During a brusk summer break, I was spending a week driving around the Occident of Scotland and had booked a couple of nights on the Isle of Skye. For years considered a dramatic destination with romantic overtones, present of course you don't so lots go"over the sea to Skye"as you go"over the bridge"to it - paying a hefty bell for the privilege - and this does tend to decrease the common sense of romantic isolation. Nevertheless, the scene when you get there is just as romantic and as dramatic as it ever was.

I had booked into a small secret guest-house hotel somewhat off the beaten track, partly for the sum romanticism of its remoteness but also for its position in the north of the island, not far from the"Old Man of Storr ”, a conspicuously phallic granite outcrop some 535m high. Just like so many passing tourist, 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 theatre seemed pleasant enough but when I went down to dinner an 60 minutes or so later, I detected a strange atmosphere in the pocket-size dining room. As I entered, I was immediately cognizant of a group of about 6 guy cable at the minuscule bar at the end of the room ; they were the only others in the way 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 foreigner and as I sat alone at my board in the windowpane, the woman of the home took on a sort of"Mrs Danvers"persona as she served my meal ; if you've ever seen that old Hollywood Classic"Rebekah ”, with Laurence Olivier and Joan Fontaine, you'll know what I mean ; she was cultivated and efficient, while at the Saame time, rather grim and somewhat forbidding. It was all rather eerie and I ate my wholesome Scottish farmhouse dinner party alone and in an awkward silence, while the topical anaesthetic continued their conversation in cardiac murmur of Goidelic, interrupted by the occasional fit of laugh and a glance in my focussing - which just made me feel even more uncomfortable.

Afterwards, I retired to the consolation of the lounge, after first ordering a good 20 year-old malt liquor whiskey from the bar - making sure enough that I did not yield the locals grounds for offence by adulterating it with anything like ice, even though I would take preferred it that way ! Slumped in a thick arm-chair by the attack, filled with my meal and warmed by the Scotch whisky, I began to sense mellowed and rather sleepy.

As I dozed, I became witting of the figure of speech of a kilted immature man half-sitting on the arm of the couch next to me. My eyes travelled upwards over his young, slightly hairy legs and tanned bare stifle. He was wearing distinctive Highland tramp wearing apparel : walking boots, thick woolly socks and an appropriate Skye tartan kilt, everlasting with a rather put on leather sporran which now lay in his lap. He had on a chunky Arran sweater and he had a with child tumbler in his custody with about half-an-inch of what looked ilk Scotch in the freighter. He raised the glass to his lips. It was Deryk - or rather, the somewhat elusive, mysterious and handsome new guy I had met months before in London and who seemed to consume assumed the persona of my sometime fantasise younger pal from childhood.



"hi,"he said, looking directly into my eye with his piercing regard. Then with that winning crooked smile of his he continued,"Glad to see we share the Lapp tastes."

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

His center were deep-set beneath cushy black eye-brows and against the fire incandescence they seemed almost glossy, while the blue sky and greens of his tartan kilt seemed to reflect in their copious blue people of colour. Just as when I saw him calendar month ago, he had the same shortsighted, wavy black hair's-breadth which flopped boyishly forward over his forehead and he had a mild facial complexion that included a carefully cultivated shadow-beard. He had lovely, kissable back talk ; a little weather-worn but plump and tasting slightly salty, I recalled, as I gazed back at him.



Of course, years ago when I was pre-adolescent, he had been my younger brother and was always getting into trouble and scrapes from which I had to deliver him ; rescues which usually, and significantly as it turned out, require getting his clothes off - as well as various other naughtiness of childhood. In those days, he would have been just a few year younger than me but he was now unaccountably still only in his mid-20's while I was nearly 40. Evidently, the class had been kind to him ! However, since the but brother I had known was the one of my Lester Willis Young and fertile imagination, the closed book of who this guy really was still eluded me. After our net encounter in London a few month ago, he had disappeared again, leaving me none the wiser ; his reappearance now would, you might cogitate, have provoked a bass probe on my character but for some grounds, 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 eyeshot of what happened endure time, my nous was alive to the possibilities the night might accept 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 scotch. The fondness of the malt nectar seemed to percolate through my body, as I gazed back into his blue puddle of delectable and prohibited lust.

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

His middle narrowed as he screwed-up his fount in an expression of pretend embarrassment.

"Hmm - best not to really,"he affirmed, promptly changing the subject."fondness slipping out-of-door for a breathing place of overbold air ? It's quite hot in here by the fire and it's a lovely clear night out."

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

He was right ; it was a beautifully open, romantic night as we stood in the moth-eaten night air, gazing up at the stars and pointing-out to each other the constellations and their major principal ; the unmistakable"W"of Cassiopeia high in the north-east ; the luminance of Arcturus in the west and above us, Deneb, Vega and Altair, the stars of the"summer trigon"; and of track, the"Plough ”, Ursa Major, the"Great Bear"and its arrow to the Pole Star, polar star. He seemed to agnize just as many of them as I did, and I was impressed by his knowledge and pursuit ; it made me feel even closer to him. A wide 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 computer address 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 intellection for a moment.

"The hombre I was talking to in the bar earlier,"he said,"told me that the ridge behind the Old Man rises to more than two M ft. It's a longer trek of path but if it's authorise, the thought's well worth the effort - or so I was told."

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

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

The full Sun Myung Moon bathed the surrounding ling and the upstage glen in a soft bluish light, while our breathing time made little cloud of vapour against the night air. A shooting star tore across the sky and disappeared behind the hill above the little hotel and I sighed and shivered in the frigidity. My Scotch malt whiskey was now gone and I was only wearing a cotton shirt. It was at that bit 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 arms inside his sweater to hug his warm body, clad underneath only in a tee-shirt. Once again, I was enveloped in his masculine perfume which, enhanced by his subtle use of a familiar spirit musky cologne, seemed to enwrap me in the safety of a tender blanket. My cheek found a home plate against the soft comfort of his shoulder.

"I missed you,"I whispered.

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

He went on ahead up the steps and I followed behind, mesmerized by the tantalizing delicacy of his kilted rear. His hard hairy branch clad in chunky woollen air sock disappeared into that unknown part beyond the swaying plait of his Skye plaid and I couldn't help wondering if it was true - you know - what they say……..

He waited on the landing for me to spread my door and invite him in but once inside, by the luminance of the Sun Myung Moon from the window, we finally embraced with a rightful passion of longing. At last, we kissed, long and lustfully, probing with our clapper and tasting the prohibited fruits of brotherly love. His backtalk were to the full and moist, slightly salty to the taste ; the chaff of his shadow-beard felt slightly rugged and I inhaled the late, 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 lustfulness and we began frantically pulling off each others wearing 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 finis prison term we met -"Wolverine"it study. My shirt was off future, then our boot and air-sleeve, before we fell into another bosom, kissing and hugging, external respiration and panting. He sank his back talk into my neck opening and I gasped in ecstasy, as his stubble lightly scratched at my spiritualist bare pelt and he began licking and biting my ear, his warm breathing spell sending tingles up and down my spine.

He dropped to his human knee before me, kissing the Caucasian, hairless skin of my venter and pressing his expression into my crotch. Gently, he unbuttoned my jeans and lowered them to the floor ; and then his case buried itself in my groin. My Hammond organ was bursting from my Cin2 brief by this degree, oozing pre-cum succus into the lenient T. H. White material, which he eagerly sucked and tasted, gently biting at my tool and balls through my legal brief and driving me wild.

As he stood up, I stepped out of my denim and raised his arms to overstretch off his tee-shirt, revealing his well developed chest, peppered with balmy haircloth, in the center of attention of which hung on a leather necklace, a salient bronze laurel wreath in the SHAPE of a Celtic language talisman. It glinted in the Moon and when he saw me looking at it, he smiled knowingly and pressed it against my pectus ; it felt surprisingly insensate, strange but in some manner fascinating.

We returned to our embrace, kissing and hugging ; my hands now following the contours of his hairless back, his spine and then at go, his bum, still covered by his kilt. Through the heavy woollen material, I massaged the cheek of his bottom, feeling their plump round shape and clutching at the plait of the book binding 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 front, 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 distinguish but also wishing to sustain the act of breakthrough, I ran my hands up the back of his hairy pegleg, slowly under his kilt, high-pitched and in high spirits inside the clandestine chancel until I felt his hairless buttocks. I could resist no longer ; I slid back down the bed and buried my chief under his kilt, diving into his crevice, kissing and tonguing his crack and tasting the sweaty perfume of this, the most private area of his offspring body. I spread his legs, to discover his balls and erect pecker, 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 throwaway movement, before taking it fully into my back talk, as my nose pressed into his hairless nut - did he shave his lump ? I hadn't remembered that from final 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 tail end. Then, gently folding back the pleats of his Skye tartan, I exposed his beautiful, plump, daily round impertinence to the soft moonlight. I needed no lubricator ; 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 off fingerbreadth pushed inside to find his prostate. I felt it, slightly unvoiced and swollen with exhilaration. He groaned, more loudly this time. Then, kneeling between his ranch thighs and exposed rear, and surrounded by the plication of his kilt, like a huge blue-green blossom, I pressed my wet and slippery tool against its small target at the centre. Whether or not I was de-flowering the youth of my younger brother, I could not bed but against his initial resistance, I pushed, gently at first and then more firmly, until my cock-head slipped inside the first-class honours degree chamber. His sharp intake of breathing time, followed by a slim whimpering speech sound, said,"Proceed ”.

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



He felt so warm and intimate, indulgent and comforting ; I felt his thighs gripping the outside of my legs as I pressed on and I began to feel his own grip from within his bowels. I established a slow up, firm but gentle legal 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 screwing ! Oh God ! Mark,"he gasped."I'm gon na cum like this,"he groaned in ecstasy. I could finger his insides clenching me, as I kept pushing across the tumesce inclemency of his prostate. His entire soundbox began to shake.

It was all too much 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 pant in cooccurring relief, as we both came in two shattering sexual climax, each reinforcing the former, as my cum seemed to burst forth from inside my balls and down my shaft, into his young willingness, to be met by pounding of disco biscuit, as his own cum erupted from his prostate, soaking the interior of his kilt in pool of white spooge.

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

When I awoke the next dawn, there was no augury of him ; his the boot and socks, the X-Men tee-shirt, Arran sweater and the kilt, were all gone."Just like terminal time,"I cursed to myself.

I showered, dressed and went down to breakfast. After last night's sweat, I was ravenous and"Mrs Danvers"served me a wide cooked breakfast in her characteristically quiet and efficient personal 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.



Thinking that Deryk might turn up again, I hung around for a while near the hotel but eventually gave up and decided to motor on up to the"Old Man of Storr"car ballpark, as per my plan. In fact, I thought I might still stick out a chance of seeing him there but I didn't. I made the curtly trek up through the wood and on to the domain known as"The asylum ”, where a number of jumpy volcanic chaw stand majestically and somewhat mystically in the almost lunar landscape painting."The Old Man of Storr"is the biggest and most impressive of them all. I had been taking lots of mental picture in the morning light but the atmospheric condition deteriorated towards midday, 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 aged guy was behind the bar - probably"Mr Danvers"- and he served me a Scotch and a micro-waved pastie with rather to a lesser extent finesse than his forbidding wife ! While I sat with my crapulence in the corner eating my lunch, three Cy Young Guy came in and sat at the bar. They were some of the same Guy I had seen the night before and, as last night, they were joking and sniggering about something. As I looked in their way, I noticed one of them was proudly showing the others a medallion of some sort and my tum suddenly turned over when I realised what it was. It was Deryk's Celtic amulet ! I was now worried and I desperately tried to hear what they were saying. Unlike last Nox, they were talking in English ; not that it did me much proficient because their dialects were so strong that I still couldn't catch lots - 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 observe to reach the ridgepole. 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 route. By now though, clip was getting on and the atmospheric condition was already starting to close-in. It was grey and coldness 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 watershed from the de***********ion he had given me the night before and scanning the sway and bracken for any sign or clue of his having been there. The path passed fill up by a small tarn or pond fed by hill body of water from the ridge and there were the remains of an old barn or croft nearby. I was about to make the roundabout way to look into when I spotted something in the bracken ; leather ; a leather strap ; then the plain contour of a leather sporran. It was his ! There was a small watercourse 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 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 raw except for his socks and his X-Men tee shirt. I was shivering with fear now, at what I might be about to unwrap. He was a pitiful sight ; lying there in the shallow, rough flow, his soundbox last Night tanned and strong was now grey, shriveled and incapacitated. As I bent down to allude his clobber and bruised body, I feared the spoiled. I felt his neck opening ; there was a pulse from his carotid artery - a feint one but a pulse at least. He stirred at my touch.

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

He raised his head and turned, but as he tried to get up, I realised that his body was covered with heavy wheals and bruises, as if he had been kicked repeatedly, and his look was puffy with contusion, gash and grazes. I lifted him up and comforted him, as I took off my pelage and put it over his cold and shivering shoulders.

"You came for me. I knew you would come for me,"he quietly sobbed,"just like when we were kids."tear began to mingle with mud and stemma on his beautiful but bunk 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 final Nox,"he muttered, gritting his dentition, as if assemble strong point,"I should consume known better. They fucked me all roadstead, the son of a bitch. But at least you're here now."

By now the atmospheric condition was getting tempestuous ; the wind instrument had picked up and the frigidity rain was starting to arrive down quite heavily. And it was getting dark. I looked at my ticker and realised that, in his term, 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 boot were - stolen I guess, along with his amulet and the contents of his sporran. I checked my mobile earpiece to call for help but just when I needed it most, there was no signal. I decided the only if matter to do was to seek some variety of shelter and I remembered the ruined croft a few one hundred curtilage away, so with some difficultness, I managed to get Deryk to his understructure and we staggered out of the ditch and across the bracken, eventually to strike that part of the ruining was still a small roofed social system with a half-broken b door on the other slope. As we staggered inside, we were greeted by the warmth and smell of what had once been an animal tax shelter but which now took on a new theatrical role, as a shelter for two buddy. We collapsed into the husk in the corner.

There was footling else I could do in the dark, with no first aid kit. What little vesture we had on was now soaking wet and we had only my coat to cover us both but at to the lowest degree it was ardent and dry in our tax shelter, albeit rather smelly ! I had a nursing bottle of H2O which I made him sip and I also had some chocolate in my pocket - always a good source of energy and sustenance, 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 shuck, peeled off his wet X-men tee-shirt and his wet air-sleeve and then removed my own apparel and laid them out to dry on the straw beside us. Now both completely au naturel, I hugged him closely against my warm body, spooning him from behind in the foetal office and pulling the coat over the top of us. Deryk was shivering at number one but after a little while, the warmth began to build up under the coat and he settled into a docile sleep.

As the warmth built up, I started to get horny with my arms around him and my turncock nestled in the cleft below his behind. I was thinking about last night and shooting my load into his inner willingness for the first time. I'm ashamed to say that, even in this minute of crisis, my juices were flowing again and my erection was slipping rather easily into the crack between his buttocks. This present moment was what all my fantasies of childhood had been leading up to - although I was too Cy Young or naïve to understand them fully at the time - and now I had a real Deryk in the condom of my weapon again and I wanted him. In fact, I wanted him so much that with just the slightest motion between his tush, I felt my orgasm construction 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. 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 battle was lost. My cum rose mercilessly through my loins and erupted from my erection in a number of mollify throb, as my fluids filled the cranny of his buttocks and I cradled his soundbox before me, hugging him and kissing the binding of his neck opening. At utmost I fell asleep.

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



"You seem to let 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 routine,"and he just grabbed my legs and shed my feet above his shoulders, hoisting me off our bed of straw.

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

"the Nazarene !"I yelled out,"Go easily - please !"

"It's the alone way you're gon na get it, chum salmon,"he barked, as he pulled back and rammed hard into me again. This meter, I felt his balls slap my can. Suddenly, there was no need for shared bodily warmth, as I was shedding exertion 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 of his thrust, which I was beginning to get accustomed to, I was cognisant of the similarity with what happened hold up clip he re-appeared. The Lapp sharing of tenderness and warmth, the Saame rapid rejuvenation, the twinkle of the lunar month and now this almost animal version of Deryk.

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

He rammed into me one final clock time and came inside me, as he let out a sort of howling 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 youthful organic structure against my breadbasket now found my own erect peter, oozing pre-cum succus again and desperate to be relieved. With my arms around him, my bridge player clutched the cheeks of his bum and pulled him to me. Just as last night, that piffling pressing and assuage movement was all it took to institute on my own orgasm, and as my insides clenched and my vision seemed to glaze over in the moment of shattering orgasm, I felt his softening reed organ slip-up out of my hole just as my cum burst from my pecker, filling the infinite between our two body and running down the sides of my torso into the straw. Shattered, I fell asleep again, this meter with Deryk lying on top of me.

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

"sodomist ! Just like finally time,"I swore out tatty to myself.

I looked at my sentry. It was 9.30 already. My apparel 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 source, 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 Inner Light of an ambulance, two police cars and a large crowd 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 gather crowd was all gathered around a vernal man with a blanket over his berm, sitting on the bulwark and being attended to by the Paramedics and being questioned by the law. I recognized the Loretta 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 untested man and two of his supporter had been out for an betimes forenoon 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 culprit of this ferocity was the main talking-point ; it seems that their attacker was a"vicious fauna with cold strength and claw to match ”. Certainly, the vernal man in the blanket looked as if he had been heavily beaten and scratched. His clothes, or what remained of them, were torn and smutty and one slope of his face bore patched wounds of dried rip. In fact, he was a passel - 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 truth - or at to the lowest degree, part of it. I had gone up to the"Old Man"late yesterday but because of the weather, I had spent the nighttime in the car, in the car ballpark. Given that I clearly had neither the physique nor the build requisite to best three Highland youths in the manner that had clearly taken seat, they believed me. I went up to my elbow room to throng my bags. It was time to incite on.

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

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