The Highlander's Mail Order Bride (Scottish Highlander Romance)

by Kaley McCormick

  He pulled his pantsuit down and showed her member—the same achingly red and long cock she stuffed into her mouth. This time he wanted to give it to her, to let her play with it as she wished.

  She stroked it with her hands, rubbing it down and enjoying his grunts and cackles as she firmed him up.

  She crawled down to meet him as he hoisted his body over her, finding her midsection and climbing on top. She spread her legs out far, preparing for a lunge. But he was gentle for a change. A slow but steady entry that took time caressing her sensitive walls. She was wet all over and enjoyed the sensation of wetting his dry cock with her juices, dripping down on him with attention and trust.

  He began his thrusting rhythm slowly, pushing himself into her and letting the repetition continue naturally as if sensing the perfect timing for when she wanted another stroke.

  “Mmmm…yeah…”

  “You ready to take it deeper?”

  “Mmmm…we shouldn’t…”

  “I know it’s a very bad thing. But you tell me if it’s too much.”

  “Okay…”

  She gasped as he pushed himself a few more inches, leaving no spaces and a tight slippery squeeze.

  “Oh I like that!” she cried, spreading her legs farther apart and grabbing him by the hair. “Unghh!” she groaned, clutching her legs onto his sides and trying to touch her toes together.

  He gradually increased the speed of his strokes until she was breathing harder and faster.

  “Ohh that’s good,” she cried, her legs falling from a clutching position and her arms rubbing his side.

  He fired up his “second gun” and began pounding harder into her pussy, reaching back into her deepest regions and coming out dripping wet and hot as tea. He panted and sweated as he began losing control, eventually grabbing her hands and clutching her fingers with his own.

  “Ohhhh God!” she screamed, bending her knees and grinding against his fast-stroking cock as their bodies bounced off each other’s sweat and wet genitals.

  “Mmmm!” Billy grunted, still gripping her hands right as he thrust himself into her, loving the feeling of listening to her rapid heartbeat.

  “Don’t cum,” she said, finding his eyes. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

  “I can control myself if you can, angel-face.”

  “Let me ride you,” she said confidently. “I can control it then.”

  Billy was agreeable to anything the beautiful creature had said, the most stunning he had ever seen in her life—and maybe the one that had a filthier mind than even his own outlawed ass. He rolled over on the bed and grabbed his cock in standing position. He watched in surrender as she smiled at him and mounted him on top, pushing his hard dick inside of her pussy and flexing her brow as the thick meat went in deeper.

  “Ohh shit, you’re so big. Not a lot of guys are so generous with their gift if you know what I’m saying.”

  He laughed, taking the opportunity to grab and hold her bouncing breasts. “I figure if I’ve been blessed I better damn sure use it the way my girl wants me to.”

  “Uh huh,” she said excitedly as she began gyrating over his vibrating erection, rolling over him at first until she saw agony in his eyes. He rubbed his hand on her small patch of pubic hair as she rode him, bringing out even more intensity from this hard loving woman who was hard to love—but worth every bit of worry.

  She waited until he was about the burst and then started humping him harder, jumping up and down and letting her breasts smack him in the face, which his lips followed in desperation, trying to stuff her nipples in his mouth.

  “Oh Billy…I think I’m going to cum…but you can’t cum…”

  “Why not?” he answered, finding her eyes but not letting up on his pounding cock still meshing with her shifting pelvis.

  “Because…what if we have an accident. And we ain’t exactly a married couple are we?”

  “Damn girl,” he said with a smile as he began shoving himself into her at a faster pace. “You worry too much. Worry about tomorrow, tomorrow. Just trust me when I say I am a scoundrel and outlaw and red-headed brat…but always a gentleman.”

  “You don’t understand…”

  “I understand,” he said, grabbing her hands again and making sure she had no leverage to escape what was coming.

  “Mmmm!” she screamed riding him hard and feeling his throbbing cock starting to break. “You don’t understand…I’m going to cum…and make you cum…”

  “Let it go. Let it all out, cow girl.”

  “Mm-mmm!” she said, stopping the thrusting but convulsing all over her body, crashing his weakening cock down on another wave of lubricant and a soft pink squeeze. “Oh God! Ohhh motherfucker I’m cumming!”

  Just as she said it, Billy’s cock buckled and he fired six rounds of his seed into her wetness, grunting and groaning like a man who just been dueled and left to die. He never let go of her fingers, making damn sure her pussy took every last spurt he had to give. Tomorrow be damned. Some good things in life are just worth a crazy risk.

  She humped him a few more minutes, unable to get rid of his stubbornly stiff cock even if it was firing blanks by now. She rubbed his chest with her hands, cooing and panting like a hard day out on the ranch. He was a hard project for sure, a fixer upper and the most stubborn beast she had ever met.

  But as she finally let a bellow of breath go, and fell down on top of him kissing him lips with over-eager love and devotion, she realized something pretty close to romantic.

  “You called me your girl,” she said with a dopey smile, finding his love-drugged eyes. “What did you mean when you said, always a gentleman?”

  “What do you think it means, crazy cowgirl?” he said, rubbing her sweaty breasts with his still pussy-covered hand. The filth, the natural state of bodies meshing together was intoxicating to the outlaw Billy Jameson. Better than whiskey, better than gambling. And with a girl who knew what she was doing, maybe even better than sex without commitment.

  “It means that if you ever became with child, I’d be a gentleman. And I’d take care of our imaginary child that came from this imaginary marriage.”

  She smiled, a bit guardedly, but still hoping that she was the one mail order bride who had lucked out and landed herself a real man.

  “But don’t be thinking that you want to settle down and marry me yet. You just got here. And the marriage certificate ain’t even signed yet. I’m sure you’ll need some convincing first before you do something foolish like marrying the outlaw Billy Jameson. How about we limp along for a while and then see how things work out? Maybe some day you’ll even re-marry me, if I may be so bold.”

  Jane smiled and kissed him again, too teary-eyed for words.

  *

  Billy Jameson finally found his rascally old father. The man had sure as hell had been avoiding him after sticking him with a mail order bride he didn’t ask for. That slimy old fat bastard even made Billy pay the bill!

  “You yellow bellied mother fucker,” Billy said, looking pissed as he encountered Sheriff Jameson in Town Centre. “How dare you invade my life. Buying me a mail order bride just to prove some stupid point about responsibility. I have half a mind to duel you now, right in front of everybody.”

  “Yeah, I guess you’re entitled to feel that way. But just so I know…how’s she working out?”

  “She’s all right. But that ain’t the point, and you know it.”

  Sheriff Jameson smiled. “I’m sure I can get a refund if she’s not working out.”

  “Don’t concern yourself with any of that. Just know, you try anything funny like that again and that’s it. I’m going to make your life miserable.”

  “Well, a father’s allowed once chance to muck everything up, isn’t he?”

  “Yeah, well this is your last chance. I’m serious.”

  “So when do I get to meet her?”

  “She’s making a big old dinner for everybody. She cooks like a machine. She’s pretty as hell a
nd the hardest-working woman I’ve ever known.”

  “Mm, sounds like a keeper, that one.”

  “Yeah well you lucked out, old man. You found one in a million. Damned if I’m letting a lovely girl like that get away from me.”

  “You’re welcome, boy. You’re welcome.

  THE END

  The Cowboy’s Ebony Mail Order Bride

  Carl Gillipsy was an oil man and they said his father and his father and his own father, well, they were just the epitome of old southern evil. Carl’s father was alive to see racial discrimination in the sixties and his father was alive to see the real segregation of the 1900s. And his father was a true blood soldier of the Confederate Army even though those boys quieted up during the late nineteen century, at least for a while. His father before him owned slaves in the days preceding the Civil War.

  Gillipsy himself they said was evil because he was his father’s son and because he was an oil man, the preferred career of the Republican-owned, Koch-sucking Grand Old Party. Gillipsy worked his way up from petroleum landman to Right of Way Agent and eventually founded his own continental oil company, and the family motto—unofficially of course—was at least it’s all American-made, as if that was the only good thing you could say about Gillipsy Oil.

  Carl though wasn’t like forefathers when it came to sales. He had a way with words but not so much a way with people. All people knew about Carl was that he came to the Town of Granfork, minded his own business, and had the biggest Stetson hat you ever saw.

  When it came to dealing with people one on one that was just a whole other matter.

  “Well, well,” Nancy Doltraine the middle-aged cashier said, eyeing Gillipsy as he entered the department store, always dressed well in his black suit and black raincoat. Whenever it was cold or wet, he always wore a coat. Lately winter had been long for Granfork County. “Looks like you’re all dressed up and nowhere to go.”

  She smiled at first in friendliness, but then in forced enthusiasm, eventually melting into sheer terror. She realized that this wasn’t just another shopper for coats and boots. This was someone important—the kind of guy who could buy the whole store just out of spite for dealing with a rude cashier.

  “It’s you,” she said, blinking her eyes and sighing. “Hello Mister Gillipsy.”

  “Good afternoon,” he said in that even-tempered and somewhat distant manner. His face was indeed ubiquitous around the town and in the nearby cities of Austin and Georgetown and all the way down to Houston. His face graced the cover of every Texas magazine and every Google News story this side of creation.

  “I’m here to buy a new coat. Something a bit light. Spring is fast approaching.”

  She smiled as she looked into his face; a human face, yes, and a clean and handsome one since Gillipsy had only reached the age of 36.

  But his aura was intense. His non-enthusiasm was brutal, as if his firm mouth and chin were a constant reminder to remind everyone that he didn’t need them. They needed him and his money all but paid for their micro-economy.

  “Oh yes you are correct on that, sir. No sense in a man like you being overdressed.”

  “Well,” he said, always happy to correct a misstatement. “I prefer to think that it’s cautious and respectful to be overdressed. And not insolent by being underdressed.”

  “Well I uh…” she shrugged, caught off guard and not wanting to ruffle his feathers.

  “There’s nothing wrong with being pleasing in appearance. It shows respect. It also shows one’s better side. And you, my dear, are indeed a lovely woman to behold.”

  “Ohhhhh well thank you!” she said, waiting for a back-handed compliment or building insult. But nothing. What do you know, Gillipsy actually said something. This would be a story to hell her grandchildren.

  “I’ll help myself to the dressing room,” he said with a half-smile, which surely looked like the very waters parting from her vantage point.

  Perhaps it was no coincidence that Gillipsy was there about the same time as Tonya Abrams walked into the Grandfork Men’s House department store. It was almost something like fate.

  “Hi there,” she said to the cashier, looking around the store and booming back and forth until she found the boots section.

  “Hey there,” the cashier said back, noticing the woman was a cowgirl, from the very top of her hat and downward. She was also young-looking, about late twenties7.

  “Looking for size thirteen, size thirteen.”

  “Oh? Special occasion?”

  “No ma’am,” she said, flipping through the boots on display and sizing them up. “They’re for me. I’m a rancher. I need them to protect my ankles.”

  “Well now,” the woman said with a smile. “Why does a pretty young woman like you feel obligated to get your hands all dirty? You should be out charming those young fellas.”

  Tonya laughed quietly, not sure if she was flattered that a southern white woman was giving a young black woman a genuine compliment or insulted because she was holding back feminism.

  “Well, thank you, kindly. But I reckon no man can handle me. I’m as stubborn as an oxe and as fast as a horse.”

  “You sound like my grandmother,” Nancy said. “She was ahead of her time. I guess you might say we didn’t inherit the gene.”

  “Too bad,” Tonya laughed. “There are plenty of ladies but not a lot of strong women.”

  “Up north there are,” Nancy said politely.

  Tonya laughed. “Here and there. I guess.”

  Just then Gillipsy walked out of the dressing room, abruptly and eager to leave as always. However, seeing that Tonya was halfway to the register, decided to wave her in.

  “Go ahead,” he said, acquiescing.

  “I will,” she said proudly, sure as hell not about to give up her spot to the well dressed white man.

  Carl waited patiently as Nancy ran up Tonya’s boots.

  “I’m sorry, the card’s been declined,” she said apologetically.

  “God damn it,” Tonya said with a stomp. “Fuckers took the money out of my bank.”

  “Well that happens…you know, when you don’t pay your bills.”

  Nancy flinched and kept her head low as Tonya turned around and glared at the smirking oil man.

  “Excuse the hell me, but who in the name of Fucking Christmas are you? And why is it your business?”

  “Is your bank Reliant State?”

  “Well yeah...how did you…”

  “Because I own that bank,” Gillipsy said firmly, as poor Nancy cowered further. “That’s the money you owe me. And you have a lot of nerve telling me that I’m wrong taking the money that you owe me.”

  “Well for your information, I had to buy these boots to get a job to pay my balance.”

  “All I know is that you signed the contract. You owe me money as agreed. If you couldn’t pay, then you should have called us to make arrangements.”

  “Bullshit! It’s my money and that’s my debt. I will pay my debt when I get to it, and it has nothing to do with you, Donald Trump.”

  Gillipsy laughed. “Well, that’s new. I’ve been called George W. more times than I can remember. I’m glad you liberals keep up to date.”

  “You know? Screw this. I don’t even need this shit.”

  Tonya pushed the boots over and stormed out of the store.

  The whole thing made Carl laugh. But after shaking his head he made another request, along with the purchase of his new suit. Put the boots on my tab. Be sure to give them to her after I leave. She’ll never accept charity if she knows it comes from a white man.”

  He smiled and left, happy as a clam.

  Gillipsy had a good afternoon, but the evening was a bit of a farce. He blew out a tire just two blocks down the road from the store. Apparently some moron left a two by four with nails all over it right on the passing lane, and that did a good job of flattening the tire of Carl’s Lincoln MKS. He never took a limo into town—too pretentious.

  “Hell of a
thing,” he said to his chauffeur. “You buy the best American car trying to be a patriot. Tires aren’t worth a damn. Same damn thing as a Ford when it gets down to basics.”

  “Well, maybe your problem is that you buy American, sir,” his chauffeur said.

  “I don’t suppose you know how to change a tire, Charlie?”

  “Not my specialty. I could try…”

  “No, it’s okay,” he said tiredly. “I’ll call Triple A. Why else do I pay them every month if not for things like this?”

  “Going to be a long walk, sir,” the chauffeur said. “Or a long wait. You want to ride piggy back to the diner?”

  “Don’t be snarky,” Carl said, still smiling and always enjoying the guts and wit of his one Latino worker. “We can wait. You can entertain me with small talk.”

  The two men nodded and stared at each other until an awkwardness chilled the air.

  “Wow, it’s going to be a long wait,” laughed Charlie.

  “You said it, amigo.”

  And fate drove up, with perfect timing. Carl smiled when he saw a black Ford drive up beside him…only until he looked through the window and saw a very happy Tonya Abrams tilting her head and nodding like a loon.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “Well, well, well!” Tonya said. “Looks like the boot is on the other foot now, isn’t it, Mister Gillipsi?”

  “I suppose so,” Carl said with a scowl.

  “Now why, sir, may I ask are you broken down in the middle of the road? All you had to do was service that tire. Or else you wouldn’t be in such a mess.”

  “That’s a ridiculous analogy. We ran over a nail.”

  “Well, why on earth would you do that?”

  “It was an accident.”

  “Oh I see. But because I’m black then that means whatever mess I get myself into is just cuz I’m a pot-smoking bum that lives on welfare, right?”

  “All right. You made your point,” Carl said with a shake of his head. “I don’t want to spend the next hour listening to you mock me.”