Chapter 7: The Drawing Room Debauchery
The heavy velvet of the curtains scratched against Hamish’s cheek, rough as the burlap sacks in the stables. Dust motes danced in the single shaft of weak afternoon light that pierced the gloom, illuminating the scene on the worn settee with cruel clarity. Fiona. Her swollen belly, an obscene mound beneath her riding Lachlan hard, dominated his vision. Her breasts, heavy and veined, swung freely, bouncing with each frantic downward slam of her hips. Sweat slicked her skin, catching the light, highlighting the desperate contortion of her face.
“Fuck me, Lachlan!” Her voice was a ragged scream, stripped of any society wife’s restraint, echoing off the mahogany paneling and the disapproving faces in the ancestral portraits. “I need it! Need your cock in my cunt! Fill me up again!”
Lachlan’s head was thrown back against the settee’s arm, a low, animal groan rumbling from his chest. His big hands, scarred and powerful, were clamped onto Fiona’s breasts, fingers digging deep into the yielding flesh. He squeezed brutally, pulling them taut, thumbs grinding over the dark, puffy nipples. “Christ, Fi… look at you… fuckin’ magnificent,” he choked out, his hips bucking upwards to meet her descent. The wet, rhythmic slapping of skin on skin, her body taking his cock deep into her swollen cunt, filled the silent room, louder than any ticking clock.
“They’re so full,” Fiona gasped, her voice cracking. “For you… just for you…” As Lachlan twisted a nipple hard, a thin spray of milk arced out, glistening against his collarbone and chest hair. She cried out, not in pain, but in a surge of raw, desperate pleasure. “Yes! Squeeze them! Make me spray!”
Hamish felt the rough wool of his trousers constrict painfully around his own rigid cock. Fresh heat bloomed, insistent and shaming. His stomach churned. That belly. His wife’s belly, round and ripe with Lachlan’s fucking spawn. He saw Lachlan’s thumbs smear the spilled milk across Fiona’s skin, marking her, claiming her like livestock. The smell hit him then – the thick musk of sex, sharp and primal, mingling sickeningly with the faint, sweet tang of her milk and the room’s underlying scent of leather and decay.
“That’s it, ride it, you greedy slut,” Lachlan growled, his hands abandoning her breasts to grip her wide hips, his fingers sinking deep into the soft flesh around her waist. He guided her movements, forcing her down harder, faster, onto his driving cock. “Take my fucking cock deep! Milk it dry! Need to feel that tight cunt clamp down… fuck!” His groan was guttural, his back arching, tendons standing out on his neck. “So fuckin’ good breeding you… feel you grip me…”
Fiona’s head snapped back, a long moan tearing from her throat. Her hands flew to her own belly, fingers splaying possessively over the taut curve. “Breed me! Fill my cunt with your cum, Lachlan! Pump it into me! Give me more! More!” Her voice rose to a shriek, her milky tits spraying all over him. “I’m your fucking broodmare! Use me! Fuck me full! Make me scream!”
Hamish’s knuckles were white as he gripped the dusty curtain fabric. The rage, a cold, hard stone that had settled in his gut since the attic, pulsed with each humiliating cry, each wet slap. It warred violently with the treacherous heat pooling low in his own body, a sickening echo of Lachlan’s own obvious ecstasy. He watched Lachlan’s eyes, glazed and predatory, fixed on Fiona’s bouncing form, on the belly he’d planted his seed in. The arrogance was suffocating. The sheer fucking ease of it.
As Fiona slammed down, grinding herself hard against his groin, Lachlan’s control snapped. A raw, feral shout ripped from him, his body jerking violently beneath hers. His grip on her hips became iron, holding her impaled as he emptied himself deep inside her swollen cunt. Fiona shrieked, a sound of pure, victorious abandon, her body shuddering violently, her head lolling back, mouth open in a silent cry as her internal muscles milked him dry, and her boobs squirted all over him in a wide spray.
The silence that followed was thick, broken only by their harsh, ragged breathing and the frantic thudding of Hamish’s own heart against his ribs. Lachlan slumped, spent, his hands sliding limply from Fiona’s hips to rest on her belly. Fiona collapsed forward onto his chest, her sweat-slicked skin pressed against his, her cheek resting on his pectoral. Her hand drifted lazily over the swell of her stomach, then lower, fingers tracing the wet mess Lachlan had left slick between her thighs. She brought her fingers to her mouth, sucking them clean with a low, satisfied hum.
“Christ, woman,” Lachlan panted, his voice rough but thick with lazy satisfaction. He ran a possessive hand over her flank, coming to rest on the curve of her arse. “Still starving for it… even carrying my bairn.” He gave her a rough pat. “Good girl.”
Fiona lifted her head, a sated, lazy smile spreading across her face. She looked down at him, her green eyes heavy-lidded. “Starving for you,” she murmured, her voice husky. She leaned down, licking the traces of her milk from his skin. “Always.”
Lachlan took one of her tits in his mouth and began to suck in a perverse motion that was both hideous and erotic.
Hamish couldn’t breathe. The air in the drawing room felt thick as tar, laced with the stench of their betrayal and his own impotent fury. He saw the bulge of Lachlan’s softening cock still nestled obscenely against Fiona’s swollen mound, glistening wet. He saw the possessive caress on her stomach, Lachlan’s blunt finger tracing idle circles on the skin stretched tight over his usurping child. The dirk in his sporran seemed to hum against his thigh, cold and heavy. A promise. A solution. The portraits watched, their painted eyes seeming to narrow, their silent judgment a crushing weight. The urge to stride out, to roar, to plunge the cold steel into Lachlan’s smug, satisfied face was a physical ache in his chest, warring with the paralyzing shame of his own hidden arousal and the devastating image of Fiona, his Fiona, so utterly surrendered, so completely belonging to another man.
He didn’t move. He stood frozen in the dusty shadows, the velvet rough against his skin, the rhythmic thudding in his ears drowning out their soft, intimate murmurs. The weight of the dirk was the only anchor against the rising tide of madness whispering in his mind. The silence in the grand room pressed down, heavy and expectant.