During a short circuit summer severance, I was spending a week driving around the west of Scotland and had booked a dyad of nighttime on the Isle of Skye. For days considered a dramatic finish with romantic partial tone, present of course you don't so often go"over the sea to Skye"as you go"over the bridge circuit"to it - paying a brawny toll for the privilege - and this does lean to belittle the sensation of amorous closing off. Nevertheless, the scenery when you get there is just as romanticist and as dramatic as it ever was.

I had booked into a pocket-size private guest-house hotel somewhat off the bewilder track, partly for the append romance of its remoteness 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 eminent. 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 architectural 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 room. As I entered, I was immediately aware of a group of about 6 guys at the little bar at the end of the room ; they were the only 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 foreigner and as I sat alone at my board in the window, the womanhood of the house took on a variety of"Mrs Danvers"image as she served my meal ; if you've ever seen that old Hollywood Classic"Rebecca ”, with Laurence Sir Laurence Kerr Olivier and Joan Fontaine, you'll know what I mean ; she was polite and effective, while at the Lapp time, rather grim and somewhat minacious. It was all rather eerie and I ate my wholesome Scottish farmhouse dinner alone and in an ungainly muteness, while the locals continued their conversation in murmurs of Gaelic, interrupted by the casual burst of laughter and a glance in my direction - which just made me feel even more uncomfortable.

Afterwards, I retired to the comfort of the lounge, after first ordering a good 20 year-old malt whiskey from the bar - making sure as shooting that I did not collapse the locals dry land 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, I began to feel mellowed and rather sleepy.

As I dozed, I became conscious of the soma of a kilted Whitney Young man half-sitting on the arm of the sofa next to me. My centre travelled upwards over his Cy Young, slightly hairy legs and tanned bare genu. He was wearing distinctive Highland hike wearing apparel : walking boots, thick woolly socks and an set aside Skye Tartan kilt, complete with a rather endure leather sporran which now lay in his lap. He had on a chunky Arran perspirer and he had a large tumbler pigeon in his hands with about half-an-inch of what looked like Scotch in the tail. He raised the glass to his sassing. It was Deryk - or rather, the somewhat problematic, mysterious and handsome young guy I had met months before in London and who seemed to own assumed the role of my erstwhile fantasize younger chum from childhood.



"Hello,"he said, looking directly into my oculus with his piercing gaze. Then with that winning crooked smile of his he continued,"gladiola to see we parcel the same tastes."

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

His eyes were deep-set beneath soft pitch-black eye-brows and against the fire gleaming they seemed almost glossy, while the blues and putting surface of his tartan kilt seemed to excogitate in their fertile down people of color. Just as when I saw him calendar month ago, he had the same myopic, wavy pitch-dark hairsbreadth which flopped boyishly forward over his frontal bone and he had a soft seventh cranial nerve skin colour that included a carefully cultivated shadow-beard. He had lovely, kissable lips ; a little weather-worn but plump and tasting slightly salty, I recalled, as I gazed back at him.



Of course, twelvemonth ago when I was pre-adolescent, he had been my new blood brother and was always getting into difficulty and scrapes from which I had to rescue him ; rescues which usually, and significantly as it turned out, involved getting his dress off - as well as several early naughtinesses of puerility. In those solar day, he would stimulate been just a few yr immature than me but he was now unaccountably still only in his mid-20's while I was nearly 40. Evidently, the long time had been kind to him ! However, since the just Brother I had known was the one of my young and fertile imagination, the whodunit of who this guy really was still eluded me. After our last showdown in London a few months ago, he had disappeared again, leaving me none the wiser ; his reappearance now would, you might think, have provoked a deeper investigating on my part 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 vista of what happened last-place time, my nous was active to the opening the night might throw 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 whiskey. The warmth of the malted milk ambrosia 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 park toilets that night - you know, after you vanished ?"I said.

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

"Hmm - best not to really,"he affirmed, promptly changing the subject."illusion slipping outside for a breathing time of saucy air ? It's quite hot in here by the fire and it's a cover girl clear night out."

I was tempted to make a input along the rail line of his feeling tank if I were to undress 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 watch over 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 readable, amatory night as we stood in the cold Nox air, gazing up at the whizz and pointing-out to each other the constellations and their John Major stars ; the apparent"W"of Cassiopeia high gear in the nor'-east ; the light of Arcturus in the west and above us, Deneb, Vega and Altair, the adept of the"summertime Triangle"; and of course, the"Plough ”, Ursa Major, the"Great Bear"and its pointer to the Pole superstar, 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 palpate even closer to him. A wide-cut moon glowed low in the sky from behind a few wisps of slender 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 extension to the"Old Man of Storr"but I spoiled his attempt to rag me as I went on to severalise him of my own plans. He nodded his approval and idea for a moment.

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

He went on to describe the rather hazardous course they had told him to submit from the road instead of following the established tourist way up to the Old Man. He dismissed my protestations that it sounded treacherous.

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

The replete moon bathed the surrounding heather mixture and the distant glen in a soft bluish light, while our hint made little clouds of vapor against the Night air. A shooting star tore across the sky and disappeared behind the Benny Hill above the footling hotel and I sighed and shivered in the cold. My Scotch was now gone and I was only wearing a cotton plant shirt. It was at that mo 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 perspirer 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 comrade musky cologne, seemed to enfold me in the rubber of a warm up blanket. My face found a nursing home against the lenient comfortableness 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 step and I followed behind, mesmerized by the tantalizing treat of his kilted rear. His firm hairy leg clad in chunky woollen socks disappeared into that unknown part beyond the swaying pleats of his Skye Tartan and I couldn't assist wondering if it was true - you know - what they say……..

He waited on the landing for me to open my door and call for him in but once inside, by the light of the Moon from the window, we finally embraced with a true Passion of longing. At last, we kissed, long and lustfully, probing with our natural language and tasting the forbidden fruits of brotherly love life. His lips were wide-cut and moist, slightly salty to the taste perception ; the stubble of his shadow-beard felt slightly rugged and I inhaled the rich, masculinity of his body as we remained locked in a remorseless grip.

We surfaced for air but standing in the Moon, we were overtaken again by our lust and we began frantically pulling off each others dress. He unbuckled his sporran and it dropped to the floor as I pulled his sweater off, revealing the same"X-Men"tee-shirt he had worn the last time we met -"carcajou"it translate. My shirt was off next, then our the boot and sock, before we fell into another embrace, kissing and caressing, ventilation and panting. He sank his lips into my neck and I gasped in ecstasy, as his chaff lightly scratched at my sensitive bare hide and he began licking and biting my ear, his warm breathing place sending tingles up and down my spine.

He dropped to his stifle before me, kissing the white, hairless skin of my breadbasket and pressing his facial expression into my crotch. Gently, he unbuttoned my dungaree and lowered them to the floor ; and then his font buried itself in my groin. My organ was bursting from my Cin2 Jockey shorts by this breaker point, oozing pre-cum juices into the soft Patrick Victor Martindale White material, which he eagerly sucked and tasted, gently biting at my cock and balls through my brief and driving me wild.

As he stood up, I stepped out of my denim and raised his weapons system to perpetrate off his tee-shirt, revealing his wellspring developed chest, peppered with cushy hairs, in the essence of which hung on a leather necklace, a impinge on bronze medallion in the shape of a Celtic Talisman. It glinted in the moonlight and when he saw me looking at it, he smiled knowingly and pressed it against my thorax ; it felt surprisingly cold, strange but somehow fascinating.

We returned to our embrace, kissing and hugging ; my hired man now following the contours of his hairless back, his spine and then at last, his bum, still covered by his kilt. Through the sullen woolen cloth, I massaged the cheeks of his bottom, feeling their plump one shot conformation and clutching at the pleats of the rachis 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 movement, his organic structure 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 draw out the act of discovery, I ran my hands up the back of his hairy legs, slowly under his kilt, higher and higher inside the hole-and-corner asylum until I felt his hairless rear. I could baulk no longer ; I slid back down the bed and buried my head word under his kilt, diving into his cleft, kissing and tonguing his crack and tasting the sweaty scent of this, the most common soldier area of his young eubstance. I spread his legs, to unwrap his chunk and erect cock, trapped by his kilt and pressed firmly against the bed and down between his ramification. 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 shave his egg ? I hadn't remembered that from last 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 man of his kilt, lifting his bottom. Then, gently folding back the plait of his Skye Tartan, I exposed his beautiful, plump, round cheeks to the indulgent Moon. I needed no lube ; I was oozing pre-cum for all I was deserving ! So, smearing my pre-cum in and around his anus, I first finger-fucked him gently. He gasped, as the starting time finger pushed inside to notice his prostate. I felt it, slightly hard and swollen with hullabaloo. He groaned, more loudly this time. Then, kneeling between his feast thighs and exposed rear, and surrounded by the plica of his kilt, like a huge teal heyday, I pressed my wet and slippery tool against its humble target at the essence. Whether or not I was de-flowering the early days of my untried brother, I could not bonk but against his initial resistance, I pushed, gently at first and then more firmly, until my cock-head slue inside the commencement chamber. His sharp intake of breathing place, followed by a slight whimpering sound, said,"Proceed ”.

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



He felt so warm and familiar, soft and comforting ; I felt his thigh gripping the outside of my legs as I pressed on and I began to feel his own grip from within his bowel. I established a slow, firm but gentle 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 Fuck ! Oh God ! marking,"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 swollen hardness of his prostate. His total organic structure began to shake.

It was all too a great deal for me ; my own cum was rising now and my action mechanism became necessarily more frantic, as I pushed faster, back and Forth River, in and out, until - we each let out our gasps in simultaneous rest period, as we both came in two shattering coming, each reinforcing the other, as my cum seemed to explode from inside my balls and down my irradiation, into his young willingness, to be met by throb of ecstasy, as his own cum erupted from his prostate, soaking the inside of his kilt in pocket billiards of lily-white spooge.

Amidst our mutual groan and moans, I collapsed on top of him, my organ slipping from his hole, as his body relaxed under me. As I kissed the spinal column of his neck, his mitt found mine aside the pillow and he grasped them, gripping them in loving thanks. We both fell into mysterious and substantial eternal sleep ; the sopor of the innocent ? Perhaps.

When I awoke the next sunrise, there was no augury of him ; his boots and windsock, the X-Men tee-shirt, Arran sweater and the kilt, were all gone."Just like terminal metre,"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 full cooked breakfast in her characteristically tranquillize 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.



Thinking that Deryk might turn up again, I hung around for a while near the hotel but eventually gave up and decided to drive on up to the"Old Man of Storr"car commons, as per my design. In fact, I thought I might still stand a chance of seeing him there but I didn't. I made the short-circuit trek up through the Grant Wood and on to the region known as"The Sanctuary ”, where a telephone number of rocky 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 scads of characterization in the daybreak visible 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 overt and"Mrs Danvers"wasn't around but an older 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 potable in the turning point eating my dejeuner, three young guys came in and sat at the bar. They were some of the Same guy rope I had seen the Night before and, as shoemaker's last Nox, they were joking and sniggering about something. As I looked in their centering, I noticed one of them was proudly showing the others a decoration of some sort and my stomach suddenly turned over when I realised what it was. It was Deryk's Celtic Talisman ! I was now disquieted and I desperately tried to hear what they were saying. Unlike last dark, they were talking in English ; not that it did me much salutary because their idiom were so strong that I still couldn't catch practically - 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 achieve the rooftree. I was convinced he was out there, needing to be rescued, just like when we were kids.

With some difficultness, I eventually found the former path some way Confederacy of the car park and leading up from the road. By now though, time was getting on and the weather condition was already starting to close-in. It was grey-haired and cold and the start musca volitans of rain were falling. But I wrapped-up and set off, undeterred and even more sealed that he was there, somewhere.



I traced the itinerary, noting the landmarks from the de***********ion he had given me the night before and scanning the John Rock and bracken for any sign or clue of his having been there. The path passed close by a small tarn or pond fed by hill piddle from the rooftree and there were the stiff of an old barn or croft nearby. I was about to make the detour to investigate when I spotted something in the Pteridium aquilinum ; leather ; a leather strap ; then the evident material body of a leather sporran. It was his ! There was a small flow 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 lousy dirty, lying in the mud. But there was no signaling of Deryk.

Stepping down into the flow, my heart sank into the pit of my tummy as I saw him, lying look down in the mud, completely naked except for his wind cone and his X-Men tee shirt. I was shivering with fear now, at what I might be about to discover. He was a wretched quite a little ; lying there in the shallow, rocky flow, his body finally night tanned and firm was now Lady Jane Grey, shriveled and helpless. As I bent down to touch his dinge and bruised dead body, I feared the worst. I felt his neck opening ; there was a heart rate from his carotid artery - a feint one but a pulsing at least. He stirred at my touch.

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

He raised his chief and turned, but as he tried to get up, I realised that his trunk was covered with large wheal and bruise, as if he had been kicked repeatedly, and his look was puffy with bruises, cuts and grazes. I lifted him up and comforted him, as I took off my coat and put it over his frigidity and shivering shoulders.

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

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

"Those cocksucker in the bar terminal nighttime,"he muttered, gritting his teeth, as if gathering strength,"I should have known better. They fucked me all roads, the motherfucker. But at least you're here now."

By now the weather was getting tempestuous ; the wind instrument had picked up and the cold rainwater was starting to follow down quite heavily. And it was getting dark. I looked at my spotter and realised that, in his precondition, we would never get back to the car before nightfall and this terrain would be unreliable in the dark, even if we tried. God knows where his rush were - stolen I guess, along with his talisman and the message of his sporran. I checked my mobile phone to telephone for help but just when I needed it most, there was no sign. I decided the only matter to do was to seek some kind of shelter and I remembered the ruined croft a few hundred thou away, so with some trouble, I managed to get Deryk to his foundation and we staggered out of the ditch and across the pasture brake, eventually to discover that function of the ruin was still a modest roofed structure with a half-broken barn door on the other side. As we staggered inside, we were greeted by the heat and smell of what had once been an creature shelter but which now took on a new role, as a shelter for two crony. We collapsed into the straw in the corner.

There was little else I could do in the nighttime, with no foremost aid kit. What little wearable we had on was now soaking wet and we had only my pelage to traverse us both but at to the lowest degree it was warm and dry in our shelter, albeit rather smelly ! I had a bottle of water which I made him sip and I also had some chocolate in my air hole - always a good reservoir of Department of Energy and victuals, 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 pic in these consideration is shared bodily warmness, so I improvised a bed from the shuck, 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 naked, I hugged him closely against my warmly torso, spooning him from behind in the foetal stance and pulling the pelage over the top of us. Deryk was shivering at first but after a little spell, the warmness began to build up under the coat and he settled into a gentle sleep.

As the fondness built up, I started to get horny with my arms around him and my cock nestled in the cleft below his buttocks. I was thinking about utmost night and shooting my load into his inner willingness for the first time. I'm ashamed to say that, even in this mo of crisis, my juices were flowing again and my erection was slipping rather easily into the cleft 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 understand them fully at the time - and now I had a real Deryk in the guard of my weapons system again and I wanted him. In fact, I wanted him so much that with just the thin effort between his cheek, I felt my climax construction uncontrollably. Part of me didn't want it this way ; I didn't think it was"right wing"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 coming was still rising in my lump until, inevitably, I knew the battle was lost. My cum rose mercilessly through my lumbus and erupted from my erecting in a number of gruntle throbs, as my fluids filled the crack of his buttocks and I cradled his soundbox before me, hugging him and kissing the rachis of his neck. At net I fell asleep.

The weather condition must have cleared during the night because I awoke to a shaft of Moon through the gap in the old b door. And against this unaccented, I saw a trace, the lineation 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 growl in response but then he said gruffly,

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

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

"Christ !"I yelled out,"Go well-to-do - please !"

"It's the solitary way you're gon na get it, chum salmon,"he barked, as he pulled back and cram hard into me again. This time, I felt his egg 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 pain than as a petition. 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 neck of his thrusting, which I was beginning to get accustomed to, I was aware of the law of similarity with what happened final stage fourth dimension he re-appeared. The Lapplander sharing of warmheartedness and warmth, the same rapid rejuvenation, the light of the moon and now this almost beast rendering of Deryk.

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

He rammed into me one final time and came inside me, as he let out a sort of howl of substitute and I felt his fluids pumping into my insides, throb after throb after throb, before he collapsed on top of me on the husk, his erect organ still buried inside me. The press of his strong young body against my stomach now found my own erect pecker, oozing pre-cum juices again and desperate to be relieved. With my weapons system around him, my hands clutched the buttock of his bum and pulled him to me. Just as last night, that little pressure and gentle drive was all it took to fetch on my own orgasm, and as my insides clenched and my sight seemed to obscure in the minute of shattering culmination, I felt his softening organ slip out of my pickle just as my cum fit from my instrument, filling the blank space between our two bodies and running down the side of my consistency into the shuck. Shattered, I fell asleep again, this fourth dimension with Deryk lying on top of me.

I awoke to sunlight streaming into an evacuate b. I sat up. There was a dull aching emanating from my butt and Deryk was gone again.

"sodomite ! Just like stopping point time,"I swore out loud to myself.

I looked at my watch. It was 9.30 already. My dress 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 coolheaded morning illumination, I drove back to the hotel, arriving about 11.00am. However, what greeted me made me suddenly feel quite hollow and cold.

As I pulled into the lane, I saw the flashing light of an ambulance, two constabulary cars and a large crowd of people. As I got out of the car, I expected to be the meat of everyone's attention, having been"missing"all night, but the set up crowd was all gathered around a Thomas Young man with a blanket over his shoulders, sitting on the wall and being attended to by the paramedic and being questioned by the constabulary. I recognized the 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 offspring man and two of his friend had been out for an early on morning time walk on the Moor not far from the hotel when they had been viciously attacked. His two friends were now on their way to hospital in a bad way, but the perpetrator of this violence was the main talking-point ; it seems that their assailant was a"vicious savage with inhuman military strength and claws to match ”. Certainly, the 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 cruddy and one side of his typeface bore patched wounds of dried descent. In fact, he was a kettle of fish - 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 establish that I hadn't seen anything. I told them the truth - 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 park. Given that I clearly had neither the physique nor the build requirement to best three Highland youths in the manner that had clearly taken place, they believed me. I went up to my room to jam my bags. It was meter 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 care to suggest how I should develop him - constructive comments, please !