A Bitch in Heat

Well, I finally got my sheepskin. I had it made into natural membrane condoms, the oldest type of protection still being used today. Much more comfortable than latex.

I wasn't even going to attend commencement. Who wants to be bored silly and sweat for two hours? But my father said if I didn't—no graduation present. Dad had promised me a trip to anywhere in the world I wanted to go and a couple thousand dollars for expenses. So I suffered through it and at my party afterwards he gave me the roundtrip ticket from Pittsburgh to Glasgow and the cash. He did whine about it, though, until I pointed out that I could have asked for a new Corvette, like my brother Russell did when he graduated from law school (stay tuned for my next story, "Breastfeeding My Brother").

Forget the Corvette, for now. I desperately wanted to visit Scotland. I had just been to Mazatlan for spring break and I wasn't looking for fun in the sun this time. I have always been interested in genealogy and I discovered from my family tree research that I had Scottish ancestry. No surprise, considering my pale skin and red hair.

Fortunately I had been able to locate a distant cousin on the internet and we exchanged frequent emails. Scotland began to intrigue me more and more as my cousin Hamish spun yarns of lore and legend. I didn't actually believe some of his stories. Like the one that he had been named after a famous biblical character, Ham, the son of Noah. He elaborated on the account in Genesis 9 where Ham uncovered his father Noah's nakedness. Hamish claimed that Ham originated the National Nude Day concept and also invented the sheepskin condom. Somehow one thing led to the other. He also attempted to persuade me that I was related to St. Patrick who drove the snakes out of Ireland and it was my divine destiny to drive the snakes wild in Scotland.

But what really piqued my interest were the innuendos that Hamish kept dropping about dogging. He kept sending me these amusing poems like . . .

Sarah, och Sarah,

ma long lost, near perfect cousin.

Whit ah like tae dae, mibbe,

ah wunner, she disnae.

She's comin tae visit,

right soon, so she seys,

Tae fun oot mair, much mairo

o' oor auld Scottish weys.

Ah'll meet 'ur, an' greet 'ur,

an' show 'ur some sights,

introduce 'ur tae family, an' pals.

An' my hobby, that delights.

Wull she, ah wunner, end

happy, growlin, and barkin,

efter the time we spend

sae publicly car parking?

Ah tremble, in anticipation

o' her gleeful participation,

an' wunner yit again, wull she

be here fur the pleasing,

or is she fu' o' talk an' bravado,

jist some burd who' cock teasin?

The first thing I thought when I heard (he sent me a recording) was what the heck makes him think I'm a cock tease? He must have read my poem "Cock Tease." posted on Literotica. His obsession with dogging did begin to annoy me on the one hand. But on the other hand every time he did mention it my panties got moist.

Hamish also sent me a kilt in the family tartan as a gift. It mostly fit but was a bit short, at least for me. I have quite the long legs. Why it barely covered you know what. Which concerned me considerably since I knew that a true Scotsman, or woman, went commando.

After landing at the airport in Glasgow and departing the plane I stood in the airport with a sign that said, "I love dogging." That's what Hamish suggested so he could recognize me. I had sent him a picture of me but he said that wouldn't help much because half the girls in Scotland are pretty and have red hair and great hooters. So I wore the sign. At the time I didn't know exactly what "dogging" meant. But I do love my golden retriever Goldilocks so I went along.

The first thing Hamish said to me when he met me at BAA Glasgow Airport was, "Sarah, your miniskirt is a wee short. I can see your thong. What color is that, anyway?"

"Not a thong, Hamish. A Rio brief." I lifted up the kilt so he could see it better. "The color is called 'iced oive.' And this miniskirt happens to be the kilt you sent me. Remember?"

"Oh yeah. It must have shrunk. Wool does that, you know. Hey, you promised to go commando. What's up with that?"

"Hey, this is more like a belt than a skirt. I might go commando, but certainly not here. Maybe a dark bar or some such place."

"I know where!"

"I'm sure you do."

"Well, what would you like to do first, Sarah? How about some mince an' tatties?"

"Hamish! I think we should get to know one another better before we start talking about kinky sex."

"No, no, mince and tatties is food, a Scottish dish."

"Oh. Sorry. Please take me on a little tour first, though. I'm not real hungry yet."

From the airport we went over Erskine Bridge and on to Balloch, a small town situated by yon bonnie banks of Loch Lomond. Then we drove about a half hour into Glasgow city center. Hamish made crude jokes about shaggin' wagons in the transport museum at Kelvin Hall. "That's what they used for dogging before automobiles were invented," he reported.

"Oh, did you drive those on the wrong side of the road too?" I snapped.

I asked him to take me to the Kelvingrove Museum and Art Gallery which he did. Then we hit the designer boutiques in Princes Square. Hamish fondled the lingerie in Wolford. He held up black tanga panties with delicate lace trim on the front and silky soft velvet material on the back. "Do you think these would look good on me?"

"On me, don't you mean?"

"Uh . . . yeah, on you. I love the feel of this fabric. I bet it feels so nice next to your skin."

I noticed he had a big bulge in his pants so I thought we better get out of that place. "Hamish, can we go to Edinburgh now? I'm dying to see the castle. I want to rub the Stone of Scone. I heard it helps one get lucky."

But when we got to the castle it had closed for the day. I started to cry.

"Sarah, don't be upset. We can come back tomorrow. You can't rub the Stone of Scone anyway. It's under glass. Along with the Crown Jewels. But if it's family jewels you'd like to rub to get lucky . . ."

"Hamish! Is that some sort of sexual innuendo?"

"Of course not. How about some food now?"

We stopped at a restaurant called Dubh Prais not far from the castle gates and got some haggis and neeps to go. It looked somewhat edible. I don't know about some of the other items on the menu which didn't sound very appetizing. "Hamish, what is skirlie and skink?"

"Skirlie is oatmeal and onions fried together. Skink is fish soup. I love skink." He looked at me lecherously for some reason.

As we drove away from the restaurant, I looked over my shoulder into the rear of Hamish's conversion van. The mattress and pillows in the back in particular caught my attention, as did the fact that the rear side and back windows had been replaced with clear plastic that had been taped on. I glanced at him inquisitively.

"Vandals broke the windows," he explained. "Twice. I had the windows replaced once. After the second time I thought why bother. I travel a lot and sleep in the van. Saves a lot of money on hotel and motel expenses."

I picked up the May issue of marie claire lying on the dashboard. "You read this?" I inquired. "It's mostly about fashion and makeup." Leafing through it, I found an article of interest on page 202. I read the headline aloud. "I spent $7,000 to get my vagina tightened." I couldn't help but giggle.

"Read the headline on the next page," he suggested.

"I got collagen in my G-spot."

"Keep reading."

"One night on the local news, my mother and I heard about a doctor who injects collagen into your G-spot to make it larger and more sensitive. The report said it costs $1800 and is supposed to heighten your sexual experience, so we decided I should try it. I wasn't having any trouble with orgasms, but this sounded like a sexual enhancement that could be fun."

"I'm in the pharmaceutical business you know," he stated matter-of-factly.

"Well, I'm quite satisfied with my orgasms and I don't want to be messing with a good thing. Why don't you inject some collagen into your penis and make it larger and more sensitive?"

"I'm quite satisfied with the size of my penis and its sensitivity, thank you very much."

"Ah yes, man's best friend. How often do you pet your dog?"

"Speaking of that, turn to page 101 if you want to lairn of dogging my dear cousin."

I did and began to skim the article entitled "Ready for Dogging? (Details on the naughty new sex trend)." I read aloud. "Dogging refers to having or watching sex in a public place, usually outdoors. The term originates from men using imaginary dogs as an excuse for hanging around in the bushes. It attracts people from varied backgrounds, age groups, and professions, and it happens in parking lots, fields, and picnic areas all over the U.K."

"What did I tell you?"

"Oh, and listen to this. 'Denise Knowles, a sex therapist and relationship counselor, confirms that dogging feeds the naughty, experiment side of human nature.' Here's a quote from the good doctor, 'I suspect men and women go for different reasons: the men because they like the role of stud, and the women because they like to feel beautiful and desired. Dogging is like being able to watch and act in a live porn movie, and that is very exciting to a lot of people.' I'm getting a little . . . uh . . . just reading this . . ."

"Go on, Sarah. Anything else interesting?"

"Hmmm. Well, how about this. 'Unsurprisingly, dogging is very much a male dominated pastime, with around four men taking part for every woman. For the women I interviewed, much of dogging's attraction derives from the power it gives them over men.' I want the power!"

"Sarah, what say we stop at my favorite dogging site and eat our supper?"

"Well, I am hungry now. Real horn . . . uh hungry. You know, I bet I can guess how your windows were broken."

We arrived at the dogging hot spot, Muiravonside Country Park.

"Look, Hamish—there's a group of people standing around a car looking in the windows. They don't seem to be having much fun, though. I mean, they're not hooting or hollering or anything."

"I bet you can make them perk up."

"Think so?" I unbuttoned my blouse, popped my breathless blue balconet bra, licked my fingers and began to tease my nipples. "You mean 'perk up' like these?"

"Exactly! Your breasts are lovely. Do you mind if I touch them?"

"Yes I mind!"

"Geez, I just asked. You have a mean side."

"Oh, I'm sorry. Maybe you can touch them. I'll let you know when. What does that sign say over to the right of that car? I can't quite make it out."

"Well, I have exceptional vision, so says my optometrist. The sign says, 'Celebrate National Nude Day Here. Doggers Welcome. Woof, Woof.' And there's a picture of a bone under the words."

"I can make that out. That's not a bone, it's a penis."

"Whatever. National Nude Day, the modern version, began here in Edinburgh, you know." He explained that what he meant by the modern version was A.D. as opposed to B.C., and reiterated that Ham the son of Noah actually initiated the concept. Jeremiah, the real Saint Patrick, in turn brought the celebration to Ireland and his descendents then got naked in Scotland. When I mentioned that I had heard that National Nude Day began in Dunedin, New Zealand, Hamish snapped, "Why you silly girl, don't you know that we Scots settled Dunedin and the name means New Edinburgh? Didn't they teach you world history and geography at university? And what are you going to do to celebrate National Nude Day, my dear cousin? You might lose the kilt for starters."

"Sure, why not." I did.

He looked shocked. "Sarah, where is your Rio brief?"

"At lunch . . . that dude at the next table who kept dropping his utensils and napkin? He was trying to look up my kilt, the pervert! Remember when I went to the girl's room? I put my panties in my purse."

"No wonder the guy started choking when you came back. I thought I might have to do the Heimlich maneuver."

"Oh yeah, I gave him a real good gander at my goober."

"Could you give me one? A real good gander at your goober? You're sitting there with your long, lovely legs crossed and I can't get the money shot."

I uncrossed my legs and spread them a little. "Better?"

"Wow, your little red bush matches the hair on your head perfectly. Just lovely."

"Well, I have an exceptional pussy, so says my gynecologist."

"Could you spread your legs a little more?"

"I would, but you'd probably give me a shot of collagen on my G-spot and get me all wild and crazy."

"Sarah, Sarah, Sarah. Do you want to do this dogging thing or not? You have to at least let people look."

"Uh … well . . . uh . . . okay, I guess. I'll get in the back and you stand outside the van and look in the windows. Oh . . . and . . . Hamish?"

"Yes, Sarah?"

"Go get those dudes standing around that other car to join you, please."

Two minutes later a half dozen men stood around the van. Tongues hanging out. And that's not all that hung out. They pressed their faces up against the plastic on the rear and back windows. It looked really weird.

"Okay, Sarah, give us a show!" Hamish demanded. The others seconded his request quite enthusiastically.

"Hamish, please take the plastic off the windows so I can hear what you all are saying. But tell them no reaching in and touching. Unless I ask."

He complied quickly.

I reclined on the mattress and propped my head up with the pillows.

One of the onlookers asked, "What is that thing? Some sort of electric shaver? Your legs don't look furry to me, hen."

"This multi-faceted, battery-operated device is a Clitopatra II," I advised smugly, turning it, and me, on. "It's a scientific fact that girls who masturbate are able to have a big 'O' with a man more readily than those who don't. Think of it like giving your car a tune-up with the right tools before taking it for a ride. Hey, you choke your chicken, don't you?" His face got red. "Now be quiet so I can concentrate. I'm going to fantasize that Russell Crowe is giving me an acting lesson. In a porn flick. He's Scottish, isn't he?"

"Australian," Hamish corrected.

"Whatever."

Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. Didn't take long for Russell, playing a naked Moses in the movie, wielding his rod that turned into a serpent to take me to the promised land.

As I lay there winding down I couldn't help notice this one dude had a really big tongue.

"Hey you, the one in the shirt with the smiley on the front," I called.

"Yes, hen?"

"Are you a rock star?"

He did look the part. Long scraggly hair, skinny, big lips. Mick Jagger or Gene Simmons.

But with a really big tongue.

"How did you know, hen?"

"Female intuition. So what's your band, dude? Have you been on MTV? What instrument do you play? Do you sing? I always wanted to be a groupie for a band. At the top of my list, right after Pittsburgh Steelers cheerleader. They don't have any you know."

"I didn't know that, hen." He explained that he had been an integral part of "Yodel In My Canyon of Love" by Do Re Mi with Kerry that finished second in the Great British Song Contest of 1997. "I did the yodeling in the background," he boasted.

"What's your name?"

"Bearach. It means 'pointed weapon' my mother told me. My father has a tongue just like mine."

"Does your mom smile a lot?"

"Yes, matter of fact she does."

"So Bearach, do you do cunnilingus?"

"That must be an Irish tune. I'm Scottish."

"Latin. Would you like to come in the van and yodel in my canyon of love?"

"Huh?"

"Flip the bean, tickle the bearded clam, dive for tuna." He still looked puzzled. "What part of 'eat me' don't you understand, dude?"

In five seconds he was in the van, had my legs spread, and began to lap me like a very thirsty dog.

"Bearach! Slow down, honey. You're not wolfing down haggis and neeps now." These dudes had chowed down on our food while they watched me masturbate. "Here, let me show you something. This is my clitoris. It needs your undivided attention at the moment. Just press your tongue into my pussy and let me do the work, setting the pace, pressure, and rhythm." The tune-up with my vibrator had me ready for another big 'O,' and soon. Fortunately, with a lot of coaching, he got the idea. I mean, I don't like to be so assertive as to yank on a dude's tongue and put it right on my hot spot, but a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do.

All the while Bearach muff dived, Hamish kept whining, "Hey Sarah, what about me? I am your cousin you know."

"Be careful what you ask for, Hamish," I chided, catching my breath, "I'll give you your real good shagging soon enough."

I dismissed Bearach and invited Guirmean into the van with, "Give it to me, baby, give it to me good." He informed me his name meant 'blue one.' I'd say it looked more purple to me. But not for long because I made it disappear real quick. I raised my legs and crossed my ankles so my right foot was planted against the right side of his chest and my left foot was against the left side of his chest. By doing so I could really feel my vaginal walls squeeze down on his python of pleasure as if I was doing one long Kegel exercise on him. I did it harder and harder until one super intense squeeze sent him right over the edge, and me. I pushed him out and away, as I sighed, "You're my hero."

I motioned for Conan. "I would feel so safe lying beneath you," I purred. He informed me his name meant "wee doggie" and I could see why. I tried to boost his confidence by telling him that anything more than a mouthful is a waste. So he wouldn't be as likely to fall out I took the pillows from under my head and placed them under my backside to elevate my vaginal canal. Not only could he go very deep, at least for him, this position provided maximum contact between his body and my clitoris. As he humped like crazy I reassured him with comments like, "It's not how deep you fish, honey, it's how you wiggle the worm." He wiggled until I shivered and quivered.

Gilliosa took his turn next. He told me his name meant "servant of Christ" and I screamed "JES—SUS" over and over as he raised my legs to a 90-degree angle and rammed it home. He stood between my legs, gripping my ankles and spreading my legs apart as he entered me. Then he opened and closed my legs as he thrust. One minutes his joy stick felt snugly inside me and the next my vaginal canal was wider and I could take him in deep. The constantly alternating sensations meant that just as I reached the point of no return I was back on the brink. I seemed like it took forever for me to max out. Not that I complained, mind you. "How the hell did you do that?" I complimented.

The biggest wonder worm took over. Machar said his name meant "plainsman." I cooed, "The sound of your voice makes my nipples hard." I lied. It really was the sight of his package. His name should have been "painsman" because he kinda hurt me as he jumped my bones. Machar turned me over on all fours and entered me from behind. But he didn't pump back-and-forth or in-and-out. No, he rotated his pussy tamer inside me, stimulating every inch of my vaginal canal and finding my G-spot which gave me intense pleasure until I collapsed in ecstasy. "It hurts, but I love it when you do it," I moaned.

Exhausted, I waved my arms in surrender and cried, "No more pickle-me-tickle-me!" But then poor Gilleasbaig started to cry and his dick got limp in his hand. His name meant "in service of the bishop" he claimed. So I serviced his bishop.

I fell asleep with his dick in my mouth, but soon Hamish woke me. "Sarah! Sarah! I want my shagging!"

When I looked at him I gasped. He had gotten into my travel bag and put on my lilac unlined demi bra in floral lace with jacquard detail. And the matching panties.

Very angry because obviously he had stretched my things to the point where they no longer would fit me, I strapped on the harness with the big plaid dildo. And then I got out of the van. I needed more room to operate.