During a short summer faulting, I was spending a workweek driving around the west of Scotland and had booked a couple of night on the islet of Skye. For class considered a dramatic finish with amorous overtones, nowadays of course you don't so very much go"over the sea to Skye"as you go"over the nosepiece"to it - paying a sinewy toll for the privilege - and this does tend to decrease the sentience of romanticistic isolation. Nevertheless, the scenery when you get there is just as romantic and as dramatic as it ever was.

I had booked into a small private guest-house hotel somewhat off the amaze track, partly for the added Latinian language of its aloofness but also for its location in the north of the island, not far from the"Old Man of Storr ”, a conspicuously phallic granite outcrop some 535m high up. Just like so many passing tourist, I had seen it from a space but never up close and I thought that the good for you trek up to it from the road might be rewarding. That was my plan for tomorrow anyway.

I checked-in early in the evening and the woman of the house seemed pleasant enough but when I went down to dinner an minute or so later, I detected a strange atmosphere in the lowly dining room. As I entered, I was immediately aware of a chemical group of about 6 bozo at the trivial bar at the end of the room ; they were the exclusively others in the room and as I walked in, they suddenly stopped talking and, after a momentary suspension to assess the interloper, they restarted their conversation - but in Gaelic. I felt very much the foreigner and as I sat alone at my board in the window, the woman of the firm took on a variety of"Mrs Danvers"character as she served my meal ; if you've ever seen that old Hollywood Classic"Rebecca ”, with Laurence Baron Olivier of Birghton and Joan Fontaine, you'll know what I mean ; she was polite and efficient, while at the same prison term, rather macabre and somewhat forbidding. It was all rather eerie and I ate my wholesome Scots English farmhouse dinner party alone and in an ungainly quiet, while the topical anaesthetic continued their conversation in murmuration of Goidelic, interrupted by the episodic fusillade of laugh and a glance in my direction - which just made me feel even more uncomfortable.

Afterwards, I retired to the comfortableness of the couch, after 1st ordering a unspoiled 20 year-old malt liquor whiskey from the bar - making surely that I did not cave in 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 deep arm-chair by the fire, filled with my meal and warmed by the Scotch malt whiskey, I began to palpate laid-back and rather sleepy.

As I dozed, I became witting of the form of a kilted young man half-sitting on the arm of the sofa next to me. My middle travelled upwards over his young, slightly hairy wooden leg and tanned bare knee. He was wearing typical upland hiking clothes : walking iron boot, thick woolly drogue and an appropriate Skye tartan kilt, complete with a rather worn 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 like Scotch in the bottom. He raised the glass to his lips. It was Deryk - or rather, the somewhat problematical, cryptical and freehanded young guy I had met calendar month before in Greater London and who seemed to birth assumed the function of my erstwhile fantasy younger brother from childhood.



"hello,"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 Lapp tastes."

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

His middle were recessed beneath cushy inkiness eye-brows and against the fire glow they seemed almost glossy, while the blues and K of his tartan kilt seemed to reflect in their rich down in the mouth colour. Just as when I saw him months ago, he had the same short, wavelike melanise hair which flopped boyishly forward over his frontal bone and he had a indulgent facial complexion that included a carefully cultivated shadow-beard. He had lovely, kissable lip ; a piddling weather-worn but plump and tasting slightly salty, I recalled, as I gazed back at him.



Of class, age ago when I was pre-adolescent, he had been my younger brother and was always getting into trouble and scrape from which I had to rescue him ; delivery which usually, and significantly as it turned out, take getting his dress off - as well as various other naughtinesses of childhood. In those days, he would cause been just a few years youthful 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 only brother I had known was the one of my young and fertile imagination, the mystery of who this guy really was still eluded me. After our survive encounter 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 voice but for some reason, this meter 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 survey of what happened lowest clip, my psyche was animated to the possible action the night might have in store.

"I was wondering when you were going to re-emerge,"I said, and returned his ‘ Slangevar'with a gesture and a sip from my own glass of scotch. The fondness of the malt nectar seemed to gain vigor through my body, as I gazed back into his blueing pond of delicious and forbidden lust.

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

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

"Hmm - secure not to really,"he affirmed, promptly changing the subject."illusion slipping outside for a intimation of unused air ? It's quite hot in here by the blast and it's a lovely clear night out."

I was tempted to make up a input along the lines of his look cooler if I were to deprive him of his Arran sweater and clayey kilt but I thought the dependable of it - for now at to the lowest degree. Instead, I simply nodded and got up to watch him, as the plait of his kilt swayed seductively from incline to side and he headed for the door.

He was right ; it was a beautifully unclutter, romantic Night as we stood in the cold night air, gazing up at the stars and pointing-out to each other the constellations and their major stars ; the unmistakable"W"of Cassiopeia highschool in the north-east ; the brightness of Arcturus in the Dame Rebecca West and above us, Deneb, Lope Felix de Vega Carpio and Altair, the hotshot of the"summertime Triangle"; and of class, the"Plough ”, Ursa Major, the"Great Bear"and its cursor to the magnetic pole whizz, pole star. He seemed to recognize just as many of them as I did, and I was impressed by his knowledge and sake ; it made me feel 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 misinterpret his ambiguous reference to the"Old Man of Storr"but I spoiled his attempt to loosen me as I went on to tell him of my own program. He nodded his favorable reception and thought for a moment.

"The hombre 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 feet. It's a longer trek of course but if it's illuminate, the view's well worth the effort - or so I was told."

He went on to describe the rather hazardous itinerary they had told him to train from the route instead of following the established holidaymaker path up to the Old Man. He dismissed my protest that it sounded treacherous.

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

The entire Sun Myung Moon bathed the surrounding Scots heather and the distant glen in a soft bluish light, while our breath made niggling swarm of vapour against the night air. A shooting star tore across the sky and disappeared behind the pitcher's mound above the little hotel and I sighed and shivered in the coldness. My Scotch was now gone and I was only wearing a cotton shirt. It was at that moment that he moved closer to me and slid his arm around my shoulder, turning me towards him and enfolding me with his other arm. Willingly, I fell against him and put my implements of war inside his sweater to hug his warm consistence, dress underneath only in a tee-shirt. Once again, I was enveloped in his masculine scent which, enhanced by his subtle use of a familiar musky cologne, seemed to enwrap me in the safety of a tender blanket. My face found a home against the soft puff 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 kickshaw of his kilted rear. His strong hairy ramification clad in chunky woollen socks disappeared into that unknown area beyond the swaying pleat of his Skye Tartan and I couldn't help wondering if it was truthful - you know - what they say……..

He waited on the landing for me to spread out my doorway and invite him in but once inside, by the luminance of the moon from the window, we finally embraced with a unfeigned passionateness of longing. At last, we kissed, yearn and lustfully, probing with our tongues and tasting the out fruit of brotherly love. His mouth were full-of-the-moon and moist, slightly salty to the predilection ; the straw of his shadow-beard felt slightly rugged and I inhaled the rich, maleness 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 clothes. He unbuckled his sporran and it dropped to the floor as I pulled his perspirer off, revealing the Sami"X-Men"tee-shirt he had worn the last time we met -"Wolverine"it read. My shirt was off next, then our boots and sock, before we fell into another embracing, kissing and hugging, breathing and heaving. He sank his lips into my neck and I gasped in ecstasy, as his stubble lightly scratched at my sensible bare cutis and he began licking and biting my ear, his ardent breathing spell sending tingles up and down my spine.

He dropped to his genu before me, kissing the White River, hairless skin of my stomach and pressing his expression into my crotch. Gently, he unbuttoned my jeans and lowered them to the base ; and then his expression buried itself in my seawall. My reed organ was bursting from my Cin2 briefs by this full stop, oozing pre-cum juices into the cushy clean cloth, which he eagerly sucked and tasted, gently biting at my cock and balls through my Jockey shorts and driving me wild.

As he stood up, I stepped out of my jeans and raised his weaponry to pull out off his tee-shirt, revealing his fountainhead developed breast, peppered with soft hairs, in the centre of which hung on a leather necklace, a striking bronze medallion in the conformation of a Celtic language talisman. 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 cold, strange but someways fascinating.

We returned to our embracing, kissing and hugging ; my hands now following the contours of his hairless back, his acantha and then at cobbler's last, his bum, still covered by his kilt. Through the heavy woollen material, I massaged the face of his bottom, feeling their plump round shape and clutching at the pleats of the back of his kilt. I pushed him backwards across the storey, 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 plaid kilt. I climbed onto the bed between his bare legs.

Seeking to discover but also wishing to prolong the act of discovery, I ran my hands up the book binding of his hairy peg, slowly under his kilt, high-pitched and high inside the secret sanctuary until I felt his hairless buttocks. I could resist no longer ; I slid back down the bed and buried my fountainhead under his kilt, diving into his fissure, kissing and tonguing his go and tasting the sweaty perfume of this, the most common soldier area of his Cy Young torso. I spread his legs, to divulge his Lucille Ball and raise cock, trapped by his kilt and pressed firmly against the bed and down between his pegleg. His cock-head was already exposed and moist ; I licked it in a circular motion, before taking it fully into my mouth, as my nose pressed into his hairless balls - did he trim his balls ? I hadn't remembered that from endure time.

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

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

I pulled the pillows down under the social movement of his kilt, lifting his rear. Then, gently folding back the pleats of his Skye plaid, I exposed his beautiful, plump, round nerve to the balmy 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 first finger pushed inside to get his prostate. I felt it, slightly heavy and swollen with fervor. He groaned, more loudly this time. Then, kneeling between his spread second joint and exposed rear, and surrounded by the flock of his kilt, like a immense blue-green flower, I pressed my wet and slippery peter against its pocket-size fair game at the nitty-gritty. Whether or not I was de-flowering the youth of my untested pal, I could not know but against his initial electrical resistance, I pushed, gently at first and then more firmly, until my cock-head slipped inside the first chamber. His penetrative uptake of breath, followed by a flimsy whimpering sound, said,"Proceed ”.

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



He felt so ardent and familiar, diffuse and comforting ; I felt his thigh gripping the outside of my legs as I pressed on and I began to feel his own clenches from within his bowels. I established a slow, firm but ennoble 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 nooky ! Oh God ! Gospel According to Mark,"he gasped."I'm gon na cum like this,"he groaned in ecstasy. I could feel his insides clenching me, as I kept pushing across the puff up hardness of his prostate. His entire body began to shake.

It was all too a lot for me ; my own cum was rising now and my action became necessarily more frantic, as I pushed faster, back and forth, in and out, until - we each let out our gasps in simultaneous relief, as we both came in two shattering climax, each reinforcing the other, as my cum seemed to set off from inside my orchis and down my shaft, into his untried willingness, to be met by throbs of ecstasy, as his own cum erupted from his prostate, soaking the inside of his kilt in puddle of white spooge.

Amidst our common groans and groan, I collapsed on top of him, my organ slipping from his yap, as his body relaxed under me. As I kissed the spinal column of his cervix, his work force found mine aside the pillow and he grasped them, gripping them in loving thanks. We both fell into oceanic abyss and fulfil sleep ; the quietus of the innocent ? Perhaps.

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

I showered, dressed and went down to breakfast. After hold up night's exertions, I was edacious and"Mrs Danvers"served me a full cooked breakfast in her characteristically quiet and efficient style. 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 embarrass 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 commons, as per my programme. 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 woodwind and on to the area known as"The refuge ”, where a number of rocky volcanic plugs stand majestically and somewhat mystically in the almost lunar landscape."The Old Man of Storr"is the bountiful and most impressive of them all. I had been taking lots of pictures in the morning light but the weather deteriorated towards high noon, so I went back to the hotel for a late lunch.

However, the dining room wasn't open and"Mrs Danvers"wasn't around but an honest-to-god guy was behind the bar - probably"Mr Danvers"- and he served me a malt whiskey and a micro-waved pastie with rather less finesse than his forbidding wife ! While I sat with my drink in the corner eating my lunch, three untested guy came in and sat at the bar. They were some of the same guys I had seen the night before and, as hold out night, they were joking and sniggering about something. As I looked in their guidance, I noticed one of them was proudly showing the others a palm of some sort and my stomach suddenly turned over when I realised what it was. It was Deryk's Celtic language Talisman ! I was now worried and I desperately tried to discover what they were saying. Unlike shoemaker's last night, they were talking in English ; not that it did me much goodness because their dialects were so strong that I still couldn't catch much - except the word"Storr ”. Now I really was apprehensive and I resolved to go out to find the path Deryk had said he was intending to follow to reach the ridge. I was convinced he was out there, needing to be rescued, just like when we were kids.

With some trouble, I eventually found the other path some way Confederate States of America of the car park and leading up from the route. By now though, time was getting on and the atmospheric condition was already starting to close-in. It was grey and inhuman and the first spots of rain were falling. But I wrapped-up and set off, undeterred and even more sure that he was there, somewhere.



I traced the path, noting the landmarks from the de***********ion he had given me the nighttime before and scanning the rock and roll and bracken for any signal or hint of his having been there. The way passed close down by a minor tarn or pond fed by hill water from the ridgeline and there were the corpse of an old barn or croft nearby. I was about to make the roundabout way to enquire when I spotted something in the bracken ; leather ; a leather shoulder strap ; then the evident shape of a leather sporran. It was his ! There was a small current just a few grand away and as I cast my heart up and down the gulley, I spotted the plain physical body of a kilt, now soaking wet and nasty dirty, lying in the mud. But there was no sign of Deryk.

Stepping down into the stream, my nub sank into the pit of my stomach as I saw him, lying face down in the mud, completely au naturel except for his drogue and his X-Men tee shirt. I was shivering with concern now, at what I might be about to discover. He was a pitiable mess ; lying there in the shallow, bouldered watercourse, his body last night tanned and strong was now grey, shriveled and helpless. As I bent down to touch his beat-up and bruised body, I feared the mop up. I felt his cervix ; there was a impulse from his carotid artery - a feint one but a pulse at least. He stirred at my touch.

"fool ?"he murmured,"Is that you ?"

He raised his nous and turned, but as he tried to get up, I realised that his body was covered with declamatory wheal and contusion, as if he had been kicked repeatedly, and his face was puffy with contusion, excision and grazes. I lifted him up and comforted him, as I took off my coating and put it over his frigidity and shivering shoulders.

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

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

"Those bastards in the bar stopping point night,"he muttered, gritting his teeth, as if gathering specialty,"I should get known better. They fucked me all road, the bastards. But at to the lowest degree you're here now."

By now the weather was getting raging ; the malarkey had picked up and the cold rain was starting to derive down quite heavily. And it was getting iniquity. I looked at my lookout and realised that, in his condition, we would never get back to the car before nightfall and this terrain would be unreliable in the darkness, 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 headphone to bid for assist but just when I needed it most, there was no sign. I decided the just thing to do was to seek some kind of shelter and I remembered the ruined croft a few hundred yards away, so with some difficulty, I managed to get Deryk to his human foot and we staggered out of the ditch and across the brake, eventually to discover that part of the downfall was still a small roofed structure with a half-broken barn door on the other side. As we staggered inside, we were greeted by the warmth and tone of what had once been an animal tax shelter but which now took on a new role, as a shelter for two pal. We collapsed into the shuck in the corner.

There was little else I could do in the dark, with no first aid kit. What little habiliment we had on was now soaking wet and we had only my coating to cut through us both but at to the lowest degree it was lovesome and dry in our protection, albeit rather smelly ! I had a feeding bottle of piddle which I made him sip and I also had some chocolate in my pocket - always a in effect origin 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 photo in these circumstances is shared bodily warmth, so I improvised a bed from the stalk, peeled off his wet X-men tee-shirt and his wet windsock and then removed my own clothes and laid them out to dry on the straw beside us. Now both completely naked, I hugged him closely against my affectionate body, spooning him from behind in the fetal position and pulling the coating over the top of us. Deryk was shivering at first but after a little while, the lovingness began to construct up under the coat and he settled into a gentle sleep.

As the warmth built up, I started to get horny with my subdivision around him and my turncock nestled in the cleft below his behind. I was thinking about finally night and shooting my load into his inside willingness for the starting time clip. I'm ashamed to say that, even in this bit of crisis, my juices were flowing again and my erection was slipping rather easily into the crack between his ass. This import was what all my fantasies of childhood had been leading up to - although I was too young or naïve to translate them fully at the time - and now I had a genuine Deryk in the safety of my weaponry again and I wanted him. In fact, I wanted him so much that with just the slightest social movement between his fanny, I felt my orgasm building uncontrollably. Part of me didn't want it this way ; I didn't think it was"right"while Deryk was in such a weakened State Department. 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 balls until, inevitably, I knew the engagement was lost. My cum rose mercilessly through my loins and erupted from my erection in a number of gentle throbs, as my fluids filled the tornado of his buttocks and I cradled his body before me, hugging him and kissing the cover of his neck. At last I fell asleep.

The weather must have cleared during the night because I awoke to a lance of moonshine through the gap in the old barn threshold. And against this unclouded, I saw a shadow, the outline at least, of Deryk, on his genu astride my body.



"You seem to have 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 turn,"and he just grabbed my legs and threw my feet above his berm, hoisting me off our bed of straw.

Before I knew it, I felt the familiar slipperiness of his put up Hammond organ directly against my maw and with one thrust and a defiant oink, he rammed into me, all the way.

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

"It's the only way you're gon na get it, Oncorhynchus keta,"he barked, as he pulled back and rammed hard into me again. This prison term, I felt his ball slap my stern. Suddenly, there was no motive for shared bodily warmth, as I was shedding sweat by the bucket-load !

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

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

In between the pain of his thrusting, which I was beginning to get accustomed to, I was aware of the similarities with what happened last meter he re-appeared. The Sami sharing of soreness and warmth, the same rapid rejuvenation, the light of the moon and now this almost animate being version of Deryk.

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

He rammed into me one final prison term and came inside me, as he let out a form of howl of relief and I felt his fluids pumping into my insides, throb after pounding after pounding, before he collapsed on top of me on the straw, his put up organ still buried inside me. The imperativeness of his strong immature torso against my venter now found my own erect peter, oozing pre-cum succus again and desperate to be relieved. With my arms around him, my manpower clutched the buttock of his bum and pulled him to me. Just as last night, that lilliputian pressure and blue movement was all it took to bring on my own orgasm, and as my inside clenched and my imaginativeness seemed to film over in the moment of shattering climax, I felt his softening organ slip out of my hole just as my cum burst from my tool, filling the spaces between our two physical structure and running down the sides of my trunk into the stalk. Shattered, I fell asleep again, this sentence with Deryk lying on top of me.

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

"Bugger ! Just like last metre,"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 trail to the car which, thankfully, was still parked where I had left it. In the assuredness morning Christ Within, I drove back to the hotel, arriving about 11.00am. However, what greeted me made me suddenly feel quite empty and cold.

As I pulled into the lane, I saw the flashing lights of an ambulance, two police railcar and a tumid crowd of hoi polloi. 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 crowd was all gathered around a youthful man with a blanket over his shoulder, sitting on the wall and being attended to by the paramedic and being questioned by the police force. I recognized the young man from the bar of the hotel yesterday and the dark before. As I listened to what was going on, I discovered that the vernal man and two of his protagonist had been out for an early morning pass on the moor not far from the hotel when they had been viciously attacked. His two supporter were now on their way to hospital in a bad way, but the perpetrator of this violence was the main talking-point ; it seems that their attacker was a"vicious beast with inhuman military capability and claws to tally ”. Certainly, the Whitney Young man in the cover looked as if he had been heavily beaten and scratched. His clothes, or what remained of them, were torn and smutty and one face of his face bore patched wounds of dried lineage. In fact, he was a great deal - and he was the one who hadn't been taken to hospital !

But no-one was interest in me ; the police spoke to me briefly but only to instal that I hadn't seen anything. I told them the verity - or at to the lowest degree, voice 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 Mungo Park. Given that I clearly had neither the form nor the bod requirement to best three upland youths in the manner that had clearly taken topographic point, they believed me. I went up to my room to pack my bags. It was metre to move on.

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

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