Temptation in Tartan

by Suz deMello

  Her tortured cry rang through the bailey. The courtyard went silent. Faster than she’d have dreamed possible, he hauled her back into their room, shoved her onto the bed, grabbed his leather strop and cracked it across her bare buttocks.

  She crawled across the mattress to get away, shrieking as the strike knifed through her. He pinned her down and whipped her again, allowing her keening wail to be heard before slamming the door.

  He bound her arms behind her with the strop. “Now,” he said, panting from exertion. “Now.”

  He opened his trews before pulling her onto his lap and began spanking her with his gloved hand. With each blow she wriggled against his wickedly hard cock, hoping to push her pearl against him to get some sort of relief. For she was beyond aroused now, writhing with the fused rapture and torment he inflicted.

  He shifted his attention from the fullest rounds of her buttocks to the curve where they met her thighs, a sensitive area he’d not previously touched.

  “Nooo…” She moaned, unsure if she could take any more.

  His rod swelled beneath her, prodding her cunt. “Yes.” Five more strikes down her legs to her knees before he stopped, stroking and squeezing her burning flanks.

  He rolled her off his lap and onto the mattress, where she squirmed helplessly, wrists bound at the small of her back, imprisoned by the sensual web he’d spun. She rubbed her nipples and mound against the coverlet, frantic. Gripping her hips, he tugged her back until she was on her knees, her legs wide apart and cunt presented to him as he stood at their bedside.

  She whimpered, tears flowing from pain and tension and the sheer emotion of the day.

  “What, kylyrra?”

  “Please, please, please, please…” she sobbed.

  “Please what?”

  She moaned.

  He fumbled between her legs, giving her a brief swipe across her pearl that wasn’t quite enough.

  “You bastard!”

  “Language, my lady wife. Ye’ve earned yourself more punishment.”

  “No!”

  “Yes.”

  She panted, trying to speak.

  “Tell me what ye want. Now.”

  She couldn’t deny that the brutal treatment had forced her to a level of desire she’d never before experienced. She needed his cock more than her next breath. “I want you. I want you!”

  “Verra well.” With one long surge, he sank into her to the cods, the way moistened by the rich flow of her honey.

  She screamed as her body, no longer her own, bucked and jerked, but he didn’t allow her release, instead pulling out.

  “No!”

  Another hard swat, the leather stinging. “Ye must learn, lady, that ye’ll do it my way. I’m your husband and your master and your laird. Remember it, always.”

  She buried her face in the covers. She hadn’t wanted to shame herself by sniveling but it was far too late for that. She wept from frustration before she felt his cockhead bump against her back door.

  “No!”

  “Yes. I know ye’re afeared of this, and it’s a suitable punishment for your acts this day.” He rose and left her to worry about what was going to happen. Turning her head, she saw him strip, finally removing those tormenting gloves. Despite her anger—was this punishment equal to the crime of trespassing? Surely not!—she was still drawn to his pale, sleek, muscular body, the body she knew could deliver ecstasy.

  Or torture, as she’d learned.

  He hunted on her dresser until he found what he wanted—a pot of lotion. Opening it, he smeared some on his thick, fully erect cock, his gaze never leaving her bottom.

  He rubbed the lotion up and down and his tool grew larger, redder, its vivid color contrasting with the nest of black hair from which it rose and the skin of his torso, pale as the whitest marble. He came to her and seized her buttocks in his cold, steely grip. Renewed arousal smoldered and she moaned, half in fear, half in anticipation of the pleasure she knew he could deliver.

  What would he choose?

  He kneaded her flesh. Desire bolted through her and her moans rose when he pried her buttocks apart to enter her.

  She wasn’t entirely tight. William’s exertions and Kier’s own fingers had opened her back portal again and again. Still, she twisted against a disquieting fullness that seemed to possess her unto her vitals. It didn’t hurt, exactly, but a startling fusion of sizzle and sting seized her and didn’t let go. She let out a shuddering cry as Kier took her arse with hard strokes that left no doubt that he was her master. He embedded himself inside her rear until his sex hair scratched her sensitized rump.

  Then he reached around, parted her folds and caressed her pearl with a slippery hand. A banshee wail of shame and surprise came from her depths as a firestorm of bliss consumed her. His weight pressed her down into the bed, his thickness stabbing deep in quick, heavy thrusts. She thrashed against the bedclothes, lifting her hips and pushing back, desperate to take all of him inside her despite her topsy-turvy emotions.

  He bit her neck as he came, with his big body sprawled atop her, his groans of completion sweet in her ears before her world went dark.

  Chapter Eleven

  After he’d left Moira in the pillory for an hour, Euan scattered the guards and clansmen who’d come to take their pleasure of her, as well as those who’d thrown rotten vegetables at her head. Then he released her. Dugald slung her battered body over his shoulder and carried her to an upper floor of the Laird’s Tower.

  He lowered her into a cool bath and she sighed as the water soothed her abused haunches. She let herself slide beneath the water. A bath was a luxury she didn’t often enjoy, and now that her public humiliation was over she began to think that mayhap she’d be all right.

  The water penetrated to her scalp. She tipped her head back as she surfaced, letting her long red curls drape down her back, aware that the two men were watching.

  Confidence buoyed her. She could handle them. The worst was over and she guessed that her enemy wasn’t faring well. As she’d been carried up the tower stairs, she’d been able to hear Lydia’s shrieks.

  Moira smiled. She’d had most of the Kilborn men, with the exception of Euan, the castellan. And what could he do? He’d been old when she’d been born.

  “Out of the bath, wench,” Euan said. “’Tis for our pleasure, not yourn.”

  “What do ye mean?” She turned her head to look at him.

  “I dinnae enjoy hot buttered buns, not when they’ve been greased with the spunk of twenty men.”

  Dugald hauled her out of the bath and carried her squirming form over to a refectory table. Euan shoved the used plates and mugs aside to make room, and they bound her in a St. Andrew’s cross to the table’s legs.

  Turning her head, Moira saw Euan smile at her, his teeth gleaming, but it wasn’t a happy grin. Though she’d known him all her life, she noticed for the first time the unnatural perfection of his smile. His seamed visage wasn’t that of a cheerful young man, but his teeth shone unnaturally white and even except for the incisors. Those were pointed, almost like an animal’s, she thought. Like fangs.

  Dugald twisted his fingers through the red nest of curls atop her mound and tugged. She tried to think, to remember, but blood rushed through her veins as her heartbeat tripled. Like many clanswomen, she’d experienced Kieran and Ranald’s odd sexual tastes more than once. They’d liked to bite her, their sharp teeth slicing her thigh or her neck or nibbling on her cunt while in the throes of their insatiable lust. Despite the feminine cries nightly heard from Laird Kieran’s chamber, despite Lady Lydia’s bruised neck, Moira envied her rival with a jealousy so gnawing that she’d plotted Lydia’s downfall.

  But…auld Euan?

  Moira’s mind couldn’t grasp the reality of the ancient castellan’s glistening fangs until he bent over her and sank them into her neck.

  * * * * *

  At sundown, when they’d finished, Dugald and Euan washed Moira again. They covered her eyes and wrapped her limp,
trembling body in a sheet before Dugald slung her over one brawny shoulder.

  He climbed the stairs of the Laird’s Tower to its topmost story and exited behind Euan. His tread heavy on the upper walkway, Dugald followed Euan to the old keep and after Euan had unlatched the door, Dugald dumped Moira in the dusty room beyond.

  Euan locked her inside, then looked at Dugald, who said, “’Tis a cruel punishment.”

  “But fitting to the crime.”

  “What will he do, do ye think?”

  “I dinnae ken. My brother was ever a man of refined tastes. Moira might not be to his liking.”

  Dugald licked his lips. “I found her tasty enough, as did ye.”

  “Aye, my thirst is slaked for the nonce. But as for himself, well…he isnae sane, do ye ken? So we lock him in the tower as best we can. I dinnae ken if he’ll stop at a wee dram or two. And as for his other desires…”

  “Who knows?” Dugald asked.

  “Who knows,” Euan responded flatly.

  * * * * *

  Moira awoke warm and cozy in a sumptuous bed, but couldn’t move, not with her arms over her head and her wrists trussed to a bedpost. Darkness enveloped her and she realized she was blindfolded.

  A man’s thumb rubbed back and forth over her engorged clit, forcing shards of desire through her. She groaned…how much more could she take? She had lost count of the climaxes that had claimed her imprisoned flesh since she’d been pilloried. Each pleasure, sharpened by pain, had been more intense than the last.

  Weak from lack of food and loss of blood, her tug against the bonds was feeble.

  “Good evening.” The voice was deep and cultured.

  She froze but his continued fondling drew her gasp. A finger entered her. She opened her thighs and thrust her hips toward pleasure’s source.

  The digit withdrew and she didn’t stifle her protesting moan. Cool hands pulled her knees high and wide. She was ready to be mounted, but by whom?

  She only half-believed the legend of the mad blood drinker in the Dark Tower. He had long been a threat parents used to keep bairns obedient, like the kelpies or the fae folk. Nay, she had hoped that Kieran would catch and punish Lydia, or p’raps that her rival would come to grief in the crumbling, dangerous keep. Anyone falling through its rotting floors could drown in a sea cave overwhelmed by high tide.

  “Who are you?” She was ashamed of the weakness of her voice.

  “Very nice,” he said, ignoring her question. His voice held a Scots accent tinctured by something else…English, p’raps. Something odd, almost like the elegant tones Milady Lydia affected.

  His moist finger circled her bud. “Delightfully clean and fresh. My brother always knew my tastes.”

  “Your brother?”

  “Aye, lass. Euan.”

  Her mind buzzed. “That cannae be!”

  “It is.” He again speared her channel with one, then two fingers, spreading them so she opened. His other hand seized her knee and smooth, cool lips caressed her thigh for a moment before pain lanced through her.

  She thrashed, but he held her firmly as he drank from her thigh for many minutes, until her head swam. His fingers inside her excited her despite the bite, the sucking, the dread… Euan’s brother. The mad vampire in the tower. Could it be?

  When he finally stopped, she was near to fainting and feared for her life. Then his mouth, now warm, sought her cunt again and she sighed with relief as his stiff tongue urged her to completion.

  She cried out and her hips bucked before an engorged shaft breached her. He sank his thick pole deep, swiving her powerfully. Shouting with rapture, Moira came as his hot seed pumped into her. As he climaxed, he tore away her blindfold.

  An ancient face with bloodied lips, framed by stringy white hair…one look, and Moira knew nothing more.

  Before dawn, Moira staggered out of the old keep. Wrapped in a tattered plaid, her hair and eyes wild, she made her way to the open portcullis and left Kilborn Castle.

  * * * * *

  Warm and cool…

  Lydia’s body was warm where her belly pressed into the feather bed, but cool above, where ribbons of sweet comfort delivered blessed relief to her sore bottom and thighs. She smelled roses, and awoke realizing that her husband was gently stroking her flanks, smoothing scented lotion into her skin.

  “Madainn mhath, kylyrra.”

  “Er, good morning.” Hesitant, she wondered how the turbulence of the day before would affect their marriage.

  “Ye ken why I had to punish ye so severely?”

  Her buttocks and thighs still ached, though the soreness was diminishing beneath Kieran’s gentle fingertips. Had she developed bruises? When would she be able to sit again? Nevertheless, she said, “Yes, I do.”

  Setting down the lotion, he lay beside her and she turned her head to regard him.

  His eyes were serious. “I’ll no’ deny there was pleasure in it for me.”

  She bit her lip. “And for me also, but…” How could she be a lady and still enjoy the bizarre perversions that Kieran preferred? Her devilishly clever husband knew what brought her to the heights of ecstasy or to an abyss of shame. She didn’t know who she was anymore, and that frightened her.

  “It was too much,” he said, as if divining her thoughts.

  “Yes. Too much.” Relief swept her.

  He understood.

  He understood and shared her feelings.

  A trembling sort of giddiness possessed her and a smile came unbidden to her lips as she examined her husband with an intent gaze. “You mean… Milaird was wrong?”

  “Aye. I was wrong.”

  “The great Kieran Kilborn was wrong?” His wife’s eyes widened. One eyebrow lifted and she gave him a wide, disbelieving smile edged with mockery.

  “Now, Lydia.” On his side, he tucked an arm beneath his head.

  “P’raps the sun has risen in the west, or the sheep fly and instead, birds crop the grass. I must check.” She rose from the bed, wincing a little. He watched her bonnie pink arse twitch as she pranced over to one of the arrow slits and peered out.

  When she returned, she held lengths of the worn linen they used as towels. She again smiled at him.

  He distrusted that impish smile, accompanied as it was by twinkling eyes.

  “So,” she said. “Kieran was wrong. Kieran’s been a naughty fellow indeed.” She took his arm by the wrist, brought it to the bedpost above his head and wrapped a strip of linen around both, binding him.

  Bold she was, and lust curled deep in his belly. His prick twitched with dawning arousal. “I daresay I’ve been a bad, bad boy.”

  “Oh, yes.” She took another linen strip, rolled him onto his back and trussed the other hand high.

  Then she walked away from him. What did she have in mind?

  She had evidently learned plenty during the few weeks they’d been married.

  She dipped a third swatch of fabric into a ewer of water and let the chilly liquid drip onto his chest, then swished it back and forth from nipple to nipple. They tightened into taut little kernels and his cock jumped, stiff and hard as an oaken club.

  Her smile broadened. “I like this,” she said.

  So do I, he thought, but made a show of struggling against his bonds. “Lydia—”

  She chuckled and slid the cold, wet linen down his belly to his staff. Despite the temperature, despite his already intense arousal, he thickened and lengthened.

  “I wonder…” she said meditatively, scrutinizing his cock. She ran the cloth through her fingers and smiled.

  She rubbed him with the wet linen and despite the chill he swelled. She tickled his rod so it became even harder, then wrapped his member in the fabric until only the broad, round head was exposed. With each caress of her clever wee hands and each touch of the soft, damp towel, he grew bigger and more aroused until he was about to explode.

  Bending over, she gave him a little flick of her tongue and he groaned, his hips jolting up.

  She lau
ghed. “How does that feel?” She kissed his cockhead again, opening her mouth wide to encompass all of his roundness. Lightning flashed through him and he wondered if his trapped flesh was going to burst.

  She gave him a little nip and he started violently.

  “I asked you a question.” Her voice was cool and even. She nibbled on him again.

  He jerked up, hoping to force his rod further into her mouth and p’raps get some relief, but she was too quick for him and the wicked bond holding his cock kept him on the boundary between pleasure and pain. He could not come until she chose to release him.

  He was hers to control, utterly. “Lydia, please…”

  “Please, what?”

  “Please! I’m afeared this will do me harm.”

  “Really? As much as a beating?”

  “Are ye angry with me?”

  “Nay, husband, but what’s sauce for the goose…” She left the remainder of the quote unsaid.

  “What would ye have me say or do?”

  She ran her hand over his ballocks and they contracted. He was frantic to shoot his load, and writhed on the sheets.

  “You’re mine, do you hear?” She tugged on his cock.

  “That was never in question!”

  “You’re my slave as much as I am yours. Admit it!”

  He tossed his body from side to side. “Yes! Yes!” He sensed the justice of her actions and did not want to fight her. And he’d give up one of his balls to come.

  “Very well, then.” She tugged away the binding, then pinched the base of his rod, hard.

  A blast of pure pain shot through him and he clamped down on his frustrated shout. She climbed atop him to rub her slick cunny over his cock, and he was instantly ready again. He twitched with need, pushing his rod upward toward her slit.

  Kneeling, she lifted up then dropped down, her magnificent breasts bobbing. His cockhead lodged inside her. He groaned with need and relief. She liked what she was doing, he reckoned, because the walls of her quim were fluttering and clenching. Tight, hot and wet… She eased down onto him.