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A Kilted Ecounter July 21 2007 From early life I have always been a keen kilt-wearer. Hill walking in student days underlined the excellence of the kilt to me; it is fantastically comfortable, practical for the outdoor life and, above all, sexy. There is something wonderfully sensual about the feel of the kilt as you stride along a mountain path, the pleats swinging back and forth against your bare legs and the clear air refreshing your naked balls. Fully dressed for the mountains, with climbing boots, heavy-duty shirt, waterproofs and a full rucksack, the contrast of being a kilted true Scotsman at the same time is sublime. I would often fantasize about meeting a similarly clad man while out on my solo backpacking expeditions, but have yet to do so. I did, however, have one encounter with a kilted lad at a distillery in Morayshire. I had climbed the local big hill in the morning and came down to the distillery at its base just after lunchtime. I had often passed it before and, discovering that I had the time, I decided to do the tourist thing and go on the guided tour. Much to my delight, the guide turned out to be a very good-looking kilted student. He was a real cruet - rather small and beautifully proportioned, with longish fair hair and inviting bare knees. His huge and smiling eyes swallowed me up. He introduced himself as Torquil and he gave a very good account of himself as he took us (me and four others) on the twenty- minute tour around the mash tubs, copper stills and bond houses. I took most of all this in, but was more intrigued by Torquil and his kilt. At one point he led us up an open stair. He tripped on the last step and I watched his kilt fan out behind him, but was not able to prove to myself that he was naked beneath it (I so hoped he was). At the end of the tour, once the other four visitors had left for the shop, Torquil clearly wanted to talk with me. He told me it was now his lunch break and asked if I would like to go for a walk with him, to "get away" for a bit. I agreed and we set off round the back of the distillery and onto a forest track, which led into the pine trees. As we walked, we chatted, shyly at first, but with growing confidence about our own experiences with the kilt. I eventually plucked up the courage to ask the question which had been burning below my sporran from the moment I had first seen Torquil. "Are you a true Scotsman?" "Yes," he said simply. "I don't believe you," I teased. "Why not find out then?" He continued, "But I won't let you look." He looked at me in a curiously challenging way. "You've got hands." I followed his suggestion and crouched down in front of him. I placed my right hand on his knees and as he moved to open his legs more, I slid slowly up his inner thigh, enjoying the feel of the apron of his kilt as my hand disappeared under it. He felt wonderfully hairy and I was soon clasping his equally hairy balls and surprisingly large cock, which was already hardening. Torquil moaned. "My turn", he said, brushing my hand away and crouching down before me. I felt his right hand go straight up my kilt and he groped my already painful erection. His firm fingers turned and turned on my cock and then suddenly his left hand was squeezing my balls. We kissed and fondled each other for some minutes. "I want to come into you," he said. "Oh, yes," I pleaded. "I know a quiet place." Torquil led me further into the woods. As we walked along we each had a hand up the other's kilt and fondling buttocks. Torquil probed with a finger into my arse. We soon came to an open area with a grassy floor. "No one can see us here," Torquil reassured me. He told me to lie down on my front. I complied, enjoying the feel of the cool grass on my knees. I was aware of him sliding his hands slowly up the backs of my legs and my kilt being raised over onto my back. Torquil then stood astride me and lowered himself onto my legs. As soon as his naked legs were either side of mine, I felt I was going to explode then and there, but I held myself in. With a seemingly experienced technique, he guided the tip of his hard on into me, eventually declaring with great satisfaction (and surprise?) that he had "got right in". He told me to feel and I fingered the end of his shaft between my buttocks. Torquil now lay fully down on me and began a rhythmical gyration with his hips. I just lay and enjoyed the sensation, the feeling of this kilted student inside me. Then I was aware of an even greater height of sensual pleasure. As he worked on me, with his legs either side of mine, I could feel the pleats of his kilt moving back and forth across my thighs. The idea of being able to feel the pleats of another man's kilt on my legs was the final bliss and I suddenly shot my load into the grass. Almost immediately, Torquil was working harder and he cried out as he shot into me. He asked if he could just lie there still in me for a while. "As long as you like," I smiled. We eventually separated and brushed each other down, checking below to see that "everything was in good working order". On the walk back, hands were exploring under tartan curtains for most of the way. I've noticed since that when two kilt wearers come to grips with each other, hands seem to spend most of the time out of sight. I never saw Torquil again as this had happened in September, the end of the season, and he didn't return to the distillery in the next year. I still fantasize about my kilted guide and the feel of the pleats of his kilt . . . |