Suck

Suck

When I got this ticket in the post I couldn't believe it. All expenses paid ten-day trip to this exclusive resort, deep in the forests of Scotland, in the Cairngorms. I can't wait! To have nearly a fortnight all to myself, to relax and get away from my shitty job and my shitty life. My name is Alfred, though most people call me Alfie. I'm in my early thirties, single, and stuck in the glamorous life of issuing rental cars to tourists. Day in, day out, it's the same thing. "Here's your keys, Sir." "Would you like additional insurance, Ma'am?" "What do you mean, your terrier shat all over the passenger seat?" "No, Sir, British roadways aren't backwards. We simply drive on the correct side of the road." Idiots. They're all idiots. And now, for ten glorious days, I can be free of them.

On the big day, the 5am train I catch from Paddington takes about six and a half hours to reach Perth, getting me there right smack in the middle of lunch time. Being both starving and skint, I decide to just eat a Yorkie and a pack of Wotsits, and it's just as well. There's a driver waiting for me with my name on a card - Alfred Fletcher. I feel proper posh as I'm ushered along to a gleaming black Beamer, and I sit in the back while the driver takes care of my suitcase. I didn't bring all that much. It's summer, right? So even in Scotland I'm not going to need a great deal of cold-weather clothing, am I?

Even though I shaved this morning, the fuzz of brown stubble is visible now on my jaw. I'd run out of razors if I tried to keep on top of it religiously, so I just try to tame it into a five-o-clock shadow as well as I can, and wear my equally brown hair just a touch long to keep it all in proportion. Otherwise I'm nothing terribly special. I'm neither fat nor skinny, but I'm healthy and standing tall at a good six foot four. Really, I'm just a South Ken lad who doesn't smoke or drink all that hard, and keeps himself in good order. I'd considered getting a tattoo when I was younger, but I decided it was a bit chavvy and would hurt my job prospects. Maybe I should have got one, or done anything that would have kept me away from Enterprise rent-a-car. Clean, polite, and with a supernatural propensity for allowing others to take the piss. That's Alfred Fletcher.

The driver takes us north up the A9 and the scenery is lovely. Grassy hills and fields on the left and the beginnings of the Cairngorms national park on the right. At one point we turn right onto a B road, and though I try to follow along on my smartphone, the signal out here is next to nothing. It's frustrating, but I decide to save the battery and wait. Around two we finally arrive at a lodge that looks like a small castle having an identity crisis. The stonework is understated to keep it from standing out, and the woods and lawn are left to look a little wild all around. Maybe it's for privacy.

The driver takes out my bags, turns the car around, and heads back down the lane. I begin to feel the lack of a proper lunch as I lug my suitcase and rucksack up to the front door and ring to be let in. One of the staff is there soon enough, and after checking out my paperwork I'm ushered upstairs to my room, and to my great relief a cold lunch is waiting for me there. A mini-bar is set by a small writing table, and set on the surface are a few plates, napkins, silverware, glasses, and a note telling me to help myself. While starting in on a green apple, I crouch by the mini-bar and look in. Not ten minutes later I'm sitting at the table where the wrappers of two sandwiches, an apple core, an empty bag of crisps, and an empty can of Pepsi stand testament to my gluttony.

I clear that all away and tidy up, and then prepare to take a shower. My room, I should note, is quite pleasant. Wooden paneling lifts up from the floor halfway to the ceiling, where cream-colored painted plaster takes over. The light fixtures cast a soft glow on the wooden furniture - the writing desk, as I've mentioned, my bed (a luxurious four-poster affair), and a wardrobe for my clothes. The bathroom is bright and clean, with both a shower and bath. Looking under the sink out of curiosity, I notice a few extra boxes of tissues. Well, I might be single, but at least my socks will last a little longer.

Just when I start pulling my clothes off for a shower, I hear a knock at my door. "Fuck's sake" I murmur as I tug on my sweater again, and I try to get over the momentary disappointment of being denied a hot shower as I open the door to see a petite blond woman looking up at me, startled. Worrying that I'd pulled the door open too brusquely, I clear my throat and quickly say "Sorry, miss."

"You're the gentleman who won the contest. Alfred Fletcher?" she asks timidly, her large, gray eyes looking into mine as her accent just slips a lyrical quality into her words.

"I... yes, that's me. Call me Alfie. D'you wanna come in?"

She nods and I stand back politely, keeping the door open for her as she steps into my room. Glancing at me, she then looks pointedly at the door, and so I close it. Once it's closed she breathes out softly. At first glance she seems like just another one of the staff, wearing their dark gray uniform jacket and skirt. "I'm sorry to trouble you. I just had to tell you. To... advise you."

Now I'm completely confused. "Advise me? How?"

The woman looks at the door again, her lips pressed together and her neck working as she swallows. Something has got her wound up. "Don't let her kiss you" she finally manages to say, her cheeks flushing hotly. "I have to go."

I'd like to stop her and demand that she explain herself. I'd like to insist that she tell me what's going on, and who this other woman is. But all I do is hold the door open for her like a muppet as she slips out of my room and back down the hallway. It takes me perhaps ten seconds to realize that she never even told me her name, but when I step out into the hallway myself she's gone. While I'm standing there, trying to make sense of things, another staff member walks up and cordially asks if I'd like to take tea at four today with my hostess. I nod and accept the invitation.

My hostess. That's right. The competition for the ticket for this holiday was put forth by some wealthy heiress who owns this estate and several more in Scotland. It wasn't much of a competition really. All I'd had to do was fill out an online form describing myself a little. I'd assumed it was for some television show, following around a regular bloke as he experiences the 'bonny blue hills' or whatever. But I haven't seen one hint of production here. No cameras, no gear, nothing. This just seems like a hotel.

In the hour between my visit with the mysterious blond and tea with my benefactor, I take a shower and have a wank. I've got a surplus of tissues, so why not? Without bothering to pull out my laptop or phone as there doesn't seem to be any means to connect to the web, I simply lie in bed and think about the woman who'd nervously tried to warn me. She trembled, and I can only imagine how reactive her body would be if I were to sit her in a chair and kneel between her legs to lick her and taste her. Does she shave down there? She probably does. She was a gorgeous little elfin thing. Maybe she'd cum on my tongue, maybe not, but she'd be aching for it when I picked her up and laid her down on the writing table, fucking her senseless as the wood squeaks in complaint.

Thinking about how tight she probably is sends me over the edge, my spunk shooting onto my stomach thickly. Luckily I won't be too on edge now, just in case the hostess actually does try to kiss me. If that's who the blond girl meant. I clean up and get dressed, and there's a knock at my door with yet another member of the staff waiting to escort me to my hostess's suite.

This unassuming manor home almost seems like a castle, just a more modern version. Still, this environment is a hundred times more luxurious than my own small flat, so whoever owns all this definitely has the wealth to keep it looking perfect and welcoming. A pair of doors are opened, and I'm directed into a large drawing room. The ceiling is nearly twenty feet from the floor, with stout rafters running through the shadows overhead. Wooden paneling lines the walls, and there are paintings of landscapes here and there, with frames that look well cared for. It's summer, so the dark fireplace doesn't seem out of keeping with the rest of the décor. But I find it odd that large black out curtains are pulled across the windows, leaving the light sconces on the walls and lamp on the desk to illuminate this large, somewhat cavernous and spooky space.

Seated at the desk is a woman who must be my hostess. Her steel-grey eyes are shielded by the lightest of eyeglasses, which themselves look to be merely lenses hung on silver filament. Her brown hair with highlights of auburn and copper strands is pulled up into an elegant bun, leaving her slender neck to lead the eye down to her black satin blouse and the cleavage that instantly makes me drop my eyes for fear of staring. The woman's gorgeous and likely five years my senior, and when I dare a glance at her well-manicured hands I notice a ring on her finger. Not that I had any chances with the upper class, but a man can dream, can't he?

"Mister Fletcher" she intones with a Scottish accent that's smooth as cream, not looking up from her paperwork for half a second as she leaves my name to hang in the air.

Only when those steely eyes lift up to lock onto mine do I feel my stomach tighten as I say "Yes, that's me."

I think my timidity is what makes her smile, and she leans back in her chair as I stand there and fidget. "How was your trip?" she asks at long last, capping her pen in such a way that her fingers toy with it just a little too much for it to be accidental. Even a mere ten minutes after getting off, my cock twitches just a little at the sight of it.

"Oh, it was quite comfortable. Thanks again for having me here."

That seems to please her, and she rises to her feet and gestures to the twin leather sofas by the dark fireplace. "Please, have a seat."

I nod once in gratitude, desperate to try and cross my legs if possible. Anything to possibly take the eye away from what's going on in my trousers. As she comes around to take a seat on the sofa opposite me, I can see that her black blouse clings to her perfect body, tucking into a black, slender skirt which ends just above her knees. And starting just below them are a pair of glossy, black leather stiletto boots. The woman crosses her legs at the knee, her thigh sliding together within the bondage of her snug skirt as she settles in to the tufted leather of her sofa.

As if on cue, the woman who'd escorted me to the suite enters once more carrying a tea tray. It's set down on the small coffee table between the couches, and the servant attends to the pouring out. "Mr. Fletcher, how much do you know about this holiday you've been awarded?"

I, the trusting sort, request two sugars and a bit of milk, and then sit back again to sip at it. Once the serving girl is finished she leaves without a word. "Hardly anything, Miss..." I never did catch her name.

"Lady Macintyre" she offers with a smile.

"Lady Macintyre. Yes. All I know is what's on the paperwork I received. That I'd be here for ten days, all... expenses..." I wince internally at the last part.

"You needn't worry. All of your needs will be seen to. But I must remind you of a form that you did sign and send back to us. A non-disclosure agreement? This sort of thing is treated very seriously by Scottish law." I nod, and she continues. "Very good. I like to maintain my privacy here, and it's your privilege to share my time with me and my guests, who so rarely get a moment of privacy."

"Your guests, Lady Macintyre?"

She only smiles. "They will be so delighted to meet you. But that will come afterward." I blink, swallowing another sip. There's something about her eyes that seems strange to me, but I can't put my finger on it. I keep looking and looking, trying to puzzle it out. Even when she rises from her couch and moves to stand before me, taking my tea cup from my limp hand, I'm still trying to figure it out. And then, in those final seconds as her lips draw close to mine, I realize what's wrong. They're reflecting the flickering light of a fireplace, but there's no fire in it. That's wrong. There's something wrong with her eyes. But as she kisses me I immediately stop caring, and drift into sleep.

When I wake up, I'm outside and the sun is just starting to set. I'm shirtless, but my trousers, socks, and shoes were left on. I don't feel sick or sore, like I would be if I'd been harmed while asleep. I just feel rested and... eager, though I don't know for what. The air tastes sweet and I breathe it in, smelling the pines and woods all around me. Where is the estate? I have no idea where I am, but that hardly matters to me.

I'm pulled back to my senses as the airy scream of something rushes by my right ear. I startle and turn to look at what it was, only to see an arrow sticking out of a tree trunk. "What the hell?" I cry out, turning back to look out at where it came from. Another one screeches by my left hip, plunging into the dirt, and my heart's in my throat as I feel and hear the thrum of hoof beats approaching through the darkening woods. But what I expect to see and what I actually see aren't quite the same thing.

A large pair of antlers pushes through brush and leaves, and the large cervine face of an elk charging towards me is dressed in a bridle of woven black leather. Its split hooves are sure even on the uneven terrain as it plunges forward, wild and ferocious. Even so, the rider is what shocks me the most. It's a figure in a black, billowing cloak with the hood up, and in her right hand is a bow. It's only the third arrow that plunges into the ground where my feet where a moment ago that gets me running for my life.

I desperately try to weave in and out of trees, to find a place where mount and rider can't go. Wood splinters as screaming bolts plunge into tree trunks, and I'm panting hard as I run headlong. Because of the growing gloom, I stumble on a root and slide down a leaf-strewn incline, coming to rest beneath a large set of bushes. There's a fallen tree over a small depression in the ground, and I quickly crawl into it, trying to breathe silently as I hear the elk and its rider navigate the slope nearby.

Looking out from beneath the tree, I can see the delicate legs of the elk approach, walking through the leaves as its directed first one way and then the other. There's a small rock by my hand, so I pick it up and look out from the other side of the fallen tree, tossing the stone that way. It makes a clatter some ten, twelve yards away, and the elk takes off.

I'm breathing easier now, and I begin to crawl towards the other side when I hear footsteps on the trunk of the fallen tree. Are there two hunters now?! How is that fair? Why am I even thinking that way? How is any of this fair?

"Mr. Fletcher..." comes a familiar voice. The slow, pacing steps of Lady Macintyre turn my blood to ice and fill me with terror. This was her? "Come out from your little hole, Mr. Fletcher. There's nowhere for you to go."

Swallowing, I crawl out, my chest and stomach and hands filthy with soil. When I turn and look at her, she has an arrow notched and the bow leveled at my chest, and I immediately put up my hands, shaking. "Look, please... I won't tell anyone about this. I promise. I have children."

"You have no children... you told us as much" she purrs, her fingers curling just enough on the string to make her leather glove creak softly.

Fully panicked, I stammer "O... okay. I don't. I'm sorry. I just want to live! I'll do anything! D... does your husband know where you are?" It's a stretch, but at this point I'm willing to grasp at any straws at all.

"He's dead. He's been dead for a long... long time." The thought seems to please her, and I can only imagine the poor bastard being urged from his hiding spot and begging for his life too.

"So... you... must be lonely, right? A gorgeous, wealthy woman like you..."

She smoothly moves down to stand on the ground, the slight heel of her riding boots only lifting her up an inch or so. I'm perhaps six inches taller than her, but that's it. And with the tip of that arrow now pressing against my collarbone, I feel about as big as a gnat's tadger. I hold my breath and prepare for the end, closing my eyes in terror as I turn my head away.

But she doesn't shoot me. "The nights are, indeed, long. And dull." The metal slides away from my skin, cutting a small knick that begins to bleed through the dirt. Lady Macintyre looks at it with disapproval, then sighs. "You're far too filthy. Going to ground like a badger? What kind of quarry are you?"

"I... sorry?" I attempt, never putting down my hands.

"Still, you did give a good chase, and that was most diverting."

I'm just about ready to pass out, and as she turns to whistle for her mount, I sink to my knees on the dirt, placing my hands on my thighs. I hear a tsk tsk, and look up at her as she scoffs "You English are so delicate, aren't you?"

I have no answer to that. I'm sure there are tougher men than me, but I've not got a lot of experience with these sorts of crazy games. With the elk standing nearby, Lady Macintyre reaches into a saddle bag and pulls out a pair of handcuffs and puts them on my wrists, binding them at my lower back. A chain is locked to it and used as a leash as she gets back in the saddle and walks us all up the slope again.

The trek isn't overly long, and it gives me time to catch my breath and collect myself. There's a small camp set up deeper in the woods, with an unlit fire pit and a large tent. A very old well stands nearby, and I'm guided over to it to wait as she sends down a bucket and hauls it back up. Suddenly I'm doused with very cold water, and it leaves me spluttering and very awake but too shocked to put up much of a fight when she locks my long chain leash around the trunk of a nearby tree.

A fire is lit, and I shiver in its growing light and heat as I watch her untack her elk and send it off. Clearly the animal must be tamed and allowed to live on the property, trusted to return if necessary. It's all speculation to keep me busy, really, as I kneel on the ground by my tree and watch her. The small cut on my chest, cleaned out with the water, bleeds slowly again, and it's that which draws her back over. Whatever I might have said is caught in my throat as she crouches in front of me and slides her tongue along the small cut, gathering up the welling drops and swallowing them down. Feeling her mouth there stings a little, but then it starts to feel good.

The caress of a thumb keeps her lips clean as she lifts her head to look into my eyes, smiling. "Just right, Mr. Fletcher" she says softly, gripping my chin and holding me still as she kisses me deeply. I can taste my blood on her tongue, and oddly I don't find the flavor to be repulsive. Normally I get squeamish around blood, but not tonight. Tonight I lick along her tongue, suckling on it, wanting it. Wanting her. My trousers are straining by the time she moves away, and I pull on my handcuffs with a small whine of desperation.

Her mouth moves down from my neck to my chest to give one more lick to that small cut, then down further along my stomach. Her fingers unfasten the fly to my trousers, and my cock barely has time to feel the chilly night air before her hot, unbelievable mouth is taking it. Something rubs along either side of the shaft. Fangs? I don't know, but it feels amazing how my cock passes safely past the sides of those gates to plunge towards her throat. Her hands massage my sack and hold it firmly as she bobs and sucks, threatening to spill me into her mouth. I'm so close!