Age of Edward Contest

Title: The Scottish Temptress

Your pen name: LadyInBlue6

Type of Edward: Braveheartward

If you would like to see all the stories that are a part of this contest visit: The Age of Edward C2 Community:

Scotland, 1301

"Sir Cullen," one of the soldiers greeted as he entered the dungeon which I was currently in.

I heard a whimper come from the Scottish solider that I was interrogating.

"Quiet!" I snapped. "Aye, Michael?"

"I've caught another Scot," he continued. "But she is a woman. Do ye still want her to come forth?"

A woman would probably be easier to force to talk, but how much would she have to say? Usually I only dealt with the Scottish soldiers to get military information from.

"Is she of Wallace descent?" I asked. She may have more information if so.

Michael the Sly nodded. "Aye, Sir. She is a cousin to Wallace himself."

I smiled. "Bring her to the chamber now."

Michael the Sly left the dungeon and picked up the soldier.

"You are lucky, Scot," I murmured in a seething manner. "I am not through with ye yet though."

I threw him into his dungeon cell and locked the door, awaiting the lovely lady.

The English and the Scottish have been fighting for many years now. Wallace, or Braveheart as they call him now, refuses to give in, even though our army is clearly superior.

I have been pulling information out of prisoner's lately, trying to figure out Scottish strategy. Tis been three years since Wallace killed an English nobleman, and three years since the beginning of the Scottish bloodbath. If this war continues 'til the year 1400, I shall not care. We shall not quit until we have defeated the Scots.

The Scottish brutes are stubborn though. Scots always have been. When I first began my interrogations, I was easy on them, trying to ease the truth out of them. How naїve I was. They laughed at my kind words and spit at my gentle persuasions. They chatter away in their devil language, making fun of my heritage.

Now I force it out of them. I have succumb to doing whatever it takes. I beat the men and rape the women until they are begging me to stop. The truth spills through their filthy mouths quite easily after a bit of torturous pain.

Michael the Sly shoves a short, wiry woman into my torture chamber. She looks at him with enough fiery temper to put Lucifer himself to shame. She spits on him and begins mumbling words, most likely curses, in Gaelic.

"Sir, this is Isabella Wallace. Her mother is Wallace's aunt," Michael introduced briefly. "We caught her tempting Captain Black in Roxburgh after we invaded. She is a pretty wench, she is. Almost got him to squeal like the pig that he is."

I grinned. A fiery Scotswoman. This was one breed of the devil's spawn that had yet to deal with. It could be very interesting.

"Thank you, Michael," I muttered. "You may leave now. I have work to do."

Michael the Sly bowed slightly and closed the dungeon door behind him.

Isabella Wallace stood in the middle of the room, her hands tied behind her back. Her curly brown hair was chaotic, half of it up in a rat's nest and the other half hanging down her back. Her face was red with obvious anger and hatred, but where the blush did not reach, she was as white as the ghosts that haunted the dungeons in London. Her brown eyes were burning with passionate hatred and her lips were pulled up in dislike. The hatred blush travelled down her swan-like neck and onto her bosom, meeting the top of her dress. I wondered if the blush continued downward. I would know soon enough.

Her dress was black with a plaid shawl wrapped around her waist. But the dress appeared to be a mix of brown and gray. She probably had been raped by a few soldiers on the way to me. I would have gladly taken this Scot if I had been delivering her to my superior. One arm of the dress had been torn at the seams, making it fall off her shoulder, exposing her dewy skin to me. Her feet were bare, but caked in mud.

She was a perfect wreck. Oh, the beautiful torture I could inflict on her. She would become destroyed by already aroused prick.

"Sit down, wench," I commanded, gesturing to the stool to her right.

She uttered a string of Gaelic words under her breath as she sat down, and the idea of her cursing my name only aroused me more. Fire was a desirable quality in women for me. I wanted them to hate me more than they were infatuated with me.

I circled her absurdly tiny figure, occasionally glancing down to see the space between her dirty dress and her body, seeing the tops of her breasts.

"Are ye Wallace's cousin?" I asked quietly, seeing how far I could push her before her patience died.

"Aye," she answered, her voice strong and husky, just like any other Scot's voice.

"Did ye try to infiltrate the English army?" I continued, still circling her.

I saw her dirty face pull into an impish grin. "Aye."

She was obviously proud of her handiwork even though she had been captured.

"Did ye seduce Captain Jacob Black?"

She laughed shortly. "Mi rinn barrachd na a."

I grabbed her hair and forced her to look at me.

"Did you seduce Captain Jacob Black?" I repeated.

She grinned, not scared of my tone of voice at all. She spit in my face, making me let go of her hair.

Then she cried, "Aye! Aye!" and laughed loudly, her laugh high-pitched and mocking and full of delight.

I wiped my face angrily, not happy that she was still in high spirits.

"Do ye see Wallace often?" I asked, not bothering to punish her for that just yet.

"Aye," she replied, still grinning. "Buan mair Braveheart!"

I gritted my teeth, recognizing the famous Scottish phrase: "Long live Braveheart!"

"Quiet, wench," I snapped. "You are in England now, and in England ye are under my power."

"Faigh muin dibh," she growled in a seething tone, leaning forward, baring her teeth, ready to leap at me like an animal.

I also recognized that Gaelic phrase. "Fuck you." I back-handed her across the right cheek, making a delightful slapping sound echo off the stone walls.

She didn't fall though. She stayed on her tiny stool. She looked at me with more anger than before.

"It shall only get worse from here," I murmured quietly, my anger slowly building up in my voice. "Your final punishment will be much rougher than I intended to do before. Every time ye disobey my rules, I shall add more time and pain into yer final punishment. Understand, wench?"

She looked down at the dirty floor, a scowl on her angry face. "Aye."

"Good," I spat, although I wanted her to push her luck so that I had good reason to hurt her. "Now, tell me what information you have."

"A chaoidh," she uttered fiercely, glaring at me with raw hatred. I could feel the flames from her brown eyes eat at my tainted soul.

"Your choice," I replied quietly, trying to avoid looking into her soul-piercing eyes. "But ye will tell me eventually, ye Scottish whore."

She stood up abruptly. "'Nad dream gabhar fulang ceannsaich 'm maith bas-bhuadladh a' mein. Loisg an ifrinn, dibh Sasannach mac a' galla."

I blinked, stunned for a second. Not one prisoner had ever yelled back at me at this point. Usually I had broken their spirit by now, but not hers apparently.

I did not know what she had cried out in fury, but the way she said it assured me it was all directed my way and that it wasn't her begging for mercy. She was speaking ill of me, I am sure.

I gathered my thoughts again, trying to shake myself of the stunned feeling.

"I know you understand English," I mused aloud. "I also know that Captain Black does not know your devil's tongue language. Speak English, wench."

"Fine," she replied sarcastically, still standing. She was breathing so heavily that her chest was heaving at a wonderful rate. "Shall I repeat my words, Sir?"

Her husky, accented voice sent shivers of lust throughout my body, my prick responding enthusiastically to her tone.

"Yes," I sneered, wrapping my fingers around her bare shoulder and pushing her down, forcing her to sit.

She ripped her skin away from my palm, still as feisty as she had been when she was speaking her native tongue.

"I said, 'Your family will suffer under the skilled hands of mine. Burn in hell, you English son of a bitch,'" she repeated fiercely, her anger growing by the second.

I smirked, amused at her attempted to offend me. I have heard it all before from her kin. Nothing could make me flinch from a Scottish mouth.

But she still had to be punished.

"Get on your knees, wench," I commanded, helping her by shoving her forward.

She fell to the floor. She quickly got to her knees, her head still held high. I walked in front of her and grabbed her hair, forcing her neck to crane up to look at me.

"I could have ye killed," I reminded her, daring to look into her all-seeing eyes.

"I could have ye killed," she replied fiercely.

I smirked again. "Not if yer in here."

"I wouldn't be so sure, pig," she murmured, mischief and amusement painting over her anger.

Her words puzzled me. She sounded so confident in her people even though she was all alone now.

I pulled my dagger out of its sheath and held it tightly. I brought it to her slender neck, lightly grazing it with the sharpened tip. I trailed it across her bare shoulder, before poking into the skin near her collarbone, making her cry out in surprise, blood pooling in the pocket of her collarbone.

"Fáilte Máiri, lán a' grás," she murmured, her eyes closed. I wanted her attention, so I dragged the knife down the length of her neck, making her hiss as more blood poured out of her. "'M Triath 's le thusa, naomha an tu measg boireannach 'm naomha 's 'm meas a' do broinn Iosa. Naomh Máiri, máthair a' Dia, guidh bhuainn peacach tráth-sa 'm 'g 'm unair a'bás. Amen."

She had been praying? Not even God could save her here. She was too far beneath the earth to even be heard.

"Why were ye praying?" I asked as I watch the blood spill over her bones and ivory flesh down into her bosom.

"I will die before I tell ye anything," she responded strongly, her teeth bared.

I smiled. She thought I was going to kill her before I had any fun? She was not lucky enough for such a thing to occur.

"Ye think I shall be so easy on ye?" I asked, amused. "Death is the quick, painless way out. Life is much harder. Death is not in your future, wench."

She stared me down stubbornly. "Not a word shall cross my lips as ye torture me, fiend. Not a reaction shall enter my body."

"We shall see about that," I murmured, quickly brushing her hair out of her eyes.

Let the torturous pleasure begin.

I quickly undid my pants, pulling them down so that my hardened prick was exposed to her.

I saw her face go into shock briefly before the fiery temper came back to her. She raised an eyebrow and glanced up at me.

"Put yer mouth on my prick, wench," I commanded.

She looked away, disgusted. "A chaoidh."

I grabbed her hair, forcing her to look at me. "What did you say, Scot?"

"Never," she repeated in English.

I gripped my dagger and brought it to her lips.

"Which would you prefer," I whispered, tracing her full lips with the tip of the dagger, "yer lips being cut-off or yer mouth encasing my arousal?"

She glared at me, her hatred growing even stronger. Then she looked at my prick, which was standing at attention for her like a soldier under command.

She slowly leaned forward and timidly pushed her mouth over the tip of my prick. An involuntary groan escaped my lips as I felt her sassy mouth envelope me completely, the tip of me hitting the back of her throat.

She slowly slid back, almost leaving my prick naked again, before slowly pushing forward again. She continued her slow, naїve pace, making my hips thrust towards her face in pure desire. She nipped my member gently; making me hiss, but enjoy it completely as the ungodly amounts of pleasure and pain hit me.

She slid forward with her lips and dragged back with her teeth. That alone pushed me over the edge. Isabella wrapped her mouth around me again, and my prick spilt its juices into her fantastic mouth.

"Isabella!" I cried as my body spasmed under her control. Then I remembered who we are. "Drink every last bit of it, wench. If one drop leaves your mouth, ye shall have to do it all over again."

She sucked my prick until it was empty, swallowing every pint of liquid that I had unloaded.

She fell back onto her legs, her face flushed and sweaty, and her body heaving with every pant of a breath that she took. She looked glorious and surprisingly beautiful for a Scottish wench.

She looked distraught, not disgusted or pained like the other women. She was so intriguing that I forgot about what I was supposed to be torturing out of her. I genuinely wanted to know what was running through her peppery mind right now.

I knelt down in front of her. She glanced at me warily. I gripped her chin and forced her to look at me.

"Don't use your teeth ever again," I warned, although her teeth made the experience much more pleasurable.

She ripped her chin away, her defiance growing again.

I tugged at the shoulder-less part of her dress, making it fall to her waist, exposing the left side of her body to me. The peak on her breast was already hardened for me.

She gasped and raised her right hand, slapping me across the face ad gathering her dress to hide her body from me.

I growled, my arousal growing stronger again. My mind begged her to slap me again, but I knew that I had to keep my façade up.

I gripped both of her wrists, making her dress fall once again.

I leaned towards her naked bosom, immediately taking her peak in my mouth. She hissed, her dirty nails engraving my hands. It didn't stop me. I bit down on her swollen mound of skin as payback for her fault. She yelped, her body tensing and trying to cringe away from me. I let go and swirled my tongue around her tender flesh, making her relax again.

Although she was Scottish and quite obviously hated me, she couldn't deny her body this degree of pleasure. A low moan escaped her mouth and her fingernails continued scratching at me, but at a much slower, more pleasurable rate.

I forgot that she wasn't supposed to enjoy this. I was getting too absorbed in her appealing temper.

I pulled my face around from her chest, my mind trying to get out of the hazy maze this Scottish devil woman has put it in. Our eyes met, both pairs burning with desire, passion, and hatred. My body was surging with unadulterated lust and arousal. I needed her for more than just answers. I needed to have my body relieved of this tenseness.

In a moment of losing myself, I attacked her lips with my own, jabbing my tongue into her mouth like a sword into its sheath. Her tongue met mine with equal ferocity, giving me a fight for dominance. Her hands met my hair, tugging at the strands hard enough to rip it out. My hands cleverly removed the top half of her dress so that she was completely exposed to me. My hands roughly grabbed her bosom, squeezing and kneading her breasts, teasing her hardened peaks.

My mind was foggy with lust. I couldn't bring myself to disconnect our mouths to do my job. She was my singer. Her temper and body called me to her. Maybe in a different life we had been husband and wife. Maybe our souls have been intertwined since the beginning of time.

I pulled away, my mind finally comprehending my thoughts. I was being pulled in by a seductive demon obviously. I had heard stories about the Scottish witches that roam the Highlands. Isabella could very well be one of these demonic witches.

"Lay down," I commanded weakly, trying to find the strength in my soul to continue with my job.

She laid down on the dirt floor, her flame-filled brown eyes enveloping my soul in a lustful fit. I couldn't resist her. I had to have this Scottish temptress.

Her ribs were gaunt enough to be used as instruments. She was as skinny and lithe as a fox, and nearly as cunning as one, too. Her legs tangled themselves within her dirty and torn dress, seeking friction that only I could provide.

I fell above her, my hands catching my fall on either side of her face. My prick grazed her cloth-covered thighs, making her mewl with desire.

My body hovered above hers and my mind tried to find a good reason why I wanted to take this woman's body.

The only reason that came to mind was my sinful desire, and that was a good enough reason for me.

Her soul-piercing eyes gazed into mine. I felt as if she could see right through me, directly into my soul. It was disorienting and exhilarating at the same time.

She swallowed deeply before running her hands down my front to the bottom of my tunic. Her slim fingers slipped under to ghost against my flesh, raising my shirt ever so slightly as her eyes continued boring into mine.

Her hands made it up to my chest and I rolled us over that she could remove my tunic. Her eyes twinkled with delight and awe. She must know of the effect she had over me. She would be my undoing if I was to keep her around until I got a sufficient amount of information to pass her lips.

Her body straddled mine like a man would straddle a horse, her hips digging into mine, making my prick slide against her inner thighs and cunt.

"What is your name, sir?" she asked breathlessly as her hands crawled over my exposed flesh like delicate spiders.

"Edward," I murmured.

"Aye, Edward," she moaned, her hand falling back, exposing the column of her ivory-coloured neck to me. "Taitinn, Eideard."

Gaelic has never been more appealing. The sound of her voice contorting the strong, gruff accents was beyond arousing. Gaelic was now my favourite language, especially coming from her mouth.

"Keep speaking your native tongue," I groaned. "Speak words of Gaelic to me, lovely Isabella."

She moaned as her hips rocked back and forth, our pelvises rubbing against each other.

"Mi 'm thoir, Eideard, uile thoir," she groaned, her voice husky and breathless.

"More," I demanded in a moan of desire.

"Lìon mi a-noìs, Ridire," she continued, her face contorting beautifully. "Cruthaich mi cuir air cul cò sinn is 'm carson sinn is seo."

I quickly flipped us back over. My right hand snaked up her thigh, raising her skirt with it. Her petticoat and underclothes has been discarded. She was completely naked for me now.

I thrust my hardened member into her hot, wet core, making her moan with surprise and pleasure.

Her opening quickly adjusted to my size. The tightness of her cunt surprised me. She was a seductress without using her body, it seemed.

My thrusts were quick and hard. Neither of us wanted to be worshipped, we just wanted to be satisfied. Our tempers wouldn't allow for a gentle connection to occur. It would be rough, just like any other encounter between us would be.

Her bare legs wrapped around my back, forcing my prick to push even deeper into her body.

"Mo Eideard," she whispered.

"Mine," I growled possessively. "All mine."

She nodded feverishly. "Thoir. Gu léir thoir."

I grunted as my hips drove into hers. Her mouth fell open into a giant "O" as her insides tightened around mine, her juices oozing all over my bare prick.

"Mo Dia!" she screamed. "Eideard!"

Hearing my name amongst the Gaelic words that could give me shivers sent me over the peak into a pleasure-filled oblivion. My prick released and squirted inside her flaming body.

My body crashed upon hers, both of us struggling to breath. Her fingers timidly brushed through my hair. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine how different, and wonderful, my life would be if Isabelle could be mine. But, alas, such a thing wouldn't be heard of in these times.

"I know all about ye, Captain Cullen," Isabella whispered tenderly.

I raised my head from her steady heartbeat.

"Whatever do ye mean, Isabella?" I asked, confused.

"You asked me what I knew of the English military and I'm telling you," she explained delightfully. "I know everything about you, Edward. You torture my people in search of the truth. You rape my sisters and beat my brothers. My people shall not stand by and watch such blasphemy and treason occurs."

I quickly stood up, pulling my pants back up. Isabella rose, her inviting chest still exposed. She was smiling a devious, all-knowing smile that sent my heart directly into fear and panic.

She calmly tied her plaid shawl around her nakedness and walked towards me, her evil demeanour still oozing from her being.

She wrapped a hand around my neck, pulling me down to her height. She put her lips near my ear.

"Caoimhnei, Eideard," she murmured. "We shall see what words will spill from your mouth once you enter my homeland torture chamber. Be prepared, mo Sasannach ciomach."

A rebellious roar erupted as Scottish soldiers broke into my dungeon.

I had been outsmarted by a Scottish temptress. I smiled at her, silently applauding her for planning this.

A few red-bearded Scots roughly grabbed me, pulling my shaking arms behind my back. I couldn't help but to continue smiling at my temptress. She smiled right back at me. She was still seducing me even though I had been caught. I would never be able to shake her from my mind.

"Sinn seilbhich glacte fhein, caraids!" the man holding me cried. "Buadhachas riar bisinn fhìnfhèin a dh'aithghearr!"

I didn't understand a word they were saying, but I knew they were celebrating. I was a feared Englishman among the Scottish. Horror stories about me have spread across the lands. I have struck fear into the hearts of the Scottish.

Isabella appeared in front of me again. "Esan 's cladhaich."

The men froze, surprised at whatever she had told them.

"Ach carson, Iseabail?" one of the other soldiers requested. He was burly with brown curly hair, just like Isabella's. They looked so much alike that they could be kin.

"E feum dìol air ciod e rinn do mi," she answered calmly, yet with an air of command. She must be in some sort of position of power to be able to command the soldiers so confidently. "Mi deònaich gabh mu fhèin."

The men started laughing in an evil way that made me look at Isabella. She smiled and winked at me as her men continued to laugh.

The prisoner has become the torturer.

Long live Isabella. I am her prisoner. Gladly and freely, my lady. Take me now.

Here are the translations:

"Mi rinn barrachd na a." – "I did more than that."
A chaoidh." – "Never."
'Nad dream gabhar fulang ceannsaich 'm maith bas-bhuadladh a' mein. Loisg an ifrinn, dibh Sasannach mac a' galla." – "Your family will suffer under the skilled hands of mine. Burn in hell, you English son of a bitch."
Fáilte Máiri, lán a' grás, 'M Triath 's le thusa, naomha an tu measg boireannach 'm naomha 's 'm meas a' do broinn Iosa. Naomh Máiri, máthair a' Dia, guidh bhuainn peacach tráth-sa 'm 'g 'm unair a'bás. Amen." – This is the Hail Mary prayer. I could probably put it all down, but I don't wanna.
Taitinn, Eideard." – "Please, Edward."
Mi 'm thoir, Eideard, uile thoir." – "I am yours, Edward, all yours."
Lìon mi a-noìs, Ridire. Cruthaich mi cuir air cul cò sinn is 'm carson sinn is seo." – "Fill me up, sir. Make me forget who we are and why we are here."
Mo Eideard." – "My Edward."
Thoir. Gu léir thoir." – "Yours. All yours."
"Mo Dia! Eideard!" – "My God! Edward!"
Caoimhneil Eideard... mo Sasannach ciomach." – "Dear Edward... my English prisoner."
Sinn seilbhich glacte fhein, caraids! Buadhachas riar bisinn fhìnfhèina dh'aithghearr!" – "We have caught him, friends! Victory will be ours soon!"
E 's mèinn." – "He is mine."
"Ach carson, Iseabail?" – "But why, Isabella?"
E feum dìol air ciod e rinn do mi.Mi deònaich gabh aire a' fhèin." – "He must pay for what he did to me. I will take care of him."

And, yes, I do know that I suck at Gaelic translations and shit. I did this over the Internet. So it's probably not all correct, but oh well. You get the point.

Thanks to RosetteCullen for making me do this contest. She's pretty freakin' sweet. You should probably go worship at her feet. (Ha! I'm a poet and I didn't even know it!)

I'm half Scottish, and I'm actually descended from Braveheart (William Wallace) himself, so I thought it'd be super cool to stick with the family for this. My dad constantly reminds me that I'm a Wallace (even though that's definitely not my last name) and that I should be proud to be a part of Scottish history (even though I'm not). So yeah. A little somin'-somin' you probably didn't know about moi.

I hope you enjoyed it! I had fun writing it 'cause I'm a dirty slut in my head. But not in real life.

Reviews are cool. (: