Any resemblance between the content of this story or any of the characters depicted herein and real persons or events is highly unlikely and purely coincidental. This is a work of fiction. The author does not condone any sexual activity unless all parties are able to clearly and consciously legally consent and choose to do so.

Charlie Morris unpacked his briefcase onto the gigantic table. Light filtered in the colored glass from the midday sun. This conference room was once the Solar of the castle. Cold and clear, no clouds filtered the light. The Old oak table laid awash in color and random lines. Those distortions resulted more from the inch thick bulletproof Lexan rather than the centuries old glass.

Charlie felt comfortable. Castles like this one, stuck on an island in the North Sea, should be bitterly cold in late November. Even with eight-foot thick walls, he suspected insulation behind the dark paneling. Heat did radiate from the floor. The fireplace was empty, shuttered by heavy decorative doors.

His bum knee had twitched on the entire helicopter flight to the island. Climbing the stairs had worked some of the stiffness out. He felt he might even be able to score on a penalty kick. Ok, the keeper might need to be limping a bit. He felt better anyway.

From a portfolio case, he gently removed a large three-foot-by-three-foot piece of vellum. The research he had done on the Black-Mal written on its surface was completed. The Jameson families shared a common home over a thousand years ago. Then the family split between the Gunn and Stewart Clans. The Stewart-Jamesons had controlled this castle, called Caisteal Geasan since 1420 and by decree of James the Second were the 'Law under God himself.' On the island, the head of the family literally ruled by whim alone.

In 1590, the Gunn-Jamiesons forced the Black-Mal he laid on the table. Provisions in the Treaty of Union made the document binding. The Gunn-Jamiesons had had seven unique tries to invoke the clauses written into the Black-Mal. Charlie had found only six documented attempts.

Presently a small military unit had a base on the southern portion of the island under a carefully worded lease between the Crown, and the Elliott Jameson the family's patriarch, at the time. The Crown needed a "collocet ut obliviscatur," somewhere to place prisoners to disappear, literally forgotten. The Jameson family wanted no interference with passage of any persons or goods that passed through the island.

Ian Jameson, Charlie's employer, had one year to provide an answer to Edmund Jamieson. As the party called to defend the Black-Mal, Ian could choose where the challenge could be made. Caisteal Geasan gave Ian the right to interpret the law to his will. He could not escape the letter of the Black-Mal. Ian would twist it to his advantage.

Reunification, the last unanswered portion of the Black-Mal, Edmund had little left to lose. He was the last surviving Jamieson male. Edmund's son Robert died shortly after his wife gave birth to a daughter named Lillian.

"Well my boy, have you set my plan in motion?" Ian appeared at Charlie's side. That startled him.

"I have the documents written to your specification." Charlie had a hard time hiding his displeasure. Immoral to the core, what he had set in motion would damn him to hell. Parts were palatable, even admirable. Treating four couples to all expenses paid honeymoons and nuptials made Ian out to be a romantic. The changes made to the tower suite were not romantic.

Ian was well aware that Charlie didn't like his plan. Here on the island what he proposed was legal, anywhere else, in the civilized world, these crimes bordered on the unfathomable. "I'll sign them here." This would end the Jamieson's infantile attempts to wrest control of Caisteal Geasan.

Charlie spread out a set of three documents. Ian crossed over to the mantel and grabbed the great seal of Caisteal Geasan. Returning, Ian placed the seal on the table. A heavy deep thump punctuated the act. The next half hour was filled with sign here, initial there.

An excursion to the stables was a rare opportunity to escape the watchful eye of Mrs. Sturbridge. Lillian Jamieson knew the old bitch lived for the express perverted pleasure of assigning demerits. Once you received twenty-seven of them, any discounts your parents had for tuition evaporated. Gran-da was convinced she got kickbacks.

Lillian had collected her fortieth demerit today for the ponytail she sported. Her hair never would stay fixed under the school's official riding cap. Besides, hiding her natural shade of deep red when it desperately needed sunlight to add natural highlights made the demerits worth it. She was blessed with emerald eyes that all the fashion magazines said screamed for a lighter shade of red hair that emphasized and complemented her skin tones.

Her curse had been her hips, all thirty-nine inches of them. She would, at best, described herself as bottom heavy. Her breast had stopped at a 'C' cup according to Silks and Secrets in Glasgow. According to the American charts, she would have had a 'B' cup. Having her hair able to billow and cascade down her torso would draw the eye from her hips. Very few people understood the frustration of having to consistently buy outfits that were mix-matched. Yes, her grandfather had her formal gowns made but just once, she wanted to go into the GAP and buy a form-fitting outfit off the rack.

The old Ford minibus bounced down the lane heading to the stables. Lillian shared similar views with most of her classmates: the ride to the horses was more dangerous than riding the horses. They had just passed an old barn painted red. After the next corner, a bounce was to happen after a small bridge. The driver, Mr. Creedy, known as Mr. Creepy, would gun the motor, making the girls bounce in their seats. Everyone knew he would then look at the monitoring mirror to watch the girls' breasts bounce. The old biddy Mrs. Marshall ignored his antics. She sat stoically staring down the lane.

Instead of being pushed into her seat, Lillian was thrown forward. She heard a squeal from the brakes. The front of the minibus dipped down. Lillian felt herself pressed into the seatback in front of her. Mr. Creepy let out a string of profanity. A panel van blocked the lane. The sound of an engine made Lillian turn. She saw a lorry stop inches from the rear emergency exit of the minibus.

Everyone was talking at once. The cacophony made it seem like everyone was shouting. One girl was screaming. She was looking at the word 'SCANIA' in large block letters directly out the rear windows. Her seatmate pulled her back onto their bench. The girl changed from a screech to a series of "Oh Gods" as she calmed down. Evelyn started to complain that her cell was not getting any service.

Mrs. Sturbridge waddled up the aisle to the door. When it opened, she accelerated through it. In her place, a dark skinned man stepped into the bus. "You bitches exit the bus!" He sounded foreign, like the Egyptian shopkeeper in town.

"Now see here!" Mr. Creepy shouted back. "Do not speak to-" A pop occurred and faint wires stretched from the dark man to Mr. Creepy. Mr. Creepy shook then collapsed into his seat.

This produced a series of screams. The response was a burst into the roof of the minibus by a machine pistol. Silence became the result of the gunfire. "Exit the bus!" He waved to encourage them. "Whores and bitches that've lost their maidenheads in the yellow van, pure and virgin cunts in the red van." The man injected a syringe of something into Mr. Creepy.

Lillian was one of the last girls to exit. She could see Mrs. Sturbridge lying on the side of the road. "Virgin cunt or whore?" the dark skin man asked her. Lillian could not answer such a question. She was doing good to walk. A slap refocused her attention. Lillian still could not bring herself to answer. Hands ran roughshod in her pockets. Her cell phone and iPod were tossed aside. "Virgin or whore?" He grabbed the waistline of her riding trousers. "Hold still!" With his fingers behind her briefs, the man slipped short heavy knife into the gap, designed so that the cutting blade could never cut the skin. Lillian felt the plastic guard as it slid down toward the base of her crotch. The plastic guide was replaced by fingers, "Good little cunt, get in the red van." He pushed her toward red van. Bags, cell phones, purses, and clothing littered the ground.

Lillian had to grab her pants on both sides of the cut. She walked without thinking. Tears began to roll down her face. There were more girls in the red van than she thought there should have been based on the late night chats in the dorms. Once she topped the ramp into the red box-van, hands grabbed hers. She lost the grip on her pants and they fell away. She tried to grab them, but could not break her hands free. Handcuffs snapped shut. An industrial zip tie secured them to a chain bolted to the floor. Something stung her upper arm. She looked to see a syringe pulled away.

As the door of the panel van closed, Lillian sat down. The cold metal touching her ass reminded her she was exposed. Hastily Lillian pulled up the remnants of her pants. Surrounded by darkness, she joined the chorus of sobs that were dying down. Banging on the side of the van must have signaled the driver. The van jostled away. Lillian found herself drifting into sleep.

BBC News arrived at the kidnapping site before the local authorities. Tipped off by an anonymous phone call by a voice that was both filtered, and using an obviously bad American accent it was to enticing to pass. Later it would be learned the call originated from one of the girls' cell phones. Triangulation from logs from the equipment linked to the local cell towers reveled that the call came from the crime scene.

From that point on the hidden little lane, easy access to the M74, M8, and M80 were all within a twenty-minute lazy drive. Jennifer Nelson, her engineer, and cinematographer acted as concerned citizens first. Dialing 999, she reported what they found as she moved to check on an unconscious woman. The man in the minibus came under the care of the engineer. The cinematographer began a detailed examination of the scene. He stated what each of the others was doing and tried to record anything he could that their actions might obscure. Recorded simultaneously on his camera and on media in their truck, he would surrender a copy when the authorities arrived.

By the time the authorities arrived, the minibus was almost one hour late arriving at the stables. That put the perpetrators in a thirty-mile radius from the spot. The UK Highways Agency sprang into action. Intense reviews of any footage that cameras could provide concerning traffic to and from the lane over the last hour were dissected. Three potential targets were identified.

The first truck was tracked to a loading dock. Bags of horse feed soon filled the back of the van. Almost immediately after the first truck proved to be a dead end, the second target van suffered a catastrophic engine failure. The quick response was greatly appreciated. Having it offered at gunpoint did cause some concern.

That left the last possible target. CCTV showed four vehicles entering the M8 heading toward Edinburgh, one flatbed empty lorry, a yellow panel van, and three sedans. That caravan was on the City on Edinburgh By-Pass almost to Musselburgh.

Special Operations teams began to converge on the area. Their target had stopped at a small warehouse with rail traffic access. The cameras could not see inside.

The yellow panel van backed to within eight feet of a transport container, mounted on a trailer, attached to a tractor, making it ready for a quick exit. Opening the back of the panel van, Derek al-Kindi pulled the built in ramp, setting one end a foot into the container, the other he fastened into place. He hopped onto the ramp, and then turned to his men. "Strip them in the van." The other men climbed into the van. "Then take them to the container trailer." The other six men started up the ramp. Derek stopped the last man. "Jean, start the truck and make sure we are ready to roll. Then if there is time, come help us to finish."

Jean headed over to the cab. He verified the airbrake connections and that the pin was in place securing the trailer. Moving around to climb into the cab, he saw the first of the naked asses slung over shoulders. Once seated in the cab, he began the startup sequence. Jean did the math in his mind, twenty grand for the ambush, then twelve-fifty for each bitch in the van. That made another ten grand, thirty grand total, for a few hours work. The diesel rumbled to life. He opened the door to report. The barrel of a silenced M11 pointed at his chest. The man next to him held up his finger ordering him to be silent.

"De-" the words were cut short by four rapid clicks. A small bag caught the expended shell casings. Jean died before they dragged his carcass out of the cab. Using the wheels to block the view of the men transferring the nude girls, the two men moved to their second position.

Sounds of the ramp dropping to the floor were followed closely by the clank, which signified the closing of the shipping container door. A small cheer followed the sound of a padlock clicking shut.

The padlock clicking also assured the special operations squad that their captives were relatively secure.

"Mount up." Derek shouted out to the men. "We'll meet at Barney's Pub at the Port of Sunderland."

The sound of a round being chambered into an H&K MP5 has a remarkable effect on a person. Multiply the sound by five and then have those very same weapons appear in the hands of an armored anti-terrorist unit. There is a surprising range of reaction. One man fainted. Two men suddenly sported growing dark stains the front of their trousers. Three raised their hands as they fell to their knees.

A steady diet of badly written movies inspired Derek. Thousands of hours of video games fed his stupidity. His right hand reached behind back to his waistband. He dove toward the open area under the trailer.

A 7.62mm round tore into the upper reaches of his right shoulder. The force knocked him bodily into the man urinating behind him. Before he went into shock, Derek was able to taste the urine on the pant leg covering his face. Unlike the video games, there was no overhead view to show the concealed sniper in the upper right part of the screen.

Secure in the hay barn, the Egyptian sounding man began to peel the red plastic decal away from the sides of the panel van. He whistled Elton John's Nikita, while working. His panel van now showed it belonged to Office121. Raising the door, he visually checked his cargo. Unfortunately, he would need to load a wall of paper boxes to hide his cargo. Balling up the decals, he stuffed them into several garbage bags. Those bags he tossed in with the girls.

In two hours, it would be safe to dose the girls again. Going back to the cab, he removed a new set of plates. He started replacing the ones on the van. Kneeling on the stone floor at the front of the van, he never saw the silenced pistol lining up with his spine. Three bullets into the back of his head ended his life.

Dropping her pistol to her side, the shooter walked to the back of the panel van. The caramel woman looked at a picture. Spotting the girl she pulled out a credit card sized cell phone. Turning the Hindi girl, she first activated the phone and then slipped it into the girl's coat pocket.

Slipping out the way she came, the shooter moved into the underbrush. Moving away carefully, she negotiated her way to a scenic jogging path. A pack sat waiting for her. Quickly she shed the camouflage overall and changed to running shoes, putting the boots in the pack. Checking the timer on her watch, she began stretching. The yellow tank top and tight shorts would soon draw a great deal of attention. A runner topped the hill and ran straight to her. He kissed her.

"Konmen lé-z'affè?" the big white man asked. She made a pistol shape with index finger and thumb. He smiled. Her fingers flashed the sign for three.

Ebony fingers slid up his shirt. "Renmen m' wi," she whispered.

He pushed her against the nearest tree. Then he knelt before her. Ripping her shorts down, he drove his tongue into the upper parts of her caramel slit. Grabbing his head, she rode him. Other than the sounds of the breeze and the woods, a soft slurping drifted about five feet from the pair.

The ebony woman shook. He pulled away. His cheeks glistened. He wiped them on her shorts. As he stood, she started to sink to her knees.

"Cette nuit," he whispered. She grabbed his cock outlined in his shorts, and kissed him again. The couple then started running east.

There was a lane open, giving Pete access to the baseline. Switching his dribble to his left hand, he drove toward the basket. The defense collapsed in on Pete. Their error left Paulie open in the far corner behind the three-point line. Instead of the layup, he hooked a pass over his head directly to the wing. With his feet set, Paulie's shot arced gracefully toward the hoop. A gentle kiss off the backboard redirected the ball into the net.

Pete hopped into the air, letting the chain link fence absorb his momentum. Rebounding back, he met the team exchanging hi-fives.

"Damn Pete, sweet pass." Jake pulled him into a bro-hug. "I guess playing a little college ball did help your game."

Pete had received a full ride scholarship to Southern New Hampshire. He played as the second unit power forward. At six foot five, he was just under the minimum ideal height for a small forward. Weighing in at two hundred and thirty pounds, he had a pesky low post presence.

According to Garrow family legend, they had moved to Boston in 1820, slaves that had been set free and sent north. The family was still involved in trade with Europe, business relationships that had lasted almost two hundred years. Pete would be starting at the company in two days. His grandfather had sent him to Inverness, Scotland last month to meet the old world partners in the company.

A month later, Pete wished for a few balmy December mornings in New Hampshire. The rain! It rained heavily in the winter. The sky stayed gray. Boston was colder, but it was dryer. He understood why the old folks would complain about their bones hurting.

Braving the cold, Pete walked down Eastgate toward the alleyway, Hamilton Street. He needed to finish his holiday shopping. Cutting down Hamilton to the Marks and Spencer Shoppe, he felt a stinging in his left ass cheek, then his body failed to respond. He had shocked himself before while fixing a lamp, but this hurt. The pain stopped. Before he could move, something jabbed his arm. Colors swirled, massing into the images of blobs. Hands grabbed his arms.

A squeaky voice from his left piped, "Damn, this is a heavy load."

"Shut-up," the voice to the right said. "Our piker is late with the van."

Pete heard the sputtering motor before he smelled the oil it burned. A sliding sound he associated with the old basketball van signaled a door opening. Shoved forward, his shins smacked the edge of the opening. That stung. When Pete's face smacked the floor, it hurt worse. Rope bound his hands and feet. A tarp covered over him. Heat from the exhaust warmed the floor. A deep whoosh and clank signaled the door was slammed shut. As the van eased forward, Pete succumbed to the need to sleep.

Edmund Jamieson had dodged a bullet. His granddaughter Lillian had almost been taken from him. If she had been lost, it would have destroyed his last chance to win back the family's birthright. Neither of his sons had seen fit to father a boy. Freddie was bent, and spent his life takin'-it-up-the-bum; Jackie had dropped just the one girl. Then he died when a drunk struck him as he jogged down a road.

Once that bastard Ian's last grandson married last spring, it provided an opening. The Black-Mal, centuries of crawling kowtowing to the high and mighty Jameson clan, would end. 'A husband, who is direct lineage of the Laird, ' the old Gaelic was beautiful to the ear. Yet revenge for all those centuries would be sweeter.

That bastard Ian would have no one to wed Lillian. The Black-Mal would then force the change in ownership of Caisteal Geasan. The daft girl never complained about coming to the family estate high in the heather. Edmund knew the scare from the kidnapping would keep her in line for at least six months. Greed, not providence, had saved the girl. Once the second truck broke down, one accomplice had killed the one who could be identified. After the drugs wore off, one of the big-breasted girls had her phone hid in her bra. A 999 call later and they were free.

Edmund sat down in the heavy leather chair behind his desk. He spun clockwise and snickered at the thought of his plans coming to fruition. The image of his butler and gardener flashed before him twice before he could stop the spinning.

"Sir," Bradbury his butler called. "It appears someone has loosed six sheep, a cow, and a plow horse in the garden."

Edmund could feel his temple budging in time with his heart rate.

"A book wrapped in paper was on the front door." The butler held out the paper. "There was no writing on the paper, only this mark." The coat of arms of the Jameson bastards, this one was bordered by a heavy red band, signaling that a fourth branch of the damned family was claimed to exist.

Edmund took the book. Opening the cover, he read. The butler and gardener exited the room. Edmund began to curse. Once he read page eight, everyone on the ground floor heard the cry. "Lillian!"

Rushing to the stairs, Edmund sprinted to the top. He stormed to the east wing. At Lillian's door, he burst into her room. On the bed lay a marshalling of the family arms, painted on heavy oak quartered to ancient custom, a symbol of marriage.

Half her face felt the cold air. The other half was warm. She could feel her head rise and fall. An arm pressed against her back. Her mind cleared a bit more. The heat engine she rested against breathed steadily. The right breast touched the bed and flesh, its counterpart touched only skin.

Still not opening her eyes, Lillian took stock of every sensation. Her thigh and leg draped over a body. Coarse hair touched the side of her knee; it was the sensations of her sex resting against skin that opened her eyes.

There was enough light that it made her blink. It took a few moments for her vision to focus. Her tongue felt as if it had fur growing on it. The taste of a foil gum wrapper hung in her mouth. Accumulated pressure in her bladder decided to make its existence known. She had to get up.

Rolling away removed the warmth of the male. The sudden cold seemed to make the pressure even greater. Sliding her legs over the side of the bed, she stood. Lillian's toes protested the bitter temperatures of the stone floor. Her bladder ended the argument. Spying a water closet, she moved that way as fast as possible, stifling squeals.

Sitting down, braving the cold, Lillian felt relief as she peed. Crossing her arms, she felt something around her neck. It was a choker of some sort. Her fingers could barely reach under it. It was about the same diameter as a five-pence coin. She could not find a clasp. It was made of three-finger width sections that felt metallic. After wiping, she looked in the mirror. The green choker did match her eyes. The goose bumps on her skin signaled her state of discomfort.

Once done, she explored the octagonal room. It appeared to be about seven meters from edge to edge. Heavy and with no visible handle, the only door in the room resisted her efforts to break it. There were no towels, blankets, or any type of covering. She was beginning to lose feeling in her feet. Moving to the large lounge, she curled into a ball.

"Lillian," a soft artificial male voice called. "It is much warmer on the bed with Peter."

The voice scared her. She tried to stay still.

"The mattress is heated."

Lillian had been warm there. She shivered there on the lounge. Uncurling she lost what little heat she had generated. Walking quickly, she returned to the bed. It was warm. The massive black man still slumbered.

"Snuggle up to him, Lillian." The voice instructed. "It is warm, safe, and pleasurable, in bed with Peter."

Touching the top of the bed confirmed its warmth. On the bed lay Peter. Climbing next to him, she stopped to look at his cock. Lillian had seen them before. Never this close or for real, but it looked big and was aimed away from her.

"Touch it Lillian," the voice implored. "Soon it will become the center of your existence." Delicately, she climbed onto the mattress. "You need to caress the cock, Lillian." Her hand moved unbidden toward the penis. The heat emanating from the groin promised to soothe her fingers. "Yes, Lillian, that's a good thing to do."

Taking hold of the warm flesh, she felt the pulse of his heart. It grew in her hand. Once it reached about twenty centimeters, the tip began to spread. Something inside began to poke through. Reaching up, she pulled the skin around that tip down. That freed a large helmeted cock. This looked like the ones she had seen on the Internet.

"You did very well, Lillian." She realized she was not alone. "Crawl up beside Peter. You will be warm."

Embarrassed, but thrilled at her wantonness, the need to warm herself further drew her to snuggle beside him. Soon she fell asleep.

Edmund's private line rang; the voice on the other end was expected. "Hello Jamieson," the 'ie' was accented and pronounced as a loud 'e'.

"Ian, you ruddy bastard, where is she?" Edmund screamed into the phone.

"Eddy, Eddy, Eddy," Ian relished in the anger of the old fool. "Safe and in the company of her husband, their honeymoon is progressing adequately."

Edmund had tradition fueled by anger. "No consent to a marriage was ever given, you bastard."

The counter stated facts that served as virtual daggers to Edmund's soul. "The tenants of a bride price were left at your estate." A paused ensued to hammer home the reality. "Your forbear Marcus, agreed to a bride price in the codicils of 1736. That document has been in the Inverness Sheriff and Justice of the Peace Court since 1850."

"Ian, that court will not support that document," Edmund countered. "We both know that."

"It resides at that court, Eddy. Whatever court that holds the Black Mal administrates it."

Edmund saw a chance. "The Black Mal is part of the collection at University of Edinburgh. The court there will void this and charges will be brought."

The laugh Ian gave unnerved Edmund. "It's been on loan to the university. Every ten years, my solicitors reestablish that fact. Today, it is with me in Caisteal Geasan."

Edmund had him there: was no male of age, to marry Lillian. "There is no male of the line, Ian."

That laugh came again. "In 1730, the last time your clan tried to evoke the Black Mal, Robert Jameson sent his youngest son to Boston to secure an heir. Rodrick purchased a negress, paid the Miscegenation Fines yearly, and fathered four males. The Black Mal does recognize 'Biblical Marriage.' When it was written, an heir, no matter how remote, could legitimize offspring. The Garrows are legitimate. Their birth records have been recorded here in Caisteal Geasan since 1735."

Edmund's computer signaled that an email message had been received.

"Eddy, open the email attachment. Lillian was playing with the cock that will plant the babies in her belly."

Ian heard a crunch and the phone went dead. Hanging up the phone, he turned back to the video feed from the Honeymoon tower.

Lillian woke up with her stomach growling. She was alone in the bed. The bitter cold of earlier gone, warmth permeated the room. A rhythmic clang of metal sounded across the room. Looking to find the source, she saw Peter's back as he worked on an exercise machine. Light reflected off the sweat, which defined the muscles while they flexed. Lillian eased off the bed. Watching the ebony man effortlessly lift and lower the mechanism, she took a few cautious steps in his direction.

"You have completed this set satisfactorily," the artificial voice announced. "Lillian is awake."

Peter's head turned to scan the bed. Lillian tentatively waved. He stood and walked toward the kitchenette area. He did not try to hide his nakedness. The muscles in his thighs flexed with each step. The 'V' shape of his torso drew her eyes to his groin. His penis pointed down at the floor. Scanning back up to his face, she realized he was assessing her. She became acutely aware of her nudity. Her stomach growled again.

The voice called again. "Lillian, this is Peter."

"Hello," Lillian could feel her cheeks become hot with a blush.

"Peter, this is Lillian."

His eyes locked onto hers. "Hello," the confident voice soothed her apprehension.

"The first actions required for earning breakfast have been completed." Peter's eyes looked up at the speaker grill in the ceiling. "Lillian, take Peter to the shower and clean him."