The peat fire smoked in the hearth of the isolated Scottish cottage, the air thick with the scent of damp wool and something muskier. Marabel Garlick watched Braden, the young, wide-eyed hiker she’d “rescued” from the mist. Her grin was feral. She hadn’t bathed in weeks; her bright red bush was a wild, fiery tangle, and the matching thatch under her arms was slick with sweat. A potent, animal stench—ripe cunt and salty skin—radiated from her.

“Yer tremblin’,” she purred, her voice rough as gravel. Her fingers, calloused and dirty, found the button of his trousers. “Let’s warm ye up proper.”

Braden could only nod, hypnotized by the wild glint in her eye and the overpowering funk of her. She yanked his jeans down, his virgin cock springing free, already stiff and leaking.

“A bonnie lad,” she cooed. She leaned close, her unwashed scent enveloping him, and hawked a thick, hot wad of spit directly into her palm. The glob landed with a wet *splat*. Before he could process it, her spit-slick fist closed around his shaft.

“Oh, fuck,” he gasped. The sensation was filthy and incredible. Her hand was rough, the spit already cooling, but she worked him with a brutal, knowing rhythm. *Schlick-schlick-schlick.* The sound was obscene in the quiet cottage. Her thumb smeared his pre-cum over his swollen head, her other hand g