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