Plaid Nights Anthology

by Torquere Press LLC

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.

  Torquere Press Publishers

  P.O. Box 37, Waldo, AR 71770.

  Plaid Nights Anthology from Torquere Press LLC Copyright 2015

  Cover illustration by BSClay

  Published with permission

  www.torquerepress.com

  ISBN: 978-1-61040-942-1

  PRINT ISBN: 978-1-61040-943-8

  All rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever except as provided by the U.S. Copyright Law. For information address Torquere Press. LLC, P.O. Box 37, Waldo, AR 71770

  First Torquere Press Printing: July 2015

  Printed in the USA

  Table of Contents

  Tossing It by Rob Rosen

  Whiskey and Want by Megan McFerren

  Hunting for a Highlander by Lila Mathews

  Sir WW by Angelique Voisen

  Feumaidh Mi Ruith (I Have to Run) by Missouri Dalton

  Some Like It Scot by Julia Talbot

  A Time to Heal by Anna Mansel

  As Fair Art Thou, My Bonny Lad by McKay

  Kilt in the Closet by Logan Zachary

  Perfect Working Order by Elizabeth Coldwell

  Off-Kilter by Racheline Maltese & Erin McRae

  Introduction

  In Plaid Nights, men in kilts are as varied as they are hot. Whether they’re caber tossers, rugby players, Highland warriors, country dancers, or time-traveling vampires, they’re up for surprises and sexy good times.

  Rob Rosen starts us off with “Tossing It,” where two college friends at a Scottish Highlands festival find themselves beneath the kilt of the brawny, ginger-haired caber toss winner. Next comes “Whiskey and Want” by Megan McFerren, where Andrew wears a kilt to a Texas dive bar for a Scottish friend’s bachelor party, and attracts the notice of a mutual acquaintance. In “Hunting for a Highlander” by Lila Mathews, Aleck accidently exposes his long kept secret and fears that fellow clan member Kendrick will have him exiled—but Kendrick has other ideas. “Sir WW” by Angelique Voisen introduces us to an immortal time-traveling vampire, who secretly meets each night with a Scottish hero for a kinky dalliance.

  Stealing from Marcas wasn’t a plan, but now all Cary can do is run in “Feumaidh Mi Ruith (I Have to Run)” by Missouri Dalton. Julia Talbot gives us “Some Like It Scot,” where a disastrous rugby game and some creative kilt use finally make things happen between friends Jeremy and Riley. In “A Time to Heal” by Anna Mansel, a wounded Scottish Highland warrior wakes up in the care of a witch from a rival clan. “As Fair Art Thou, My Bonny Lad” by McKay brings us a respectable bachelor shopkeeper in colonial North Carolina whose quiet life is interrupted when a handsome immigrant from Scotland begins pursuing him.

  In “Kilt in the Closet” by Logan Zachary, Jeff enlists the aid of his real estate agent to help him solve the mystery of the kilt-wearing ghost haunting his closet. “Perfect Working Order” by Elizabeth Coldwell features Gary, a London actor who thinks he knows everything about his best friend from university—until Miles walks into the bar wearing a kilt. And to end on a sweet note, Racheline Maltese & Erin McRae bring us “Off-Kilter,” where Eric attends a Scottish Country Dance to help a friend, but instead finds himself lusting after their very patient dance instructor.

  In these stories, some tartan-clad men wear their kilts in the “traditional manner,” while others are less daring. But all find love, and of course, a happy ending—especially at night, when the plaid comes off.

  Tossing It

  by Rob Rosen

  Two college friends at a Scottish highlands festival find themselves beneath the kilt of the brawny, ginger-haired caber toss winner. More than poles of wood get tossed in the end as the two friends become much more than that.

  I was driving back to college down a rural stretch of highway, summer break at a close. My belly was gurgling. Sadly, it was a Sunday, most everything I passed closed, ancient neon signs flicked off. I momentarily considered something microwaved at a local gas station/convenience store when I noticed the billboard off the side of the road. “Scottish Highlands Festival,” I read as I slowed down. “Traditional games, gifts, food and more.” I sped up again. “Food,” I fairly groaned, my belly rumbling in reply.

  I found the exit, tartan flags flying in the breeze as I turned off. Down a dirt road I went, the sun filtering through the dust my car kicked up in its wake. At last I reached a clearing, a makeshift parking lot off to the side, barely any spaces available. Then again, I only needed one, and into that I pulled, hungry enough to eat… what? A sheep? “What’s traditional Scottish food, anyway?” I knew about haggis. Suffice it to say, I wasn’t that hungry.

  Out of the car I sped, the promising aroma of sizzling meat drawing me to it. From the parking lot to a field I went, the entirety of it ringed in white tents, one side selling Scottish goods, the other food. Sausages and Shepard’s pies, fish and chips, cabbage stews and that aforementioned haggis. I settled on the fish and chips. Again my belly gurgled.

  I quickly ordered and impatiently waited. Soon enough, I was handed my plate and then found a bench to sit on. It was then, with my mouth thankfully full, I finally noticed the crowd. Most everyone was standard issue rural townsfolk, save for the slew of brawny men in kilts, plaid on top of plaid, all in checkered shades of blue and green and red, matching socks and tams optional. And so, while listening to bagpipe music, I watched as I ate, mostly staring at the exposed hairy legs and thighs, at muscle-dense calves that clearly hadn’t seen the light of day in many months. My cock twitched at the sight of it all.

  “Greg?” I then heard.

  I shielded my eyes as I looked up from my horny stupor. “Tom?”

  Tom and I went to college together. He had lived in my dorm the year before. He had red hair and freckles and a shlong long enough to land in its own zip code. This I knew because of communal showers. Which is probably why they say your college days are the happiest of your life. “Scottish or just visiting?”

  He smiled and sat down next to me, a bowl of some kind of meaty stew in his lap. He ran his hand through his thick mane of flaming red hair. “Little bit of both. Was on my way back to school and saw the sign.”

  “Ditto.” I stared down at his food, picturing what was going on beneath the jeans just below. I wasn’t usually into gingers—but for a prick like that, I’d gladly make an exception. “Plus, I forgot to eat before I hit the road.”

  He took a spoonful of stew into his mouth, green eyes sparkling in the daylight. He was cute in a lanky, pale, freckled sort of way. He sighed contentedly as he set the spoon back down. “Just like mom used to make.”

  “Back in the old country?”

  He laughed. “Back in New Jersey. Though Newark is sort of old.”

  We continued eating together, side by side. His leg brushed mine. It stayed brushed. I didn’t move mine away; he didn’t move his either. This was an odd turn of events. Was he gay? Not a clue. I’d seen him naked; I’d not seen him naked and straddling me, so I couldn’t say for sure what sex he preferred. Still, most guys would’ve moved their legs away. Maybe he was simply oblivious. Straight guys sometimes had a habit of that. You just never knew. Then again, you could test the theory if you were so inclined. Me, I was always so inclined.

  I pointed to a throng of kilted behemoths off to the side. “What’s with the skirted mountain men?”

  He chuckled. “Caber t
ossers.”

  “That some sort of Scottish slang for rednecks?”

  He turned my way, eyes locking with mine. It was like staring into a field of emeralds. Guess I’d been too busy staring at his crotch before to notice. Shame on me. “Caber tossers. They toss logs. Poles. Big ones.” Well, he’d certainly know about big poles, I figured. “They’re up to twenty feet tall and almost two hundred pounds.”

  “And they toss them? Why?”

  “For sport.”

  I ate a couple more bites of my fish. It was perfectly cooked, greasy and flaky. My stomach settled down as my dick awakened further from its slumber. “Sport? Like tiddlywinks for giants?”

  He nodded as he continued eating his stew. His eyes rarely left mine. I was all too glad to return the favor. I stared at his freckles, connecting the dots, constellations hidden in the patterns. “Something like that.”

  “And in skirts, no less,” I added, now ready to test my gay theory. “What, uh, what do you suppose they, you know, wear beneath those kilts?” As I said it, my cock thumped my zipper and my knee bumped his knee.

  He grinned, a nervous twitch lifting the right side of his lip a tad higher than the left. I’d hit a nerve. Bingo. “Always wondered the same thing,” he replied, voice just a tad shaky now. Could’ve been my overactive, overhorny imagination, but I thought not.

  “Always, huh?” My leg pressed tighter to his; his pressed tighter to mine.

  He ate some more. He let the conversation go. Then he stood. “Come on, let’s go watch the games. The tossing is supposed to start soon.”

  I stared up at him. His crotch seemed a bit, um, crotchier all of a sudden. Something was going on in there. What, I wondered, was he wearing beneath his jeans? What could possibly corral the beast within?

  We dumped our empty plate and bowl in the trash and headed to the spectator area across the field. The men in their kilts were amassing, too, each one bigger and brawnier than the next. Legs in hairy shades of auburn and brunet and ebony and blond paraded by. I stared down. I noticed that Tom was doing the same. The thick woolen kilts rippled as they strode, muscles beneath similarly rippling. Ach, as the Scottish say, what a sight.

  I noticed a large wooden pole off to the side. It was huge, smooth, and tapered at the bottom. “They’re going to toss that?” I asked. “How?” Better question, why? Even better question, who’s their chiropractor? Guy must be kept awfully busy.

  “Just watch,” he said, his arm brushing mine, the hairs tickling my hairs, red against brown, pale against tan. He was the yang to my yin. And damn if he didn’t have one mighty fine yang.

  And so I watched. Two men lifted the pole and set the tapered end into the ground, the pole now vertical—which is just how I like my poles. A third man moved in while the other two rested the wood against his chest. Down the third man crouched, pressing his shoulder against the pole and somehow managing to lift it, the tapered end now in his upturned palms as the wood rose into the air, nestled between his chin and chest. Out the man ran, grunting loudly as he heaved the pole into the air. Up it went, out it went, end over end it went, until the top was the now the bottom, the wood momentarily vertical again against the ground before falling like a, well, tree. The distance between the man and the tapered end was now measured. This, I assumed, was how they determined a winner: whoever gets the pole’s end the farthest.

  “Wow,” I said, somewhat reverently.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Sure beats football.”

  I shrugged. I wouldn’t be saying that aloud come Super Bowl season, but he had a point. In any case, on we watched, the same pole passed from contestant to contestant. Not all of them could lift it. Not all of them could toss it end over end. Those who did were in the running. In the end, the biggest of them won, a handsome redhead, legs so thick they made the tree trunks around us tremble in envy.

  “Wow,” I said, yet again.

  “Yeah,” he said again.

  Then I had to pee. So did Tom. We went to the Porta Potties. There was a long line. “I really have to go,” I said, my teeth practically swimming by then.

  He pointed to the woods beyond. “Will a tree work?”

  I was already running, Tom right behind me. Into the woods we went, deep enough not to be seen. I found a wide old oak, Tom standing behind the one next to mine. Out our dicks came. Out the streams went. “Aah,” I exhaled. It was quickly followed by an “oh” as the winner of the caber toss appeared by yet another oak about ten feet away from us.

  I stared. Tom stared. Up came the guy’s kilt, dick revealed for all to see—all being me and Tom. And still we stared, the thick, stubby prick peeing against the oak. The guy glanced our way and grinned. “Now you know what we wear beneath our kilts.”

  I quickly looked away. Then I heard the guy add, “That a dick you got there, kid, or your own personal version of a caber?” I looked over at Tom. His dick was hard, a fifth limb jutting out, the head also nicely tapered. A caber, it appeared, had nothing on Tom.

  I gulped. No way was my friend stuffing that thing back in his jeans. Not without some major damage occurring. And then not even the best of chiropractors could possibly help. Tom looked at me. I looked at him. And his dick. Which was awfully, um, hard to look away from. I suddenly knew what a moth felt like when it encountered a flame.

  I thought to run, figuring the kilted Scot would have a difficult time keeping up with us, what with his bulk and all. In any case, the Scot didn’t look all that mad. In fact, his dick was also steadily climbing. Sure, not as far and wide as Tom’s, but still a respectable distance.

  “You win, kid,” our newfound acquaintance proclaimed, dropping his kilt, which suddenly tented all three-ring-circus like.

  “What does he win?” I thought to ask, the little head now clearly speaking for the big one. And, trust me, it wasn’t all that little by then.

  The man strode our way, tent flapping back and forth as he did so. He stood between us. He looked over at Tom. “You ever have two guys toss on your chest, kid?”

  Now it was Tom’s turn to gulp, though I could’ve sworn his dick suddenly looked even bigger. If that was at all possible. “Nope,” he squeaked out.

  “Think that’d be a good enough prize for you, kid?”

  Tom managed a nod. His dick nodded as well. “Yep.”

  The guy laughed, belly and barrel chest shaking as he did so. Tent, too. “Win/win then, kid.” He turned. “Follow me.”

  Off the Scot went. I moved over to Tom. Tom moved over to me. Our dicks moved with us, until they were dueling down below. “Think it’s safe to follow?” he whispered.

  “Probably not,” I replied.

  He looked from me to the Scot, who was now twenty feet away. “Think we should follow?”

  I nodded. “Probably so.”

  He leaned in and kissed me. His lips were soft, the kiss even softer. His eyes were open. So much green, I thought. So much green. “Just in case we don’t make it out of here,” he said, by way of an explanation.

  I shrugged. “You can kiss me either way,” I told him. “But thanks.”

  We walked through the forest, hand in hand. That is to say, my hand was on his dick, his on mine. His throbbed as I stroked it, the Loch Ness Monster apparently eager to escape its confines. Minutes later, we were in another clearing. The Scot was standing there waiting for us, sun shining on his fiery head of hair. I guessed him to be about thirty. Like I’d said, he was devilishly handsome, with sparkling blue eyes and a winning white smile. Off came his shirt, muscle on top of muscle revealed, all covered in a burnished red down, two pink nipples jutting out from ginger whirls.

  He lifted up his kilt. His cock was standing at rapt attention, balls dangling low. “Who wants a taste?” He looked from me to Tom and back again. Tom and I looked at each other. Neither of us spoke up, so both of us closed the gap between him and us before we knelt down, the grass soft on our knees. “Two for the price of one,” said the Scot, dropping the kilt over our heads.<
br />
  That left me and Tom alone with the dick and balls. Meager light filtered its way through the wool. Still, the ginger bush burned brightly above the thick cock. I took hold of it. It pulsed in my grip, a dewy drop of precome seeping out of the impossibly wide tip. Tom kissed me again and then turned his attention forward. Down the cock went, the head disappearing before popping out again. I took my turn. The Scot’s flesh was hot in my mouth. He smelled of sweat and sex. I took as much of his steely prick in my mouth as I could, a gagging tear soon streaming down my cheek.

  Up above, we could hear a muffled moan. I popped the prick out, then took one side of it as Tom took the other, both of us sucking and slurping, our tongues colliding, sliding over it and each other. I pulled the guy’s balls as I licked happily away. His massive legs buckled. He could’ve crushed me between them. He could’ve crushed both of us, in fact—at the same time. It was a hot thought. Distressing, sure, but hot as well.

  Again we took turns sucking, passing the cock back and forth between us, until he seemed close and we seemed closer to passing out beneath all that heavy wool. And so out we emerged, spit dripping down our chins, sweat down our foreheads.

  “My turn,” said the Scot. “Off with your clothes, the both of you.”

  “Off—” I started.

  “With our clothes?” finished Tom. “Out here?”

  The Scot wriggled out of his kilt, leaving him in nothing but heavy boots, plaid socks, and a boner that could’ve cracked open a safe. Or our jaws. Take your pick. “Do it.”

  I shrugged. In for a penny, in for a pound, I figured. Plus, I was hotter than hell by then. And so I quickly got naked as Tom did the same. He stared at me while I stared at him. I had a feeling he’d wanted to see me like this before. I knew I felt the same. Now here we were, in a field, naked and hard with a kneeling stranger before us.

  “Good gosh,” said the Scot, looking from my dick to Tom’s. “They sure do grown ‘em big these days.”

  I stared down as the stranger stared up, at eyes so blue you could just about take a dip in them. He was jacking our pricks, seemingly trying to decide which to suck first. Mine went in, a million volts of electricity riding up my spine all of a sudden. Tom reached over and tweaked my nipple. I moaned, loudly, feeling like I’d died and gone to Highland Heaven.