After spending three days driving my Mini-Cooper, feeling as if my knees were boxing my ears, the "Welcome to North Carolina" sign was one of the most welcome sights I'd seen since leaving home.

The air-conditioning gave out about three hours from my front door, which meant that not only was I tired and stiff, I was soaked to the skin and smelled like roadkill on a hot summer day. Not pretty, for certain, but I figured with the nice breeze that was blowing, I'd air out soon enough.

If not, at least no one would be crowding next to me on the bleachers.

I'd waited three years for the opportunity to go to the Grandfather Mountain Highland Games in Linville, North Carolina. Originally, I'd planned to make the trip to Scotland, but things didn't quite turn out the way I'd hoped. In other words, I couldn't afford it the plane ticket, and no matter how hard I tried, I doubted if my Mini-Cooper would make it across the Atlantic.

The next best thing was the Grandfather Mountain games. It was a huge yearly event, with over 3,000 participants and 25,000 spectators, of which I would proudly be one, in all my sweaty, stinky glory. Spectator, that is, not participant. I'm not the "athletic" type. I'm more the "ogle the competitors in kilts" type.

With the breeze that's blowing, I figure I should get my money's worth of ogling, too. Those plaids were going to be flapping like sheets in a twister, giving me a great view of what real men wore under their kilts.

Which of course is nothing, I hoped. I, myself, had gone commando when I donned my one and only kilt for the occasion. I was of Italian descent, with a smidge of Swede thrown in for good measure, but figured everyone was a Celt at the games, kind of like how everyone was Irish on St. Patrick's Day. I'd bought my kilt online, and had absolutely no idea of what the pattern meant, other than it being a nice bright red with black lines.

What I hadn't counted on was it being made from 100% pure wool, and that fact, combined with my allergy to wool, made my trip itchy as well as hot and cramped. I spent half the time in the car wiping sweat out of my eyes, and the other half scratching myself raw.

I parked and hiked a path long enough to make me wonder whether the games were being held in the state of North Carolina, or if I were walking to Scotland. My hands tugged at the hem of my kilt with every step, keeping it firmly about my knees. No free shows from this spectator, thank you very much. I was here to admire other men's dangly bits and butts, not flaunt my own.

Finally, the ticket booths and arena came into view, a roughly circular area at the foot of Grandfather Mountain. The mountain itself was breathtaking. Deep green tinged with blue, it soared against a cloudless sapphire sky. Below, inside the arena, thousands of people stretched and readied themselves for competition, while tens of thousands more jostled for seats.

I was excited, not really watching where I going, trying to look everywhere at once. I had my ticket in hand, but once I'd passed through the turnstiles, I was overcome by the sheer size of the place and number of people.

Kilts were everywhere! Tall men, short men, men built like Greek gods and some built more like Greek olives milled around, jostling, laughing, eating, and drinking. Most wore shirts, but some did not, and I got an eyeful of boy cleavage and man boobs, washboard stomachs and beer bellies.

I wasn't paying attention to where I walking, sort of letting the crowd carry me along. Suddenly, I found myself pushed past a set of ropes cordoning off a section of the arena. Trying to figure out where I was and how I was supposed to find my seat, I jumped when a heavy hand clamped down on my shoulder.

"What event are you in?"

"Uh, me? I'm -" I turned as I answered, and words sputtered out, my jaw dropping to brush my sporran. The man facing me topped me by at least six inches – a huge, brawny, half-naked, blond Scot with war braids and a burr thick enough to butter bread. "I…I..."

"Spit it out, laddie."

"I…I…" Was all I could say, mesmerized by his bright blue eyes. His brows were pale, only a shade darker than his golden hair. Something about the thin, twin braids hanging free on either side of his face was sexy, enough so to keep my tongue glued to the roof of my mouth.

My eyes flicked here and there, taking in every glorious inch of his body. He had a deep chest and broad, tanned shoulders, huge biceps, and brawny forearms. His waist was slender, and his plaid was slung low around his hips. He looked strong enough to snap me in two like a twig. It was only in passing that I noticed the pattern of his kilt matched mine.

"Och! Might you know any words besides 'I'?"

"Aye…I mean, yes! I'm only here to watch. Are you a contestant?" I finally found my tongue. The problem was, once I had, I couldn't control it. "What events are you in? Did you come here from Scotland? I can hear your accent. It's very cool. God, it's hot, isn't it?"

It was hot, very hot, and not much of the heat had anything to do with the weather. Most of my sweat was being caused by the incredibly hot Scot standing in front of me. My hands dropped to the hem of my kilt, ready to flap a little breeze on the boys, but I remembered they were hanging free and easy, and refrained from flashing the Scot just in time.

"Ach, that's bloody perfect! I've need for a good lad to help with my equipment. My cousin was supposed to be here, but the fool missed the plane. You'll do nicely, kinsman. Come along with me."

A hand as big as a Christmas ham wrapped around my forearm, and dragged me along behind him.

Kinsman? Believe me, if I had anyone in my family who looked like this guy, I'd know about it.

"Uh, I think you have me mistaken for someone else," I yelped as he pulled me through the crowd.

"No, I knew you right off. Yer wearing our plaid, laddie."

"Your plaid?"

"Aye, of the MacDougal Clan. Angus MacDougal, at yer service."

"Kevin. Kevin Millhouse."

"Millhouse…Millhouse…I don't recall hearing that name before." He shrugged a mighty shoulder. "No matter. I'll be competing in the caber toss, and the hammer throw. Come on, laddie. We're up!"

That meaty hand dragged me onto the field where a spray of long logs were piled. "Pick it up, laddie. Stand it on its end. I'll take it from there," Angus said, grinning a mouthful of straight white teeth at me, as he pointed to a fifteen foot length of wood.

Oh, God. I didn't have time or the presence of mind to think – not with the eyes of the entire crowd on me. I ran to one end of the long, heavy piece of timber, bent over, and lifted it up. My muscles strained under its weight as I carefully raised it to stand on its end, and I didn't realize until too late that my position raised the hem of my kilt, giving the audience behind me a nice, long look at my bare butt.

Angus squatted down, slipping those big hands around the base of the log. He looked up at me, blue eyes twinkling. "Och, laddie! Yer caboose is loose." He laughed, then seemed to be waiting for something. "Kevin?"

"Yeah?"

"You might want to run away, laddie."

As he picked the log up from the bottom, keeping it balanced vertically, it swayed, its balance not helped by the rather windy conditions. I noticed all the other men who'd been standing around watching were dashing away, and I took off running, not stopping until I heard the crowd scream. Turning back, I saw Angus heave the log into the air, tossing it, literally flipping it over in the air.

I had no idea if he'd won, or scored. All I could see was a sweaty-chested Scot with a drop-dead gorgeous body and the face of an angel grinning at me as he trotted over.

"Good job, Kevin! I knew you were a MacDougal, even if you say yer a Millstone."

"Millhouse. Not Stone. House."

"Aye. I can use a pint, laddie.. Let's go."

Again his beefy hand gripped my wrist, pulling me along. Angus bought a couple of pints at a nearby stand, and led me into a cool, shadowed corner to drink them. He handed one to me – it was warm, and I much preferred my beer cold, particularly on such a warm day, but I wasn't about to refuse.

Especially since I felt obligated to set him straight on our familial ties – or lack thereof.

"Angus, listen. I'm not a MacDougal. I'm not Scottish. I'm just here to watch the games. I bought the kilt online. I don't even know what the colors mean – I bought it because I like red!" I said, after I'd drained my ale.

"Yer not?"

"Nope. Sorry."

His blue eyes watched me as he took a long gulp from his cup. "Not related?"

"No."

"Not from Scotland?"

"No."

"Not even yer ancestors?"


"Not a one. There isn't a Scottish drop of blood in my veins. Honest."

He watched me for a minute, finishing off his ale. His hand swiped the foam from his lip, and suddenly his eyes grew sly. "So…we're not related, eh? Pity, that. Especially since yer wearing my Clan's plaid. That's a terrible insult, laddie. Terrible."

"Look, Angus, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend anyone. I just wanted to have fun, and enjoy the-"

"Sorry isn't enough, laddie. Why, wars have been fought over the Clans' tartans! It used to be death to anyone who dared wear this plaid who wasn't of noble Scot blood."

"Angus…"

"No, you're going to have to make amends."

"H-how?" I quickly counted the money in my wallet. I had enough to buy a couple of pints, and maybe a corndog. Somehow, I doubted it'd be enough to assuage the dishonor I'd done to Angus' clan.

"Tell me, Kevin, do you know what a Scot wears under his kilt?"

I knew what I wore under mine. Nothing. He knew it too, as did three quarters of the audience whom I'd managed to flash during the caber toss. Still, I feigned innocence and shook my head.

"Nothing but what the good Lord gave him!" Angus laughed, flipping open the flap in his kilt.

Sure enough, there wasn't anything between his cock and me but air.

Oh, and what a lovely cock it was! It fit the rest of him, big and thick. It lay against his thigh, framed by a triangle of light brown hair. I couldn't help but stare at it, and as I did, it began to harden.

"Care to make amends with me, laddie?" Angus asked, his voice lowering into a sexy whisper, still thick with his burr. It rippled through me like a touch, zinging directly to my groin. My cock swelled, lifting the front of my kilt, giving Angus his answer.

"Be quick about it, Kevin, while no one's looking," Angus said, settling back, leaning against the wall behind us. He spread his legs a little, and slipped his hand under his large sac, palming his balls.

What did I have to lose, besides discovery? The crowd continued to scream in the stadium, but we were alone in our little corner of the world. My lips tilted in a smile as I leaned over his lap, then opened to take him in.

Oh, he tasted fine, my Scotsman did! He continued to play with his balls while I sucked his cock, taking my time, teasing the fat head until I tasted salt on my tongue. My fingers kneaded his meaty thighs, and I swear that the moan I coaxed out of him had a brogue

I hoisted my kilt to my waist, needing a little attention myself. I shifted position, moving closer so that I could rub my dick against his hairy leg, and the friction felt like heaven.

"Ach, laddie, suck harder, man!" Angus growled, as his solid fingers cupped the back of my head, urging me to swallow more of him. I did, as much of his length as I could. He tasted good, and smelled strongly of man and sweat.

He pushed me away just a second before he came. I watched him curl his fingers around his cock, his thigh muscles and belly tightening as he shot his load. Watching him spurred on my own orgasm, and I joined him, my jaw locking in an effort to keep the cry behind my teeth and not out where anyone would hear it.

Angus looked down at his kilt, spattered with streaks of my come. He ran a finger through it, holding it up to me. "Och! Didn't you learn yer lesson, laddie? You defiled my plaid with yer juices!"

I felt my eyes grow wide. "I'm sorry, Angus! I didn't mean to…I mean, it's not like I was aiming for-"

Angus sighed wearily. "I've got the hammer throw next, Kevin. You'll have to help me with that, and then after, you can make amends again." His blue eyes flicked toward me, twinkling with mischief. "Of course, a simple blow job won't do, not at all. Not for this blasphemy! You'll have to do much better than that."

"Oh?" I said, feeling relieved and excited at the same time.

"Oh, aye. Luckily, we're both wearing just the outfit to make it quick and easy," he said, laughing and fingering the hem of my kilt. He picked it up, peeking at my softened cock. "I'm going to teach you how I do the Highland Fling, laddie."

"Highland Fling?"

"Aye. 'Tis when I fling you over the railing there and have a high time landing me cock in your arse."

My answering grin nearly split my cheeks. I knew I was going to enjoy the Grandfather Mountain Games, in particular the events where I'd be a participant instead of a spectator, like during the Angus MacDougal Highland Fling.

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Copyright© 2005 - 2008 Kiernan Kelly