Isla led me to the Great Hall. It was a massive room, the length of two longships, dominated by a fire pit that roared with peat and oak. The smoke curled up to a hole in the roof, and the heat blasted against my face. The walls were lined with shields and tapestries, and the floor was covered in thick fur rugs—wolf, bear, stag.
Fiona was already there, perched on the arm of a massive oak chair, her red hair catching the firelight. She watched me with hungry eyes. Morag stood near the door, arms crossed, her soft form radiating authority.
Isla didn't sit. She stood before a low table of dark oak, where a scroll of parchment lay, weighted by a silver hammer. The contract.
She looked at me, her expression imperious. "Sign."
I stepped forward, taking the quill she offered. It was heavy, carved from bone. I signed my name, *Liam*, with a steady hand, though my pulse hammered in my throat. As soon as the ink dried, Isla snatched the parchment back.
"Good," she said. She didn't read it. She knew. "Now."
She turned and strode toward a particularly thick bear rug in the center of the room. She kicked off her boots, her stockings falling to her ankles, and then turned to face me. With a fluid motion, she unbuckled her belt and let it drop. Her kilt fell open.
My breath hitched. Her cock was thick, the head a dark, polished plum, veiny and proud. It rose slowly, heavy with blood, an eight-inch weapon of war that seemed to command the room. She gripped it, her fingers strong, and gave it a squeeze. A drop of pre-cum beaded at the tip.
"Kneel," she commanded.
It wasn't a request. I dropped to my knees on the soft fur, the heat radiating through the fabric. I looked up at her, my carpenter's mind trying to reconcile the geometry of her dominance with the reality of her cock. She was huge. Imposing.
"First time?" she asked, her voice dropping an octave, laced with a dark promise.
"Yes," I admitted. "With futas."
"Good. Then you have no excuses." She stepped between my knees, the heat of her body radiating down. "You work for us. You belong to the stone. You belong to the fire. And now, you belong to me."
She took my shoulders, her grip iron, and pushed me back until I was lying on the rug, my head sinking into the thick fur. She followed me down, but she didn't collapse. She straddled my hips, her weight pressing me into the floor. Her dark hair fell around her face like a curtain, sealing us in a world of her making.
"Look at me, Liam."
I raised my head, my neck straining. Her eyes were dark pools of command. She reached down, her fingers deft, and unbuckled my trousers, shoving them down with my boots. I was already hard, the anticipation having coiled my cock tight against my thigh.
She didn't rush. That was the thing about Isla. She took her time, savoring the conquest. She gripped my shaft, her hand large enough to wrap almost fully around me, and drew a bead of my own release with her thumb. Then she reached down to her own cock.
"Spread," she murmured.
I widened my knees, my hands gripping the fur beneath me. She aligned her thick, eight-inch head with my length. The size difference was striking; her cock was broader, heavier, a thick pillar of flesh compared to mine.
She didn't thrust. She pressed.
Slow.
The head of her cock slid against my slit, the heat of her skin searing. I gasped, my back arching off the rug. The pressure was immense, stretching me, claiming me. She watched my face, her dark eyes locked on mine, reading every micro-expression of pleasure and submission.
"Take it," she whispered. "You're free to be used."
With a slow, deliberate roll of her hips, she pushed deeper. The skin of her cock slid over mine, the heat building as she buried half her length inside me. I groaned, a low sound in my throat. It felt so full, so solid. I could feel the pulse of her cock against my walls, the thick vein running along the underside pressing deep.
She paused, letting me adjust, letting the fullness of her claim me. Then, with a sudden surge of power, she drove the rest of the way in.
The depth was staggering. I felt her head bump against the deepest part of me, the eight inches stretching me wide, filling me completely. I was impaled on her, bound to her by the thick shaft of her cock. I gripped her thighs, my fingers digging into the wool of her kilt.
"Good boy," she murmured, her voice vibrating through her chest into mine.
She began to move. Slow, deep strokes. She didn't rush. She pulled back just enough to let me feel the drag of her walls, then drove back in, burying herself to the hilt. Each thrust was a declaration. She was restoring me, but in her own way. She was taking the rough carpenter and molding him into something softer, something hers.
The sound of skin slapping against skin echoed in the hall, mixed with the crackle of the fire. I could see Fiona watching from her chair, her red head tilted back, her mouth open, her own seven-inch curved cock twitching in anticipation. Morag stood by the door, her arms crossed, her nine inches throbbing visibly through her kilt, her soft eyes watching me with satisfaction.
But it was Isla who owned me.
She gripped my hips, her nails digging in slightly, anchoring me as she rose and fell. Her rhythm was steady, hypnotic. *Deep. Hold. Slow.* She was using me, her cock pumping in and out of my groin, her weight pinning me down. I was trapped in the fur, trapped in her gaze, trapped in the heat of her eight inches driving me wild.
Her breathing grew heavier, her dark hair matted to her forehead. She leaned forward, her breasts pressing against my chest, and kissed me. It wasn't a soft kiss; it was a claiming. Her mouth covered mine, her tongue sweeping in, tasting me, demanding I breathe her in. I kissed back, my hands sliding up to grip her waist, feeling the muscle and the power beneath the fur.
"Mine," she growed against my lips. "The castle is yours to fix, but your body is ours to use."
The dual sensation of her mouth and her cock was overwhelming. I felt her thick shaft throb inside me, the heat building as she neared her release. She was building it up, savoring the way my body yielded to her command. With a final, deep thrust, she bottomed out and held me there, her cock pulsing, flooding me with her seed.
It wasn't a sudden explosion, but a slow, deep flow. I felt the warmth fill me, her seed marking me from the inside. I came seconds later, my own release riding her climax, my cock twitching in time with her thrusts, painting my hands with my own fluid as she rode out her orgasm.
She held me there for a long moment, her chest heaving, her weight still pinning me to the bear rug. The fire popped loudly, casting dancing shadows over the scene. I was sprawled out, used, filled, and utterly spent.
Slowly, Isla shifted. She didn't pull out immediately. She kept me impaled, resting her forehead against mine. Her dark eyes were still commanding, but there was a shift in them. A flicker of possession that went deeper than just lust.
"Fiona," she said, her voice raspy.
Fiona hopped down from the chair, her curvy hips swaying as she moved to our side. "He took it well, Mistress," she teased, her voice playful but respectful. She reached out, her fingers tracing the line of my jaw. "Look at him. All spread out by the fire. Like a prize."
"Quiet," Isla murmured, though she didn't seem annoyed. "He's resting."
Morag approached then, her soft steps silent on the stone. She knelt beside me, her warm hand cupping my cheek. Her touch was so different from Isla's grip. Where Isla was steel, Morag was velvet. Her eyes, soft and motherly, scanned my face.
"Good carpenter," she cooed. "He works hard. He works hard for us."
Morag's hand slid down my chest, resting over my heart. I could feel the heat of her palm, the gentle pressure. She was checking my pulse, assessing her property.
"Payment delayed," Morag murmured, echoing Isla. "But he is paid in full. He belongs to the house."
Isla finally pulled back, her cock sliding out of me with a wet pop. A trail of her seed followed, leaking down my shaft. She stood, her eight-inch cock giving a final twitch before she pulled her kilt back into place. She looked down at me, her expression unreadable but commanding.
"You sleep in the carpenter's loft," she said. "Or you sleep with us. Your choice, but you stay near."
Fiona giggled, leaning down to kiss my forehead. "I think he sleeps with us, Isla. He looks so small on the rug."
Morag stood up and offered me a hand. I took it, her grip warm and firm, and she helped me to my feet. She patted my cheek, her nine-inch weight shifting as she crossed her legs.
"Rest now, Liam," Morag soothed. "We have much work to do. And many ways to ensure you are well-used."
Isla turned and walked toward the fire, her dark hair swishing, her commanding silhouette backed by the flames. She didn't look back, but I knew she was waiting. I was the restoration carpenter now. The castle was ancient, cold, and beautiful, but as I stood there, held by the gaze of the laird and the soft dominance of her sisters, I realized I was warm.
I was free. Free to be used. Free to belong.
I looked at the great oak table, the contract signed, and then at the three women who owned me. Isla by the fire, waiting. Fiona curling up nearby, her red hair a beacon. Morag stroking my shoulder, her soft eyes promising comfort and control.