The Line Unbroken
Copyright© 2026 by Ring of Seed
Chapter 1: The Heir’s First Bloom
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 1: The Heir’s First Bloom - A bored young heir returns to his Scottish estate and discovers the real danger isn’t the ledgers — it’s the staff. Gardener, butler, stablemaster: older; married; rough. They take turns filling him, claiming the line through his hole. Consensual, campy, filthy, and completely ridiculous.
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Ma Mult Consensual Gay Fiction Historical Incest Son Father Humiliation Rough Gang Bang Group Sex Anal Sex Analingus Double Penetration Oral Sex
The rain hammered the slate roof like impatient fists. A relentless roar. It drowned everything except the low crackle of the library fire. James MacLeod, thirty-two, heir presumptive, stood at the tall mullioned window. Loose white linen shirt. Sleeves rolled to the elbows. Top three buttons undone. The fabric already clung damply to his chest from the humid night air. Family tartan kilt below, commando beneath. The wool scratched faintly against his thighs with every shift of weight. Outside the grounds had dissolved into silver-gray mist. The loch below a dark rippling mirror reflecting fractured lightning.
He was bored.
The boredom sat heavy in his gut. A dull throb. It matched the insistent pulse in his cock. London had been all polished marble floors and sterile hotel sheets. Here the estate smelled of wet peat, old oak, something primal he couldn’t name. Back for the summer to “manage” things (read: dodge his father’s pointed questions about heirs and legacies), James had discovered the real danger wasn’t the ledgers.
It was the staff.
Specifically, Hamish.
Hamish MacTavish, fifty-five, head gardener. Built like the ancient oaks that bordered the drive. Broad shoulders straining against gravity. Barrel chest rising and falling with every breath. A soft belly that spoke of good whisky and better living. A thick pelt of salt-and-pepper hair covered him from collarbone to the dark coarse thicket that vanished into the low-slung waistband of his dirt-streaked work trews. The beard was grizzled, wiry, smelling faintly of tobacco and woodsmoke even from ten feet away. His eyes were winter-sky blue. Sharp. Unblinking. Hands scarred. Knuckles thickened. Palms rough as bark from decades of thorns, shovels, and soil. Married thirty-two years. Two grown sons. Wife in the village cottage, hands dusted with flour, pretending she didn’t notice the late hours or the faint scent of greenhouse earth that clung to him when he finally came home.
James had been watching for weeks.
The polite nods over morning tea carried the faint clink of porcelain and the warm malty steam of Assam. “Lovely roses, Hamish.”
The stolen glances when Hamish stripped off his shirt in the greenhouse heat. Sweat beading on that thick chest fur. Trickling in slow rivulets down the soft belly. Catching in the navel before disappearing into the dark trail below. The scent hit James like a fist. Earthy musk. Fresh-cut green. Salt. Man.
His kilt had tented so obviously he’d twice had to tug the shirt down. Fabric whispering against his hardening cock. Cheeks burning.
Tonight the restraint shattered like wet glass.
He slipped out the side door after midnight. Rain slapped cold against his face. Soaked the linen shirt in seconds so it clung transparently to his lean chest. Nipples pebbling from the chill. The kilt flapped heavy and wet against his thighs. Wool heavy with water. Boots crunched gravel. Then squelched mud as he crossed to the greenhouse. Inside: thick humid air like breathing soup. The sharp green perfume of wet leaves and compost. Rain drumming on the glass roof in a steady hypnotic tattoo. The single lantern cast warm amber light. Turned everything golden and shadowed.
Hamish stood with his back turned. Shirtless. Hauling a heavy sack of soil. Sweat gleamed on his broad back. Silver threads in the hair catching firelight. The scent rolled off him in waves. Fresh sweat. Peat. Loam. Faint motor oil from the toolshed. The underlying musk of an older man who worked hard and washed rarely.
James cleared his throat. Voice rougher than he intended.
“Need a hand, Hamish?”
Hamish turned slowly. His eyes dropped to the soaked ridge tenting the tartan. Then dragged up to the drenched shirt plastered to James’s torso. A slow predatory grin cracked the grizzled beard. Revealed crooked teeth stained faintly with tobacco.
“Aye, lad. I think ye do.”
No more preamble.