Tag Archives: #historical

Trensher’s (Kesan’s) Backstory. NSFW

This is an excerpt from the backstory of Kesan Glendubh, known as Trensher MacLachlan when this scene takes place, one of the main characters in my Under the Fallow Moon series. The year is 1504. Trensher is a scotsman, eldest son of a wealthy but minor landowner; Aonghus is the master gardener on the Glendubh estate and the father of Domhnall Farquarson, who helps him with his work. Trensher and Domhnall are both 14. Trensher is a complete virgin, has never even been kissed by anyone outside his family. Domhnall is a bit more worldly, since his social class doesn’t keep him as isolated as Trensher’s keeps him in the sparsely inhabited area in Northern Scotland where they live.

One May morning…

“Good morning, Aonghus. You’re looking fine and fit. Has Domhnall begged off working this lovely day?”
“Ah, good morning, young MacLachlan. Nay, nay, the lad’s down t’lower grounds, piling up t’stones we dug out yesterday.”
“He’s carrying stones?”
“Nay, young sir, he’s for using t’barrow.”
“I’ll go speak to him, perhaps move the barrow while he stacks the stones, then, shall I?”
“Ye’ve a kind heart, young sir. I’ve nae doubt t’lad’ll be glad o’t’help.”
Trensher nodded and turned away before allowing a grin to split his face. Domhnall, in the lower grounds. Alone. Perhaps they’d have the chance for Domhnall to continue telling him stories of what sailors do shipboard, the one Domhnall swore he’d heard from his cousin in the Navy. He was grateful that his sporran hung just so, to disguise the erection that began at the thought of being alone with Domhnall and hardened further remembering what Domhnall had told him so far. Did men really do that? Did they truly suck each other’s cocks? And what was the mysterious ‘and more’ Domhnall had hinted at? Whatever it was, Domhnall’s trews had bulged during the telling of the tale. He looked so big! I wonder if he’s bigger than I am? Perhaps… perhaps today I’ll dare him to prove he is, as he keeps bragging.
Domhnall looked up as Trensher approached, looked up and smiled when he noted Trensher’s sporran wasn’t precisely where it ought to be. His own cock reacted strongly. Bloody hell, I want the lad! And he wants me, by the look of it. Should I start it or will he? Domhnall, lad, you’ve at least seen two men going at it. T’lad’s seen nought o’that sort. Ye’ll have to start it, maybe do most of it this time, for I doubt he’s done more than watch t’horses. Though maybe one of the town girls…
“A very good morning to ye, Domhnall,” Trensher said softly, stopping beside the wheelbarrow.
“And to you, young master.”
“Domhnall, please. Ye know stiff formality is not what I want between us.” Tren was appalled to hear his words. Dear god, did I truly say that?
Domhnall straightened up and looked at him. “And what would ye be wanting between us, then?” When Trensher couldn’t take his eyes off the swelling in his trews and swallowed hard instead of answering, Domhnall lowered his voice, stepped closer and said, “Summat else stiff, perhaps?”
“Unhhh,” Trensher groaned.
“Tren, I’m going to burn in hell forever, but christ, I want to see what lies beneath your kilt. You’re hard, and ye look so big. Are ye, Tren? Are ye big as me?” Domhnall thrust his hips forward slightly.
“D-d-domhnall, you look like a giant. I want to see you, too.”
“Do ye? Then come w’me behind the rocks. I’ll unbutton me trews if you’ll lift your kilt.”
Tren finally met his eyes as he nodded. “Me cock’s already lifting it.”
“Aye, Tren, aye, I see that clear. Come w’me and I’ll see ye dinna expose the goods to all and sundry.” Domhnall rounded the pile of stones. “Are y’coming, lad?”
“N-n-nay, Domhn, for you’ve yet to touch me,” Tren blushed at his own boldness, but joined Domhnall behind the stones.
“Shit, Tren,” Domhnall groaned. “Ye’ve made me balls ache w’that. Lift your kilt, man, lift your kilt so I can kneel before ye and make ‘nay’ into ‘aye, god, aye’.”
Tren shook his head. “Ye’ll nae kneel before me. None o’this master and servant shit, y’hear?” Tren’s arousal chased his carefully cultivated upper-class accent into the shadows.
“Not what I meant, lad. I’ll kneel so me mouth’s in the right place to suck your proud cock until ye fill it w’your cum.”
Tren shuddered. “Ye’d… god, Domhnall, ye’d suck me cock?”
“An’ your balls and I’ll knead your arse while y’fuck me face.” Domhnall stepped so close his breath was hot on Tren’s cheek and his bulging trousers brushed against his lifting kilt. “I want ye, Tren. I want all of ye, in me mouth and when you’re ready, I want this —” he slid his hand under the kilt and brushed his fingers lightly up Tren’s length—“in me arse, fucking me into the ground.” He dipped his chin and brushed his lips lightly and quickly across Tren’s, then whispered, “Will ye fuck me, Tren? Will ye pound that cock into me hot tight hole?”
“Oh, god, Domhnall, oh god, I’m near to coming just hearing ye say it!”
Domhnall dropped to his knees and lifted the kilt. “Bloody hell, Tren, that’s a giant’s cock! Ye put me to shame.”
Tren lifted his chin with a finger. “Nay, lad, it’s a cock as needs to come, no giant’s cock. Ye dinnae need to suck me. Just… just take me in hand. A stroke or two is all ’twill take. But not on your knees. Will ye touch me if I lie w’ye? If it must be on the knees, then I’ll take myself in hand.”
“Nay, Tren, nay. Dinnae waste that nectar! Lie w’me, but I swear t’ye, I feel nae shame or lowering of myself to kneel this way.”
“Hallooooo, Domhnall, lad, where’s that barrow?” Aonghus’s call was ice suddenly clapped to Tren’s balls.
“On me way, Da, on me way,” Domhnall answered and stood, reluctantly. He lowered his voice. “Damn, Tren, damn, I must have ye.”
“Where and when, Domhnall, where and when?”
“Elevenses. Da always eats in the tool shed. God, I wish the summer house was open.”
“I’ll tell me mother I’d like t’have a look at it, that I might like t’use it for a studio. She’ll gi’e me the key.”
“Save that cum for me, will ye? Promise me.”
“God, Domhn, aye, I promise! Eleven, at the summer house.”
Tren watched his friend—and god, soon-to-be lover—push the wheelbarrow up the rise. His arse, Jesus Christ, the way his arse moves when he’s climbing the rise! I… I want him. I want t’kiss him, all over! He swallowed hard. Shit, Tren, you’re near to making yourself come thinking like that. Save it, lad, save it for that lovely boy.

WIP The Cost of Belonging

#writerwednesday This is from the first chapter of my WIP, the Cost of Belonging. The year is 1783, the place, a village called Lesser Blackwater in England. Gabe’s a blacksmith and a virgin who’s come to terms within himself that he desires men instead of women. Eliot has 2 secrets to hide from the world: he’s gay and he’s a vampire. The two have planned to slip up to Eliot’s room at the Duck and Swan shortly so that Eliot can teach him a few things. But things don’t always go as planned. They’ve had to go back to the smithy to see to “Da” as they call Gabe’s father, who’s taken rather too much medicine. The others believe Draven has attacked Da. Gabe’s little sister Jennie is the “she.”

She nodded mutely, cutting her gaze between her father and the horse.
Gabe followed her line of sight and then noted his brother and a couple of village men were quietly picking up sharp tools. “Here, Nate, you lads, none of that. The horse ain’t touched him. You can see that.”
“’Tis a stallion, Gabe. There be no telling what the great monster mought do. We’m’ll stand ready when you must approach it.”
“You’re daft, Nate. The horse will not hurt me. Eliot, you see to my father, and I’ll see to making sure Draven’s taken proper care of.”
“We’ll take care of it, Gabe, just you see if we don’t,” Nate snarled.
Gabe moved between the others and the horse. “Eliot?”
“Aye, Gabe. Perhaps your brother and his friends could help me with Mr. Rodgers, since Draven doesn’t seem to trouble you.”
“A smith troubled by a stallion?” Gabe spat. “I know how to handle all manner of beasts. I can ring the nose of a full-grown bull and come away unscathed, so I reckon I can get a right well-behaved stallion settled into a decent stall, away from the heat and noise.”
Eliot nodded and scooped the old man into his arms, standing easily, as if he were carrying a child. “I believe you. Now, Miss, the privy, if you please, and the water? And if you lads would come along of me, I would appreciate it. We’ll need to walk him around after he’s vomited the stuff up.”
Gabe was already clucking softly to the horse. Eliot stopped at the smithy door and said, “When I’ve seen to your father, I’ll come back and check on Draven, if you please.”
“Aye. I’ll shoe your horse in the morning. The old man’s let the fire near go out.”
“Of course.” Eliot turned and left, with the small crowd trailing along behind him.
“Damn,” Gabe muttered to Draven. “I was looking forward to—”
“Father will be all right, won’t he?” Jennie, the youngest, asked him from the shadows.
“I reckon so, Little Jig. Mr. Eliot’s a fine man.” Gabe tried to calm his racing heart. Jennie had no need to know she’d startled him almost clean out of his mind. To say nothing of what would have happened if he’d finished his sentence.
“Aye, he is.” She moved closer.
“Aren’t you afraid of Draven?”
“Why should I be? He’s just a horse.”
He smiled at the sister who looked so much like him, unlike the stouter siblings who looked more like their father, more nearly blond and hazel-eyed. “Aye, you’ve always had a good head about you, Jennie. Bring me a halter, will you? He’s pulling at these ropes and tearing his mouth with the bit. The old man should have taken the bridle off.”
Gabe laid a hand on Draven’s neck. “There, pretty boy, there. ’Tis all right, you can trust me. Your master’s me friend.”
Jennie handed the halter to him. “A bit more than friend, you’d like him to be, I’ll be bound.”