been yearning for something had finally been filled. He pushed further into me and flexed his fingers lightly. I wriggled as I felt surges of pleasure throb dully around me and I started to moan.
‘Ye beast,’ I said, closing my eyes and giving in to the pleasure.
He suddenly withdrew his fingers from me, and scrabbled down the bed.
‘I want a taste o’ this rose, lassy,’ he said, and I felt the thick warm wetness of his tongue, starting to explore my virginal opening. He licked up the left lip and then the right, he thrust the tongue into me, making me pant and squirm and grind myself into him, and then, with wet fingers, he smoothly stroked above my little kitty. I felt a surge of hot joy explode from my centre as he touched the nub of flesh above my opening, and I felt as though there was a wolf down there, licking at my with its monstrous tongue, thrusting it’s claws into my meat, eating me like an animal. He worked harder and faster, and it was as though all of his tools were beating together, to give me as much silken pleasure as I could take.
‘Ye taste like wine, my dear, like sweet honeyed wine. Do ye want to have a taste o’ me? See what a Highlander tastes of?’
I nodded, and in no time, he stood with his kilt by my head and then pulled back the fabric of it, so that I saw for the first time his manhood in its full glory. It was larger than I’d even imagined, and it seemed smooth and hard, like the flesh of a young sapling. He pushed the tip of his cock closer to my mouth, and then, hungrily I swallowed it down into my, wrapping my lips around it, and planting kisses and licks all the way up and down its length. He tasted of the wilds, a salty, earthy smell, like fire and iron and the hills. I felt a new type of hunger fill me, something I’d never felt before, a specific desire for this object, this hot, living flesh, to be pushed in between the lips of my pussy. I needed it, and I showed him how much I needed him, still lashed to the bed, still unable to move, waiting for him to bestow his magnificent dick upon me.
‘Are ye ready to feel me inside ye, lassy, are you ready to run wild with me?’
I nodded. The Highlander pounced up onto the bed, and ripped his kilt to one side. He lay over me, his face inches from mine. I could feel his breath on my cheek and then he kissed me once more, and while I felt his tongue probing my mouth, his cock started to ask questions of my other mouth. Its smooth tip lay between those never split lips, and then, with a soft push, he placed it in me. I felt the warmth more than anything else, and the pleasure of being stretched open by him. There was a little pain, and he pushed against it until, with an odd sinuous tug, the pain eased and was replaced by the firm, confident pleasure of a man who knew what he wanted.
‘Does it hurt, lassy?’ he said, with genuine concern in his wild eyes. Suddenly, up close, I recognised him. He had the face of our Laird!
‘Ye, ye’re…’ I started.
‘It’s not what you think,’ he said, and he started to move inside me. With another twist and a tug, I realised that he sliced apart the bonds which held my hands. Finally, I was free to move my arms over him. I touched his smooth, muscular back, and then, feeling wicked, I moved my fingers over his arse. He moaned.
‘He’s my brother, the Laird, I’m his exiled twin. I can never go back to that fort, and now that you’re here with me, neither can ye!’
He moved in me, stronger and stronger, and I dug my nails into this heavenly, royal body. I wanted to rip him apart as he split my peach in two, rubbing the juice of my sex into the nub of flesh above my pussy with his thick fingers. I bucked beneath him and shrieked with pleasure as this stag, this wolf, this eagle of a man pushed harder and harder into me. I pushed my finger into his mouth and he bit it, he pulled my hair back and lifted my bodily as we fucked, eager to discover each other’s bodies.
‘My Highland rose, you’ve got yer fair share of thorns, but I’ve got mine too,’ he said, and as he spoke, I felt his thick finger by my arsehole. Before I had time to resist he plunged it in and fucked me harder. The surprise and delight of being plundered by him was too much for me to bear and I felt a well of sweet honey build in me and begin to overflow. The muscles in my body contracted and I started to see bright white light in front of my vision. I wept with joy and then I felt him start to build a knot in me with his cock, its length pulsing and warming in me, until another explosion happened. He filled me with his royal seed. And it felt exquisite.
*
I lost count of the amount of times we fucked out in that cottage, Hamish and I. He’d go out hunting and return with stag or rabbit, and then he’d fill me with his fluid once more. My belly became swollen with his seed, and I knew that soon I’d have a little royal bastard on my hands.
Then, I thought, maybe we’d go back to Fort George, and take what was rightfully ours…
PART TWO
THE BLACKSMITH'S DAUGHER
Chapter 7
I was given the name Catherine MacBride at birth, it is the year 1871, and I am eighteen years of age. I come from simple beginnings, though you wouldn’t think it to look at me now. Honestly, I live like a princess! Who would have believed it, eh? Little Cathy MacBride from Gretna Green, Scotland, living in a palace in Royal Leamington Spa, England. It’s too much for my poor wee brain to take sometimes, makes me giddy just thinking about it, about how much has changed these past three months.
But do not let me get ahead of myself. I am a real bletherer once I get started, by which I mean to say that my mouth talks freely and often. Too much, you might think. I need to start at the beginning. And the beginning, for me, was my quiet little life in Gretna Green, just north of the border between England and Scotland, though very much on the Scottish side of the border, I must tell you. Folk where I came from: they do not always look too kindly upon the English. My father used to say the English were nothing but ‘money-grabbing scoundrels’. Well that one turned out to be quite prophetic, let me tell you!
Let me assume if you’re reading this, you’re one of the ‘educated folk’ from down south. You’re probably from London, or maybe this book has even found itself further afield, in America or Italy, or one of those romantic places I’ve heard my father talk of, though I know almost nothing about. The village of Gretna Green, I can assure you, is simply nothing like those places. It is small, the sort of place where everyone knows everyone. It is bonny – which means pretty in Scots, in case you do not know – not far from the sea, surrounded by heather-clad hills and beautiful forests. And it was my home for eighteen years, up until the point three years ago, where my story began.
My father was the village blacksmith, and he spent his days hammering metal on the anvil, covering himself from head to
toe in soot, making all manner of equipment: shoes for horses, iron girders, farming trinkets… you probably know the sort of thing. He had the most important job in all of Gretna Green, in my opinion, but since my mother died of cholera when I was but two, I have been the apple of my father’s eye, and he has been the apple of mine. We would do anything for one another.
Box Set: Highland Flings: Scottish Historical Victorian Romance Taboo BDSM Erotica Page 2