Ilt-a-Whirl

Author's Note(s): Hey, folks. Sorry that I've been missing in action for so long. To be honest, I'd been struggling with severe writer's block. I'm hoping it has finally lifted, but only time will tell. This is the first thing I've been able to finish in nine months; please forgive me if it feels less polished than some of my previous works.

This story contains fetish content, including ENM, CMNM, and humiliation. There's also a soupçon of blasphemy near the end. Please refer to the tags if you are wanting more information to help you decide whether or not to give it a read. All characters in this story are eighteen years of age or older.

I stared at myself in the mirror. My emerald eyes told a story. Their hazy pink corners were the direct result of staying up until nearly 3 a.m. the night before downing glass after glass of Macallan neat. Each sip had contained a hint of freedom; my mom had always ranted about how only the "lazy" and "hopeless" drank more than an occasional celebratory flute of champagne.

I could hear my uncle and cousins out in the common area of the farmhouse we were staying in. Their hearty laughter was no match for the poorly insulated walls. The clinking sound of crystal and the booming echo of "

sláinte"

made it abundantly clear that they'd decided upon the "hair of the dog" approach.

I rubbed my broad jaw with my right hand. Even though I'd just turned eighteen the week before, I still couldn't grow facial hair to save my life. On that morning, it was a blessing since I hadn't brought a razor with me.

I splashed some cold water on my face as I leaned over the sink. My cheeks turned rosy from the shock. A few drops cascaded down onto my well-built chest, similarly bare.

I'd been wrestling, playing football, and training at the gym since I'd started high school. I had bulging pecs and six-pack abs to show for it. I gave myself a lot of credit for the latter; no other guy in my family was lean enough to not have a little layer of padding covering their abs.

I was slightly shocked, however, by just how pale I looked. The unflattering lighting made my nipples look like two bright pink gumdrops that had tumbled from a child's pocket into a snowdrift. Several bright blue veins popped with neon electric just below the surface of my skin.

BANG-BANG-BANG!

I nearly tumbled backwards feeling the vibrations from door violently shaking a few feet away. It straightened my spine with an unexplainable sense of anxiety.

"Move your ass, Lachlan" the groom, Stewart -- who also happened to be my eldest cousin -- hollered through the door. "Ain't got no time to spank the monkey this morning!"

A roar of laughter bounced off the tiled wall behind me. I could picture all the guys in the next room whooping it up. For the second time that morning, my cheeks filled with blood.

"The photographer is waiting," Stewart continued. "Get a move on."

"I'm... I'll be there soon!"

I glanced down at my lower half. I looked preposterous. I was wearing shiny black leather dress shoes, fancy white socks that were pulled up over my calves, and tattered plaid boxers. I turned around and studied my outfit, which was displayed on two hangers. On the left, there was a white dress shirt, a vest, and a jacket that didn't seem to be nearly as long as any of the other ones I'd ever worn to formal events. On a separate hanger to the right of the other items, there was a kilt in our family's tartan.

I scambled as quickly as I could. I tossed on the dress shirt; the fabric draped down over my boxers a little bit. When I put on the vest and jacket, it hit me just how odd the proportions were. Rather than extending down over the crotch area like a traditional suit, the jacket and vest combo ended an inch or so above my waistline.

Maybe that's to better show off the kilt?

I wondered with a nonplussed shrug.

There was a bowtie I hadn't noticed earier tucked behind the other items. I was relieved to see that it was the kind with a fastener on the back; I'd never worn a real one before in my life.

I turned my attention to the kilt.

How does this thing even work?

I pulled it off its hooks. There was still a lilttle purse-like bag secured to a chain left on the hanger, but I didn't know what that was for either.

I held the wool frabric in my hands like it was a bomb I was trying to defuse.

Well, there's a strap on this side and two straps on that side. There's a clamp thingy here that kinda looks like a belt buckle. Then there's a hole on the inside that could fit one of the straps.

I tried wrapping it around my waist, hoping that the act would help clear things up. It did not.

"For fuck's sake, Lachy," my cousin, Duncan, yelled through the door.

I heard the knob rattling before I had time to tell him I'd be out in a minute. I spun around on the balls of my feet; the slick bottoms of the dress shoes helped me glide. Right as Duncan was barging into the small bathroom, the kilt slipped from my fingers and fell to the floor.

"I don't think that's the family tartan," Duncan said with a chuckle, nodding at my well-worn green plaid boxers. "What's taking you so long?"

"I'm... I'm just not very good with this thing?"

"What? The kilt? Is there something wrong with it?"

I shook my head; I felt more embarrased than it made sense to be. I looked at my twenty-three-year old cousin. He clearly wasn't mad, but he couldn't understand where I was coming from, either. The smirk on his face was all the evidence I needed to know that he thought the situation was funny.

"I've just never worn a kilt before," I mumbled.

"Never worn a kilt!" Duncan echoed back with shock in his voice.

Even admitting it, I felt a little sad. Duncan's dad -- my uncle -- had immersed all of his sons in Scottish culture from a young age. I remembered hearing about them taking traditional dance classes and bragging about how delicious their dad's stovies were. My dad hadn't cared as much; he'd taken to midwestern culture like a fish to water. Sometimes I wondered if he might have taught me more about my heritage if he hadn't passed away when I was only ten years old, but it was something I'd never know.

Duncan could have roasted me; he decided to take pity on me instead. He let out a mildly annoyed sigh before walking towards me. I scooped up the kilt from the floor as he approached.

"Just turn around," he instructed. "It's not rocket science."

He didn't take the time to explain. He just wrapped the fabric around me, slid one of the straps into the hole I'd noticed earlier, then adjusted the fastener. On the other side, he took two more straps and wove them through more traditional-looking buckles and secured them. What would have taken me ages took him less than a minute.

"Thanks," I said meekly.

"No problem. The photographer is waiting for us. He wants to shoot some group photos of the groomsmen before he heads over to get some shots of the bride getting ready."

As we began to walk out of the bathroom, I looked back to make sure I hadn't forgot anything. I saw the small black bag on a metal chain still draped over the hanger that the kilt had been on.

"Wait," I said as I jogged back to grab it. "What do I do with this?"

Duncan paused for a moment. He rubbed his temple with one of his hands.

Was it really that dumb of a question?

"Just toss it over your shoulder like a purse," he said. "Well... obviously it's not a purse, but just like kilts aren't dresses, people mistake the two all the time."

I awkwardly positioned the chain over my shoulder. It wasn't really long enough to let the bag hang down all that far. I held onto the chain with one hand since I worried it might fall off if I didn't.

We scampered out to the main room. My uncle, Angus, was sitting on a plush leather chair with a large glass of scotch in his right hand. He was talking with his youngest son, Hamish, who was standing next to him. Stewart, the groom, who'd yelled at me through the door earlier, was chatting with his best friend, Callum.

"Look who I found," Duncan announced.

"There he is!" Hamish exclaimed. "The baby of the clan. How does he look more hung over than any of us? Kids these days!"

I just shook my head. I knew Hamish was just giving me a hard time. At twenty-one, he was the youngest of his siblings, so he'd always enjoyed having someone even younger to tease. My coming to visit had always seemed to be a rare treat for him in that way.

"What are you doing with your sporran?" Stewart asked with bewilderment in his eyes.

"What?" I asked.

"Your sporran!" he repeated while pointing at the small bag attached to the chain hanging by my side.

Sporran? Oh!

"The purse thing?" I asked.

Duncan covered his mouth to stifle a giggle. Callum shook his head and rolled his eyes. It was in that moment that I noticed that they all had one - a sporran - too. The difference was that they were all wearing them around their waists, while I was clutching onto mine like a girl would her favorite purse when she was getting ready to go hit up the club.

"Asshole," I whispered to Duncan as I removed the chain from my shoulder.

All of my cousins, as well as my uncle, burst out into laughter. I'd let on that I'd been actively set up, not merely ignorant. I had no idea why that had made it acceptable to join in, but it had. My uncle, in particular, seemed to be having a blast. He was slapping his knee and leaning forward like he couldn't catch his breath.

It's not that funny. Just how much has he been drinking?

"What did..." he started before having to pause to chortle. "What did the wee 'un think it was?"

"A purse, apparently," Stewart chimed in. "Girls always have to have somewhere to keep their lipstick in case they need to reapply."

He traipsed towards me and pinched my left cheek. It felt so infantilizing. I scrunched up my nose and shook my head.

So funny. Just get it out of your system.

I focused on putting the sporran on the way it was meant to be worn. I found a small hook on the back that allowed me to adjust it so I was wearing it like all the other men in the room.

"I couldn't resist," Duncan said. "It was too easy."

"Aye," my uncle proclaimed as he started to calm down. "You had your fun. Now go get the bairn a drink."

Wee 'un. Aye. Bairn.

My uncle had been a teenager - even younger than I was then -- when he'd immigrated. He still had the accent, but his speech was far more American than Scottish. Only a few Scottish words remained sprinkled across his sentences. I had always wondered if he did it intentionally to remind himself where he came from, or if it was something he couldn't control.

Duncan returned and pushed a tumbler full of whiskey into my hand. I begrudgingly took a sip, even though my stomach was telling me not to.

I glanced around the room; it was my first time seeing the farmhouse during waking hours. It was clearly designed to be a space for men to gather. There were paintings of ships and horses on the walls. The furniture was all upholstered with a mahogany-colored leather. On the coffee table next to my uncle's seat, there was a humidor that was most certainly stocked with expensive cigars.

"Where's that photographer?" Hamish asked. "He was waiting around for us, and now when we're all here, he's disappeared."

I wasn't thinking when I took a bigger sip. It hit me like a ton of bricks. I grabbed the arm of the unoccupied sofa next to the armchair my uncle was occupying and nearly tossed myself down on it.

Stewart and Callum were talking about the reception. Apparently, there had been some issue with the cake. My uncle, Duncan, and Hamish were discussing something far more important than the wedding: rugby. My uncle had always been obsessed with it, and all three of my cousins had played since they were teens. They all had the classic rugby build, too - tall, massive chest, large biceps, and over-sized thighs.

"What's wrong with your kilt, lad?" my uncle suddenly asked.

"Huh?"

I quizzically glimpsed down at my lap. I was worried that maybe I'd spilled my drink on it, but there wasn't any stain that I could see.

"No, what's that?" he asked, pointing to the hem above my right knee.

"Oh, just my boxers," I said nonchalantly.

"Boxers!" my uncle exclaimed. "With a kilt? Ain't ye got any pride? No true Scotsman wears anything under his kilt. Nothing makes you feel more alive than the breeze sneaking up under your kilt and kissing your arse."

I just shook my head. I assumed he was playing around with me again. I wasn't about to be singled out as the laughingstock of the group... again.

"Duncan," my uncle said, "why didn't you tell your cousin that we don't wear anything under our kilts?"

"I already had to put the damn thing on for him," Duncan said. "You wanted me to take his underwear off for him, too? Next you're going to tell me that I'm in charge of changing his diapers and powdering his ass."

My stomach did a somersault. I felt like I'd committed another faux pas. It was just more proof of how much I didn't quite fit in with the other guys in my family.

The photographer entered the room right as my uncle was about to reply. He walked over to where Stewart was standing. We all looked at him expectantly.

"We're going to go outside and take some photos," he said. "I'll do a few combinations: groom and father, groom and best man, and we'll close with the entire group. I'll give you all guidance, but we're here to have fun on this special day. Remember, I work for you, so if you want a specific shot, just tell me."

Everyone acknowledged his spiel with a collective nod. My uncle and I started to get to our feet; my knees wobbled beneath me. I looked at the glass I'd just set on the coffee table. It was nearly empty.

Did I really drink all of that?

It took me a moment to realize that I'd taken a few gulps after having been picked on by the group.

"Take off your boxers, Lachlan," my uncle said. "We don't want them showing up in the pictures."

"I... I..." I started to say, suddenly feeling my heart thumping in my chest.

Everyone in the room was gawking at me, even the photographer. It felt like they were all waiting for me before we could go outside. I really did not want to take them off. I was already thinking of asking to go change into some boxer briefs that would be short enough to have no chance of being seen in the photos.

I didn't say any of that, though. I let my fingertips find the lower hem of my boxers. I tugged on them slowly, since I worried they might be tangled with the fabric at the waist of my kilt. It only took a moment before they fell the floor.

"That's it, lad!" my uncle said, slapping me on the back. "Time to air out the tadger and bawbag!"

All of my cousins and Callum started chuckling. My uncle looked genuinely proud, albeit still pretty buzzed. I carefully squatted down and grabbed my boxers from the floor. I began to walk back to my room so that I could toss them inside of my duffel bag.

"Just leave them on the table," Stewart commanded. "We're already running late."

I folded my boxers and set them down next to the glass I'd been drinking from. It felt odd leaving them out in the open, but I didn't want to piss off the groom on his wedding day.

As we exited the farmhouse, I shielded my eyes from the sun. It was the perfect spring day - just warm enough without crossing the threshold into "hot." I smelled some type of floral scent in the air, but wasn't sure what it was.

It took us about ten minutes to walk to the spot on the property the photographer thought would have the best backdrop for the shots. It was in front of a rustic looking barn that was constructed of sun-bleached pine boards. The structure looked about as sturdy as a house of cards.

"Okay," the photographer said. "First up, father and son."

We all watched as my uncles and Stewart took center stage. There was no denying the family resemblance. They both stood six-foot-two and had incredibly broad shoulders. My uncle, however, carried some extra weight in his belly.

Probably from all the whiskey he's always tossing back

, I thought.

The photographer had them pose naturally at first. They stood side by side, and while neither of them cracked a smile I could see the pride in their eyes. After that, the photographer told them what to do. First, he had my uncle "help" Steward with his bowtie. Then he instructed my uncle to tell a story about when Stewart was young so he could get some shots of them laughing. The whole process probably took about five minutes.

Next, the groom and best man stepped into the limelight. While they were being photographed, the rest of us stood in a semi-circle. My uncle pulled a silver flask from inside of his jacket. He cast his eyes in Stewart's direction as if to acknowledge that he knew his son would be pissed to see him drinking more so close to the ceremony.

"Dad," Hamish said, "don't you think you should slow down?"

"We're celebrating! It's only once you get to see your eldest son get married."

Hamish and Duncan both chuckled. It seemed like they knew that they weren't going to stop their dad from doing what he wanted to do. My uncle tilted his head back and placed the flask against his lips; his Adam's apple bobbed up and down as he frantically drained the small container. Once he'd finished, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

"That's smashin'!" he exclaimed while already looking a little more soused than before.

The tops of my uncle's cheeks were turning bright red. He glanced over at me while I was staring at him. My mouth contorted into an awkward smile.

Just have a good time

, I reminded myself.

Why do you care if he drinks too much?

My uncle took a step closer to me. Before he even started speaking, I could smell the booze on his warm breath.

"How's it feel, wee 'un?"

I didn't reply, even though it was clear he was speaking to me. I shook my head; I had no earthly idea what he was talking about.

"How's it feel?" he asked again.

"What?"

He took a step toward me so our bodies were almost touching. I thought he was going to wrap his arm around my shoulder.

He probably needs it to steady himself

. Even though I'd had a few shots worth of booze that morning, I was in far better shape than him.

Suddenly, I felt something grabbing at the back of my kilt. I craned my head over my shoulder. My uncle's large mitt had yanked up the hem so that my lily-white ass was on full display. My muscles turned to stone and I froze in place.

"The feeling of the wind on your arse?" my uncle stated. "Feels like freedom, huh, lad?"

"Jesus Christ," Duncan said with a titter. "You putting on a show for us, Lachy? Didn't know there was a full moon scheduled for today."

"There's not a hair on it!" Hamish belted out, as he moved in for a closer look. "Do you shave your ass, Lachy? Or haven't you gone through puberty yet?"

"If that's what his ass looks like," Duncan piled on, "he's probably still waiting for his pubes to come in."

My heart was pounding in my chest. My throat had gone dry. I wanted nothing more than to reach back and swat my uncle's hand away, but I couldn't for some reason. As if the gods had heard my prayer, my uncle suddenly dropped the hem of my kilt and it unfurled to cover my ass again.

"Don't tease the boy," he half-belched. "He'll grow up soon enough."

The three of them dove right into a different conversation. It was like they'd been interrupted earlier and were picking up where they'd left off. I nodded along; I was still confused about what had just happened. It had been mortifying in a way I'd never experienced before, but it had also made me feel a weird tingly sensation in my belly.