Fic: An Education in Scottish Culture 2/2, Billy/Orlando
Title: An Education in Scottish Culture 2/2
Author: strongplacebo
Pairing: Billy/Orlando
Rating: NC-17
Author’s Notes: Written for lotrips_fqf. Follows this. This part is basically a PWP. If you're a freak like me interested in what Billy says about kilts, here are some visual aids.
Request: Billy/Orlando: Maybe a series of group-hanging out stories that focuses on these two getting closer? Sort of a first time/realization type fic. Crazy fellowship antics also encouraged. [Request by irish_cocktail]
Billy dragged Orlando through the door to his flat and shoved him in the direction of the bedroom. Orlando put up with this manhandling only because he was secure in the knowledge that Elves were graceful and wise and that he was taller than Billy and, as such, could sit on him if the need arose. Billy pushed him onto the bed and positioned himself firmly, feet spread, in front of him. Orlando settled and folded his hands demurely on his lap, the very picture of someone who was paying complete attention (even though he was distracted, from time to time, by the way Billy’s hair was sticking up a little on the left and how there were grains of sand still clinging to the frayed hem of his jeans).
“Do you know why you’re here, Orlando?” Billy asked seriously. Orlando was caught off guard. He’d assumed it was because they were going to have sex.
“Um…” he said, unsure of quite how to phrase it.
“You’re here,” Billy interrupted, “because you said something hurtful to me.”
Orlando frantically racked his brains for whatever it was he said that made Billy look like he was not about to jump straight into bed with Orlando. Was it about hobbits not winning wars?
Billy had his hands on his hips now. He appeared to be getting angrier. Orlando forced himself to think harder, but having exhausted his ideas of why Billy was looking so pissed off, he ended up thinking hard about how sexy Billy’s little mouth was when it was down-turned like that, and how slim Billy’s waist was beneath his tiny, dainty hands.
“Scotsmen do not wear skirts, Orlando!” Billy finally exploded. Orlando relaxed. Oh, that.
“They look like skirts to me.”
Billy glared at him. “You are going to be taught a lesson about Scottish history.”
Orlando reclined on the bed. “Sounds kinky. I can’t wait.”
Billy glared at him again, then cleared his throat to begin.
“The kilt is an ancient garment which evolved from the Celts who originally inhabited the British Isles - before your ancestors invaded and pushed us into the extremities.”
“And Ireland,” Orlando added. “Don’t forget Ireland.”
“Yes, and Ireland. But most importantly, Scotland. Now, kilts were originally an all-over item of clothing made of one piece of cloth. At some point in who-cares-what century, they evolved into this.”
Orlando started paying attention again when Billy turned and riffled through his wardrobe. He sat up straight and examined closely the curve of Billy’s behind. Billy turned back, and Orlando flicked his eyes back up to Billy’s face. Was paying complete attention, Billy, honestly, I was definitely not checking you out instead of listening, no sir.
Billy was holding a kilt, of red and green tartan. “This is the Boyd family kilt,” he told Orlando seriously, and Orlando leant forwards to examine it. “You can only wear it if you belong to the Boyd family clan.”
“Can I wear it?” Orlando asked, reaching towards it. Billy whisked it away.
“No, you cannot. Are you a member of the Boyd family clan?”
Orlando pouted. “But it’s so pretty.” He reached again, and Billy pulled back further.
“You can’t have it. Only I can wear it.” Billy hooked the hanger on the handle of the wardrobe and started unbuttoning his jeans. Orlando immediately lost all interest in the kilt and paid very strict, very close attention to what was happening. Billy pushed both his jeans and his boxers down and Orlando’s breath hitched.
Oh wonder, oh rapture, oh exquisite Billyarse! Two round halves and the mixture between soft and hard. The tone of the skin, paler than lower down his legs, and the gentle change in gradient up the thigh. The dark line of shadow through the centre. The slight jiggling of the fleshy parts as Billy kicked off his jeans and-
Billy swung the kilt around his waist and started buttoning it. Orlando just barely managed not to groan aloud. The pleats at the back of the skirt swayed and brushed the top of Billy’s calves. He turned back around.
“As you’ve seen,” he began again, letting Orlando know beyond a doubt that he knew what Orlando had been looking at, “the Scotsman traditionally wears nothing under his kilt.” Orlando moaned softly.
“If I were in full highland dress,” Billy continued, “I would be wearing a sporran. Here.” He placed his hands flat down, thumbs spread out so that his hands formed a frame around where his kilt bulged gently. Orlando was going to kill him.
“The tartan is made of woven wool,” Billy said, stepping closer. Orlando’s gaze was fixed on the gentle sway of the fabric.
“Is there.” He cleared his throat. “Is there a Bloom Family tartan?”
Billy laughed softly. “I doubt it. But as a subject of the Queen, you are permitted to wear the Royal Stewart tartan.”
“Oh good,” Orlando said and swallowed deeply as Billy came closer.
“Feel the fabric,” Billy encouraged (not that Orlando needed encouragement, the barest hint would probably suffice) and held out a corner of the kilt. Orlando leant in happily and fingered the fabric. It was soft, but vaguely scratchy, heavy, and solid, holding its shape without being stiff.
“Not all kilts are tartan, of course.” Billy was so close by now that the hem of his kilt brushed the top of Orlando’s knees. Orlando hummed his agreement. “I personally have a kilt which is entirely black,” Billy added.
Orlando looked up at Billy. In fact, he whipped his head back so hard, he nearly pulled a muscle in his neck. Billy was staring down at him, his pupils dilated and black, like the kilt Billy had. God, Billy in a black kilt. Orlando dropped the corner of the Boyd family tartan that he was holding and slid his hands up until they were resting on Billy’s lower back. The kilt bunched, then fell back into position.
“Okay,” Orlando said. In the back of his mind, he ran over the last few minutes of conversation in his head and couldn’t quite figure out what he was agreeing to, but it didn’t seem to matter because Billy had just thrust a hand into Orlando’s hair (what was left of it, and that wasn’t much) and tipped his head back further (ow, neck, ow) so that it was at the perfect angle for Billy to bend down and slam his mouth onto Orlando’s. His lips were slick and soft and slid over Orlando’s, leaving a trail of moisture behind them.
This was perfect. This was everything Orlando had thought it would be, Billy’s hot, moist breath pushing into Orlando’s mouth and his tongue rough and ready against Orlando’s. Orlando scooted backwards on the bed and leant back as Billy climbed up onto the bed, straddling him. The kissing slowed down somewhat during the procedure, but hey, Billy was old, he probably found it hard concentrating on too many things at once. Orlando spread Billy’s kilt out so it fanned around them in a wide circle. Billy groaned into his mouth and ground down hard into Orlando. Orlando’s brain shorted out for a fraction of a second, before he decided that things were definitely not running as smoothly as they might. It was all right for Billy, with his “traditional Scotsmen don’t wear anything under their kilts” but Orlando was still wearing his shorts and they were covering things that quite frankly didn’t need to be covered right now.
“Shorts,” he muttered against Billy’s lips, dropping his hands to his hips. Billy made no move to be helpful, and in fact pushed closer, the exact opposite of helpful, but very nice all the same.
Orlando reluctantly broke away. “Shorts, come on, get up.” He shoved lightly at Billy’s shoulder and Billy lifted one leg to allow Orlando more room. He looked like a dog about to piss. Orlando resolutely did not think that as he wriggled his shorts down to his knees in the space between Billy’s body and the bed. The material of Billy’s kilt brushed over the head of his cock as Billy settled back down. Orlando thrust up and something hotter, harder and a hell of a lot more interesting than the Boyd family tartan collided with his cock. He thrust up again and his back twinged. Orlando cursed the day he broke his back. Not only had it been rather painful at the time, it kept coming back to haunt him at the most inopportune moments.
Winding his hand around Billy’s neck, he leant back slowly, into a better position, pulling Billy with him. Fortunately, Billy was perfectly amenable to this, more so, some might say, as he took it as a cue to grind down. Hard. Billy kissed him once more then sat up. Orlando was about to protest, when Billy threaded a hand beneath his kilt, shifting to make sure their cocks were aligned, then taking them both, quite literally, in hand. Orlando approved. Orlando definitely approved. That was one thing you couldn’t deny about Billy. He had some good ideas.
Orlando ran his hands up Billy’s thighs, under the kilt, until he reached Billy’s bottom. It was just as nice to feel as it had been to look at earlier. The muscles in Billy’s arm were clenching and flexing as he stroked them both up and down. Orlando - quickly, so that it would be done before Billy could lodge a complaint - dipped his fingers into the slit between Billy’s butt cheeks. There appeared to be some sort of…residue already present. Orlando pushed against it, rubbing it between Billy’s skin and the pads of his fingers. He couldn’t figure out what it could possibly be. There was no anatomical excuse for its presence.
“It’s sand,” Billy said shortly, still clenching and flexing. “I told you I had sand in my arse crack.” Orlando laughed breathily and obligingly brushed out the worst of it onto his thighs and Billy’s bedspread. Billy, apparently, liked this, as he groaned and dropped forwards, supporting his weight on one hand.
Oooh, that was good, change in angle was good, Billy pushing forwards like that was good. Still, there was something. Orlando tried to think about what it might be, but his concentration wasn’t at its best. Billy let go of his cock and it sprang back, hitting him on the stomach, before Billy could gather it back up again. Which he did soon thereafter, tightening his grip briefly before resuming previous activities.
Ah. That was it. Billy’s tiny, dainty hands. Orlando loved Billy’s hands, truly he did, and he loved the activity they were engaged in but, really, they were so small that one hand could barely reach all the way around two penises, let alone stroke, grip hard, apply a variety of pressures etc. With one last semi-regretful squeeze to Billy’s backside, Orlando released it and moved his hand to the front of their bodies. Pulling Billy’s tiny, dainty, oh-so-pretty hand away, he scooped up both penises and continued Billy’s work.
Billy seemed to appreciate it; at least, he dropped his hand to the bed, braced on two arms now, and rolled his hips. Orlando really appreciated that. The drag of Billy’s cock against his was slightly awkward, slightly painful, which wasn’t something Orlando was really into, but he’d waited for this for too long to stop just because someone needed lube. Lube was for sissies.
“Fucking hell, Orli,” Billy said, or at least that’s what Orlando thought he said, because Glaswegian is a difficult language to master at the best of time and Billy didn’t exactly speak clearly when engaging in lewd sexual acts. In any case, “fucking hell” just about summed it up for Orlando, so he groaned it back. Fortunately, Billy wasn’t objecting either at his incoherency. Orlando squeezed harder on his handful, pressing their cocks together in a way which was mildly uncomfortable for his hand (and how he hoped he wouldn’t get cramp now, it would be most inconvenient) but which felt absolutely fantastic for every other part of his body. He felt Billy’s thighs tensing against his.
In an act of momentary self-sacrifice, Orlando dropped his own cock in favour of concentrating entirely on Billy (though he hoped he wouldn’t be forced to neglect himself for too long). Wrapping his hand more completely around Billy’s cock, he instigated a twist-pull-twist stroke which went down a storm on its recipient.
Orlando looked down at where the front of Billy’s kilt was shifting over his hand, then back up to Billy’s face. Billy had his eyes squeezed shut and he was murmuring what was, as far as Orlando could tell, absolute nonsense. Sporadically, he would dip his tongue out to lick at his lips and Orlando yearned to lick them for him. First things first though, and he sped up his hand. Billy’s unintelligible mutterings became faster, then louder, but no more discernible. Orlando was just getting settled in for a long stint of tugging on Billy’s cock, when the muscles of Billy’s legs clenched hard and he let out a forceful “uh” sound. Orlando kept stroking, wetter and wetter, until Billy relaxed slightly, opening his eyes and grinning down at Orlando.
Orlando dropped Billy’s cock in a terribly impolite hurry and resumed frantically stroking his own.
Billy sniggered (oh, it was all right for him, evidence of his satisfaction was currently dripping through Orlando’s fingers and being spread over his cock) and leant down, pressing his lips against Orlando’s. Orlando took the opportunity to lick them, as he had been yearning to do for some time. Billy licked back, then licked down, over Orlando’s jaw and down his neck. In the meantime, he snuck his hand back under the cover of his kilt and wrapped it over Orlando’s hand on his cock. Orlando gasped and surrendered all decisions regarding his wanking to Billy. Billy guided his fist up, down, around, and Billy’s hand was tight around his. Coils were wound, stomachs were dropped and gasps were taken as Orlando crashed into a fantastic, spine-melted, feet-arched, toes-curled orgasm.
Orlando though vaguely that Billy should probably wash his kilt now.
Billy finished sucking on the join of Orlando’s neck and shoulder and flopped over to lie beside Orlando, still breathing hard. Orlando gazed happily up at the ceiling and contemplated going for a shower. Maybe. In the distant future.
“You know, they make kilts out of leather too,” Billy said, didactically.
Orlando groaned, rolled on top of him, and prepared to start molesting again.
Author: strongplacebo
Pairing: Billy/Orlando
Rating: NC-17
Author’s Notes: Written for lotrips_fqf. Follows this. This part is basically a PWP. If you're a freak like me interested in what Billy says about kilts, here are some visual aids.
Request: Billy/Orlando: Maybe a series of group-hanging out stories that focuses on these two getting closer? Sort of a first time/realization type fic. Crazy fellowship antics also encouraged. [Request by irish_cocktail]
Billy dragged Orlando through the door to his flat and shoved him in the direction of the bedroom. Orlando put up with this manhandling only because he was secure in the knowledge that Elves were graceful and wise and that he was taller than Billy and, as such, could sit on him if the need arose. Billy pushed him onto the bed and positioned himself firmly, feet spread, in front of him. Orlando settled and folded his hands demurely on his lap, the very picture of someone who was paying complete attention (even though he was distracted, from time to time, by the way Billy’s hair was sticking up a little on the left and how there were grains of sand still clinging to the frayed hem of his jeans).
“Do you know why you’re here, Orlando?” Billy asked seriously. Orlando was caught off guard. He’d assumed it was because they were going to have sex.
“Um…” he said, unsure of quite how to phrase it.
“You’re here,” Billy interrupted, “because you said something hurtful to me.”
Orlando frantically racked his brains for whatever it was he said that made Billy look like he was not about to jump straight into bed with Orlando. Was it about hobbits not winning wars?
Billy had his hands on his hips now. He appeared to be getting angrier. Orlando forced himself to think harder, but having exhausted his ideas of why Billy was looking so pissed off, he ended up thinking hard about how sexy Billy’s little mouth was when it was down-turned like that, and how slim Billy’s waist was beneath his tiny, dainty hands.
“Scotsmen do not wear skirts, Orlando!” Billy finally exploded. Orlando relaxed. Oh, that.
“They look like skirts to me.”
Billy glared at him. “You are going to be taught a lesson about Scottish history.”
Orlando reclined on the bed. “Sounds kinky. I can’t wait.”
Billy glared at him again, then cleared his throat to begin.
“The kilt is an ancient garment which evolved from the Celts who originally inhabited the British Isles - before your ancestors invaded and pushed us into the extremities.”
“And Ireland,” Orlando added. “Don’t forget Ireland.”
“Yes, and Ireland. But most importantly, Scotland. Now, kilts were originally an all-over item of clothing made of one piece of cloth. At some point in who-cares-what century, they evolved into this.”
Orlando started paying attention again when Billy turned and riffled through his wardrobe. He sat up straight and examined closely the curve of Billy’s behind. Billy turned back, and Orlando flicked his eyes back up to Billy’s face. Was paying complete attention, Billy, honestly, I was definitely not checking you out instead of listening, no sir.
Billy was holding a kilt, of red and green tartan. “This is the Boyd family kilt,” he told Orlando seriously, and Orlando leant forwards to examine it. “You can only wear it if you belong to the Boyd family clan.”
“Can I wear it?” Orlando asked, reaching towards it. Billy whisked it away.
“No, you cannot. Are you a member of the Boyd family clan?”
Orlando pouted. “But it’s so pretty.” He reached again, and Billy pulled back further.
“You can’t have it. Only I can wear it.” Billy hooked the hanger on the handle of the wardrobe and started unbuttoning his jeans. Orlando immediately lost all interest in the kilt and paid very strict, very close attention to what was happening. Billy pushed both his jeans and his boxers down and Orlando’s breath hitched.
Oh wonder, oh rapture, oh exquisite Billyarse! Two round halves and the mixture between soft and hard. The tone of the skin, paler than lower down his legs, and the gentle change in gradient up the thigh. The dark line of shadow through the centre. The slight jiggling of the fleshy parts as Billy kicked off his jeans and-
Billy swung the kilt around his waist and started buttoning it. Orlando just barely managed not to groan aloud. The pleats at the back of the skirt swayed and brushed the top of Billy’s calves. He turned back around.
“As you’ve seen,” he began again, letting Orlando know beyond a doubt that he knew what Orlando had been looking at, “the Scotsman traditionally wears nothing under his kilt.” Orlando moaned softly.
“If I were in full highland dress,” Billy continued, “I would be wearing a sporran. Here.” He placed his hands flat down, thumbs spread out so that his hands formed a frame around where his kilt bulged gently. Orlando was going to kill him.
“The tartan is made of woven wool,” Billy said, stepping closer. Orlando’s gaze was fixed on the gentle sway of the fabric.
“Is there.” He cleared his throat. “Is there a Bloom Family tartan?”
Billy laughed softly. “I doubt it. But as a subject of the Queen, you are permitted to wear the Royal Stewart tartan.”
“Oh good,” Orlando said and swallowed deeply as Billy came closer.
“Feel the fabric,” Billy encouraged (not that Orlando needed encouragement, the barest hint would probably suffice) and held out a corner of the kilt. Orlando leant in happily and fingered the fabric. It was soft, but vaguely scratchy, heavy, and solid, holding its shape without being stiff.
“Not all kilts are tartan, of course.” Billy was so close by now that the hem of his kilt brushed the top of Orlando’s knees. Orlando hummed his agreement. “I personally have a kilt which is entirely black,” Billy added.
Orlando looked up at Billy. In fact, he whipped his head back so hard, he nearly pulled a muscle in his neck. Billy was staring down at him, his pupils dilated and black, like the kilt Billy had. God, Billy in a black kilt. Orlando dropped the corner of the Boyd family tartan that he was holding and slid his hands up until they were resting on Billy’s lower back. The kilt bunched, then fell back into position.
“Okay,” Orlando said. In the back of his mind, he ran over the last few minutes of conversation in his head and couldn’t quite figure out what he was agreeing to, but it didn’t seem to matter because Billy had just thrust a hand into Orlando’s hair (what was left of it, and that wasn’t much) and tipped his head back further (ow, neck, ow) so that it was at the perfect angle for Billy to bend down and slam his mouth onto Orlando’s. His lips were slick and soft and slid over Orlando’s, leaving a trail of moisture behind them.
This was perfect. This was everything Orlando had thought it would be, Billy’s hot, moist breath pushing into Orlando’s mouth and his tongue rough and ready against Orlando’s. Orlando scooted backwards on the bed and leant back as Billy climbed up onto the bed, straddling him. The kissing slowed down somewhat during the procedure, but hey, Billy was old, he probably found it hard concentrating on too many things at once. Orlando spread Billy’s kilt out so it fanned around them in a wide circle. Billy groaned into his mouth and ground down hard into Orlando. Orlando’s brain shorted out for a fraction of a second, before he decided that things were definitely not running as smoothly as they might. It was all right for Billy, with his “traditional Scotsmen don’t wear anything under their kilts” but Orlando was still wearing his shorts and they were covering things that quite frankly didn’t need to be covered right now.
“Shorts,” he muttered against Billy’s lips, dropping his hands to his hips. Billy made no move to be helpful, and in fact pushed closer, the exact opposite of helpful, but very nice all the same.
Orlando reluctantly broke away. “Shorts, come on, get up.” He shoved lightly at Billy’s shoulder and Billy lifted one leg to allow Orlando more room. He looked like a dog about to piss. Orlando resolutely did not think that as he wriggled his shorts down to his knees in the space between Billy’s body and the bed. The material of Billy’s kilt brushed over the head of his cock as Billy settled back down. Orlando thrust up and something hotter, harder and a hell of a lot more interesting than the Boyd family tartan collided with his cock. He thrust up again and his back twinged. Orlando cursed the day he broke his back. Not only had it been rather painful at the time, it kept coming back to haunt him at the most inopportune moments.
Winding his hand around Billy’s neck, he leant back slowly, into a better position, pulling Billy with him. Fortunately, Billy was perfectly amenable to this, more so, some might say, as he took it as a cue to grind down. Hard. Billy kissed him once more then sat up. Orlando was about to protest, when Billy threaded a hand beneath his kilt, shifting to make sure their cocks were aligned, then taking them both, quite literally, in hand. Orlando approved. Orlando definitely approved. That was one thing you couldn’t deny about Billy. He had some good ideas.
Orlando ran his hands up Billy’s thighs, under the kilt, until he reached Billy’s bottom. It was just as nice to feel as it had been to look at earlier. The muscles in Billy’s arm were clenching and flexing as he stroked them both up and down. Orlando - quickly, so that it would be done before Billy could lodge a complaint - dipped his fingers into the slit between Billy’s butt cheeks. There appeared to be some sort of…residue already present. Orlando pushed against it, rubbing it between Billy’s skin and the pads of his fingers. He couldn’t figure out what it could possibly be. There was no anatomical excuse for its presence.
“It’s sand,” Billy said shortly, still clenching and flexing. “I told you I had sand in my arse crack.” Orlando laughed breathily and obligingly brushed out the worst of it onto his thighs and Billy’s bedspread. Billy, apparently, liked this, as he groaned and dropped forwards, supporting his weight on one hand.
Oooh, that was good, change in angle was good, Billy pushing forwards like that was good. Still, there was something. Orlando tried to think about what it might be, but his concentration wasn’t at its best. Billy let go of his cock and it sprang back, hitting him on the stomach, before Billy could gather it back up again. Which he did soon thereafter, tightening his grip briefly before resuming previous activities.
Ah. That was it. Billy’s tiny, dainty hands. Orlando loved Billy’s hands, truly he did, and he loved the activity they were engaged in but, really, they were so small that one hand could barely reach all the way around two penises, let alone stroke, grip hard, apply a variety of pressures etc. With one last semi-regretful squeeze to Billy’s backside, Orlando released it and moved his hand to the front of their bodies. Pulling Billy’s tiny, dainty, oh-so-pretty hand away, he scooped up both penises and continued Billy’s work.
Billy seemed to appreciate it; at least, he dropped his hand to the bed, braced on two arms now, and rolled his hips. Orlando really appreciated that. The drag of Billy’s cock against his was slightly awkward, slightly painful, which wasn’t something Orlando was really into, but he’d waited for this for too long to stop just because someone needed lube. Lube was for sissies.
“Fucking hell, Orli,” Billy said, or at least that’s what Orlando thought he said, because Glaswegian is a difficult language to master at the best of time and Billy didn’t exactly speak clearly when engaging in lewd sexual acts. In any case, “fucking hell” just about summed it up for Orlando, so he groaned it back. Fortunately, Billy wasn’t objecting either at his incoherency. Orlando squeezed harder on his handful, pressing their cocks together in a way which was mildly uncomfortable for his hand (and how he hoped he wouldn’t get cramp now, it would be most inconvenient) but which felt absolutely fantastic for every other part of his body. He felt Billy’s thighs tensing against his.
In an act of momentary self-sacrifice, Orlando dropped his own cock in favour of concentrating entirely on Billy (though he hoped he wouldn’t be forced to neglect himself for too long). Wrapping his hand more completely around Billy’s cock, he instigated a twist-pull-twist stroke which went down a storm on its recipient.
Orlando looked down at where the front of Billy’s kilt was shifting over his hand, then back up to Billy’s face. Billy had his eyes squeezed shut and he was murmuring what was, as far as Orlando could tell, absolute nonsense. Sporadically, he would dip his tongue out to lick at his lips and Orlando yearned to lick them for him. First things first though, and he sped up his hand. Billy’s unintelligible mutterings became faster, then louder, but no more discernible. Orlando was just getting settled in for a long stint of tugging on Billy’s cock, when the muscles of Billy’s legs clenched hard and he let out a forceful “uh” sound. Orlando kept stroking, wetter and wetter, until Billy relaxed slightly, opening his eyes and grinning down at Orlando.
Orlando dropped Billy’s cock in a terribly impolite hurry and resumed frantically stroking his own.
Billy sniggered (oh, it was all right for him, evidence of his satisfaction was currently dripping through Orlando’s fingers and being spread over his cock) and leant down, pressing his lips against Orlando’s. Orlando took the opportunity to lick them, as he had been yearning to do for some time. Billy licked back, then licked down, over Orlando’s jaw and down his neck. In the meantime, he snuck his hand back under the cover of his kilt and wrapped it over Orlando’s hand on his cock. Orlando gasped and surrendered all decisions regarding his wanking to Billy. Billy guided his fist up, down, around, and Billy’s hand was tight around his. Coils were wound, stomachs were dropped and gasps were taken as Orlando crashed into a fantastic, spine-melted, feet-arched, toes-curled orgasm.
Orlando though vaguely that Billy should probably wash his kilt now.
Billy finished sucking on the join of Orlando’s neck and shoulder and flopped over to lie beside Orlando, still breathing hard. Orlando gazed happily up at the ceiling and contemplated going for a shower. Maybe. In the distant future.
“You know, they make kilts out of leather too,” Billy said, didactically.
Orlando groaned, rolled on top of him, and prepared to start molesting again.