During a short summer good luck, I was spending a week driving around the west of Scotland and had booked a yoke of Night on the Isle of Skye. For years considered a dramatic destination with romantic overtone, present of course you don't so much go"over the sea to Skye"as you go"over the bridge deck"to it - paying a hefty toll for the privilege - and this does run to decrease the sense of romantic isolation. Nevertheless, the scenery when you get there is just as quixotic and as dramatic as it ever was.

I had booked into a small private guest-house hotel somewhat off the beaten track, partly for the added romance of its remoteness but also for its placement in the N of the island, not far from the"Old Man of Storr ”, a conspicuously priapic granite outcrop some 535m high. 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 plan for tomorrow anyway.

I checked-in early in the even and the woman of the house seemed pleasant enough but when I went down to dinner an hour or so later, I detected a strange atmosphere in the small dining elbow room. As I entered, I was immediately aware of a mathematical group of about 6 guys at the little 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 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 mesa in the windowpane, the woman of the theatre took on a sorting of"Mrs Danvers"persona as she served my meal ; if you've ever seen that old Hollywood Classic"Rebekah ”, with Laurence Baron Olivier of Birghton and Joan Fontaine, you'll know what I mean ; she was cultivated and efficient, while at the Saami time, rather grim and somewhat forbidding. It was all rather eerie and I ate my wholesome Scottish farmhouse dinner alone and in an awkward quiet, while the local anaesthetic continued their conversation in mutter of Gaelic, interrupted by the occasional burst of laughter and a glance in my counseling - which just made me feel even more uncomfortable.

Afterwards, I retired to the comfort of the waiting area, after first ordering a good 20 year-old malt whiskey from the bar - making trusted that I did not give the local anaesthetic grounds for offence by adulterating it with anything like ice, even though I would experience preferred it that way ! Slumped in a deep arm-chair by the fervor, filled with my repast and warmed by the scotch, I began to feel mellow out and rather sleepy.

As I dozed, I became conscious of the figure of a kilted untried man half-sitting on the arm of the sofa next to me. My middle travelled upwards over his Whitney Young, slightly hirsute branch and tanned bare knees. He was wearing distinctive upland hike dress : walking boots, thick woolly windsock and an appropriate Skye Tartan kilt, sodding with a rather raddled leather sporran which now lay in his lap. He had on a chunky Arran jumper and he had a great tumbler in his hands with about half-an-inch of what looked ilk score in the butt. He raised the methamphetamine hydrochloride to his lips. It was Deryk - or rather, the somewhat elusive, cryptic and handsome young guy I had met months before in London and who seemed to have assumed the persona of my erstwhile fantasy youthful brother from childhood.



"Hello,"he said, looking directly into my heart 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 glass, as if to say a still ‘ Slangevar'before sipping his Scotch malt whisky appreciatively.

His center were deep-set beneath soft disgraceful eye-brows and against the fire glowing they seemed almost lustrous, while the blues and leafy vegetable of his plaid kilt seemed to reflect in their rich blue colour. Just as when I saw him calendar month ago, he had the same curtly, wavy melanize hair's-breadth which flopped boyishly forward over his brow and he had a gentle facial complexion that included a carefully cultivated shadow-beard. He had lovely, kissable rim ; a slight weather-worn but plump and tasting slightly salty, I recalled, as I gazed back at him.



Of course of action, age ago when I was pre-adolescent, he had been my unseasoned sidekick and was always getting into bother and scrapes from which I had to rescue him ; rescues which usually, and significantly as it turned out, involved getting his clothes off - as well as various early naughtiness of childhood. In those Clarence Day, he would have been just a few years younger 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 resourcefulness, the whodunit of who this guy really was still eluded me. After our conclusion skirmish in capital of the United Kingdom a few months ago, he had disappeared again, leaving me none the wiser ; his reappearance now would, you might mean, have provoked a deeper investigating on my part but for some understanding, this fourth dimension 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 sentiment of what happened last time, my mind was alive to the possibilities the night might deliver in store.

"I was wondering when you were going to reappear,"I said, and returned his ‘ Slangevar'with a motion and a sip from my own crank of scotch. The warmth of the malt nectar seemed to percolate through my body, as I gazed back into his blue pools of delicious and forbidden lust.

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

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

"Hmm - best not to really,"he affirmed, promptly changing the subject."Fancy slipping outside for a breath of refreshful air ? It's quite hot in here by the fire and it's a endearing all the way night out."

I was tempted to take a shit a remark along the communication channel of his feeling cooler if I were to divest him of his Arran sweater and sullen kilt but I thought the meliorate of it - for now at to the lowest degree. 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 clearly, 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 apparent"W"of Cassiopeia high in the north-east ; the smartness of Arcturus in the Cicily Isabel Fairfield and above us, Deneb, Vega and Altair, the stars of the"summer Triangulum"; and of course, the"Wain ”, Ursa Major, the"Great Bear"and its pointer to the pole whizz, Polaris. He seemed to recognize just as many of them as I did, and I was impressed by his knowledge and interest ; 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 misunderstand his ambiguous reference to the"Old Man of Storr"but I spoiled his attempt to tease me as I went on to tell him of my own plans. He nodded his approval and thought for a moment.

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

He went on to name the rather wild path they had told him to take from the road instead of following the established holidaymaker track up to the Old Man. He dismissed my protestations that it sounded treacherous.

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

The full lunation bathed the surrounding Calluna vulgaris and the distant glen in a piano bluish lighting, while our intimation made little swarm of vapour against the Nox air. A shooting star tore across the sky and disappeared behind the hill above the little hotel and I sighed and shivered in the cold. My Scotch whiskey was now gone and I was only wearing a cotton shirt. It was at that moment that he moved closer to me and slew his arm around my berm, turning me towards him and enfolding me with his other arm. Willingly, I fell against him and put my limb inside his sweater to hug his warm soundbox, raiment underneath only in a tee-shirt. Once again, I was enveloped in his masculine olfactory property which, enhanced by his subtle use of a familiar musky Koln, seemed to enwrap me in the base hit of a strong mantle. My face found a home against the soft 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 bum. His strong hairy leg clad in chunky woollen socks disappeared into that unnamed 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 room access and invite him in but once inside, by the lighting of the moon from the windowpane, we finally embraced with a dead on target cacoethes of longing. At last, we kissed, foresightful and lustfully, probing with our lingua and tasting the forbidden fruits of brotherly love. His lips were full and moist, slightly salty to the penchant ; the stubble of his shadow-beard felt slightly rugged and I inhaled the thick, masculinity of his consistency as we remained locked in a remorseless grip.

We surfaced for air but standing in the moonlight, we were overtaken again by our lecherousness and we began frantically pulling off each others apparel. He unbuckled his sporran and it dropped to the flooring as I pulled his jumper off, revealing the same"X-Men"tee-shirt he had worn the finale time we met -"Gulo luscus"it read. My shirt was off next, then our thrill and socks, before we fell into another embrace, kissing and petting, breathing and panting. He sank his lips into my neck opening and I gasped in X, as his stalk lightly scratched at my sensitive 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 Edward Douglas White Jr., hairless pelt of my abdomen and pressing his face into my crotch. Gently, he unbuttoned my jeans and lowered them to the floor ; and then his boldness buried itself in my bulwark. My organ was bursting from my Cin2 briefs by this point, oozing pre-cum juices into the soft Edward Douglas White Jr. framework, which he eagerly sucked and tasted, gently biting at my cock and balls through my briefs and driving me wild.

As he stood up, I stepped out of my jeans and raised his munition to pull off his tee-shirt, revealing his fountainhead developed bureau, peppered with mild hairs, in the centre of which hung on a leather necklace, a impinge on bronze ribbon in the embodiment of a Celtic Talisman. It glinted in the moonshine and when he saw me looking at it, he smiled knowingly and pressed it against my chest ; it felt surprisingly cold-blooded, strange but somehow fascinating.

We returned to our embrace, kissing and kissing ; my hand now following the contours of his hairless back, his spine and then at close, his bum, still covered by his kilt. Through the big wool material, I massaged the cheeks of his bottom, feeling their plump round shape and clutching at the plait of the back of his kilt. I pushed him backwards across the flooring, until he fell onto the bed. But sensing what I wanted to do, he immediately rolled over onto his figurehead, his physical structure now lying prone before me, clad only in his Skye Tartan kilt. I climbed onto the bed between his bare legs.

Seeking to learn but also wishing to prolong the act of discovery, I ran my hired man up the back of his hairy legs, slowly under his kilt, mellow and higher inside the secret refuge until I felt his hairless behind. I could balk no longer ; I slid back down the bed and buried my head under his kilt, diving into his fissure, kissing and tonguing his wisecrack and tasting the sweaty scent of this, the most private area of his Lester Willis Young body. I spread his legs, to discover his balls and rear cock, trapped by his kilt and pressed firmly against the bed and down between his legs. His cock-head was already exposed and moist ; I licked it in a orbitual motion, before taking it fully into my mouth, as my nose pressed into his hairless lump - did he shave his lump ? I hadn't remembered that from last time.

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

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

I pulled the pillows down under the battlefront of his kilt, lifting his rear. Then, gently folding back the pleat of his Skye tartan, I exposed his beautiful, plump, round cheeks 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 first finger pushed inside to detect his prostate. I felt it, slightly tough and swollen with fervour. He groaned, more loudly this time. Then, kneeling between his bed covering thigh and exposed tail end, and surrounded by the plica of his kilt, like a huge blue-green peak, I pressed my wet and slippery puppet against its modest butt at the centre. Whether or not I was de-flowering the young person of my youthful brother, I could not sleep together but against his initial underground, I pushed, gently at first and then more firmly, until my cock-head slipped inside the first of all chamber. His piercing uptake of breath, followed by a slight whimpering speech sound, said,"Proceed ”.

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



He felt so quick and familiar, soft and comforting ; I felt his thighs gripping the outside of my pegleg as I pressed on and I began to feel his own clinch from within his bowels. I established a slow, firm but pacify 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 Fuck ! Oh God ! patsy,"he gasped."I'm gon na cum like this,"he groaned in disco biscuit. I could sense his interior clenching me, as I kept pushing across the swollen hardness of his prostate. His entire eubstance began to shake.

It was all too much for me ; my own cum was rising now and my legal action became necessarily more frantic, as I pushed faster, back and forth, in and out, until - we each let out our gasps in simultaneous assuagement, as we both came in two shattering orgasms, each reinforcing the other, as my cum seemed to explode from inside my testicle 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 interior of his kilt in pools of white spooge.

Amidst our mutual groans and groan, I collapsed on top of him, my organ slipping from his hole, as his body relaxed under me. As I kissed the backrest of his cervix, his hired hand found mine aside the pillow and he grasped them, gripping them in loving thanks. We both fell into mystifying and satisfying sleep ; the quietus of the innocent ? Perhaps.

When I awoke the following morning, there was no sign of him ; his boots and wind cone, the X-Men tee-shirt, Arran sweater and the kilt, were all gone."Just like in conclusion time,"I cursed to myself.

I showered, dressed and went down to breakfast. After utmost nighttime's exertions, I was sharp-set and"Mrs Danvers"served me a replete 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 embarrass myself, I said nothing.



thought process that Deryk might change state up again, I hung around for a while near the hotel but eventually gave up and decided to repel on up to the"Old Man of Storr"car park, as per my architectural plan. In fact, I thought I might still support a chance of seeing him there but I didn't. I made the shortly trek up through the Natalie Wood and on to the area known as"The asylum ”, 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 freehanded and most impressive of them all. I had been taking wad of painting in the morn twinkle but the weather deteriorated towards midday, so I went back to the hotel for a late lunch.

However, the dining way wasn't undetermined and"Mrs Danvers"wasn't around but an sure-enough 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 drink in the corner eating my lunch, three young guy came in and sat at the bar. They were some of the Sami guy rope I had seen the dark before and, as survive night, they were joking and sniggering about something. As I looked in their direction, I noticed one of them was proudly showing the others a laurel wreath of some form and my abdomen 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 dialects were so impregnable that I still couldn't catch a great deal - except the discussion"Storr ”. Now I really was disquieted and I resolved to go out to find the way Deryk had said he was intending to follow to get through the ridge. I was convinced he was out there, needing to be rescued, just like when we were kids.

With some difficultness, I eventually found the other track some way Confederacy of the car Mungo Park and leading up from the road. By now though, time was getting on and the conditions was already starting to close-in. It was grey and moth-eaten and the beginning office of pelting were falling. But I wrapped-up and set off, undeterred and even more sure that he was there, somewhere.



I traced the way, noting the landmarks from the de***********ion he had given me the Night before and scanning the careen and bracken for any foretoken or clue of his having been there. The path passed close by a small tarn or pond fed by pitcher's mound water from the ridge and there were the remains of an old b or croft nearby. I was about to make the detour to investigate when I spotted something in the bracken ; leather ; a leather shoulder strap ; then the unmistakable pattern of a leather sporran. It was his ! There was a small stream just a few yards away and as I cast my eyes up and down the gulley, I spotted the unmistakable shape 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 centre sank into the pit of my stomach as I saw him, lying face down in the mud, completely au naturel except for his sock and his X-Men tee shirt. I was shivering with fear now, at what I might be about to discover. He was a lamentable mickle ; lying there in the shallow, jolty current, his body last night tanned and strong was now grey, shriveled and helpless. As I bent down to touch his battered and bruised consistence, I feared the worst. I felt his neck ; there was a pulse from his carotid arteria - a feint one but a pulse at least. He stirred at my touch.

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

He raised his header and turned, but as he tried to get up, I realised that his body was covered with great wheal and bruise, as if he had been kicked repeatedly, and his face was intumescent with bruises, cuts and grazes. I lifted him up and comforted him, as I took off my pelage and put it over his frigidity and shivering shoulders.

"You came for me. I knew you would come for me,"he quietly sobbed,"just like when we were kids."rip began to amalgamate with mud and blood on his beautiful but quiver fount.

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

"Those son of a bitch in the bar cobbler's last night,"he muttered, gritting his teeth, as if amass strength,"I should deliver known better. They fucked me all roads, the SOB. But at to the lowest degree you're here now."

By now the atmospheric condition was getting tempestuous ; the farting had picked up and the frigidness rain was starting to derive down quite heavily. And it was getting shadow. I looked at my lookout man and realised that, in his experimental condition, we would never get back to the car before nightfall and this terrain would be treacherous in the dark, even if we tried. God knows where his flush were - stolen I guess, along with his amulet and the contents of his sporran. I checked my mobile phone to name for help but just when I needed it most, there was no signaling. I decided the only thing to do was to attempt some variety of shelter and I remembered the ruined croft a few hundred grand away, so with some difficulty, I managed to get Deryk to his feet and we staggered out of the ditch and across the pasture brake, eventually to discover that part of the ruination was still a small roofed structure with a half-broken barn door on the other slope. As we staggered inside, we were greeted by the heat and feel of what had once been an beast protection but which now took on a new role, as a protection for two brothers. We collapsed into the straw in the corner.

There was trivial else I could do in the wickedness, with no first-class honours degree aid kit. What little clothing we had on was now soaking wet and we had only my coat to cover us both but at least it was warm and dry in our shelter, albeit rather smelly ! I had a bottleful of water which I made him sip and I also had some deep brown in my pocket - always a soundly source of free 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 vulnerability 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 socks and then removed my own clothes and laid them out to dry on the straw beside us. Now both completely raw, I hugged him closely against my warm torso, spooning him from behind in the foetal position and pulling the coat over the top of us. Deryk was shivering at low gear but after a little spell, the affectionateness began to build up under the coat and he settled into a gentle sleep.

As the heat built up, I started to get horny with my blazonry around him and my stopcock nestled in the crevice below his behind. I was thinking about terminal nighttime and shooting my payload into his intimate willingness for the number 1 time. I'm ashamed to say that, even in this second of crisis, my juices were flowing again and my erection was slipping rather easily into the crack between his buttocks. This minute was what all my fantasy of puerility had been leading up to - although I was too youth or naïve to understand them fully at the clock time - and now I had a really Deryk in the guard of my implements of war again and I wanted him. In fact, I wanted him so much that with just the slightest drift between his buttock, I felt my orgasm building uncontrollably. constituent of me didn't want it this way ; I didn't think it was"in good order"while Deryk was in such a break state. But I didn't enter him though ; I couldn't - I shouldn't - do that ; not here, not now. Even so, my climax was still rising in my orb until, inevitably, I knew the fight was lost. My cum rose mercilessly through my pubes and erupted from my erection in a number of gentle throbs, as my fluids filled the crack of his posterior and I cradled his consistency before me, hugging him and kissing the back of his neck. At last I fell asleep.

The weather must have cleared during the night because I awoke to a light beam of moonlight through the gap in the old barn door. And against this light, I saw a fantasm, the outline at least, 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 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 erect organ directly against my gob and with one push and a noncompliant grunt, he rammed into me, all the way.

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

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

"Fuck me !"I found myself shouting, more in hurt than as a request. But he quickly fired back, in cycle 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 cognisant of the similarities with what happened hold up metre he re-appeared. The same sharing of tenderness and affectionateness, the Sami speedy rejuvenation, the luminance of the Moon and now this almost animal version of Deryk.

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

He rammed into me one final sentence and came inside me, as he let out a sort of howl of easement and I felt his fluids pumping into my interior, throb after throb after throb, before he collapsed on top of me on the pale yellow, his rear electronic organ still buried inside me. The pressing of his substantial young body against my stomach now found my own erect cock, oozing pre-cum juices again and desperate to be relieved. With my arms around him, my handwriting clutched the cheeks of his bum and pulled him to me. Just as end night, that little atmospheric pressure and gentle movement was all it took to play on my own orgasm, and as my insides clenched and my vision seemed to blur in the minute of shattering climax, I felt his softening harmonium skid out of my hole just as my cum volley from my instrument, filling the spaces between our two consistence and running down the slope of my consistence into the straw. Shattered, I fell asleep again, this prison term with Deryk lying on top of me.

I awoke to sunlight streaming into an empty b. I sat up. There was a deadening aching emanating from my stern and Deryk was gone again.

"sod ! Just like lastly time,"I swore out flash to myself.

I looked at my sentry. It was 9.30 already. My clothes were now dry, so I quickly put them on and set off back down the track to the car which, thankfully, was still parked where I had left it. In the cool sunrise light, 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 luminance of an ambulance, two law cars and a large crowd of citizenry. As I got out of the car, I expected to be the nerve centre of everyone's attending, having been"missing"all night, but the assembled crowd was all gathered around a young man with a mantle over his articulatio humeri, sitting on the rampart and being attended to by the paramedical and being questioned by the Police. I recognized the Lester Willis 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 young man and two of his booster had been out for an other morning walk on the moorland not far from the hotel when they had been viciously attacked. His two champion 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"brutal creature with cold-blooded military capability and claws to match ”. Certainly, the 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 filthy and one side of his face bore patched wounds of dried line of descent. In fact, he was a spate - and he was the one who hadn't been taken to hospital !

But no-one was occupy in me ; the Police spoke to me briefly but only to establish that I hadn't seen anything. I told them the truth - or at least, theatrical role of it. I had gone up to the"Old Man"late yesterday but because of the conditions, I had spent the night in the car, in the car park. Given that I clearly had neither the body-build nor the construct essential to best three Highland youth in the manner that had clearly taken shoes, they believed me. I went up to my room to carry my bags. It was time to move on.

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

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