True Scotsman

Jamie had a mischievous sparkle to his eye as he came in through the front door. "New work travel itinerary," he said.

That caught Amy's interest. "Oh?"

Jamie gave a grin. "Manchester," he said.

Interesting.

"Friday?"

He gave a nod. "Three weeks from now."

Yes,

thought Amy.

That has definite possibilities

.

Some time ago, on a work trip down from Glasgow, Jamie had found himself in a hotel in London in full formal dress. His kilt had caught the attention of some drunken and very

handsy

ladies from the corporate Christmas bash in the room next door, and Jamie had ended up mauled and groped within an inch of his life. He found the whole thing to be quite the turn-on; moreover, to their mutual surprise, so had Amy, when he nervously described the incident to her upon his return. Amy had been keen to recreate the scenario ever since; with the added twist of real-time updates from Jamie, so that she could participate vicariously in his predicament.

Putting this into practise was easier said than done, given where Jamie's company sent him. A provincial backwater in the Midlands on a rainy mid-week night in February was not the ideal conditions they were looking for. On the other hand --

"Friday night in Manchester in June," Amy mused. "Yes, I think we can definitely work with that."

***

Later that evening, Amy was on the sofa with her laptop when Jamie came in, carrying two mugs of tea.

"Incoming!" she said, hitting the return key as he set down the mugs. His phone, sitting on the coffee table, blooped in response. Jamie picked it up and sat down next to her, scrolling through the list of contacts she'd sent -- a list of venues in Manchester.

"These are all.... 'nightclubby', I assume?" he said.

She rolled her eyes.

Men.

Closing her laptop, she turned to face him. "Yes, they're all 'nightclubby', and no, they 'won't have good beer'," she said, preempting Jamie's predictable complaint, "but they will have hen nights."

"Ah," he said. "And that's good, is it?"

Amy bit back a reply. She didn't say: Look, women can barely leave the house without some jerk telling her to smile for his benefit. If we meet a friend in town in the evening, we're always late because whomever turns up first

will

get hit on by some creep who can't take a polite 'no' for an answer, because heaven forbid a woman would be by herself in a bar for any reason other than being picked up by men. We don't make eye contact when we're walking down the street because some men will take even that fraction of contact as an Invitation To Converse, With Promise Of Intercourse To Follow. Yes, I know you're a sweetie and you scrub up really well and any woman would be mad not to find you sexy as hell in your kilt, but trust me, if

eye contact

can be interpreted as a binding commitment to sex, no

solo

woman in her right mind is going to go up to a bloke she doesn't know and say 'hey, get yer todger out!"

Instead, she said, "Who chose more wisely on the trip to Newcastle? You, the muppet, or your wise and lovely wife?" I.e. the Newcastle trip where Jamie had some nice beer and

zero

attention in two pubs of his choosing, before going where Amy told him to, and getting

lots

of attention. Too much, if she was honest.

"That would be my wise and lovely wife," Jamie dutifully replied.

"Exactly, so trust your glorious and gracious wife, for she is benevolent and all-knowing in all things. Think of hen nights as being like that Christmas party in London, only with inflatable willies and dialled up to eleven. They're already primed for a good time and mostly thinking about sex" -- she wasn't about to betray the sisterhood and tell him

specifically what

women were thinking about sex, during a hen night -- "It's practically an ancient fertility rite. Plus, you'll get a broad mix of women in the party, from blushing college roomies to mature older co-workers, aunts and mothers-of-the-bride, and for some of them, it'll be the first time in ages they've had a chance to cut loose without their husband around. They're experienced, they'll have no inhibitions, and they will give absolutely no fucks."

Jamie blinked, slightly startled. He nodded. "Gotcha. Hen nights. Check."

***

Three weeks later. Thursday evening. Jamie was packing in the bedroom. Amy was in the bathroom, running a bubble bath. A large glass of red wine sat ready next to the sink. She was wearing a light robe, and was tying her red tresses up out of the way with a white ribbon when Jamie came into the bathroom, holding a Post-It note.

"What's this?" he asked. "It was stuck to my suitcase."

"What does it say?"

"'Outfit to wear while packing,'" he read aloud.

"That's right. I picked out something for you to wear while you were preparing for tomorrow."

Jamie looked confused. "Huh. It must have gotten blown off by a draft."

"No, I don't think so."

"But there's no outfit," he said. "There's just the empty suitcase sitting on the bed, with this stuck on top of it."

Amy raised an eyebrow archly, giving him a challenging look. "That's right."

"But where--?" And then the penny dropped. "Ah.

Oh

." He peeled off his t-shirt as he turned to leave, giving her a glimpse of the solid rack of abs beneath. Jamie spent over an hour on a rowing machine most days. With light red hair and a thin but pleasing face, he was pleasant to look at, but few suspected how ripped he was, underneath. Arms, chest, abdominals, legs, back -- rowing worked it all, and did wonders for the buttocks. An outfit of nothing at all suited him very well indeed.

"I'll be through later to check the fit," she called after him, laughing.

***

Packing.

An overnight bag was not really needed, for a client visit to Manchester: Glasgow to Manchester and back was easily doable in a day, by car or rail. But Jamie planned to be out in the clubs until the wee hours, so he'd booked a cheap hotel room for the night (paid for personally, of course -- not on expenses). So that meant toiletries, clean underwear, etc., but still not enough to warrant an overnight bag. Yet his case was full. A freshly-ironed shirt, a waistcoat and the long, thick woollen socks known as "hose" all took up some space, but it was the heavy formal jacket and the kilt itself that really did the damage; nine full yards of wool needed volume.

Packing had been a strange experience, since he was doing it in the buff, and with a solid stiffy. He was filled with anticipation for the following evening, bolstered by the memory of the Newcastle trip which had elicited far more response than either of them had hoped for or expected -- too much, arguably. It always gave him an erection whenever he remembered being surrounded by the "sexy secretaries" while they stroked him. But there was also Amy's convoluted "get yer kit off" instruction, which told him she had something planned for

this

evening. So it was that he'd been ironing the shirt in the buff, at arm's length, trying to keep clear of the material in case it drifted against him and he got the clean shirt covered in pre-come.

He'd just finished fitting everything into the case when Amy came into the bedroom, her half-drunk glass of wine cradled in the palm of her upturned hand, the stem protruding between her fingers. She admired him blatantly.

"Very nice," she said. "That look suits you. All done?"

"Just about."

"I've got something for you to take." She opened the drawer in her bedside cabinet and took out a small box, offering it to him, as she perched on the side of the bed.

Taking it, Jamie looked inside. It was full of business cards. He took one out and read it, flipping it over after a moment. "Huh!" He looked up at her. "You really want me to give these out."

She swirled the wine before taking a sip. "Well, you were saying that it was difficult to broach the topic. I thought this might help."

"Riiiiiiight...." he said.

"It'll be fine," she said, dismissively. "Do as yer told!"

Obediently, he put the box into the case and zipped it up. "What now?"

She pointed to the corner of the room. "Case over there, please."

He moved it out of the way as instructed. When he turned back, she'd dropped the robe, and was now lying on the bed, making him freeze and catch his breath. Her red hair was still carelessly tied up with the ribbon into a bun on the top of her head; a few rebellious strands hung around her face. She was on her side, propped up on her left elbow, her right forearm resting casually on her raised right knee; her left foot was also drawn up, her bent knee on the bed covers, spreading her legs wide.

She was completely naked, and the most erotic thing he had ever seen.

She crooked her finger at him, then pointed at the bed between her knees. "Come here."

Jamie climbed onto the bed, on his knees. Amy stretched up, grabbing the back of his neck. She leaned forward to kiss him deeply for a moment, then relaxed back onto her elbow, while gently but definitely pushing his face down towards her sex. Getting the hint, Jamie bent down and buried his face in her vulva. He ran his tongue up and down her labia, circled it around her clitoris, and lapped at her eagerly. Her scent filled him and drew him in. Amy tousled his hair with her fingers as he worked, and he rubbed his hands over her body -- her upper thighs, her hips, her abdomen, and up over her stomach to her breasts and back down again. He loved the feel of her smooth skin under his fingers, her beautiful body moving and twitching in response to his ministrations.

Shifting his balance a little, Jamie started rubbing her mound with one hand, before playing at her opening with a finger. He soon slipped it inside, and then moved up to two fingers, working in and out, in and out, as he licked and sucked at her clitoris. After a while, Amy's breathing became shorter, and her hips began to move spasmodically in time. Jamie's hand and face was slick with her juice, her glorious aroma enveloping him. Amy dropped back onto the bed on her back, and her other hand began massaging his head as well, until her orgasm broke and she writhed under him pulling him close and tight into her mound. His erection bounced, waving in mid-air, eager, but it wasn't his turn, not yet. He kept lapping until Amy's hands indicated he should stop, and then he waited, face in her groin, until she subsided.

"Mmm," she said. "Not bad," giving him a wry look to show her understatement. Jamie kneeled up, stretching his back and neck. Amy's gaze dropped to his waist, taking in the solid erection standing proud. "And we'll have to do something about that, won't we?" She rolled sideways, over onto her hands and knees. Jamie's breath was caught, once again, by the entrancing sight of his beautiful wife: her knees wide, her backside presented to him, her sex ready and waiting. He'd been wrong --

this

was the most erotic thing he'd ever seen.

After a moment, she looked back at him. "Well?" She said, her expression challenging once more. "Are you going to fuck me within an inch of my life, or not?"

Jamie blinked, his contemplation of her nubile form paused. He hurried to obey. Shuffling forward, he pushed himself into her, sliding deep, until he was all the way in, with his hips pressing up against her backside. Holding onto Amy's hips, Jamie started thrusting.

"Don't hold back now," she told him.

Sometimes, Amy liked to make love. Today, apparently, she wanted

fucking

. As requested, Jamie started fucking her as hard and as fast as he could. Amy hung her head, gasping faintly each time he thrust into her, their bodies slapping against each other as he reached maximum depth. Amy dropped down onto an elbow and reached back with the other hand to play with herself, Jamie kept pounding away, rubbing his hands over her arse, her back, the back of her neck, and reaching under to caress her breasts. When she stopped fingering herself, Jamie paused, pulling her upright with him, so that he could kiss the side of her face, and feel her beautiful hair against his face. Still inside her, he thrust more gently for a short while; Amy responded by grinding herself against him, matching his movements to assist in penetration. He slid another hand down to her mound and squeezed, fingering her clitoris as he did. He fiddled as he kissed her and fondled her breasts and abdomen and hips, pushing into her again and again as he rubbed, until he could feel her reaching another orgasm.

Amy wanted to be fucked today. So just as her orgasm built, he pushed her back down all the way to the bed, resting his weight on her shoulders, her breasts squashed into the duvet, her face buried in the pillow. Amy pushed her arms out wide, deeply arching her back so that her butt was still high, and Jamie fucked her as hard and as fast and as deeply as he could, as her orgasm broke. She let out a long, low wail, shuddering in time to Jamie's thrusts into her, and her vagina pulsed and squeezed and Jamie went even faster and harder in a final burst until he too came, flooding into her with solid, deep thrusts of his hips up against her beautiful arse.

Amy left her knees slide backwards, and Jamie sank with her, until she was lying on the bed on her front, with Jamie on top of her and still inside her. She wriggled her hips against his, making him moan appreciatively. Her vagina was still spasming, squeezing him.

"Mmm," she said, after a while. "I think that counts as within an inch of my life."

***

The next morning saw Jamie on an 8am train out of Glasgow Central, heading south, armed with a bacon sandwich and a takeaway coffee from one of the outlets on the station concourse. He had a window seat -- not so that he could admire the view (and there were some spectacular views of southern Scotland and the Lake District), but so that he wasn't disturbed by other passengers sitting down or getting up. He didn't mind being cooped in. The journey had a break partway to change trains, and he had plenty of work to be getting on with, in the meantime.

As usual, he reviewed his presentation for later that day, and also spent some time working on additional presentations for client visits in Perth and New York the following week. (The New York presentation was via Zoom, alas -- now,

that

would have been some trip.) He also got dragged into a long email debate on some new marketing material, with endless subjective discussions on the choice of font, colour scheme, and length of sentences.

His client meeting wasn't until 3pm, but the second train got him into Manchester Piccadilly before midday, giving him plenty of time to get fall-back trains in the case of delays or cancellation, but it did leave him at something of a loose end until he needed to head to the client. He couldn't check into his budget hotel yet, so Jamie wandered aimlessly out of the station, looking for a Starbucks or some other coffee shop with wifi so that he could continue the

fascinating

discourse on whether the marketing leaflet should use semi-colons.

Almost immediately, Jamie spotted a tram gliding down the street towards him with a smooth hum.

Huh

. He hadn't realised that Manchester had trams. They weren't that common in UK cities. When he found a suitable coffee shop (an independent one -- hurray!), he deferred the marketing debate and instead googled the local transport network, to see whether he could get rides on the trams more cheaply than taxis. But sadly, no -- the client was further out, and not in the direction that the tram tracks ran. Maybe it would be worth it tomorrow morning on the way back to the station, but it might be simpler just to walk from his hotel. He put the idea aside for now, and regretfully logged into the company VPN.

***

By 5pm, Jamie had finished the client meeting, checked into his hotel room, and was unpacking. He texted Amy to let her know he was done for the day, and began wondering where to have dinner. He wandered around the streets a little at random, getting away from the pedestrianised area, and was settled at a table when Amy called.

"Hey," he said, picking up. "How are you?"

"Oh, I'm good," she said. "I'll be getting a bit of scran down ma neck soon, and then it'll be time for a gentle bubble bath."

Jamie blinked. She'd only just had a bubble bath the night before. But then she'd come through into the bedroom and... He felt himself stir at the memory. "Oh yes?" he said.

"Mmm, Yes. I want to be all nice and clean and relaxed for tonight."

Anyone would think

she

was the one hitting the town.

She continued: "How was the presentation?"

Jamie took a sip of his pint. "So-so. We may or may not get this one. The client likes the product, but they don't like the price." He shrugged, and the expression carried through to his tone of voice. "Not my department. I've done my bit. Sales can handle the haggling. And besides, I'm off the clock. I have beer, soon I shall have food, and these foolish mortals will cower before me. Or something like that."

"Find anywhere nice?" she asked. "No, wait, let me guess: you're in a pub." There was a certain note of resignation in her voice.

"Not only that," Jamie told her with a laugh, "I am in a proper old man's boozer. Horseshoe bar. Loads of real ale. Frosted glass in the windows with

Wine

and

Spirits

and

Beers

written on them. I may join CAMRA at any moment."

"Honestly, what are you like?" She was shaking her head, he bet.

"Hey, I'm still in my work togs. I'll be at the places you suggested later. May as well get a decent pint in while I eat. Speaking of which..." A barmaid was heading his way with a plate of gammon, egg and chips. "Food's here. Gotta go. Call you later."

***

Jamie was back at his hotel room, watching another episode of

The West Wing

on his laptop, when Amy texted him again.

"Watcha doing?"

"Just telly in room. Bit early yet.", he sent back. He was expecting to be in bars until the wee hours; he needed a couple of hours just sitting with a cup of tea if he was to avoid being found snoring drunkenly in a corner by half-ten. "What about you?"

A photo arrived with a

bloop

. It showed his beautiful wife reclining in a mass of bubbles, her red tresses once more secured up and out of the way on the top of her head. There was that white ribbon again, he noticed. "Let me know when you're getting ready to go out."

"You look amazing."

"TOO RIGHT I DO", she replied instantly, making him laugh. A string of heart emojis followed.

"Love you."

"Love you too."

***

Another episode under his belt, Jamie had showered, shaved, cleaned his teeth, and towelled himself dry. He pulled on the kilt hose, secured it with the flashes, and put on his shoes. As always, he was amused by the image he must present: a man does not look his best when naked aside from formal shoes and socks, but it was easiest to dress in this order. Never ask how laws or sausages are made. Or how a Scotsman puts on his kilt attire.

Shirt next, then the kilt, the wide belt, and the sporran. Next, the waistcoat, and finally the jacket. As a casual-ish sort of evening, there was no dirk, no

sgian dubh

in the hose, no cravat, and no plaid secured with a broach and thrown back over the shoulder. But there was enough. It would do.

"Ready", he sent to Amy.

She responded with a video call. She was half-lying, half sitting on their bed, leaning back against the headboard. Her hair was still tied up, and she was wearing her robe again. She was holding her phone up, so he could just see her head and shoulders.

"There's ma bonnie boy," she said. "All dressed up and

plenty

of places to go. Let me have a look at you."