sparkindarkness | Spark in Darkness PWP #3

Ok, this can be blamed on

logophilos for her link to the utilikilts which inspired me. Well, it inspired Rick and the rest of me was willing to go along for the ride.

And I it amuses me that I got to uswe the word sporran-lube.

Set before the current story-arc, while Darren was still setting up his shop

“It’s arrived!”

I sighed and put down my paperwork at Rick’s excited gasp. I wondered if other shop owners ever had to plan their grand opening with a Rick in the background. Probably not - the economy would collapse over night.

“I ask this question with all due sense of dread, but what has arrived?”

“This!” Rick strutted into the room brimming with excitement. Of course the strut was more interesting than usual because he was wearing a kilt. Yes, an actual kilt in classic Scottish style. Dear gods have mercy.

“Its a kilt, Rick. You’re wearing tartan.” I tried to express the full horror of this in my voice but I don’t think there is a tone that can adequately express the revulsion caused by unashamed use of tartan. “Ghost? I thought you were babysitting him!”

I‘m a spirit guide not a god, Darren. I talked him out of the bagpipes at least

I closed my eyes briefly at the idea of the horror. Bagpipes. Sweet gods protect us from that.

“Hey, this is a genuine Scottish kilt! From Scotland.” Rick protested angrily, dropping the box on the table.

I briefly glanced at it. “From Birmingham in Scotland, apparently.” I said, keeping a perfectly straight face. “Och aye the Brummie it seems.”

Rick’s enthusiasm was apparently immune to my sarcasm. “I found a website of this Scottish company, you give these guys your name and they look through their records to see if you have any Scottish ancestry and match up the right tartan from the right clan! And they have the kilts there for you to order.”

I permitted myself an eye roll. “Rick, I’ve seen those companies before. They would claim you were part of a Scottish clan if your surname was Rabinowitz. You paid, what, £150, maybe £200 for that?”

Rick was never one to let reality dim his fervour. “We could put your name in. Your name’s celtic, isn’t it?”

“Rick, Camaalis can trace out ancestry back for thousands of years. I don’t need some cheap internet fraudster to try and convince me my great grandfather was some heather beater in drag.”

“What, you don’t want a kilt?” Rick grinned. I eyed him suspiciously.

“With the winters you have here? I prefer trousers, thank you. I’d never understand why the Scots of all people would want to run around in clothes that risk intimate frostbite.” I had to admit there were certain attractions to seeing Rick in a kilt, though. Very persuasive attractions. Maybe I could take some photographs before I made him send it back.

He flopped down next to me on the sofa, knocking my papers onto the floor. “Kilts are better because you’ve got ease of access.” He grinned wickedly. “And a handy sex toy holder.”

“Rick, it’s a sporran!” I laughed.

He pulled a tube of lube out of it. “What? You can think of a better use for it?” I had to admit I couldn’t. Of course thinking became extremely difficult at that point as Rick quickly unbuttoned and tore aside my trousers making great use of his handy sporran-lube. Maybe kilts would be easier. Especially since Rick wasn’t wearing anything under his. I could forgive the tartan. Yes, yes I could.

I could forgive anything once he bent me over the sofa. He was inside me almost before I'd found a comfortable position. He started straight out with a fast rhythm, nearly pounding me into the sofa before I had chance to brace myself. No build up, no gradual working in, no sweet crescendo, it was diving into the deep end from the very first thrust.

My hands tightened on the cushion. It was fast and rough and hurt more than little, jolts of pain and pleasure coming together until even I didn’t know whether I was enjoying it or not - I just knew I didn’t want it to stop. I gasped past clenched teeth, my breath coming so fast I almost thought I was hyperventilating, if I could think at all past the slapping rhythm of flesh against the flesh and the feel of him ramming inside me, hard and thick and huge.

Everything seemed to fade out, the leather sofa under my hands, the pain in my jaw from my clenched teeth, the feel of the rough cloth of his kilt rubbing against my back and legs - everything faded out to that one point of pain pleasure - ecstasy and agony pounding into me again and again and again. I rode on the edge of orgasm, caught between pleasure and it hurting too much for it before finally, painfully, joyfully crashing over the edge. I buried my head into the cushions, not even sure if I made a noise or not as the orgasm exploded through me.

My throat felt nearly raw as I gasped for breath. I felt like I’d run a marathon. My legs sagged and I near collapsed onto the sofa. Rick’s weight pressed me down still thrusting into me as his breathing reached a fever pitch. His hands tightened on my shoulders so hard I would have cried out if I had any breath. I felt him come inside me to the sound of my shirt ripping as he collapsed on top of me, panting as heavily as I was. For a small eternity we lay like that, sweaty and sticky with his weight pressing down on top of me. I never really realise how much taller and heavier Rick is than me until he is laid on top of me after sex. I like it.

“So...” his voice creaked and cracked like he hadn’t had a drink in a month. He swallowed and tried again “So, think I should send it back?”

I considered this for a brief moment. “I think it may have some redeeming features... perhaps we should keep it.”

“Good, because I really don’t think they’d accept it as a return.”