Chapter 3: The Butler’s Shadow

The days blurred into a delicious haze of stolen fucks and lingering leaks. James moved through the house like a man carrying a secret flame inside him. Every step a subtle reminder of Hamish’s seed still warm and thick in his gut, slowly seeping out, soaking the tartan, leaving faint damp spots on the chair cushions when he sat too long. The faint musky scent of cum clinging to the wool like a private perfume. The laird watched more closely now, frowning over his morning coffee. The steam curling up in tight spirals. But said nothing. Yet.

Hamish kept his word. “Next time ... I bring friends.”

It started with Angus.

Angus MacKenzie: Fifty-four; butler to the MacLeod family for twenty-eight years; tall and stern; silver threading through dark hair at the temples like frost on midnight. Neatly trimmed beard, mostly gray. Sharp features softened only slightly by age. Broad-shouldered. Still muscular under the crisp black waistcoat from younger days of lifting trunks and polishing silver. Hairy chest that peeked when his collar loosened, the dark fur already damp with a thin sheen of sweat at the throat. Deep clipped Highland accent that could silence a room. Thick thighs. Heavy uncut cock he wielded with the same precision he used to set a table. Married. Grown daughter. Wife ran the village shop. He had always been the perfect servant: silent; efficient; invisible. Until now.

It happened on a Thursday evening. The house quiet after dinner. The laird had retired early with a headache. The faint creak of his bedroom door echoing down the corridor. The maids were in their quarters. James was in the library, pretending to read by the dying fire. The air thick with old leather and smouldering peat smoke. The faint lingering trace of his own afternoon arousal. His shirt was half-unbuttoned from the orchard bothy quickie. Hamish had bent him over a fallen log. Fucked him fast and brutal and left him dripping again. The sticky warmth still slowly trickling down his inner thighs.