During a short summertime break, I was spending a week driving around the west of Scotland and had booked a twosome of Night on the Isle of Skye. For yr considered a dramatic finish with wild-eyed partial tone, nowadays of course you don't so lots go"over the sea to Skye"as you go"over the nosepiece"to it - paying a tidy toll for the privilege - and this does incline to diminish the sense of romantic isolation. Nevertheless, the scenery when you get there is just as romantic and as dramatic as it ever was.

I had booked into a low individual guest-house hotel somewhat off the tucker running, partly for the added romance of its remoteness but also for its emplacement in the north of the island, not far from the"Old Man of Storr ”, a conspicuously priapic granite outcrop some 535m high. Just like so many passing tourists, I had seen it from a distance but never up close and I thought that the goodish trek up to it from the road might be rewarding. That was my programme for tomorrow anyway.

I checked-in former in the evening and the woman of the theater seemed pleasant enough but when I went down to dinner an hour or so later, I detected a strange atmosphere in the diminished dining room. As I entered, I was immediately aware of a group of about 6 guys at the little bar at the end of the room ; they were the entirely others in the room and as I walked in, they suddenly stopped talking and, after a momentaneous pause to assess the interloper, they restarted their conversation - but in Gaelic. I felt very much the outsider and as I sat alone at my table in the window, the cleaning woman of the house took on a sort of"Mrs Danvers"persona as she served my meal ; if you've ever seen that old Hollywood Classic"Rebecca ”, with Laurence Olivier and Joan Fontaine, you'll know what I mean ; she was polite and efficient, while at the same prison term, rather grim and somewhat foreclose. It was all rather eerie and I ate my wholesome Scots farmhouse dinner alone and in an inept secrecy, while the locals continued their conversation in murmurs of Gaelic, interrupted by the periodic explosion of laughter and a coup d'oeil in my direction - which just made me finger even more uncomfortable.

Afterwards, I retired to the ease of the lounge, after for the first time ordering a good 20 year-old malted whisky from the bar - making sure that I did not give the locals grounds for crime by adulterating it with anything like ice, even though I would own preferred it that way ! Slumped in a deep arm-chair by the flack, filled with my meal and warmed by the malt whisky, I began to feel mellow and rather sleepy.

As I dozed, I became conscious of the digit of a kilted young man half-sitting on the arm of the sofa next to me. My centre travelled upwards over his young, slightly hairy legs and tanned bare knees. He was wearing typical Highland hike apparel : walking boots, thick woolly socks and an appropriate Skye plaid kilt, complete with a rather assume leather sporran which now lay in his lap. He had on a chunky Arran sweater and he had a large tumbler pigeon in his hands with about half-an-inch of what looked like malt whiskey in the hindquarters. He raised the glass to his lips. It was Deryk - or rather, the somewhat knotty, mysterious and well-favored young guy I had met months before in Greater London and who seemed to have assumed the role of my erstwhile fancy younger brother from childhood.



"how-do-you-do,"he said, looking directly into my eyes with his piercing gaze. Then with that winning crooked grinning of his he continued,"Glad to see we share the Saame tastes."

He cocked his head on one side, winked and raised his trash, as if to say a unsounded ‘ Slangevar'before sipping his scotch appreciatively.

His middle were sunken beneath soft blackamoor eye-brows and against the fervidness glowing they seemed almost burnished, while the blues and putting green of his plaid kilt seemed to muse in their rich blue people of color. Just as when I saw him months ago, he had the Lapp short, wavelike black hair which flopped boyishly forward over his forehead and he had a flaccid facial nerve complexion that included a carefully cultivated shadow-beard. He had lovely, kissable lips ; a little weather-worn but plump and tasting slightly salty, I recalled, as I gazed back at him.



Of course, yr ago when I was pre-adolescent, he had been my new Brother and was always getting into trouble and scar from which I had to rescue him ; rescues which usually, and significantly as it turned out, involved getting his wearing apparel off - as well as assorted other naughtinesses of childhood. In those sidereal day, he would give birth been just a few class untried than me but he was now unaccountably still only in his mid-20's while I was nearly 40. Evidently, the years had been kind to him ! However, since the lone brother I had known was the one of my young and fecund imagination, the mystery story of who this guy really was still eluded me. After our utmost showdown in London a few months ago, he had disappeared again, leaving me none the wiser ; his reappearance now would, you might think, have provoked a deeper investigation on my part but for some reason, this time I just accepted his being there. He was after all, fucking gorgeous and I fancied him like no-one else I had known. And in view of what happened last sentence, my mind was awake to the possibilities the night might have in store.

"I was wondering when you were going to reappear,"I said, and returned his ‘ Slangevar'with a gesture and a sip from my own deoxyephedrine of scotch. The warmness of the malt nectar seemed to percolate through my body, as I gazed back into his bluish pond of toothsome and forbidden lust.

"I suppose I shouldn't ask what actually happened back at the Park toilets that night - you know, after you vanished ?"I said.

His eyes narrowed as he screwed-up his face in an locution of pretend embarrassment.

"Hmm - honest not to really,"he affirmed, promptly changing the matter."fantasy slipping outside for a breath of sassy air ? It's quite hot in here by the blast and it's a pin-up sack Nox out."

I was tempted to produce a remark along the blood of his tactual sensation cooler if I were to divest him of his Arran sweater and wakeless kilt but I thought the better of it - for now at least. Instead, I simply nodded and got up to follow him, as the pleats of his kilt swayed seductively from side to side and he headed for the door.

He was right ; it was a beautifully sack up, romantic Night as we stood in the cold night air, gazing up at the sensation and pointing-out to each other the configuration and their major stars ; the evident"W"of Cassiopeia high in the north-east ; the brightness of Arcturus in the west and above us, Deneb, Vega and Altair, the star of the"Summer Triangle"; and of row, the"Wagon ”, Ursa John R. Major, the"Great Bear"and its pointer to the Pole Star, polar star. He seemed to recognize just as many of them as I did, and I was impressed by his knowledge and stake ; it made me experience even closer to him. A full synodic month glowed low in the sky from behind a few wisps of thin cloud. An owl hooted.

"What are you planning tomorrow ?"he asked,"Have you seen the Old Man yet ?"

He was hoping I would misunderstand his equivocal character reference to the"Old Man of Storr"but I spoiled his attempt to razz me as I went on to state him of my own architectural plan. He nodded his approving and thought for a moment.

"The guy wire I was talking to in the bar earlier,"he said,"told me that the ridge behind the Old Man rises to more than two yard pes. It's a longer trek of course of action but if it's clear, the view's well worth the try - or so I was told."

He went on to describe the rather risky track they had told him to take from the road instead of following the established tourist path up to the Old Man. He dismissed my protest that it sounded treacherous.

"Well, that's what I thought I would do, at any charge per unit,"he finally asserted.

The full phase of the moon moon bathed the surrounding Scots heather and the distant glen in a soft bluish light, while our breath made little clouds of vapour against the night air. A shooting star tore across the sky and disappeared behind the Benny Hill above the little hotel and I sighed and shivered in the frigidity. My Scotch was now gone and I was only wearing a cotton shirt. It was at that consequence that he moved closer to me and slue his arm around my shoulder, turning me towards him and enfolding me with his other arm. Willingly, I fell against him and put my arms inside his sweater to hug his warm body, clad underneath only in a tee-shirt. Once again, I was enveloped in his masculine olfactory property which, enhanced by his pernicious use of a familiar musky cologne, seemed to envelop me in the safety of a warm up cover. My boldness found a home against the soft comforter of his shoulder.

"I missed you,"I whispered.

"I think it's prison term we went to bed, don't you ?"he said.

He went on ahead up the stairs and I followed behind, mesmerized by the tantalizing delicacy of his kilted stern. His strong hairy pegleg clad in chunky wool socks disappeared into that unknown region beyond the swaying plait of his Skye tartan and I couldn't help wondering if it was true - you know - what they say……..

He waited on the landing for me to open my door and ask in him in but once inside, by the light of the moon from the window, we finally embraced with a avowedly passion of hungriness. At last, we kissed, long and lustfully, probing with our tongues and tasting the taboo yield of brotherly dearest. His lips were full moon and moist, slightly salty to the taste ; the stalk of his shadow-beard felt slightly rugged and I inhaled the deep, masculinity of his body as we remained locked in a remorseless grip.

We surfaced for air but standing in the moonshine, we were overtaken again by our lust and we began frantically pulling off each others clothes. He unbuckled his sporran and it dropped to the floor as I pulled his sweater off, revealing the same"X-Men"tee-shirt he had worn the last clock time we met -"Gulo gulo"it read. My shirt was off succeeding, then our the boot and socks, before we fell into another embracement, kissing and snuggling, breathing and panting. He sank his lips into my neck and I gasped in XTC, as his stubble lightly scratched at my sensitive bare skin and he began licking and biting my ear, his warm up breathing space sending tingles up and down my spine.

He dropped to his articulatio genus before me, kissing the white, hairless skin of my stomach and pressing his face into my crotch. Gently, he unbuttoned my dungaree and lowered them to the floor ; and then his nerve buried itself in my groin. My reed organ was bursting from my Cin2 legal brief by this point, oozing pre-cum succus into the soft white fabric, which he eagerly sucked and tasted, gently biting at my cock and musket ball through my legal brief and driving me wild.

As he stood up, I stepped out of my dungaree and raised his arms to tear off his tee-shirt, revealing his well developed bureau, peppered with flabby hair's-breadth, in the centre of which hung on a leather necklace, a striking bronze medal in the shape of a Celtic amulet. It glinted in the moonlight and when he saw me looking at it, he smiled knowingly and pressed it against my chest of drawers ; it felt surprisingly moth-eaten, strange but in some way fascinating.

We returned to our embrace, kissing and hugging ; my manus now following the conformation of his hairless back, his spine and then at last, his bum, still covered by his kilt. Through the heavy wool material, I massaged the nerve of his bed, feeling their plump round cast and clutching at the pleats of the vertebral column of his kilt. I pushed him backwards across the floor, until he fell onto the bed. But sensing what I wanted to do, he immediately rolled over onto his figurehead, his body now lying prone before me, clad only in his Skye Tartan kilt. I climbed onto the bed between his bare legs.

Seeking to break but also wishing to keep up the act of discovery, I ran my hands up the rear of his hairy legs, slowly under his kilt, higher and high-pitched inside the clandestine sanctuary until I felt his hairless cheek. I could resist no longer ; I slid back down the bed and buried my head under his kilt, diving into his crevice, kissing and tonguing his crack and tasting the sweaty scent of this, the most private surface area of his young body. I spread his ramification, to chance on his balls and put up rooster, trapped by his kilt and pressed firmly against the bed and down between his leg. His cock-head was already exposed and moist ; I licked it in a circular gesture, before taking it fully into my back talk, as my olfactory organ pressed into his hairless clod - did he shave his nut ? I hadn't remembered that from finally time.

He was groaning and writhing against the bed, clutching at the pillow in pleasure at his rimming.

"Do it, Mark,"he groaned,"You know you want to ……. please."

I pulled the pillows down under the movement of his kilt, lifting his rear. Then, gently folding back the plait of his Skye plaid, I exposed his beautiful, plump, round boldness to the soft moonlight. I needed no lubricant ; I was oozing pre-cum for all I was Charles Frederick Worth ! So, smearing my pre-cum in and around his anus, I first finger-fucked him gently. He gasped, as the foremost finger pushed inside to regain his prostate gland. I felt it, slightly hard and intumesce with excitement. He groaned, more loudly this clock time. Then, kneeling between his bed cover thigh and exposed hindquarters, and surrounded by the folds of his kilt, like a immense blue-green prime, I pressed my wet and slippery tool against its minor target at the nub. Whether or not I was de-flowering the younker of my younger brother, I could not know but against his initial resistance, I pushed, gently at first and then more firmly, until my cock-head slipped inside the first gear sleeping room. His sharp consumption of hint, followed by a slight whimpering auditory sensation, said,"Proceed ”.

"Oh God !"he exclaimed into the pillow, as I pushed beyond the future roadblock, into his internal sanctum.



He felt so warm up and associate, soft and comforting ; I felt his second joint gripping the outside of my legs as I pressed on and I began to palpate his own clasp from within his bowels. I established a slow, firm but gentle action, pushing fully into him and then slowly pulling almost all the way out, but not quite, then in again, back and Forth River, back and forth.

"Oh screw ! Oh God ! Mark,"he gasped."I'm gon na cum like this,"he groaned in cristal. I could feel his inside clenching me, as I kept pushing across the egotistic inclemency of his prostate gland. His entire consistence began to shake.

It was all too lots for me ; my own cum was rising now and my action became necessarily more delirious, as I pushed faster, back and forth, in and out, until - we each let out our gasp in coinciding rest period, as we both came in two shattering coming, each reinforcing the former, as my cum seemed to burst forth from inside my clod and down my shaft, into his young willingness, to be met by pounding of ecstasy, as his own cum erupted from his prostate, soaking the interior of his kilt in syndicate of White River spooge.

Amidst our common groans and groan, I collapsed on top of him, my organ slipping from his trap, as his eubstance relaxed under me. As I kissed the rachis of his cervix, his paw found mine aside the pillow and he grasped them, gripping them in loving thanks. We both fell into cryptical and solid eternal rest ; the sleep of the inexperienced person ? Perhaps.

When I awoke the following morning, there was no sign of him ; his kicking and wind sock, the X-Men tee-shirt, Arran sweater and the kilt, were all gone."Just like last-place fourth dimension,"I cursed to myself.

I showered, dressed and went down to breakfast. After last Night's exertions, I was ravenous and"Mrs Danvers"served me a replete cooked breakfast in her characteristically hush and efficient manner. I wanted to ask where he was but I had realised that I didn't actually know that he was staying in the hotel ; I had only assumed it and as I didn't want to stymy myself, I said nothing.



intellection that Deryk might turn over up again, I hung around for a while near the hotel but eventually gave up and decided to drive on up to the"Old Man of Storr"car park, as per my plan. In fact, I thought I might still stand a fortune of seeing him there but I didn't. I made the short trek up through the wood and on to the field known as"The bema ”, where a number of rocky volcanic stopper stand majestically and somewhat mystically in the almost lunar landscape painting."The Old Man of Storr"is the fully grown and most telling of them all. I had been taking lots of pictures in the morning light but the weather deteriorated towards noontide, so I went back to the hotel for a deep lunch.

However, the dining elbow room wasn't open and"Mrs Danvers"wasn't around but an older guy was behind the bar - probably"Mr Danvers"- and he served me a Scotch and a micro-waved pastie with rather less finesse than his forbidding wife ! While I sat with my drinking in the street corner eating my luncheon, three young guys came in and sat at the bar. They were some of the same guy I had seen the night before and, as lastly Night, they were joking and sniggering about something. As I looked in their counseling, I noticed one of them was proudly showing the others a medallion of some sort and my stomach suddenly turned over when I realised what it was. It was Deryk's Celtic Talisman ! I was now worried and I desperately tried to get a line what they were saying. Unlike last-place night, they were talking in English people ; not that it did me much honorable because their dialects were so strong that I still couldn't grab much - except the word"Storr ”. Now I really was worried and I resolved to go out to find the way Deryk had said he was intending to adopt to reach the ridge. I was convinced he was out there, needing to be rescued, just like when we were kids.

With some difficulty, I eventually found the early path some way south of the car commons and leading up from the road. By now though, clip was getting on and the atmospheric condition was already starting to close-in. It was Grey and low temperature and the first off patch of rainfall were falling. But I wrapped-up and set off, undeterred and even more certain that he was there, somewhere.



I traced the path, noting the landmark from the de***********ion he had given me the night before and scanning the rocks and bracken for any signal or clew of his having been there. The path passed penny-pinching by a small tarn or pond fed by hill water from the ridgepole and there were the clay of an old barn or croft nearby. I was about to pretend the detour to look into when I spotted something in the Pteridium esculentum ; leather ; a leather shoulder strap ; then the unmistakable shape of a leather sporran. It was his ! There was a small stream just a few pace away and as I cast my oculus up and down the gulley, I spotted the apparent form of a kilt, now soaking wet and filthy dirty, lying in the mud. But there was no mansion of Deryk.

Stepping down into the stream, my heart sank into the pit of my tummy as I saw him, lying nerve down in the mud, completely nude except for his wind cone and his X-Men tee shirt. I was shivering with care now, at what I might be about to chance on. He was a pitiful heap ; lying there in the shallow, rocky flow, his body concluding night tanned and strong was now grey, shriveled and lost. As I bent down to touch his battered and bruised body, I feared the worst. I felt his neck ; there was a pulsation from his carotid artery - a feint one but a pulse at least. He stirred at my touch.

"Saint Mark ?"he murmured,"Is that you ?"

He raised his head and turned, but as he tried to get up, I realised that his consistence was covered with boastfully wheals and bruises, as if he had been kicked repeatedly, and his expression was puffy with contusion, cutting off and grazes. I lifted him up and comforted him, as I took off my pelage and put it over his low temperature and shivering shoulders.

"You came for me. I knew you would come for me,"he quietly sobbed,"just like when we were kids."Tears began to mingle with mud and blood on his beautiful but beaten face.

"Who did this to you ?"I asked, as I used my hankey to wipe the mud from his face.

"Those SOB in the bar last night,"he muttered, gritting his tooth, as if garner strong suit,"I should have known better. They fucked me all roads, the bastards. But at least you're here now."

By now the weather was getting angry ; the malarkey had picked up and the cold rainwater was starting to come down quite heavily. And it was getting dark. I looked at my watch and realised that, in his condition, we would never get back to the car before nightfall and this terrain would be unreliable in the night, even if we tried. God knows where his kicking were - stolen I guess, along with his talisman and the contents of his sporran. I checked my mobile phone to shout for assistance but just when I needed it most, there was no signal. I decided the only thing to do was to seek some sort of shelter and I remembered the ruined croft a few hundred railyard away, so with some difficultness, I managed to get Deryk to his groundwork and we staggered out of the ditch and across the bracken, eventually to discover that portion of the ruin was still a small roofed structure with a half-broken barn room access on the other side. As we staggered inside, we were greeted by the warmth and olfactory sensation of what had once been an fleshly protection but which now took on a new role, as a tax shelter for two brothers. We collapsed into the straw in the corner.

There was little else I could do in the dark, with no first aid kit. What niggling clothing we had on was now soaking wet and we had only my coating to extend us both but at to the lowest degree it was warm up and dry in our shelter, albeit rather smelly ! I had a bottleful of water which I made him sip and I also had some coffee in my scoop - always a ripe source of Energy and nourishment, so I gave him that to eat. His jaw was aching from his bruising but at least it wasn't broken.



The only other remedy for exposure in these circumstances is shared bodily warmth, so I improvised a bed from the straw, peeled off his wet X-men tee-shirt and his wet drogue and then removed my own apparel and laid them out to dry on the stubble beside us. Now both completely naked, I hugged him closely against my tender consistency, spooning him from behind in the foetal office and pulling the pelage over the top of us. Deryk was shivering at first but after a little while, the warmness began to establish up under the coat and he settled into a soft sleep.

As the warmth built up, I started to get horny with my arms around him and my dick nestled in the scissure below his behind. I was thinking about cobbler's last nighttime and shooting my load into his inner willingness for the first time. I'm ashamed to say that, even in this moment of crisis, my juice were flowing again and my erecting was slipping rather easily into the pass between his seat. This moment was what all my fantasies of childhood had been leading up to - although I was too young or naïve to understand them fully at the clip - and now I had a real Deryk in the prophylactic of my blazonry again and I wanted him. In fact, I wanted him so much that with just the svelte drive between his rear end, I felt my coming building uncontrollably. Part of me didn't want it this way ; I didn't think it was"ripe"while Deryk was in such a weakened State. But I didn't enter him though ; I couldn't - I shouldn't - do that ; not here, not now. Even so, my orgasm was still rising in my chunk until, inevitably, I knew the battle was lost. My cum rose mercilessly through my pubic region and erupted from my erecting in a number of assuage throbbing, as my fluids filled the tornado of his bum and I cradled his body before me, hugging him and kissing the book binding of his neck. At last I fell asleep.

The atmospheric condition must own cleared during the night because I awoke to a shaft of moonlight through the gap in the old barn door. And against this light, I saw a phantom, the outline at to the lowest degree, of Deryk, on his knees astride my body.



"You seem to have recovered alright,"I ventured, in the half-light. He seemed to grumble in answer but then he said gruffly,

"You've had what you wanted ; now it's my turn,"and he just grabbed my branch and drop my feet above his berm, hoisting me off our bed of straw.

Before I knew it, I felt the familiar rascality of his erect harmonium directly against my hole and with one thrust and a defiant oink, he rammed into me, all the way.

"Jesus !"I yelled out,"Go easily - please !"

"It's the just way you're gon na get it, Oncorhynchus keta,"he barked, as he pulled back and jampack hard into me again. This metre, I felt his chunk slap my backside. Suddenly, there was no need for shared bodily warmth, as I was shedding sweat by the bucket-load !

"shag me !"I found myself shouting, more in anguish than as a request. But he quickly fired back, in rhythm to his ramming into me,

"That's…..exactly……what I'm……..doing !"

In between the pain of his poking, which I was beginning to get accustomed to, I was mindful of the similarities with what happened last time he re-appeared. The same share-out of heart and warmth, the Same rapid rejuvenation, the light of the moon and now this almost beast adaptation of Deryk.

"Besides…….you like it…….really……..oh dump ! ... ... ..Oh fu…. !"

He rammed into me one final time and came inside me, as he let out a variety of howl of relief and I felt his fluids pumping into my insides, throb after throb after throb, before he collapsed on top of me on the straw, his erect organ still buried inside me. The pressure of his strong Whitney Young body against my stomach now found my own erect stopcock, oozing pre-cum juice again and desperate to be relieved. With my weaponry around him, my hands clutched the cheeks of his bum and pulled him to me. Just as last night, that little pressure and blue movement was all it took to play on my own orgasm, and as my interior clenched and my sight seemed to blear in the moment of shattering climax, I felt his softening Hammond organ mooring out of my hole just as my cum fit from my pecker, filling the spaces between our two bodies and running down the incline of my body into the husk. Shattered, I fell asleep again, this time with Deryk lying on top of me.

I awoke to sunlight streaming into an empty barn. I sat up. There was a dull aching emanating from my backside and Deryk was gone again.

"bugger ! Just like last time,"I swore out garish to myself.

I looked at my watch. It was 9.30 already. My clothes were now dry, so I quickly put them on and set off back down the trail to the car which, thankfully, was still parked where I had left it. In the poise morning light, I drove back to the hotel, arriving about 11.00am. However, what greeted me made me suddenly feel quite vacuous and cold.

As I pulled into the lane, I saw the flashing lights of an ambulance, two constabulary cars and a prominent crew of multitude. As I got out of the car, I expected to be the centre of everyone's attention, having been"missing"all night, but the get together crowd was all gathered around a young man with a blanket over his berm, sitting on the paries and being attended to by the paramedical and being questioned by the Police. I recognized the Brigham Young man from the bar of the hotel yesterday and the night before. As I listened to what was going on, I discovered that the untried man and two of his friend had been out for an early daybreak walk on the moor not far from the hotel when they had been viciously attacked. His two friends were now on their way to hospital in a bad way, but the culprit of this violence was the main talking-point ; it seems that their attacker was a"cruel animate being with cold potency and pincer to match ”. Certainly, the young man in the blanket looked as if he had been heavily beaten and scratched. His wearing apparel, or what remained of them, were torn and filthy and one side of his case bore patched wounds of dried blood. In fact, he was a mess hall - and he was the one who hadn't been taken to hospital !

But no-one was interested in me ; the law spoke to me briefly but only to establish that I hadn't seen anything. I told them the truth - or at least, section of it. I had gone up to the"Old Man"late yesterday but because of the weather, I had spent the Nox in the car, in the car park. Given that I clearly had neither the physique nor the build requirement to outflank three Highland youths in the manner that had clearly taken place, they believed me. I went up to my elbow room to tamp down my dish. It was clip to strike on.

But there, lying on the pillow, was Deryk's Celtic Talisman………..

( PS ) If anyone out there likes my `` Deryk '' floor, perhaps you 'd like to suggest how I should develop him - constructive comment, please !