During a scant summer break, I was spending a week driving around the west of Scotland and had booked a brace of nights on the Isle of Skye. For years considered a dramatic terminus with romantic partial, nowadays of course you don't so much go"over the sea to Skye"as you go"over the bridge"to it - paying a respectable toll for the privilege - and this does be given to diminish the common sense of romantic closing off. Nevertheless, the scenery when you get there is just as quixotic and as dramatic as it ever was.

I had booked into a pocket-sized private guest-house hotel somewhat off the pose racetrack, partly for the impart romance of its remoteness but also for its emplacement in the magnetic north of the island, not far from the"Old Man of Storr ”, a conspicuously phallic granite outcrop some 535m high school. Just like so many passing tourer, I had seen it from a distance but never up close and I thought that the healthy trek up to it from the road might be rewarding. That was my program for tomorrow anyway.

I checked-in other in the evening and the woman of the star sign seemed pleasant enough but when I went down to dinner an hour or so later, I detected a strange atmosphere in the small dining room. As I entered, I was immediately mindful of a group of about 6 cat at the little bar at the end of the elbow room ; they were the only others in the elbow room and as I walked in, they suddenly stopped talking and, after a fleeting pause to valuate 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 woman of the house took on a sorting of"Mrs Danvers"role 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 effective, while at the like time, rather macabre and somewhat threatening. It was all rather eerie and I ate my wholesome Scots English farmhouse dinner alone and in an embarrassing secretiveness, while the topical anesthetic continued their conversation in murmurs of Gaelic, interrupted by the occasional burst of laugh and a glance in my direction - which just made me sense even more uncomfortable.

Afterwards, I retired to the solace of the waiting room, after first ordering a good 20 year-old malt whiskey from the bar - making sure that I did not commit the local anaesthetic grounds for offence by adulterating it with anything like ice, even though I would have preferred it that way ! Slumped in a cryptical arm-chair by the flack, filled with my meal and warmed by the scotch, I began to feel melt and rather sleepy.

As I dozed, I became conscious of the figure of a kilted young man half-sitting on the arm of the lounge next to me. My heart travelled upwards over his young, slightly hairy ramification and tanned bare genu. He was wearing typical Highland hiking clothes : walking boots, thick woolly air-sleeve and an allow Skye tartan kilt, complete with a rather get into leather sporran which now lay in his lap. He had on a chunky Arran sweater and he had a large tumbler in his hands with about half-an-inch of what looked wish Scotch in the derriere. He raised the trash to his lips. It was Deryk - or rather, the somewhat tough, mysterious and handsome young guy I had met months before in London and who seemed to have assumed the role of my erstwhile fantasize younger brother from childhood.



"Hello,"he said, looking directly into my eye with his piercing gaze. Then with that winning crooked smiling of his he continued,"Glad to see we contribution the same tastes."

He cocked his head on one side, winked and raised his Methedrine, as if to say a mute ‘ Slangevar'before sipping his malt whisky appreciatively.

His eyes were sunken beneath soft black eye-brows and against the fire glow they seemed almost lustrous, while the blue and putting green of his plaid kilt seemed to ruminate in their full-bodied blue vividness. Just as when I saw him month ago, he had the same short, wavy Negro fuzz which flopped boyishly forward over his forehead and he had a soft nervus facialis skin color 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 grade, days ago when I was pre-adolescent, he had been my untried brother and was always getting into trouble and excoriation from which I had to rescue him ; rescues which usually, and significantly as it turned out, involved getting his dress off - as well as various early naughtinesses of childhood. In those daylight, he would have got been just a few geezerhood younger than me but he was now unaccountably still only in his mid-20's while I was nearly 40. Evidently, the year had been form to him ! However, since the only if sidekick I had known was the one of my Lester Willis Young and fertile imagery, the enigma of who this guy really was still eluded me. After our live on encounter in British capital a few calendar month ago, he had disappeared again, leaving me none the wiser ; his reappearance now would, you might cerebrate, have provoked a deeper investigation on my theatrical role 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 hold out time, my mind was alert 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 glass of malt whiskey. The warmth of the malt nectar seemed to percolate through my body, as I gazed back into his blue pool of Delicious and forbidden lust.

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

His eyes narrowed as he screwed-up his face in an construction of make-believe embarrassment.

"Hmm - estimable not to really,"he affirmed, promptly changing the subject."Fancy slipping away for a breath of fresh air ? It's quite hot in here by the flaming and it's a lovely exonerated night out."

I was tempted to make a comment along the lines of his feel cooler if I were to divest him of his Arran sweater and heavy kilt but I thought the bettor of it - for now at least. Instead, I simply nodded and got up to follow him, as the plait of his kilt swayed seductively from side of meat to side and he headed for the door.

He was right ; it was a beautifully solve, amorous Night as we stood in the cold night air, gazing up at the stars and pointing-out to each other the configuration and their John R. Major stars ; the apparent"W"of Cassiopeia high in the nor'-east ; the brightness of Arcturus in the west and above us, Deneb, Lope Felix de Vega Carpio and Altair, the whiz of the"summer trilateral"; and of course, the"Plough ”, Ursa John Major, the"Great Bear"and its pointer to the Pole Star, pole star. He seemed to tell apart just as many of them as I did, and I was impressed by his knowledge and interest group ; it made me palpate even closer to him. A full moon 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 reference to the"Old Man of Storr"but I spoiled his attempt to tantalise me as I went on to tell him of my own plans. He nodded his favorable reception and idea for a moment.

"The guys I was talking to in the bar earlier,"he said,"told me that the ridgepole behind the Old Man rises to more than two thousand substructure. It's a longer trek of course but if it's clear, the view's well worth the effort - or so I was told."

He went on to identify the rather hazardous path they had told him to get hold of from the route instead of following the established tourist path up to the Old Man. He dismissed my protestations that it sounded treacherous.

"well, that's what I thought I would do, at any rate,"he finally asserted.

The broad Moon bathed the surrounding Scots heather and the distant glen in a gentle bluish light, while our breath made trivial cloud of evaporation against the night air. A shooting champion tore across the sky and disappeared behind the pitcher's mound above the little hotel and I sighed and shivered in the cold. My Scotch whisky was now gone and I was only wearing a cotton plant shirt. It was at that moment that he moved closer to me and slew his arm around my articulatio humeri, turning me towards him and enfolding me with his early arm. Willingly, I fell against him and put my arms inside his jumper to hug his warm body, drape underneath only in a tee-shirt. Once again, I was enveloped in his masculine scent which, enhanced by his subtle use of a fellow musky cologne, seemed to enwrap me in the condom of a warm blanket. My face found a home against the sonant comfort of his shoulder.

"I missed you,"I whispered.

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

He went on ahead up the stairs and I followed behind, mesmerized by the tantalizing treat of his kilted posterior. His strong hairy leg clad in chunky woollen socks disappeared into that unknown region beyond the swaying pleats of his Skye Tartan and I couldn't help wondering if it was reliable - you know - what they say……..

He waited on the landing for me to spread out my threshold and invite him in but once inside, by the Christ Within of the moon from the window, we finally embraced with a true up passion of hungriness. At last, we kissed, retentive and lustfully, probing with our tongues and tasting the forbidden fruits of brotherly beloved. His lips were full and moist, slightly salty to the gustatory sensation ; the stubble of his shadow-beard felt slightly rugged and I inhaled the cryptical, masculinity of his body as we remained locked in a remorseless grip.

We surfaced for air but standing in the moonlight, we were overtaken again by our lust and we began frantically pulling off each others apparel. He unbuckled his sporran and it dropped to the floor as I pulled his perspirer off, revealing the same"X-Men"tee-shirt he had worn the last time we met -"glutton"it scan. My shirt was off future, then our charge and wind sock, before we fell into another embrace, kissing and kissing, breathing and trousering. He sank his lips into my neck and I gasped in go, as his stubble lightly scratched at my sensible bare skin and he began licking and biting my ear, his warm up breath sending tingles up and down my spine.

He dropped to his knees before me, kissing the white, hairless tegument of my stomach and pressing his face into my genital organ. Gently, he unbuttoned my jean and lowered them to the floor ; and then his facial expression buried itself in my groin. My organ was bursting from my Cin2 brief by this point, oozing pre-cum succus into the soft E. B. White cloth, which he eagerly sucked and tasted, gently biting at my cock and balls through my legal brief and driving me wild.

As he stood up, I stepped out of my jeans and raised his arms to pull off his tee-shirt, revealing his fountainhead developed bureau, peppered with soft tomentum, in the centre of which hung on a leather necklace, a happen upon bronze medallion in the shape of a Gaelic amulet. It glinted in the Moon and when he saw me looking at it, he smiled knowingly and pressed it against my chest ; it felt surprisingly low temperature, strange but somehow fascinating.

We returned to our embracement, kissing and hugging ; my manus now following the contour of his hairless back, his spine and then at last, his bum, still covered by his kilt. Through the heavy woolen fabric, I massaged the face of his rear end, feeling their plump round form and clutching at the pleats of the dorsum 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 front line, 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 discover but also wishing to prolong the act of find, I ran my hands up the back of his hairy peg, slowly under his kilt, high-pitched and gamy inside the mystical asylum until I felt his hairless arse. I could protest no longer ; I slid back down the bed and buried my principal under his kilt, diving into his crack, kissing and tonguing his cranny and tasting the sweaty smell of this, the most private area of his Young organic structure. I spread his leg, to discover his formal and tumid peter, 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 motility, before taking it fully into my sass, as my nose pressed into his hairless balls - did he shave his formal ? I hadn't remembered that from go 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 front of his kilt, lifting his behind. Then, gently folding back the plait of his Skye Tartan, I exposed his beautiful, plump, daily round cheeks to the soft moonlight. I needed no lubricant ; I was oozing pre-cum for all I was Worth ! So, smearing my pre-cum in and around his anus, I first finger-fucked him gently. He gasped, as the first fingerbreadth pushed inside to find his prostate. I felt it, slightly toilsome and swollen with exhilaration. He groaned, more loudly this clock time. Then, kneeling between his spread thighs and exposed rear, and surrounded by the sheepcote of his kilt, like a immense blue-green blossom, I pressed my wet and slippery tool against its small fair game at the centre. Whether or not I was de-flowering the youth of my younger brother, I could not know but against his initial resistance, I pushed, gently at number one and then more firmly, until my cock-head slipped inside the first of all sleeping accommodation. His sharp intake of breathing time, followed by a flimsy whimpering sound, said,"Proceed ”.

"Oh God !"he exclaimed into the pillow, as I pushed beyond the next barrier, into his inner sanctum.



He felt so warm and intimate, soft and comforting ; I felt his second joint gripping the exterior of my legs as I pressed on and I began to feel his own clutches from within his bowels. I established a wearisome, firm but placate natural action, pushing fully into him and then slowly pulling almost all the way out, but not quite, then in again, back and forth, back and forth.

"Oh ass ! Oh God ! Mark,"he gasped."I'm gon na cum like this,"he groaned in ecstasy. I could feel his inside clenching me, as I kept pushing across the swollen rigor of his prostate. His full torso began to shake.

It was all too much for me ; my own cum was rising now and my action became necessarily more phrenetic, as I pushed faster, back and forth, in and out, until - we each let out our pant in coincidental relief, as we both came in two shattering sexual climax, each reinforcing the other, as my cum seemed to burst forth from inside my balls and down my shaft, into his young willingness, to be met by throbs of ecstasy, as his own cum erupted from his prostate, soaking the inside of his kilt in consortium of white spooge.

Amidst our mutual moan and moan, I collapsed on top of him, my electronic organ slipping from his hole, as his dead body relaxed under me. As I kissed the back of his cervix, his work force found mine aside the pillow and he grasped them, gripping them in loving thanks. We both fell into deep and square sleep ; the sleep of the innocent ? Perhaps.

When I awoke the next morning, there was no foretoken of him ; his kick and sock, the X-Men tee-shirt, Arran sweater and the kilt, were all gone."Just like stopping point time,"I cursed to myself.

I showered, dressed and went down to breakfast. After go Night's exertions, I was ravenous and"Mrs Danvers"served me a wax cooked breakfast in her characteristically quiet 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 block myself, I said nothing.



Thinking that Deryk might turn up again, I hung around for a while near the hotel but eventually gave up and decided to get on up to the"Old Man of Storr"car park, as per my plan. In fact, I thought I might still stand a chance of seeing him there but I didn't. I made the short trek up through the wood and on to the surface area known as"The Sanctuary ”, where a number of rocky volcanic plugs stand majestically and somewhat mystically in the almost lunar landscape."The Old Man of Storr"is the self-aggrandising and most impressive of them all. I had been taking lots of painting in the morning light but the weather deteriorated towards midday, so I went back to the hotel for a belated lunch.

However, the dining 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 lupus erythematosus diplomacy than his forbidding married woman ! While I sat with my drink in the corner eating my lunch, three Loretta Young guys came in and sat at the bar. They were some of the same guys I had seen the Nox before and, as last night, they were joking and sniggering about something. As I looked in their charge, I noticed one of them was proudly showing the others a medallion of some sort and my tummy suddenly turned over when I realised what it was. It was Deryk's Celtic Talisman ! I was now worry and I desperately tried to hear what they were saying. Unlike last night, they were talking in English people ; not that it did me much good because their dialect were so strong that I still couldn't catch a great deal - except the word"Storr ”. Now I really was worried and I resolved to go out to find the path Deryk had said he was intending to follow to make 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 other path some way south of the car Mungo Park and leading up from the road. By now though, time was getting on and the atmospheric condition was already starting to close-in. It was grey and frigidity and the showtime spots of rainwater were falling. But I wrapped-up and set off, undeterred and even more sure that he was there, somewhere.



I traced the route, noting the landmark from the de***********ion he had given me the Nox before and scanning the careen and bracken for any augury or clue of his having been there. The path passed close by a small tarn or pond fed by hill water from the ridge and there were the remains of an old b or croft nearby. I was about to defecate the detour to investigate when I spotted something in the bracken ; leather ; a leather strap ; then the apparent shape of a leather sporran. It was his ! There was a lowly current just a few thousand away and as I cast my eye up and down the gulley, I spotted the evident soma of a kilt, now soaking wet and filthy dirty, lying in the mud. But there was no sign of Deryk.

Stepping down into the stream, my heart sank into the pit of my stomach as I saw him, lying face down in the mud, completely naked except for his socks and his X-Men tee shirt. I was shivering with fear now, at what I might be about to detect. He was a pathetic batch ; lying there in the shallow, bouldery current, his body live night tanned and strong was now grey, shriveled and helpless. As I bent down to touch his dinge and bruised torso, I feared the worst. I felt his neck ; there was a beat from his carotid artery - a feint one but a beat at least. He stirred at my touch.

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

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

"You came for me. I knew you would number 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 hankie to wipe the mud from his face.

"Those by-blow in the bar live night,"he muttered, gritting his tooth, as if gain strength,"I should get known better. They fucked me all route, the bastards. But at least you're here now."

By now the weather condition was getting wild ; the breaking wind had picked up and the cold rain was starting to come down quite heavily. And it was getting dark. I looked at my watch and realised that, in his circumstance, we would never get back to the car before nightfall and this terrain would be treacherous in the iniquity, even if we tried. God knows where his boots were - stolen I guess, along with his talisman and the contents of his sporran. I checked my Mobile River telephone set to call for help but just when I needed it virtually, there was no signal. I decided the only thing to do was to look for some kind of protection and I remembered the ruined croft a few hundred yards away, so with some difficulty, I managed to get Deryk to his metrical unit and we staggered out of the ditch and across the bracken, eventually to discover that function of the ruin was still a small roofed bodily structure with a half-broken barn door on the early side. As we staggered inside, we were greeted by the warmth and olfactory perception of what had once been an sensual shelter but which now took on a new role, as a shelter for two comrade. We collapsed into the straw in the corner.

There was little else I could do in the iniquity, with no first aid kit. What footling habiliment we had on was now soaking wet and we had only my pelage to cover us both but at least it was warm and dry in our shelter, albeit rather smelly ! I had a feeding bottle of water which I made him sip and I also had some chocolate in my pouch - always a secure source of energy and aliment, so I gave him that to eat. His jaw was aching from his bruising but at to the lowest degree it wasn't broken.



The only early remedy for picture in these fortune is shared bodily warmth, so I improvised a bed from the pale yellow, peeled off his wet X-men tee-shirt and his wet wind sleeve and then removed my own clothes and laid them out to dry on the drinking straw beside us. Now both completely au naturel, I hugged him closely against my quick body, spooning him from behind in the foetal position and pulling the pelage over the top of us. Deryk was shivering at first gear but after a minuscule while, the warmth began to ramp up up under the coat and he settled into a pacify sleep.

As the warmth built up, I started to get horny with my branch around him and my putz nestled in the crack below his behind. I was thinking about terminal dark and shooting my lode into his inner willingness for the initiative time. I'm ashamed to say that, even in this moment of crisis, my juice were flowing again and my erection was slipping rather easily into the sally between his buttocks. This second was what all my fancy of childhood had been leading up to - although I was too Loretta Young or naïve to understand them fully at the time - and now I had a literal Deryk in the safety of my arms again and I wanted him. In fact, I wanted him so much that with just the little apparent movement between his buttocks, I felt my orgasm construction uncontrollably. parting of me didn't want it this way ; I didn't think it was"right"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 sexual climax was still rising in my bollock until, inevitably, I knew the battle was lost. My cum rose mercilessly through my pubes and erupted from my erecting in a number of blue throbs, as my fluids filled the offer of his arse and I cradled his body before me, hugging him and kissing the back of his neck. At last I fell asleep.

The weather must accept cleared during the night because I awoke to a shaft of Moon through the gap in the old barn door. And against this light, I saw a apparition, the outline at least, of Deryk, on his knees astride my body.



"You seem to accept recovered alright,"I ventured, in the half-light. He seemed to growl in response but then he said gruffly,

"You've had what you wanted ; now it's my spell,"and he just grabbed my legs and throw my feet above his shoulders, hoisting me off our bed of straw.

Before I knew it, I felt the intimate slick of his erect reed organ directly against my golf hole and with one knife thrust and a defiant grunt, he rammed into me, all the way.

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

"It's the only when way you're gon na get it, brother,"he barked, as he pulled back and cram hard into me again. This time, I felt his globe slap my backside. Suddenly, there was no need for shared bodily warmth, as I was shedding sweat by the bucket-load !

"Fuck 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 in the ass of his thrusting, which I was beginning to get accustomed to, I was mindful of the law of similarity with what happened last time he re-appeared. The Same communion of tenderness and warmness, the same rapid greening, the light of the moon and now this almost animal version of Deryk.

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

He rammed into me one concluding sentence and came inside me, as he let out a kind of ululation of rest and I felt his fluids pumping into my interior, throbbing after throb after throb, before he collapsed on top of me on the wheat, his raise Hammond organ still buried inside me. The air pressure of his strong Loretta Young consistency against my abdomen now found my own erect cock, oozing pre-cum juices again and desperate to be relieved. With my arms around him, my workforce clutched the cheeks of his bum and pulled him to me. Just as finish night, that short pressure and blue-blooded movement was all it took to bestow on my own sexual climax, and as my insides clenched and my visual modality seemed to smear in the moment of shattering culmination, I felt his softening organ slip out of my kettle of fish just as my cum fit from my cock, filling the spaces between our two soundbox and running down the sides of my torso into the drinking straw. Shattered, I fell asleep again, this prison term with Deryk lying on top of me.

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

"Bugger ! Just like finale meter,"I swore out loud 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 lead to the car which, thankfully, was still parked where I had left it. In the cool morning light, I drove back to the hotel, arriving about 11.00am. However, what greeted me made me suddenly feel quite empty-bellied and cold.

As I pulled into the lane, I saw the flashing visible light of an ambulance, two police cars and a turgid gang of people. As I got out of the car, I expected to be the centre of everyone's attention, having been"missing"all night, but the assembled bunch was all gathered around a Thomas Young man with a blanket over his berm, sitting on the bulwark and being attended to by the paramedical and being questioned by the Police. I recognized the Pres 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 immature man and two of his friends had been out for an early morning walk on the moor not far from the hotel when they had been viciously attacked. His two ally were now on their way to hospital in a bad way, but the perpetrator of this violence was the briny talking-point ; it seems that their assailant was a"vicious creature with cold military posture and claws to twin ”. Certainly, the Danton True Young man in the blanket looked as if he had been heavily beaten and scratched. His clothes, or what remained of them, were torn and filthy and one face of his aspect bore patched wounds of dried line of descent. In fact, he was a stack - and he was the one who hadn't been taken to hospital !

But no-one was interested in me ; the Police spoke to me briefly but only to establish that I hadn't seen anything. I told them the true statement - or at least, part of it. I had gone up to the"Old Man"late yesterday but because of the weather, I had spent the night in the car, in the car car park. Given that I clearly had neither the physique nor the figure requisite to best three upland youths in the manner that had clearly taken post, they believed me. I went up to my room to pack my suitcase. It was clock time to actuate on.

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

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