During a scant summertime break of serve, I was spending a week driving around the west of Scotland and had booked a couple of Night on the Isle of Skye. For eld considered a dramatic terminus with romanticistic partial tone, nowadays of trend you don't so much go"over the sea to Skye"as you go"over the bridgework"to it - paying a powerful bell for the privilege - and this does run to diminish the sense of romantic 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 small private guest-house hotel somewhat off the beaten track, partly for the tote up 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 priapic granite outcrop some 535m heights. Just like so many passing tourists, I had seen it from a length but never up close and I thought that the goodish trek up to it from the road might be rewarding. That was my program for tomorrow anyway.

I checked-in ahead of time in the eve and the woman of the star sign seemed pleasant enough but when I went down to dinner an hour or so later, I detected a strange atmosphere in the small-scale dining room. As I entered, I was immediately aware of a group of about 6 cat at the petty bar at the end of the elbow 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 Goidelic. I felt very much the outsider and as I sat alone at my tabular array in the windowpane, the woman of the theatre took on a sort of"Mrs Danvers"persona 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 efficient, while at the same time, rather grim and somewhat forbidding. It was all rather eerie and I ate my wholesome Scots English farmhouse dinner alone and in an inapt secretiveness, while the locals continued their conversation in murmur vowel of Gaelic, interrupted by the occasional burst of laughter and a glance in my way - 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 that I did not give the locals dry land for offence by adulterating it with anything like ice, even though I would suffer preferred it that way ! Slumped in a deep arm-chair by the fire, filled with my meal and warmed by the Scotch whiskey, I began to feel melt and rather sleepy.

As I dozed, I became conscious of the figure of a kilted young man half-sitting on the arm of the sofa next to me. My eye travelled upwards over his Pres Young, slightly hairy stage and tanned bare knees. He was wearing typical Highland hike apparel : walking bang, thick woolly windsock and an earmark Skye Tartan kilt, make out with a rather hold out leather sporran which now lay in his lap. He had on a chunky Arran sweater and he had a large tumbler in his hand with about half-an-inch of what looked same Scotch malt whiskey in the bottom. He raised the glass to his lips. It was Deryk - or rather, the somewhat elusive, mysterious and openhanded youthful guy I had met month before in British capital and who seemed to sustain assumed the role of my erstwhile fantasy younger pal from childhood.



"Hello,"he said, looking directly into my eyes with his piercing gaze. Then with that winning crooked smile of his he continued,"sword lily to see we share the same tastes."

He cocked his question on one slope, winked and raised his glass, as if to say a mute ‘ Slangevar'before sipping his scotch appreciatively.

His eyes were deep-set beneath soft disgraceful eye-brows and against the fire glow they seemed almost lustrous, while the blue devils and park of his tartan kilt seemed to meditate in their rich aristocratical gloss. Just as when I saw him months ago, he had the same short, crinkly black hair which flopped boyishly forward over his forehead and he had a gentle facial complexion that included a carefully cultivated shadow-beard. He had lovely, kissable rim ; a little weather-worn but plump and tasting slightly salty, I recalled, as I gazed back at him.



Of trend, years ago when I was pre-adolescent, he had been my jr. brother and was always getting into fuss and scrapes from which I had to deliver him ; rescues which usually, and significantly as it turned out, take getting his clothes off - as well as various early naughtinesses of childhood. In those daytime, he would have got been just a few years untested than me but he was now unaccountably still only in his mid-20's while I was nearly 40. Evidently, the eld had been kind to him ! However, since the merely chum I had known was the one of my Thomas Young and fecund imaginativeness, the mystery of who this guy really was still eluded me. After our hold out brush in Greater London a few months ago, he had disappeared again, leaving me none the wiser ; his reappearance now would, you might think, have provoked a profoundly investigation on my part but for some reason, this time I just accepted his being there. He was after all, fucking gorgeous and I fancied him like no-one else I had known. And in aspect of what happened death prison term, my head was alive to the hypothesis the night might have in store.

"I was wondering when you were going to reappear,"I said, and returned his ‘ Slangevar'with a gesture and a sip from my own glass of scotch. The warmness of the malt nectar seemed to filter through my body, as I gazed back into his drear pools of scrumptious and forbidden lust.

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

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

"Hmm - substantially not to really,"he affirmed, promptly changing the subject."Fancy slipping international for a breathing space of unfermented air ? It's quite hot in here by the fervor and it's a lovely discharge nighttime out."

I was tempted to induce a remark along the bank line 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 comply him, as the plait of his kilt swayed seductively from position to side and he headed for the door.

He was right ; it was a beautifully clear, romantic night as we stood in the frigidness night air, gazing up at the stars and pointing-out to each other the configuration and their John Roy Major stars ; the unmistakable"W"of Cassiopeia high in the north-east ; the brightness of Arcturus in the west and above us, Deneb, Vega and Altair, the genius of the"Summer Triangle"; and of track, the"Plough ”, Ursa major, the"Great Bear"and its cursor to the Pole champion, polestar. He seemed to recognize just as many of them as I did, and I was impressed by his knowledge and interest group ; it made me experience even closer to him. A full moonlight 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 misapprehend his ambiguous citation 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 approving and thought for a moment.

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

He went on to draw the rather hazardous way they had told him to take from the route 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 rate,"he finally asserted.

The full lunar month bathed the surrounding ling and the distant glen in a flaccid bluish Light, while our breath made little clouds of vapour against the night air. A shooting sensation tore across the sky and disappeared behind the James Jerome Hill above the small hotel and I sighed and shivered in the cold. 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 articulatio humeri, turning me towards him and enfolding me with his former arm. Willingly, I fell against him and put my limb inside his jumper to hug his warm consistence, clad underneath only in a tee-shirt. Once again, I was enveloped in his masculine odour which, enhanced by his pernicious use of a intimate musky cologne, seemed to wrap me in the safety of a warm blanket. My face found a home against the diffuse quilt 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 back end. His strong hairy stage clad in chunky woollen socks disappeared into that unknown region beyond the swaying pleats of his Skye Tartan and I couldn't help wondering if it was true - you know - what they say……..

He waited on the landing for me to open my door and invite him in but once inside, by the lighting of the moon from the windowpane, we finally embraced with a rightful passion of longing. At last, we kissed, long and lustfully, probing with our clapper and tasting the foreclose yield of brotherly love. His brim were full moon and moist, slightly salty to the taste ; the stubble of his shadow-beard felt slightly rugged and I inhaled the deeply, maleness 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 lust and we began frantically pulling off each others clothes. He unbuckled his sporran and it dropped to the floor as I pulled his jumper off, revealing the Saami"X-Men"tee-shirt he had worn the cobbler's last time we met -"Michigander"it take. My shirt was off following, then our boots and sock, before we fell into another bosom, kissing and hugging, breathing and panting. He sank his lips into my neck and I gasped in ecstasy, as his stubble lightly scratched at my sensitive bare cutis and he began licking and biting my ear, his fond breath sending tingles up and down my spine.

He dropped to his knees before me, kissing the blank, hairless skin of my stomach and pressing his fount into my genitals. Gently, he unbuttoned my jeans and lowered them to the floor ; and then his face buried itself in my groyne. My organ was bursting from my Cin2 Jockey shorts by this point, oozing pre-cum juice into the diffuse white fabric, 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 blue jean and raised his arms to displume off his tee-shirt, revealing his fountainhead developed bureau, peppered with soft hairs, in the centre of which hung on a leather necklace, a impress bronze medallion in the chassis 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 chest ; it felt surprisingly cold, unknown but somehow fascinating.

We returned to our embrace, kissing and hugging ; my custody now following the contour of his hairless back, his thorn and then at death, his bum, still covered by his kilt. Through the threatening woollen material, I massaged the boldness of his bottom, feeling their plump turn shape and clutching at the pleats of the backbone 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 forepart, his body now lying prone before me, clad only in his Skye Tartan kilt. I climbed onto the bed between his bare legs.

Seeking to discover but also wishing to prolong the act of discovery, I ran my hands up the rear of his hairy legs, slowly under his kilt, higher and high-pitched inside the cloak-and-dagger sanctuary until I felt his hairless hindquarters. I could fend 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 aroma of this, the most private domain of his young body. I spread his legs, to discover his balls and erect 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 circular apparent movement, before taking it fully into my lip, as my nozzle pressed into his hairless balls - did he shave his balls ? I hadn't remembered that from lastly 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 movement of his kilt, lifting his rear. Then, gently folding back the plait of his Skye plaid, I exposed his beautiful, plump, cycle boldness 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 finger pushed inside to find his prostate. I felt it, slightly hard and intumesce with excitement. He groaned, more loudly this time. Then, kneeling between his spread thigh and exposed tush, and surrounded by the folds of his kilt, like a huge blue-green flower, I pressed my wet and slippery tool against its small target at the substance. Whether or not I was de-flowering the youth of my immature brother, I could not have it off but against his initial resistance, I pushed, gently at first and then more firmly, until my cock-head err inside the kickoff sleeping room. His sharp consumption of breath, followed by a slender 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 ardent and comrade, piano and comforting ; I felt his second joint 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 tedious, firm but gentle military action, pushing fully into him and then slowly pulling almost all the way out, but not quite, then in again, back and Forth River, back and forth.

"Oh Fuck ! Oh God ! scratch,"he gasped."I'm gon na cum like this,"he groaned in ecstasy. I could finger his inside clenching me, as I kept pushing across the intumesce severeness of his prostate. His intact consistence began to shake.

It was all too much for me ; my own cum was rising now and my action became necessarily more excited, as I pushed faster, back and forth, in and out, until - we each let out our gasps in simultaneous moderation, 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 Lester Willis Young willingness, to be met by throbs of Adam, as his own cum erupted from his prostate, soaking the inside of his kilt in consortium of albumen spooge.

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

When I awoke the next aurora, there was no sign of him ; his boots and socks, the X-Men tee-shirt, Arran sweater and the kilt, were all gone."Just like last prison term,"I cursed to myself.

I showered, dressed and went down to breakfast. After last Night's exertions, I was ravenous and"Mrs Danvers"served me a wide 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.



Thinking that Deryk might release 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 Mungo Park, as per my plan. In fact, I thought I might still tolerate a chance of seeing him there but I didn't. I made the short trek up through the wood and on to the area known as"The refuge ”, where a number of stony volcanic plugs stand majestically and somewhat mystically in the almost lunar landscape."The Old Man of Storr"is the cock-a-hoop and most telling of them all. I had been taking lots of image in the morning sparkle but the weather deteriorated towards noon, so I went back to the hotel for a latterly lunch.

However, the dining room wasn't overt and"Mrs Danvers"wasn't around but an sr. guy was behind the bar - probably"Mr Danvers"- and he served me a score and a micro-waved pastie with rather lupus erythematosus discreetness than his forbidding wife ! While I sat with my swallow in the corner eating my tiffin, three young Guy came in and sat at the bar. They were some of the same cat I had seen the night before and, as last 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 medallion of some kind 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 night, they were talking in English ; not that it did me much good because their dialects were so strong that I still couldn't collar much - 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 pass the ridge. I was convinced he was out there, needing to be rescued, just like when we were kids.

With some difficulty, I eventually found the former itinerary some way south of the car park and leading up from the road. By now though, time was getting on and the weather was already starting to close-in. It was grey and cold and the first spots of rain were falling. But I wrapped-up and set off, undiscouraged and even more certain 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 rocks and bracken for any sign or cue of his having been there. The path passed close by a pocket-sized tarn or pond fed by J. J. Hill 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 investigate when I spotted something in the brake ; leather ; a leather strap ; then the apparent shape 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 patent 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 belly as I saw him, lying nerve down in the mud, completely naked except for his windsock and his X-Men tee shirt. I was shivering with concern now, at what I might be about to light upon. He was a pitiful tidy sum ; lying there in the shallow, rocky stream, his body last dark tanned and solid was now grey, shriveled and helpless. As I bent down to touch his battered and bruised torso, I feared the big. I felt his neck ; there was a pulse from his carotid artery - a feint one but a heart rate at least. He stirred at my touch.

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

He raised his caput and turned, but as he tried to get up, I realised that his body was covered with orotund welt and bruises, as if he had been kicked repeatedly, and his fount was tumid with bruises, cutting 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 come for me,"he quietly sobbed,"just like when we were kids."crying began to unify with mud and parentage on his beautiful but beaten expression.

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

"Those bastards in the bar shoemaker's last night,"he muttered, gritting his teeth, as if gathering strength,"I should own known better. They fucked me all roads, the prick. But at least you're here now."

By now the weather was getting angry ; the farting had picked up and the low temperature rain was starting to make out down quite heavily. And it was getting darkness. I looked at my sentinel and realised that, in his stipulation, we would never get back to the car before nightfall and this terrain would be punic in the dark, even if we tried. God knows where his kicking were - stolen I guess, along with his talisman and the substance of his sporran. I checked my mobile phone to call for help but just when I needed it most, there was no signal. I decided the solely affair to do was to seek some variety of shelter and I remembered the ruined croft a few hundred pace away, so with some trouble, I managed to get Deryk to his feet and we staggered out of the ditch and across the brake, eventually to discover that part of the ruin was still a low roofed complex body part with a half-broken b door on the former side. As we staggered inside, we were greeted by the warmth and smell of what had once been an creature shelter but which now took on a new role, as a shelter for two brothers. We collapsed into the straw in the corner.

There was lilliputian else I could do in the nighttime, with no first aid kit. What minuscule clothing we had on was now soaking wet and we had only my coat to get over us both but at to the lowest degree it was tender and dry in our tax shelter, albeit rather smelly ! I had a bottle of water which I made him sip and I also had some chocolate in my sac - always a secure source of energy and nutrition, so I gave him that to eat. His jaw was aching from his bruising but at least it wasn't broken.



The only former redress for exposure in these circumstances is shared bodily warmth, so I improvised a bed from the chaff, 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 drinking straw beside us. Now both completely naked, I hugged him closely against my warm body, spooning him from behind in the foetal lieu and pulling the coat over the top of us. Deryk was shivering at first but after a little while, the heat began to build up up under the pelage and he settled into a gentle sleep.

As the warmth built up, I started to get horny with my arms around him and my hammer nestled in the cleft below his buns. I was thinking about conclusion night and shooting my encumbrance into his inner willingness for the first metre. I'm ashamed to say that, even in this moment of crisis, my juice were flowing again and my erection was slipping rather easily into the scissure between his posterior. This moment was what all my fantasies of puerility had been leading up to - although I was too young or naïve to translate them fully at the time - and now I had a real Deryk in the refuge of my blazon again and I wanted him. In fact, I wanted him so much that with just the slightest movement between his buttocks, I felt my sexual climax building uncontrollably. portion of me didn't want it this way ; I didn't think it was"redress"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 gentle throb, as my fluids filled the crack of his buttocks and I cradled his body before me, hugging him and kissing the dorsum 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 ignite, I saw a dark, the outline at least, of Deryk, on his articulatio genus astride my body.



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

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

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

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

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

"Fuck me !"I found myself shouting, more in anguish than as a petition. But he quickly fired back, in rhythm method 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 final stage time he re-appeared. The same sharing of philia and warmth, the Lapp rapid rejuvenation, the light of the Sun Myung Moon and now this almost animal variation of Deryk.

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

He rammed into me one final time and came inside me, as he let out a sort of howling of reliever and I felt his fluids pumping into my interior, throb after throb after throbbing, before he collapsed on top of me on the straw, his erect organ still buried inside me. The pressure of his strong young torso against my stomach now found my own erect peter, oozing pre-cum juices again and desperate to be relieved. With my arms around him, my manus clutched the cheeks of his bum and pulled him to me. Just as last night, that niggling pressing and aristocratical effort was all it took to bring on my own orgasm, and as my inside clenched and my visual sense seemed to blur in the instant of shattering sexual climax, I felt his softening reed organ slip out of my hole just as my cum burst from my tool, filling the blank space between our two torso and running down the sides of my body into the straw. Shattered, I fell asleep again, this time with Deryk lying on top of me.

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

"Bugger ! Just like last clip,"I swore out loudly to myself.

I looked at my lookout man. 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 morning time 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 luminousness of an ambulance, two police cars and a boastfully crowd of people. As I got out of the car, I expected to be the essence of everyone's care, having been"missing"all Night, but the get together bunch was all gathered around a Cy Young man with a blanket over his shoulder joint, sitting on the paries and being attended to by the Paramedics and being questioned by the police. 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 young man and two of his protagonist had been out for an early forenoon pass on the Moor not far from the hotel when they had been viciously attacked. His two protagonist were now on their way to hospital in a bad way, but the culprit of this violence was the independent talking-point ; it seems that their assailant was a"vicious savage with inhuman forcefulness and claws to meet ”. Certainly, the Whitney Moore Young Jr. man in the mantle looked as if he had been heavily beaten and scratched. His apparel, or what remained of them, were torn and nasty and one side of his face bore patched wounds of dried origin. In fact, he was a pot - and he was the one who hadn't been taken to hospital !

But no-one was matter to in me ; the law spoke to me briefly but only to found 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 condition, I had spent the night in the car, in the car park. Given that I clearly had neither the body-build nor the chassis requisite to best three upland young in the style that had clearly taken place, they believed me. I went up to my room to pack my bags. It was time 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 scuttlebutt, please !