Apparently, his redheaded host was called Walter Kilburnie. Daniel's grandfather had two children, a son and a daughter. His son was Zachary, Daniel's father, an aggressive, spiteful, mean-spirited lad from a young age. After a string of malicious, disrespectful events that Walter was suspiciously sketchy on the details of, he was told to leave and not return. Jean, Zachary's younger sister, was barren and never had any children of her own but took Walter in as a young boy. The Inverary house was left to Jean when their father died, but unfortunately she never formally adopted Walter.
"Y'r father got the house. I'd no claim t' it and had t' go, so I did up the ol' gatehouse." Walter gestured vaguely at the roof over their head, which was now echoing with the tinny drum of the rain as he served up another generous helping of whiskey. "House bein' empty, it caught the eye o' scum from up the glen. Thievin' bastards took some guns 'n' silverware. 'S all right though, I got it all back an' moved the valuable stuff down 'ere where I can keep me eyes on it." He said, proudly slapping the side of an adjacent crate with a violent glint in his eye.
It was a lot to take in on top of a lot of whiskey. "So all this stuff in the boxes belongs to me?"
"Aye. Whiskey, the glass's, this gun… pretty much all o' it. 'S y'rs."
"Well thank you very much for looking after it all for me."
"'S nae bother. Jus' glad y'r father didn't come callin' to collect it. Woulda hated to seem 'im walk away wi' some o' this stuff. Woulda had Thomas spinnin' in his grave, rest his soul. 'Specially his ol' colours. It'd be enough t' kill 'im all over again."
"His colours?"
"Aye. His colours. The MacAulay tartan." Walter tugged at the hem of his own kilt as if explaining himself to a foreigner who spoke a different language. Daniel supposed he kind-of was. "Thomas' kilt."
"My family has its own tartan? What's it like?"
Daniel found himself under a hard, scrutinizing stare. "Thomas' ol' kilt might just fit." Was all Walter said before he started moving boxes. He seemed to know exactly where he'd put it, transferring boxes away from the top of the stack without a second glance until he reached his target.
The finely pleated item was held out for him to take, so Daniel took it into his own hands. It was thick and heavy, the weave was tight but the surface was soft to the touch. The intersecting stripes were broadly red and mid green, crossing one another in a not-quite-checkerboard of colour. Within those thick bands ran smaller traces of black-green and white detail. It looked a far more grand affair than Walter's bland and beaten blue-green kilt. The drink in his stomach loosened the lid on his opinions. "It's amazing."
Walter nodded in a satisfied way. "Try't on then."
Daniel cast the blanket aside and stood, any nervousness or feelings of nakedness he'd experienced earlier were long gone thanks to the drink that had him swaying like a seafarer. He slung the wide swath of cloth around his middle before being overwhelmed by the seemingly complicated arrangements of folds and catches. He giggled to himself at the silliness of it all. "I've never worn a skirt before."
There was a sharp stinging before he realised that Walter had just clipped him around the ear. "'S nae skirt laddie! C'mere." Walter crouched onto one knee and took over. "Some fine MacAulay y'are. Cannae hold y'r whiskey. Cannae put y'r own kilt on! Overgrown bairn y'are!"
Daniel's giggling faded away. He wasn't sure if it was just the whiskey. It probably was the main reason, but he'd also been threatened at gunpoint and had been told that he wasn't the disappointment his father had always painted him to be. He felt alive, and glad to be. His skin and spine tingled in that thrilling way they usually do just before a really satisfying quiver, and his belly was full of fire. As he watched Walter kneeling before him, fingers working on settling the pleats and fixing the hasps, Daniel could feel the heat spreading from his stomach, trickling down to his groin and inner thigh. It added a gratifying weight to his balls as his cock thickened.
"There. Y'look a fine MacAuley as ever there were."
Daniel ran his hands down his own thighs, purely for the liberated feel of it. It felt good.
"Y'look like y'r enjoyin' it." Walter smiled and turned to toss another log on the fire. "The breeze'll do y'r a world o' good. 'S bad for a man t' be cooped up in stale 'n' sweaty troos. 'S not natural." Walter carried on, explaining how men weren't meant to live in cities, that the English Kings started it because a diseased people were easier to control and if grouped together, they were easier to tax, but Daniel wasn't really listening. He was looking at Walter's ass, shamelessly considering the possibility that the kilt was all that was covering it.
"Walter? Is it true what they say about what Scotsmen wear under their kilts?"
Walter turned and stood, his faced slowly flushing red. After a false start, he cleared his throat. "'S up to a man's personal preference."
"What about your personal preference?" He felt emboldened, but was past wondering whether it was bravery or stupidity. It was definitely the alcohol.
A muscle twitched in Walter's jaw and he squared up, folding his arms across his chest. "What business o' y'rs 's that?"
"I'm just curious." He grinned stupidly, dropping to his knees as his hands sought out one of Walter's legs. Grasping it first firmly around the knee to steady himself, he started sliding his palms up the thigh inside the kilt. One reached to cup Walter's ass while the knuckles of the other gently brushed against his balls, earning Daniel choked gasp. He felt one of Walter's fists curl into his hair and he nuzzled forwards at the encouragement, licking a mouthful of Walter's shirt and tugging it between his teeth.
Daniel slowly increased the contact, massaging at tightening flesh until his fingers were wrapped around Walter's stirring erection. It filled his hand with its hot, heavy weight and he pumped the shaft, feeling the soft, supple skin roll back and forth. When he pressed the pad of his thumb to the slick slit at the tip, Walter whined brokenly and the fist that had been clenched at his scalp loosened. Gnarled fingers tentatively threaded through his hair. "Daniel." It could have been a threatening growl if only it hadn't wavered like leaves caught in the wind. "Daniel… y'r drunk."
"Yeah. I know."
Daniel pushed at him, gentle but firm and persistent, until Walter staggered backwards and landed heavily in his seat. The way he sat blithely with minimal encouragement and sucked heavy breaths tickled Daniel's sense of humour, so much so that he barely suppressed further fits of giggles by grinning like a Cheshire cat. He placed his hands on Walter's thighs and pushed the tented kilt until it was rucked up around his waist and his cock stood free and exposed. As Daniel took hold of the base of Walter's cock and slid his lips down over the shaft, he heard a needy, broken whine. It didn't last; it was quickly drowned by the slosh of the whiskey bottle being up-ended and poured down Walter's throat.
Daniel was aware that he didn't have the vaguest inkling about what he was doing, but by the way Walter was acting, it seemed as though the blind was leading the blind. He gently sucked as much as he could muster with his mouth so full, and retained his presence of mind enough keep his teeth sheathed by his lips. Between efforts to free his own aching erection from the boxers he wore under his new kilt, he barely had enough concentration spare to devote to running his tongue along the underside of Walter's throbbing cock. Once he escaped the confines of his underwear and started to stroke himself off, Daniel lost himself completely in the deliciously peculiar sensations of his improbable situation. Bobbing his head up and down the shaft of a near-total stranger's dick, it seemed more like those perverted little private fantasies that sometimes cropped up in the back of the mind. Only better; he had an interactive participant that was moaning and twitching and gasping under his tongue.
Monumentally aroused, he pumped at his straining flesh until he was quaking with frustrated need. Whether it was the desperate sounds he'd started making or the rougher treatment he was meting out on Walter's hot manhood, he wasn't sure, because the Scotsman's climax took him completely by surprise. It was shot straight to the back of his throat with a grunt but it didn't choke him, it just smothered him like thick, warm phlegm. He let Walter's softening cock slip from his mouth and he cleared his throat heavily. Fingers that had been clawing through his hair rested uncertainly on his crown, and breaths that had been fast and ragged were now level and even.
"I think." Walter stopped short with the sound of gritted teeth. "I think y've had too much to drink."
Daniel began to feel immensely stupid, and his erection flagged in his grip.
