Box Set: Highland Flings: Scottish Historical Victorian Romance Taboo BDSM Erotica (3 page)

‘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

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.

There is one other thing that Gretna Green is known for, and those of you who travel or have means of communication may already have heard of it on this account. Gretna Green, dear readers, is known for being the Place of Secret Elopements. Alas, perhaps I have not put it as prettily as I might have done. I have been receiving a strict education for the past three months, since my marriage to the Duke, but I still do not have the most elegant way with words, and for that I apologise. But hark at me, getting ahead of myself again!

Gretna Green, being on the border between Scotland and England, is the first village that folk come to, when travelling up to Scotland from England. And let me tell you now, one thing about my brave, beautiful Scotland that I will always love, is how much more liberal its laws are compared to England. England may be many things, but liberal it most certainly is not.

One advantage of this, my most advised listener, is that when young lovers wishing to marry in England ask their parents to consent to the marriage, and they do not receive a blessing, they simply need to travel up to Scotland, just north of the border, and they can get married in Gretna Green, parents’ blessing or none! In fact, in Gretna Green, it is not even priests or chaplains that carry out a wedding. It is the blacksmith! And that is another of my father’s talents. He has married some five hundred young lovers now, during these past few years, and the very last marriage he carried out was my own!

But how and why the wedding came about… that is something I really must tell you now, for it will do me good to get it off my chest.

The Duke tells me that I must learn to write better. He stands over me as I write this, tapping at the oak desk beside me, slapping me on the wrist when I make a mistake, or if he catches me looking off into the distance for longer than a few short moments. He insists that I must write my story out like this, not just to get it off my chest, but he tells me he would like to read it to me in full when I am done. He tells me our story is something special, and that he wants to be remembered of it often. I never argue with my Duke, so write it I must.

It was a Tuesday evening when my life in Gretna Green suddenly became unrecognisable.
 
The Duke tells me I need to learn how to set the scene, to describe the sights and smells and sounds, so here we go… I was working in the King’s Arms. A warm, noisy, dirty little place, with freely flowing drinks and hearty dinners. The sort of place I am assured is exactly what gentlemen like.

Being only a humble blacksmith’s girl, I did not have a high and mighty role to play. In fact, my role at that country inn was this: I cleaned the outhouses, I served the gentlemen their drinks, and I cleaned the beds in the hotel room upstairs. That last part may sound simple to you, my friend, but believe me: cleaning out young lovers’ marital beds, after their first few nights as a marital couple, is quite an affair. My Duke wants me to describe the smells, so here we go… The smell of a room in which a young couple have done naught but copulate in for three nights on the trot is quite simply… rancid. It is a foul, fetid smell, a smell like old sheep’s cheese and my father’s skin, mixed in with sweat, salt, stewed meat…
 

My Duke made me stop writing a while just there. He took me to our chamber, where he made me recount the details of that smell to him in full while I… Well, you need not know what he made me do, or what he did to me, just yet. For you know not how our relationship works, and I do not want you to judge me ere I explain myself, dear reader.

The smell in those marital rooms, as fetid as it was, I must tell you, my listening friend, was quite, quite wonderful. I would lie back in the sheets, rub my face in the pillows, and, if I thought the landlady would not catch me, I would even allow myself to take a corner of the sheets and lift them up, under my heavy skirt… But I could not do this for long, as it was quite a job, as I say, to get the stench to disappear, before my landlady’s inspection, and I had no choice but to scrub out the stench with an old brush and soapy water, until the next young couple would come to stay and create a new smell, subtly different but equally as rancid, all over again.

I hope you did not mind me dwelling that, generous reader. The Duke told me to recount that part in laborious details. There are some things he likes to hear about, over and over again.

The Tuesday evening in question, though, I did not have rooms to clean. I was working behind the bar, pouring out grog for the gentlemen of the village, including my father, who had been up since dawn working on a new set of horseshoes for an esteemed visitor, who was due to visit the inn that very evening, in order to collect his commission, before heading up north to the Highlands, on a hunting spree with his companions. My father had told me at breakfast time that morning that although his customer was English, he was the richest gentleman he’d ever had the pleasure to work for, so if when came to the King’s Arms that evening, while I was at work, I was to be nothing but sweetness and light to him.

And I can assure you, I ended up being far more than that.

It must have been about a quarter past seven when my father’s customer entered the King’s Arms. I could tell it was he immediately, for he was the most exquisitely dressed gentleman I had ever seen . He had braces, and a jacket, and shining buckles upon his shoes! He even wore rings upon his fingers, like the king! I almost felt that I should bow to him when he walked up to the bar to order his drink, but my limbs were trembling so atrociously that I could not even move, let alone attempt something so complex as a bow.

‘Sir,’ I managed to stutter eventually. ‘Can ah get you somethin’ tae drink?’ I cursed myself for my strong, thick Scots accent, wishing I’d spent more time listening to the voices of the soft-spoken young English men and women who had come here to elope. They always sounded so much more elegant, so much more refined than I.

The stranger looked down at me – he was a very tall man and I am less than five foot, just a tiny wee creature – and the expression in his eyes was cold, almost disgusted. ‘Get me a brandy, wench,’ he said, with such authority, and such a deep resonance in his voice that at first, I must admit that I could barely understand him!