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 . . .