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