The Scottish Festival

Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32


Author’s Note: A quickie that takes advantage of people who wear their kilts correctly. Enjoy, and please remember to vote and comment!


Off to my left I heard the distinctive sound of a dozen cats mating at once. Either that or someone was trying to tune bagpipes. I turned in the direction of the off-key skirl.

Yep, pipes.

That’s why Scottish Regiments have been at the front of the British Army for five hundred years: to frighten or annoy the enemy.

It was mid summer and my small hometown’s annual Scottish Festival was in full flight. You couldn’t swing a haggis without hitting a tourist practically begging to empty his or her wallet. I was sipping an overpriced beer in Ye Auld Pub Tent, standing on the perimeter, partly to catch the piping competition behind me, partly to catch sight of the Bonnie lasses’ asses and partly because I can’t sit in my kilt without displaying the “Flower of Scotland”.

The heat was building, and the humidity was getting unbearable. I had two things keeping me cool. A breeze had come up over the lake. It was just enough to take the edge off the heat. I was also wearing a lightweight utility kilt, so the breeze was doing double duty.

Kilts are such practical clothing. Especially when worn correctly.

The crowd was starting to build as better bands began their part of the competition. To my right, two dancers each drew two menacing looking swords, crossed the blades and set them on a piece of plywood on the ground. They both began to dance around the crossed weapons. Their movements were hypnotizing. Particularly the sight of two fit twenty-somethings bouncing and twirling. I realized that I was staring, so I redirected my eyes towards the band.

The band was pretty good. I mean, I’d have followed them to Hell; they seemed to know the way. I started to dance a little bit in place. Pretty soon I was lost in the music, daydreaming of Bonnie lasses with nothing under their kilts.

I felt some pressure on my sporran, then it was lifted and a firm hand groped my cock through the kilt.

“I hope you’re regimental there Ataşehir Escort Billy boy!” said a familiar voice, as smoky as an Islay malt.

“Emma! How’s it going?” I replied as I snapped my head back. In front of me I saw a mass of copper curls filing my line of sight.

“All’s well. Don’t avoid the question, Bill. What’s under your kilt?”

I hesitated, so Emma gave my cock a squeeze. I guess I would never stand up to agressive interrogation; I confessed. She didn’t move, so I answered the back of her head.

“Not quite Regimental. Under my kilt I am wearing a cock ring. Oh, and a smudge of bright red lipstick from yesterday that wouldn’t come off in the shower. What about you Lassie?”

“Just the carpet that matches the drapes.” She said, still facing away from me, running her fingers through her red mane. Her right hand returned to my cock, which was now somewhat larger.

“Madam, I believe that’s my cock you are holding.”

“Are you complaining?” she asked, rubbing slightly.

“I’m merely stating a fact. What is your intent? I mean, you rub a man’s dick and you create certain expectations in his mind. Or at least questions.”

“There should be no question Bill. I want you to come with me, slip into the changing tent, lift my kilt and yours and fuck me roughly and thoroughly from behind while I lean on the bench. I want you to fill my pussy with your hot spunk. Then I want you to let me clean our mixed juices off your cock with my tongue. That’s what I want. Do you think you can help me?”

She squeezed my cock one last time and released it. The downside of going Regimental was it was hard to hide my now half hard cock.

She shook her head, and ran her fingers through her red kinky hair again. I think that was a signal that she wanted it pulled. She turned towards the changing tent, meant for Pipers, drummers and dancers to change into and out of their regalia. Emma was a volunteer, and her Festival I.D. got us in. I put out the “occupied” sign, and zipped the door closed. I turned to see her round ass swathed in red yellow and green Kadıköy Escort tartan, swaying gently to the beat of “Scotland the Brave” coming through the nylon walls.

I had my orders. I stepped up and flipped up her kilt, revealing her magnificent backside. As promised, under her kilt was nothing but her beautiful pussy and inviting back passage, framed by hair the colour of new pennies. I caressed both cheeks, gave the right one a playful swat.

“Ssh!” she said “Do you want the whole park to know we’re fucking in here?”

“You usually like a bit of a spanking. I just assumed…”

“Save it for later. Focus on your mission, laddie.”

“Sorry, I forgot what I was doing here.” I flipped up my kilt and moved closer. I rubbed my cock along her moist slit, relishing the feelings. The wetness inside, the silky smoothness, the slight friction from her soft pussy hair. Once I knew she was wet and ready, I thrust myself into her in one smooth steady motion.

“Ah! How ah can you oh, forget unh that you’re supposed ooo to be ramming your hard cock into my pussy? Ah, fuck me. Fuck me harder. Fill my quim with your hot spunk. I want to see if anyone, ahhh notices it oh yes, dripping down my legs on to my socks. Oh, yes! Pound my pussy!”

I took her earlier hint, and took a handful of her beautiful red hair, and pulled until her head was extended.

“Oh yes! Thats the way! Harder Billy boy!”

It was a challenge to simultaneously pound her without the sound of our thighs slapping against each other advertising our lust, or making her more vocal, or getting loud myself. Past history indicated that we might have a problem there.

I picked up the pace anyways. The pleasant summer warmth outside was rapidly becoming a sauna inside. The soft wetness of her pussy enveloping my stiff cock urged me forwards. By the grunts and moaning coming from her, Emma was close. I slowed my strokes, and released her hair, grabbing her braless tits and grinding my thighs into her firm ass at the end of every stroke. She complained to me more than once about how she thought her Bostancı Escort tits were too small, but they were firm and her stiff nipples were hard as pencil erasers. I couldn’t see them, but I knew they were bright pink nubs set in the middle of large areolae. She loved having them pinched, and responded by grinding her ass back at me and moaning loudly.

“Oh fuck yes! Come on, finish me and fill me up!”

I figured I had about three strokes left.




Ok, four. I pumped my seed into her waiting pussy. I let my cock rest in her now very wet pussy for a few seconds, relshing the feeling of or mixed cum coating it. I slowly pulled my cock out, flipping our kilts back. Yep, a practical garment.

Emma turned around for the first time. She smiled up at me as she sank to her knees. She disappeared under my kilt. I felt her soft tongue licking as she cleaned our mixed cum off my cock. I usually like to watch her do this, but I was able to focus on the feeling of her tongue lapping at my deflating cock. She stopped licking and took me fully in her mouth, sucking deeply. I may have just cum, but my cock was starting to stiffen again. Abruptly she stopped altogether, kissing the head loudly. She stood to signify that she was done.

“I see what you mean about my lipstick. I added another lip print. Maroon.”

“Thank you! A trophy! When will you be home?” I asked as she smoothed out her disheveled clothes. She was a vision of Highland beauty. Perspiration beaded on her chest and neck above her t-shirt collar. Her nipples strained obscenely against her Festival shirt. Her copper curls framed a face sparsely freckled and smiling broadly. She slipped on a pair of dark sunglasses.

“I’ll be there for dinner, say six. Can you collect the kids?”

“Sure. Beach, Arcade, food, home. How about Haggis?”

She wrinkled her nose at my suggestion.

“Pizza or Thai. You pick. Oh, and keep the kilt on, and keep it ‘modified regimental’. That was unbelievable. Lets try the back deck about midnight.” She smiled and kissed me deeply. Our tongues met and danced together briefly, leaving the taste of our mixed cum on my lips.

She put on her best Scottish accent, “Put lots of lube in yer sporran laddie, this lass wants her ass fucked.”

“Aye lass. Wud ye like a wee dram as well?”

“Neat!” she answered.

Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32

Bir yanıt yazın