Horseplay - Sex Stories

Horseplay

... and waiting for Vicky to sort herself out. She came down to the sitting room where a fire burned in the hearth and low lights sparkled on the two glasses of bubbly that I had poured. She looked stunning. A genuine Scot’s kilt with the obligatory sporran, long socks with knife tucked in, a white frilly-fronted and cuffed shirt and a black, short jacket with brass buttons. She wore a black bow tie. ‘How do I look?’ ‘Sumptuous.’ ‘Good enough to eat?’ I smiled and she lifted the front of her kilt to reveal that she, at least, followed the alleged tradition that nothing should be worn beneath it. Her eyebrow lifted and I knew what was expected of me. Hitching up my dress as she spread her legs for me, I knelt at her feet and paid my respects to the Venusian mountain. The heavy kilt fell over me as I loved her, my tongue finding her treasure, playing around her folds and her little but growing clitoris. I sucked her then, squeezing and rolling that little nerve bundle. I could barely hear her but I didn’t need to to know that she was on the brink. She had been wet when I got to it and I knew she’d brought herself to a state of arousal before she came downstairs. She wanted a quick one and got it. I felt her excitement, her arousal, her orgasm as it rose and crested and she gave me her thick liquid. I licked her down and clean, loving her gift as I always did. We were among the last to arrive at the party. Men and women dressed much as we were. She’d placed a tartan shawl on me, ...

... across one shoulder and pinned at my hip. With my bad arm in a light sling. We stood at the entrance to the large hall of the Leader of the Hunt’s baronial mansion. It was scene from a film depicting Scottish life. Everyone stood, drinking a variety of drinks and a waitress, dressed like a Scot’s maid, passed through the throng of perhaps sixty people with a tray of glasses. We each accepted one. The bagpipe screamed the welcome to the haggis when we had finished a bowl of soup. Increasingly relaxed by alcohol, the guests applauded with clapping and whoops as the blessed pudding was ceremonially brought in, carried on a huge silver platter. The Leader drew his knife and ritually stabbed it before the incantation of Burns’s famous ode; happily not its entirety. The waitresses served the traditional meal. Vicky sat opposite me between a man of about fifty years and a woman of about forty. To my left sat a statuesque forty-five year old woman with a cap of dark brown hair and to my right a much older man, her husband who gave the impression that this might be his last Burns Night. He looked frail and a little over exposed to the whisky. As dinner ended he excused himself from the table and disappeared. Vicky smiled at me across the table, pushed back her chair and made her way to where the dancing had started. I watched as she selected one of the younger women and led her to join the reel that was being prepared. The woman next to me turned to me. Her voice was a product of money ...