A Highland Holiday Pt. 06

A Highland Holiday Part 6

Michelle and I were driving home along the single-track road that crossed the High Moor. Michelle pulled into a parking spot and turned to me, "You were timid when I first met you, Josie. Have you ever been in a sexual relationship before you started yours with Fiona?"

I didn't know why she was asking, "No," I replied, blushing and coming over all shy again, damn it.

"I did notice you looking at me in the spa, dear. Was I the first real woman you've seen undressed in the flesh?"

I could only nod.

"Well," she said, "let's see if we can do something about that."

She exited the driver's side door and into the back seat. "Put your chair back, Josie, then turn around to face me."

I did as I was told; she was already taking off her skirt and panties, "come closer," she instructed, "I want you to have a good look," she was kneeling on the seat, her legs spread, fully displaying her nakedness.

She then pointed out the parts of the vagina to me, the hood, the clitoris, the labia, the vaginal opening.

"You can call it a vagina, call it a pussy, call it the hole, but never, ever, call it a cunt in my presence."

I had never seen a pussy up close before; it was, it was beautiful.

She wet her forefinger and slipped it under the hood, gently massaging her clitoris, her breathing was soon slightly labored, and as I leaned closer, I could see the wetness spread around the opening of her pussy.

She came very quickly, and after she had relaxed, she opened her eyes and said, "So much for the practical demonstration; now it's time for the student to start her coursework."

I was frozen. Was she going to let me play with her?

"Come back here, Josie, sit beside me." I had almost moved when she warned, "Strip first, dear."

I struggled out of my clothes and left them on the front seat, totally naked with a raging hard-on and massive anticipation. I crawled, rather ungainly, over my seat to sit beside her.

"You're right-handed, so sit on my right."

"OK, now finger my clit."

"Lightly darling, lightly, the time for rough will come later," her hand covering mine, "like this."

Slowly she moved my finger in soft circular motions over her clit; I could feel it harden under my touch, which was unexpected.

She was panting softly on my shoulder as I continued to receive instructions; keeping my thumb on her clit my forefinger slipped down to enter the hot sticky wetness of her pussy; it was a little awkward at first, but once I had a second finger inside it was easier.

With her constant instructions, I found her G Spot and entertained it. Her breathing was heavier now, and her teeth lightly nibbled on my shoulder.

"Good," she said, holding my hand off firmly before she could come, "now on your knees in front of me."

As my hand was instructed, so was my tongue; she tasted of After Eight Mints; while I was looking up past her bare pubis, past her magnificent tits, to her smiling eyes, she explained that a woman could change the taste of her clit by her diet, she always ate mints before bed. However, in the old days, if they had a curry, Colin had forbidden her to do so, as he loved the taste of curried clit.

She reached for her phone and took a quick picture of me; later, she showed it to me; I didn't think it was very flattering; my forehead was red, my eyes white, the rest of my face buried in her pussy, she said she'd keep it as it made her horny.

My tongue worked her clit, her vagina; as I moved back to her arse, she smiled at me, "I doubt you need much instruction there."

Again, I thought she would come, and again, she stopped me.

"Form a loop in the seat belt, put my right leg in it, then hand me the belt." She had moved from a kneeling position to rest her bum on the seat and had spread-eagled her legs. I did as I was told, first with the right, then the left; she looked at me, then released the seat belts, and they pulled back, holding her legs in place, with her pussy presented to me, damp, lovely, and ready to be fucked.

I was glad I'd had some entry practice with Fiona; I held my cock to her welcoming opening and at her nod, slid forward into her; it felt different, warmer, wetter, her pussy had a death grip on my cock, and as I pushed my hips forward to drive more of me into her, I thought this felt very very good.

I had started to buck frantically in my euphoria, and I knew I would come very quickly, but her hand reached around the base of my cock to stop me from coming, and she slapped my arse, "Easy there, cowgirl, easy."

She was a great teacher; I was taught how to vary my rhythm, vary the length of stoke, position my cock for different angles of attack, to vary the severity of my thrusts; all the while, she encouraged me between sounds of her pleasure.

I released her from the seat belts and took her doggy for a few minutes. We were grunting with effort, and the car was a hot sauna, steamed window, and filled with the smell of sex. She maneuvered me around to spread her legs wide over my hips, slid herself down my cock in one easy motion, and started to fuck me.

"I'm coming, Michelle; I can't stop this time."

She only worked me harder, thrusting her pussy onto my cock, until we both exploded with passion and exhaustion.

We rested for a little while. "Let's air the car out," she kissed me on the neck. There's a picnic hamper in the boot, dear. Why don't you get it?"

I reached for my clothes, but she shook her head and walked out onto the heather naked; I happily followed her.

I felt Fi's hand on my shoulder pushing me to wake me up, "Josie, Josie, are you OK?"

I slowly returned to life; what the hell had that been about?

"Go back to sleep, love; I must have been dreaming."

Her hand lightly rested on top of my panties and stroked my erect cock, "about me I hope?"

I leaned over and kissed her, "who else? Go back to sleep, Fi; it was just a dream."

We took our time getting to Edinburgh; we could have done it in an hour, but it took the whole day.

I'm sure FI arranged the side trip to St Andrews, the home of Golf, for which she had yet to seduce an interest in me. Although I knew she and Colin played, she wanted me here simply so she could recite some of William McGonagall's awful poetry to me as we crossed over the Tay Bridge.

The modern functional rail bridge was not particularly attractive. There was a lovely sweep as you came out of town, but the crossing itself was concrete and blocky. Nice enough, I suppose, new town blocky, not ugly Soviet blocky, but looking back on time, I now thought of it as a slightly sour aperitif to the perfectly cooked rare rib eye steak that was to be the main course.

Fi took a book from the side pocket of her day pack and cleared her throat.

"The Tay Bridge Disaster by William McGonagall."

"Beautiful Railway Bridge of the Silv'ry Tay!

Alas! I am very sorry to say

That ninety lives have been taken away

On the last Sabbath day of 1879,

Which will be remembered for a very long time."

"That's awful, FI; how long does this go on?"

"Hush Josie, some people consider McGonagall Scotland's National Poet, with Burns a poor second; now listen up."

The Tay Bridge Disaster went on for what seemed like forever. Ultimately, I concluded that McGonagall should be taught in every English class to persuade bad poets never to take up the pen.

We had a pleasant Launch in St Andrews and wandered around the town for a few hours afterward before finally boarding the train to Edinburgh.

Fi could commit to things when she wanted to, but I had always considered her a little flighty regarding planning and responsibility. Yes, she had planned this trip and the Skye journey, but everything seemed to be a sub-plan in a grander scheme that Colin or Michelle had already worked out.

But I would never doubt her again; she had planned our long ride down from Perth for a reason and had timed it perfectly.

The sun was slowly setting in the west as we rode the line through the last few miles of Fife. Coming out of North Queensferry station, Fi waited until the perfect time and nudged me.

One of the most glorious sights I had ever seen came into view: an artificial marvel of steel standing brilliant red against the fire of the sunset.

The Forth Rail Bridge was even more incredible in real life than in pictures. It was an industrial prayer to the great creator, a cantilever span of engineering brilliance offered in glorious sacrifice to the lords of mathematics and construction.

As we entered the North approach, our train slowed and made its way gracefully across this wonder, as if to rush the crossing would be to desecrate holy ground.

I stared out the window, admiring the bridge's features as we passed over it, its reflection in the shimmering Forth below, and I was thrilled.

I leaned into Fi, "Thanks, Love."

We had left the bridges behind; there were two road bridges that I might be interested in crossing someday, too, and we made our way through the evening commute and into Edinburgh.

"Do you know the movie Trainspotting?" Fi asked me.

"Oh sure, it took me a couple of efforts to get past the 'the worst toilet in Scotland' scene, but yes, it was darkly funny."

"Well," Fi said, as the train entered a long tunnel, "this is why it's called Trainspotting; in the old days, the junkies would come down here to shoot up, avoiding the Police, so in Edinburgh slang, that became known as Trainspotting."

Fi was silent for a while. When we entered the tunnel, some of the lights on the wall were nearing their end of life, giving the journey a weird, sickly yellow strobe-lit effect.

'You'll see the nice part of Edinburgh, Josie, the part the tourists see mostly, but this city has a nasty dark side.

"I've been out in the housing schemes. It's an ugly place, and sometimes that breeds ugly people, but it also breeds great art, like Trainspotting."

We made our way through the usual fuss, off the train, into a taxi, and booked into the hotel. Colin and Michelle texted us that they were running late, so we had dinner in the hotel and a few drinks in the bar. Then, both of us were exhausted, so we went to bed.

I exited the shower to find Fi lying naked on the bed.

"Come here, darling."

"Not until I'm hydrated, Fi; I don't want to take another shower just now."

"Come here, darling; we need to talk."

Ominous.

I settled in beside her, making sure that my panties and nighty were in place. It wasn't much of a barrier to lust, but it was all I had.

"Josie, I know I'm the top in our relationship, but if we are going to make this work, you need to take your turn too; you need to seduce me, you need to top me, fuck me, make me feel like a woman too."

I pulled her close to me, saying, "You're right. I've been lazy, but not tonight. Tonight, I just want to cuddle."

We drifted off to sleep when I whispered to her, "Thanks, Fi, for the bridge; I will always remember it."

We had breakfast in the hotel with Colin and Michelle and then made our way to George Heriot's Former Pupils Rugby Club for pre-game drinks with some of Colin's friends.

I was laughing as we pulled into the car park, "What's so funny Josie?" Colin, our designated driver for the day, asked.

"They named the rugby club 'Goldenacre'. Are we in a Bond movie, Colin?" I paused. Am I the hero, villain, or one of Bond's Girls?"

"It's not as contrived as you think, Josie; it's the name of the local area; the Heriot's FPs don't have quite that high opinion of themselves.

"Not quite.

"And you, my dear, will always be the villain; you've already perfected the evil laugh."

I found Goldenacre to be very schizophrenic. Pre-game was all Edinburgh upper-middle-class gentility, and post-game was the Wild West, but more on that later.

We found a corner near the bar with a tall table where the four of us could gather. Colin was playing doorman facing the crowd, and the girls hid behind him as the crowd ebbed and flowed, drinks were spilled, and curses were made, but it was all in good spirits.

One of Colin's business contacts came over and asked us what we would like to drink. I would have liked a pint of cider, but it was March, and Edinburgh was unseasonably warm, and I was very thirsty. Instead, Fi ordered a Gin and Tonic for both of us.

"G&T Fi, not my thing."

"Just pre-game, Josie. It's what's expected. In the summer, they would have Pimm's and Lemonade for us, better for your sweet tooth, but it's G&Ts until after the game. Play along for now."

I had two, and I hated both. Fi had told me that Colin was thinking of opening an artisanal Gin distillery. Scottish Gin was becoming quite popular, and he could get in at the head of the market. I couldn't understand why. The estate already had a bloody good whisky, and at least the whisky was drinkable.

We made polite small talk with the parents' friends and then boarded a bus to head to Murrayfield, home of the Scottish Rugby Union and the venue for today's Grand Slam Championship clash between Scotland and Wales.

Murrayfield was magnificent. Sixty-seven thousand people were seated in two even tiers around the playing surface. Even the worst seats looked like they had a great view. Our seats were far from the worst. We were maybe five yards from the center line behind the Scottish Bench. The Blue of Scotland and Red of Wales mixed here and there in the stadium, but most of the Welsh fans were in a block to our right.

The players and coaches did their warm routines up on the field, with most paying little attention. Thankfully, Colin passed me a beer. It was in a plastic Solo-type cup, but even so, it tasted delicious.

Then the teams came out. The Tanoy named the players to noisy receptions, mostly positive regardless of team. Then, the players lined up facing us, and silence fell around the ground. The first notes from the mass band in the center drifted across the pitch, and thousands of Welsh voices lifted in song.

There was no choir director, but the crowd seemed to know their natural voice, and they all blended in artfully, as at first the soft strains of their national anthem rang into the Scottish Sky

"Mae hen wlad fy nhadau yn annwyl i mi, Gwlad beirdd a chantorion, enwogion o fri."

A few Scots, probably from rugby trips to Wales, knew the words and joined in, but most stood respectful and silent as the Welsh hit their crashing crescendo, "Gwlad, gwlad, pleidiol wyf i'm gwlad. "

God that was a way to get the Welsh players ready and up for a game, if that didn't get your blood flowing, nothing would.

Then it was the Scots' turn. Their rendition of 'Flower of Scotland' was heartfelt, stirring, and loud. Around me, a few tall, broad-shouldered chaps seemed a little redder in the face and teary in the eye than they had moments ago, but for me, the Welsh carried the day because of the poetry of their voices.

The refs whistled and tooted, and violence and mayhem ensued. I had seen a few rugby games on TV before, but the real thing was a totally different experience. There were no small boys out there, and they ran at full tilt and hit each other with all the force they could muster.

On one play just below us, I heard the wind rush out of a Welshman's lungs as he hit the ground just after a six-foot-six Scotsman pushed the player out of play, up in the air, and then dropped him flat on his back. The player in Blue didn't even try to protest his innocence as the ref flashed a yellow card at him, and he trotted off to serve his penalty time in the sin bin.

I knew my Fi's moods by now, and the tight grip of her hand in mine told me that the organized mayhem below was making her horny; sadly for her, the whistle that blew was only to end the first half and another 40 minutes of soft porn without relief waited for her.

Throughout the games, Colin described the intricacies: Scrums and Mauls, sound tackles and penalties, offside, second and third-phase play, who had the advantage, and why this substitution was significant. He was using his radio voice, and the time just flew by.

There were two seconds to go on the clock, and the Welsh Standoff half stood behind the ball, twenty-five meters from goal. He raised his arms in the air, dropped it, took five quick strides, and flighted the ball, moving right to left to finally curl to the inside and drop dead center of the uprights.

Nine Nine, a draw, no one lost, honors even, everyone wins as the hated English had been locked out of the honors. Scots and Welsh fans made their way out of the stadium and into town. Good-natured rivalry and banter were on display, and blue arms could be seen draped over red shoulders as they good-naturedly relived the game on the walk into the city center pubs.

We drove back to the hotel to freshen up; no sooner had our door shut behind us than we were pulling each other clothes off, our lips met, and we crashed on the bed; our hands were ferocious as we reached for each other hardons, soon we were sixty-nining.

I knew I would win this game; Fi always lost control first; her hips began to buck as she fucked my mouth while I sucked on her; it only took a few moments before I was on my back, legs spread, and she was inside me.

Neither of us, when in that position, lasted very long. We reckoned it was something about being able to gaze into each other eyes; soon, she spent her love inside me, and I did the same between our tightly touching bellies.

After a few minutes, we caught our breath. "OK, so it's a yes to Rugby," I said.

We laughed, and then Fi hurried me into the shower: " We're meeting Mum and Dad in twenty minutes, hurry."

The Rugby club was a different place at night. Now, the younger lads ruled the roost. Servers loaded with trays full of dark brown Scottish beer made their way around the tables, and the noise level rose as the liquid went down.

A few Welsh supporters were in on the act, too, still clad in bright Red strips with the white three-feather emblem on their chests. While the songs they sang at the matches were often based on hymns, the ones they sang in the rugby club were far more ribald, often pornographic.

"Oh, four and twenty virgins came down from Inverness, and when the ball was over, there were four and twenty less."

Song after song, verse after verse, almost all songs you could not write home to mum about.

We ended up clinging to the sides of the room as the volume grew unbearable in the middle, and the Brownian motion of random bodies and pint-filled hands, physical bumping and pushing that was only going to end in disaster, started.

I don't know how I got talked into it. Fi was off a few feet away talking to some six-foolish rugby chap in a multicolored jersey I would never identify. Then, another of similar ilk persuaded me to sit at a chess board and talked me into a game of drafts.

Twelve Vodkas on one side and Twelve Whisky on the other. I got creamed, and every time one of my pieces was removed from the board, I had to drink it; I lost badly. Twelve Vodkas in a few minutes was too much; I stood up, my head began to spin, and my knees just about collapsed; I was going to vomit.

Colin was by my side almost immediately and hurried me out of a side door, where I threw myself over the handrail and puked my pretty little guts up. He held my hair until my stomach was empty, but I was still trying to throw up.

"The dry heaves Joise, it hurts, but it's a sign the worst of it is over."

He took a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped the cold sweat from my brow. The door opened, and Fi hurried out with two pints and glasses of cold water.

"Drink," she handed me the first; I gulped it down; my throat felt like it was on fire. She gave me two aspirin and then the other glass. Without comment, I finished that off.