Chapter 5: The Stablemaster’s Ride

The whispers had spread through the staff quarters like wildfire in dry hay. Hamish and Angus trading filthy stories over pints in the bunkhouse, their voices low and smug. James was a revelation: tight; eager; insatiable; the heir who begged for more, who leaked their seed all day and came back for seconds.

It was only a matter of time before Rory heard.

Rory Fraser, thirty-eight, stablemaster. Rough and solid from military days, faded tattoos snaking under dark hair on his forearms and chest. Stocky-muscular build, short-cropped brown hair graying early at the sides, face clean-shaven: smooth; sharp jawline; the skin slightly weathered from wind and sun, making his hazel eyes look even more piercing and feral when aroused. Shorter than the others at 5’10”, but broad and compact, callused hands smelling of leather and reins.

Married with two young kids, wife thought his late nights were for foaling mares.

And his cock? Like a horse. Girthy as a stallion’s, veiny and thick, hanging heavy even soft. The kind that stretched without mercy and left you walking bow-legged for days.

James didn’t seek him out. Rory came to him.

It started in the stables at dusk. The scent of hay, horse sweat, polished leather, and fresh manure thick in the air, the low whinny of mares settling for the night echoing off wooden beams. James had wandered in, drawn by the glow of lanterns, kilt swaying, shirt loose from the day’s heat. He told himself it was to check on the horses, but the ache in his hole, still full from last night’s bedroom romp with Hamish and Angus, said otherwise.

Rory was alone, brushing down the laird’s favourite gelding, shirt off, back muscles flexing under a sheen of sweat, dark chest hair matted and glistening. His smooth, clean-shaven face turned at the sound of boots on straw, eyes raking James from head to toe, lips curling into that perpetual half-smirk.