The gravel crunched beneath the tires of my Land Rover, a sound that felt too loud in the suffocating silence of the glen. I'd been driving for three hours to get here, leaving the gridlocked chaos of Edinburgh for the brooding, mist-wreathed wilds of the Scottish Highlands. I'm Liam, thirty-three, a restoration carpenter with calloused hands and a reputation for saving crumbling structures. When the job offer came for this isolated private castle, the pay was astronomical, but the location was remote enough to make me wonder if the owners were eccentric or insane.
The castle rose from the heather like a dark tooth against the grey sky. It was ancient, a sprawling mass of granite and slate, its towers jagged against the low-hanging clouds. Windows stared back like empty eye sockets, and the massive oak doors at the base of the keep looked like they hadn't swung in a decade. It was cold, the kind of damp cold that seeped through your waxed jacket and settled in your bones. Beautiful, though. There's a beauty in decay that I've always found tempting, a puzzle of rot and grain waiting for me to set it right.
I killed the engine and stepped out, my boots sinking into the soft earth. The air smelled of peat, rain, and something olderâstone dust and time. I slung my satchel over my shoulder, feeling the comforting weight of my chisels and calipers inside.
"Welcome to Cairn Mor, Mr. Liam," a voice boomed from the courtyard.
It wasn't a shout, but it carried a weight that vibrated in my chest. I looked up. Standing by the great gate, framed by the towering arch of stone, was a woman. She had to be Laird material. Tall, barely under six feet, with a posture that suggested steel rods running through her spine. Her hair was a cascade of dark raven waves, pinned back loosely, framing a face of sharp angles and intense, dark eyes that missed nothing. She wore a tailored kilt of deep charcoal wool, the pleats crisp, and a heavy fur cloak draped over her shoulders.
This was Isla. The commanding presence of the laird.
She didn't wait for me to approach. She stepped forward, her boots clicking on the stone, and stopped just within arm's reach. She had to look up slightly to meet my eyes, but the height difference barely mattered; her authority filled the space. My eyes, trained to observe, drifted down. The cut of her kilt was precise, and there was a distinct, heavy bulge straining against the wool at her groin. Even through the layers, the promise of size was evident. Eight inches, the file had said. Eight inches of hard, potent cock.
"You're late," she said, her voice a low alto, clipped and authoritative.
"Traffic on the A9," I replied, trying to keep my voice steady. "Roadworks."
Isla's dark eyes flicked to my face, assessing. "The road has been closed for you. It is closed for no one else. Come. The cold gets in your marrow if you stand still."
She turned, her hips swaying with a fluid power, and strode toward the open gateway. I followed, my heart doing a strange little double-thump. The courtyard was a maze of narrow paths and towering walls. To my left, the main keep rose three stories, its windows grinning with frost. To my right, a lower wing that looked like it needed immediate attentionârotten sills, warped beams. My job.
As we walked, a shout rang out from above.
"Is the carpenter here, Isla? Does he have a hammer or just a handle?"
I looked up to the battlements. Perched on the stone parapet was another woman, her posture loose and playful. She was curvy in the best possible way, her red hair a wild fire of curls bouncing as she leaned over the edge. She wore a lighter kilt, the fabric pulled tight over thick hips and thighs. This was Fiona. The playful archer.
"Lower your voice, Fiona," Isla called back, not breaking stride. "He's working."
"I'm observing!" Fiona chirped, her voice melodic and teasing. Her eyes locked onto mine, sparkling with mischief. She raised a hand, waving a gauntlet. "Look at those hands, Isla! Calloused, strong. I bet he knows his way around a tool. Or does he need showing?"
I felt a flush rise to my neck. From this angle, the angle of her kilt revealed a substantial curve at her crotch. The file mentioned a seven-inch curved shaft for Fiona, and even from here, the proud arch of her cock, resting heavy and thick against her thigh, was visible. She had a smirk that promised trouble and a laugh that would make you want to tell her a secret.
"I'll inspect him myself!" I called up, surprising myself.
Fiona giggled, a bright sound that echoed off the stone. "Don't be too rough on him, Isla! He's ours now!"
The comment hung in the air. *Ours.* The shift from singular to plural was subtle but deliberate. Before I could process it, we reached the inner door, and Isla pushed it open, gesturing for me to enter.
The entrance hall was cavernous, the ceiling lost in shadow, a massive stone staircase winding up to the left. The air here was warmer, smelling of beeswax and fire. And then I saw her.
Morag stood by a low table piled with trenchers of food. She was older than the others, her hair a soft silver-streaked brown pinned in a neat bun, but she radiated a warmth that made the cold recede. She was shorter than Isla, slightly rounder, with soft features and kind eyes that held a deep, knowing dominance. Her kilt was a rich emerald green, and her posture was relaxed but commanding, like a lioness lounging.
"Sit, my dear," Morag said, her voice a soothing purr. "You've been driving since dawn. You look like a stiff board."
She didn't wait for an invitation. She pointed to a stool near a small fire pit, and I sat. In an instant, she was beside me, lifting a heavy wooden bowl and setting it down. It was a hearty stew, thick with root vegetables and chunks of meat that fell apart at the touch of a spoon. Alongside it was a thick slab of dark bread and a ceramic mug of ale.
"Morag," I said, recognizing the housekeeper from the file.
"Morag," she confirmed. She didn't sit. She leaned over me, her hand resting on my shoulder. Her grip was firm, her fingers kneading the muscle of my trapezius just enough to make me groan. "Good carpenter. Good appetite. You'll need your strength."
As I ate, Morag stayed close. She watched me with those warm, motherly eyes, but there was a current of control in her touch. Every time I reached for bread, her hand would brush my wrist. Every time I took a sip of ale, she would adjust my posture, her knuckles grazing my collarbone. It was suffocatingly comfortable. The food was incredible, rich and savory, and the heat of her hand seemed to channel directly into my gut, making me feel full and heavy.
From the shadows of the archway, I caught a glimpse of her kilt. The way it fell suggested a massive weight. Nine inches. The file said Morag was the biggest, nine inches of soft-dominant power. I imagined that cock, thick and heavy, capable of stretching me wide and holding me there while she cooed me to submission. The thought made my mouth water more than the stew.
"Isla," Morag called softly, not taking her eyes off me as she fed me a spoonful of broth. "The contract is ready in the Great Hall."
"Excellent," Isla's voice came from the doorway. She had returned, moving like a shadow. She stood at my other side now, flanking me. I was the prize, or the prisoner. "The payment has been delayed, Liam. The gold is tied up in the south wing sale, and the merchant fleet won't release until the solstice."
I paused, the spoon halfway to my mouth. "Delayed?"
"Room and board are provided," Isla said, her dark eyes gleaming. "Food, wine, the restoration of the wings. But the cash... that is contingent on performance. And on us."
"Performance," I repeated.
"We are particular owners," Morag added, her voice silky. "We require more than a man with a hammer. We require a man who can be used. A man who belongs."
Isla's hand came down on my shoulder, her fingers digging in hard. "You will sign. You will work. And you will serve. Is that understood?"
The air in the hall was thick with their scentâmusky, floral, and distinctly male despite their feminine forms. I looked at the three of them. Isla, the commander with her eight inches of absolute authority. Fiona, who was now bounding down the stairs two at a time, her red curls bouncing, her seven-inch curved cock already showing its proud arch as she ran. And Morag, the soft dominatrix with nine inches of motherly possession, holding me in place with a touch that felt like a brand.
I'm a carpenter. I fix things. I put my hands where they belong. I signed the contract in the file without reading every clause, drawn by the money and the isolation. Now, standing here with a bowl of stew in my hand and three futanari women surrounding me, the delay made sense. They weren't buying my labor; they were buying me. And as the heat from Morag's hand and the commanding gaze of Isla drilled into me, I realized I didn't want to leave.
"Yes," I said, my voice rougher than I intended. "I understand."
"Fiona, go wait by the hearth," Isla ordered. Fiona blew a kiss and giggled, her curvy hips swaying as she skipped toward the great hall, her cock giving a little wobble with her stride.
"Morag, clear the table."
Morag smiled, a true smile this time, and squeezed my shoulder. "Finish your stew, Liam. We'll be watching."