Lairds And Their Lassies: Taboo Scottish Historical Erotica Bundle Read online

  The highlander stroked my hair away from my face, and kissed my cheek. ‘What?’ he asked.

  ‘Promise ye will never tell me yer name, and that ye will always be my captor,’ I said.

  The highlander laughed again. ‘It is very sweet that ye thought ye had any say in those matters,’ he said gruffly. ‘My wee captive.’

  My heart swelled with joy, and soon, my belly swelled with wean… but that is another story.

  PART TWO

  LUST OF THE LAIRD

  Chapter 6

  When I first heard that I was going to be married to the Laird of Kilmarnock, I was aghast. I was only eighteen, and felt much younger than that. I had barely given the opposite sex a thought - not in that way. I was something of a tomboy, and preferred the company of young laddies for climbing trees with, paddling through rivers, catching tadpoles, and exploring the countryside around my mother and father’s small but respectable cottage in Cumnock.

  I was eating supper with my family the night that it happened. We were all of us gathered around the table, enjoying a simple but tasty meal of soup and bread. We could not afford anything lavish, but my father grew a few vegetables and worked at a small nearby mill, so we always had tatties and bread, and, occasionally, when the weather was good, some green beans or cabbage. It was more than enough to keep us happy, and, because my family was on such good terms with the other families in the cottage around us, sometimes we were even able to trade a bucketful of potatoes for a small chicken. Once, we even had a tasty slice of duck at Christmas. I hadn’t eaten any meat for over a year though, as the weather had been bad and our yield had been low lately, so we had nothing to trade, but, apart from a rumbling stomach from time to time, we were content with our lot.

  So, as I say, I was eating supper when the strange occurrence happened, which set the wheels of my fate in motion, leading, ultimately to my bizarre and unexpected marriage to the wealthiest and most infamous man in the central belt of Scotland. It was blowing a gale outside - a cold, biting November evening, and we were a wee bit surprised when we were interrupted from our meal by a loud knock at the door. My mother looked warily at my father, as if to ask whether he had been expecting anyone, but the small but perceptible shake of his head confirmed that he was not. He lay down his spoon and got up from the table, and my mother, my sister and I listened as my father walked out of the room and toward the front door.

  For a few, eerily long moments, we heard nothing but the creak of the front door, and then, suddenly and powerfully, we heard the gusts of wind and howling rain outside, followed by a set of slow, purposeful footsteps into our home. There was only one set of footsteps, meaning there was only one person entering our home, and I knew from the sound of his shoes that this man was a stranger. Everyone who lived in the villages near us wore old, dirty, worn boots, from working out in the field all day. These boots sounded as if the soles were made of granite. They sounded crisp and clean and harsh, as if they meant business. I heard the low, gruff sound of muffled conversation, as my father spoke with this stranger, and then both sets of footsteps started heading toward us.

  My father reappeared into the small, cramped, dining area, where we were sitting waiting for him. He held his cap in his hands, and his cheeks were red and agitated. ‘We were just in the middle of eatin’ our supper, sir,’ said my father, awkwardly, in a voice I hadn’t heard him use before, as if he was trying to be posh.

  The stranger then appeared in the doorway, dark and looming. I could see in an instant that he was not from around here. Well - not from any of the villages within a five mile radius of here anyway, which was as far as I had ever had the opportunity to explore. He wore a bright, blood-red jacket, a tartan kilt, and black, shiny boots with golden buckles upon them. It was clear to see he was very, very rich.

  ‘Please, my Laird,’ said my mother, scraping back her chair and standing. ‘Won’t you join us? There’s plenty of soup for us all.’

  The stranger looked down at the meagre offerings on the table with disdain, then his gaze wandered over to my sister and I. First, his eyes fell upon Lizzie, my younger sister, who, truth be told, was prettier than I, in a more conventional way, though she was still only fifteen. I saw the gentleman’s expression glimmer as he looked at her, a look which I had seen in many of the local farmhands before, whenever they saw my sister. Then, his gaze fell to me. I felt my spine stiffening and my back straightening all of a sudden, as if his gaze had skewered me somehow, and I couldn’t break free. I felt his eyes upon my face, causing my cheeks to redden in a way they had not done before, then, slowly, his eyes trailed down to my neck, which was long, thin and bare, not hidden by lace or ruffles, no doubt like the wealthy women whose company he was used to keeping. Then, his eyes trailed further down my body, to my bosom, where his gaze rested and remained fixed for several long moments. I felt my breath quicken and become shallower the longer he looked at me. I had very large breasts for someone so young. I had always cursed having been born with such a buxom bosom, to be honest. It made climbing trees and scampering about the countryside quite cumbersome. I envied boys and my flat-chested sister for having nothing down there to distract them. But now… as the gentleman took me in, I suddenly felt highly self-conscious, and even proud for having been blessed with such full tits. No doubt on my skinny, half-starved frame, such breasts looked even more remarkable, and I could tell the gentleman was impressed.

  Suddenly, the stranger looked away from me, and he looked to my father instead. ‘Aye. I will join you for dinner,’ he said, his voice deep and commanding. ‘I will take your seat at the head of the table, beside your daughter.’

  ‘Beside Jenny?’ said my father.

  ‘Aye,’ said the Laird, striding towards me. ‘Beside Jenny.’

  I swallowed, my heart racing, as the stranger took a seat in my father’s place, and my father was relegated to the small stool beside my mother.

  Chapter 7

  It turned out that the gentleman had been out hunting, before the storm had begun. He had caught himself a couple of pheasants, and had been riding back to his manor, further north from where we lived, up in Kilmarnock, a place I had barely even heard of, when the gales had started. Apparently, a bolt of lightning had hit an old oak tree on the way back, and had narrowly missed the Laird, but hit his horse on the head, sending it crashing to the ground, where it died in seconds. Carrying his two fresh and bloody pheasants, the Laird had made his way to the nearest cottage, which happened to be ours, to take shelter. At the front door, he had apparently presented my father with the pheasants as an offering of goodwill, and that is when he had come to join us at the table.

  The Laird barely ate any of his soup that evening, but then he really only had one focus: me. My mother and father seemed completely aware of it, and even, I think flattered, that they had produced a wean so worthy of the Laird’s attention. In all honesty, I think the fact my father had just received two whole pheasants from this stranger meant he would just about allow the stranger anything in return. So that was what I was worth to him, I suppose: two fresh pheasants.

  The storm raged all night, and my mother and father gave the Laird their bed, and slept on a rug on the floor of the living room. All night long, I tossed and turn in my small bedroom with my sister, hearing every tiny creak and breath coming from the room next door, wondering what the Laird was thinking, whether he was thinking of me. There was plenty about the man that I did not like. I thought him rather rude, and foul-tempered. He had not even thanked my mother and father for supper, or for giving up that bed, and he made his distaste for our meagre surroundings very apparent. He was, however, intriguing. He was unlike any person I had ever come across before, and had a strange magnetism that bewitched me. He was the first person I had ever come across who made me feel not like a tomboy, not even like a lassie, not even like a woman, but… I suppose… like a piece of meat. His prey. And it felt strangely sweet to want to be devoured by someone.
/>   Around twenty minutes or so after we had all gone to bed, I could hear my father snoring downstairs, and my sister slept quietly behind me, I heard a strange noise emerge from the room next door. It was a slow but rhythmical creak, accompanied by the soft squeak of the mattress - a noise which I was in fact used to hearing. I was not completely ignorant to the ways of the world, and I knew that my mother and father, who were very much in love, still lay together as man and wife. I heard their soft gasps and moans whenever they made love, which, I’d say, was roughly once a month, when they were not too tired, and when they thought my sister and I safely asleep. But now, I knew, the Laird was in there alone, lying in my mother and father’s bed, and yet, somehow, he was… making love to himself? I had never heard of masturbation back then, though I had of course experimented with touching the lips of my cunt, finding that it produced a pleasant tingling sensation when I stroked the delicate skin around my secret hole, but that was as far as my sexual forays had ever gone.

  Soon, though, the creaking of the bed grew more insistent, and I heard the Laird’s gruff moans as he did whatever monstrous things to himself that took his fancy. I heard the headboard hitting the wall, and feared that my parents would awake, but my father’s snores continued, and the Laird’s pants and moans grew more insistent. He began to cry out so loud I wondered if perhaps he was angry. There was certainly a great desperation in his cries, and the banging and rocking and creaking became so fast and insistent that I wondered if perhaps there was no storm outside any more - simply a storm within the house.

  After around half an hour, in which these noises built up to a terrible crescendo, in which the Laird hissed and cursed through gritted teeth, and then emitted a pained roar, followed by a deep, satisfied sigh, finally the house returned to quiet, and I heard the Laird’s breath slow and deepen, as he began to sleep.

  I, on the other hand, could not sleep. I felt such a mixture of shock, horror and arousal at what I had just heard happening, even though I did not fully understand it, that my heart palpitated so fast, and so strongly, that I tossed and turned in exasperation for at least an hour.

  I was just beginning to drop off into a light slumber, when, after that hour, I heard the insistent creaking begin again. The Laird had woken up. And, soon enough, the grunts and groans and creaks and bangs became more and more insistent, until it sounded like the Laird was having a fight with my parents’ furniture. This time, I couldn’t bear to go through listening to the whole thing again without a better idea of what was happening next door, so I crept out into the hallway, and tiptoed up to my parents’ door. I crouched down, so that my eyes were level with the keyhole, cursing my knees for clicking as I lowered myself to the ground, though I had no need to worry. The Laird was making such a noise, and so engrossed in his activity, that he would not notice the likes of my creaking knees.

  Slowly, fearfully, I put my eyes to the keyhole. And nothing could have prepared me for what I saw.

  The Laird was upon my parents’ mattress on all fours, completely and utterly naked, his muscular body gleaming in the moonlight, with a long, thick, smooth rod of flesh protruding out from between his legs. The Laird bucked and thrashed upon the mattress as though he were a wild horse, and, every few seconds, he took his gleaming fleshy rod between his hands, and pounded it up and down in his fist as fast as it would possibly go, causing him to cry out, half in pain and half in ecstasy, his head bucking back and eyes rolling into the back of his head. Then, when he could take it no more, he pulled his hand away, leaving his thick rod throbbing and desperate. It was so large, and so swollen, that I could see its engorged purple tip, and the veins sticking out from its sides, as if trying to break free. Just looking at it made a strange wet honey begin to drip between my legs.

  I must have stayed there for about ten minutes, glued to the keyhole, before I noticed something even stranger begin to happen. Somewhere along the line, the Laird had become aware of my presence, and his gaze was now fixed upon the keyhole, upon me. He took his hand off his throbbing cock for a moment, and beckoned to me to enter, and, under his spell, enter I did.

  Chapter 8

  I closed the door quietly behind me, though I’m not sure what need I had to be quiet, when the Laird had been making such a racket, and no-one had yet woken.

  The Laird stood up, and walked over to me, his rod sticking upright between his legs, pointing upwards towards the sky, still straining desperately to be touched. Did he want me to touch it?

  ‘Lie down on the bed,’ the Laird said to me.

  ‘I’m not sure if I should…’

  ‘I’m not gonnae touch you,’ snapped the Laird. ‘Not before I marry you.’

  ‘Marry me?’ I breathed fearfully.

  ‘Lie down,’ the Laird hissed, looking down at his hard and hungry member impatiently. ‘Lie down and comply with my demands.’

  ‘Okay,’ I whispered, not knowing why I was doing what I was doing, but aware that it had something to do with the honey dripping down between my legs, which was stopping me from thinking clearly.

  ‘Put your arms behind your head,’ the Laird ordered.

  I lay on my back, and raised my arms. It felt strange to be in my parents’ bed. I had never dared lie on their mattress before. It was quite uncomfortable, actually, and I was lying on a strange, sticky wet patch on the sheets, which must have appeared since the Laird had been staying in here.

  The Laird took something off the floor, and after taking a moment to focus, I realised it was his belt. He took the belt and wrapped it around my wrists, which, oddly, I let him do. I was so mesmerised by the sight of this naked man, telling me what to do, as if he owned me, that it made me somehow trust him implicitly. This man wouldn’t hurt me, would he? Not in my own home. Not while my parents slept downstairs.

  ‘Legs apart,’ said the Laird, his breath heavy and excitable, his meat still perfectly erect.

  I had nothing on under my nightgown - no undergarments, as I preferred to sleep that way, and I felt terribly awkward about the thought of splaying apart my legs for the Laird. Soon, though, he impatiently grabbed my by the shins, pulling apart my legs, and then, using two of my mother’s stockings, which he must have found in the small wooden closet in the corner (what could he have been doing rifling through my mother’s undergarments?) he tied each of my legs to the bedposts at the end of the bed, so I was stuck in a rather awkward and vulnerable position, like an animal caught in a trap, while the Laird climbed over me, resuming his position on all fours.

  He looked down at me then, his eyes running over the thin, see-through fabric of my nightgown, through which the dark pink of my nipples could be seen, and I could feel them poking through, hard and excited - or maybe I was just shivering from the cold, I couldn’t tell - either way, the Laird seemed to like it. He drew his tongue slowly across his lips, and I noticed that his meat twitched between his legs, growing a wee bit longer, and a wee bit thicker, as it did so.

  Then, the Laird resumed stroking himself, slowly at first, his eyes fixed upon my bosom, but then, growing faster and faster, the bed crashing against the wall behind me, while I had no option but to lie there, trussed up like an animal at market, legs splayed apart and dripping honey, as he pounded his meat on top of me. I noticed that beneath the thick, fleshy rod, there was two small lumps, which grew harder and smaller the more excited he got, and I wondered what purpose those might serve. After a few minutes - I found out.

  The Laird’s cries again grew to a crescendo. He looked so wild and desperate, his eyes glinting with hunger, his teeth razor-sharp, as though ready to sink into my flesh, his eyebrows scowling and expression fierce, and then - suddenly, as if from nowhere, he cried out in agony, and as he did, a stream of viscous, white fluid squirted out from the tip of his meat, spraying my face, my neck, my nightgown, and my parents’ sheets. I noticed the small lumps at the base of the Laird’s meat throbbing and twitching as the liquid shot out, and realised that these objects
must contain that white liquid - any, by the looks of it, lots of it. Releasing this liquid all over me seemed to bring great relief to the Laird, and he sighed and moaned with great joy and pleasure as he lay on the mattress beside me.

  I heard the Laird’s breath grow slower and deeper, almost immediately, and wondered if he was about to fall asleep, or maybe he even wanted to kiss me. Instead, he turned to me, and whispered, ‘Don’t get too comfortable, lassie. I’ll want to do this again very soon.’

  Sure enough, after the Laird had slept for just twenty minutes or so, I noticed his meat beginning to grow hard next to me, poking against my stomach, as if trying to work its way inside me. The Laird fidgeted and wriggled, rubbing his hardening meat against the mattress, trying to get comfortable, but eventually, he could bear it no more. It was time for him to release his liquid all over me once more. Which he did. Again and again. In fact, he spilt his hot, white liquid onto my splayed-out body another four times that night, and when my parents found us in the morning, covered in white goo, the Laird naked and me tied to their bedposts in the most ungainly fashion - they threw us both out of the house.