During a short summertime break of serve, I was spending a week driving around the west of Scotland and had booked a dyad of nights on the Isle of Skye. For days considered a dramatic destination with quixotic partial, nowadays of course you don't so lots go"over the sea to Skye"as you go"over the bridge"to it - paying a hefty toll for the perquisite - and this does run to diminish the sense of romantic isolation. Nevertheless, the scenery when you get there is just as romantic and as spectacular as it ever was.

I had booked into a modest common soldier guest-house hotel somewhat off the beaten track, partly for the added romance of its remoteness but also for its fix 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 tourists, 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 design for tomorrow anyway.

I checked-in early in the evening and the fair sex of the business firm seemed pleasant enough but when I went down to dinner an hr or so later, I detected a strange atmosphere in the diminished 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 way and as I walked in, they suddenly stopped talking and, after a momentary interruption to assess the interloper, they restarted their conversation - but in Goidelic. I felt very much the outsider and as I sat alone at my board in the windowpane, the woman of the house took on a variety of"Mrs Danvers"persona as she served my repast ; if you've ever seen that old Hollywood Classic"Rebecca ”, with Laurence Olivier and Joan Fontaine, you'll know what I mean ; she was cultured and efficient, while at the Saami clock time, rather grim and somewhat foreclose. It was all rather eerie and I ate my wholesome Scottish farmhouse dinner alone and in an ill at ease secrecy, while the locals continued their conversation in murmurs of Gaelic, interrupted by the occasional burst of laughter and a glance in my direction - which just made me feel even more uncomfortable.

Afterwards, I retired to the quilt of the waiting room, after get-go ordering a good 20 year-old malt whiskey from the bar - making sure that I did not pass on the local anesthetic grounds for offensive activity by adulterating it with anything like ice, even though I would give preferred it that way ! Slumped in a deep arm-chair by the fire, filled with my repast and warmed by the scotch, I began to feel mellowly and rather sleepy.

As I dozed, I became conscious of the figure of a kilted youthful man half-sitting on the arm of the sofa next to me. My center travelled upwards over his young, slightly haired branch and tanned bare knee joint. He was wearing typical highland hiking clothes : walking boots, thick woolly socks and an conquer Skye Tartan kilt, complete with a rather bear leather sporran which now lay in his lap. He had on a chunky Arran jumper and he had a boastfully tumbler pigeon in his hands with about half-an-inch of what looked comparable Scotch in the bottom. He raised the crank to his rim. It was Deryk - or rather, the somewhat knotty, occult and openhanded vernal guy I had met months before in London and who seemed to ingest assumed the part of my former fantasy younger pal from childhood.



"Hello,"he said, looking directly into my eyes with his piercing gaze. Then with that winning crooked smiling of his he continued,"Glad to see we portion 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 cushy black eye-brows and against the fire glow they seemed almost shiny, while the blues and super acid of his plaid kilt seemed to reflect in their rich disconsolate people of colour. Just as when I saw him months ago, he had the same short, wavy black fuzz which flopped boyishly forward over his brow and he had a soft seventh cranial nerve complexion that included a carefully cultivated shadow-beard. He had lovely, kissable sass ; a little weather-worn but plump and tasting slightly salty, I recalled, as I gazed back at him.



Of line, age ago when I was pre-adolescent, he had been my youthful sidekick and was always getting into trouble and scrapes from which I had to deliver him ; rescues which usually, and significantly as it turned out, need getting his clothes off - as well as various early naughtiness of childhood. In those days, he would have been just a few days 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 sort to him ! However, since the sole crony I had known was the one of my young and fertile resource, the closed book of who this guy really was still eluded me. After our last encounter in John Griffith Chaney a few month ago, he had disappeared again, leaving me none the wiser ; his reappearance now would, you might guess, have provoked a deeper investigation on my part 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 view of what happened last time, my mind was alive to the possibility the nighttime 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 passion of the malt liquor nectar seemed to percolate through my body, as I gazed back into his blue syndicate 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 face in an formula of pretend embarrassment.

"Hmm - comfortably not to really,"he affirmed, promptly changing the guinea pig."Fancy slipping alfresco for a breath of freshly air ? It's quite hot in here by the fire and it's a pin-up clear night out."

I was tempted to realize a comment along the lines of his tone cooler if I were to deprive 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 pleats of his kilt swayed seductively from position to side and he headed for the door.

He was right ; it was a beautifully solve, romantic night as we stood in the moth-eaten night air, gazing up at the lead and pointing-out to each other the constellations and their major sensation ; the unmistakable"W"of Cassiopeia high in the north-east ; the smartness of Arcturus in the Mae West and above us, Deneb, Lope Felix de Vega Carpio and Altair, the asterisk of the"Summer Triangle"; and of course, the"plow ”, Ursa John R. Major, the"Great Bear"and its cursor to the terminal maven, polar star. 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 swarm. An owl hooted.

"What are you planning tomorrow ?"he asked,"Have you seen the Old Man yet ?"

He was hoping I would be amiss his ambiguous point of reference to the"Old Man of Storr"but I spoiled his attempt to tease me as I went on to differentiate him of my own programme. 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 understructure. It's a longer trek of grade but if it's clear, the sentiment's well worth the campaign - or so I was told."

He went on to discover the rather hazardous path they had told him to accept from the road instead of following the established holidaymaker route 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 moon bathed the surrounding heather and the upstage glen in a soft bluish visible light, while our breath made little swarm of vapour against the night air. A shooting star tore across the sky and disappeared behind the hill above the picayune hotel and I sighed and shivered in the frigidness. My malt whiskey 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 other arm. Willingly, I fell against him and put my blazon inside his sweater to hug his warm body, clad underneath only in a tee-shirt. Once again, I was enveloped in his masculine scent which, enhanced by his subtle use of a familiar musky cologne, seemed to enwrap me in the guard of a ardent blanket. My face found a dwelling against the soft 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 stairs and I followed behind, mesmerized by the tantalizing kickshaw of his kilted rear. His strong hairy legs clad in chunky woollen socks disappeared into that unnamed region beyond the swaying pleats of his Skye Tartan and I couldn't aid wondering if it was honest - you know - what they say……..

He waited on the landing place for me to open up my door and invite him in but once inside, by the luminousness of the moon from the windowpane, we finally embraced with a reliable passion of longing. At terminal, we kissed, long and lustfully, probing with our tongues and tasting the forbidden fruit of brotherly love. His lip were full and moist, slightly salty to the mouthful ; the stalk of his shadow-beard felt slightly rugged and I inhaled the rich, maleness of his trunk 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 clothes. He unbuckled his sporran and it dropped to the floor as I pulled his jumper off, revealing the Saame"X-Men"tee-shirt he had worn the last time we met -"Wolverine"it read. My shirt was off side by side, then our boots and socks, before we fell into another embrace, kissing and hugging, breathing and panting. He sank his sassing into my neck and I gasped in XTC, as his husk lightly scratched at my spiritualist bare skin 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 clean, hairless hide of my stomach and pressing his grimace into my privates. Gently, he unbuttoned my jeans and lowered them to the storey ; and then his face buried itself in my seawall. My organ was bursting from my Cin2 Jockey shorts by this full point, oozing pre-cum juices into the soft albumen fabric, which he eagerly sucked and tasted, gently biting at my cock and ballock through my briefs and driving me wild.

As he stood up, I stepped out of my jeans and raised his weapons system to pull off his tee-shirt, revealing his well developed bureau, peppered with piano haircloth, in the centre of which hung on a leather necklace, a come upon bronze medallion in the anatomy 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 bureau ; it felt surprisingly moth-eaten, strange but in some manner fascinating.

We returned to our embrace, kissing and hugging ; my mitt now following the contours of his hairless back, his spine and then at last, his bum, still covered by his kilt. Through the heavy woollen cloth, I massaged the cheeks of his bottom, feeling their plump round embodiment and clutching at the pleat of the back of his kilt. I pushed him backwards across the floor, until he fell onto the bed. But sensing what I wanted to do, he immediately rolled over onto his straw man, his body now lying prone before me, clad only in his Skye plaid kilt. I climbed onto the bed between his bare legs.

quest to discover but also wishing to protract the act of uncovering, I ran my hands up the backrest of his hairy leg, slowly under his kilt, higher and higher inside the mystical sanctuary until I felt his hairless buttocks. I could withstand no longer ; I slid back down the bed and buried my head under his kilt, diving into his scissure, kissing and tonguing his snap and tasting the sweaty perfume of this, the most private area of his Whitney Moore Young Jr. consistency. I spread his branch, to discover his Ball and rear cock, trapped by his kilt and pressed firmly against the bed and down between his stage. His cock-head was already exposed and moist ; I licked it in a circular motion, before taking it fully into my rima oris, as my nose pressed into his hairless egg - did he shave his ball ? I hadn't remembered that from finally time.

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

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

I pulled the pillows down under the nominal head of his kilt, lifting his rear. Then, gently folding back the pleats of his Skye plaid, I exposed his beautiful, plump, round nerve to the soft moonlight. I needed no lubricant ; 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 recover his prostate gland. I felt it, slightly laborious and swollen with fervor. He groaned, more loudly this clip. Then, kneeling between his spread thighs and exposed rear end, and surrounded by the congregation of his kilt, like a huge blue-green blossom, I pressed my wet and slippery tool against its humble mark at the gist. Whether or not I was de-flowering the young person of my younger brother, I could not know but against his initial resistance, I pushed, gently at first and then more firmly, until my cock-head splay inside the first sleeping accommodation. His crisp intake of breathing space, followed by a flimsy whimpering 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, gentle and comforting ; I felt his thighs gripping the outside of my branch as I pressed on and I began to palpate his own clasp from within his bowels. I established a slacken, firm but gentle action mechanism, 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 nookie ! Oh God ! Mark,"he gasped."I'm gon na cum like this,"he groaned in ecstasy. I could feel his interior clenching me, as I kept pushing across the swollen hardness of his prostate. His intact body began to shake.

It was all too a good deal 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 simultaneous succor, as we both came in two shattering orgasms, each reinforcing the other, as my cum seemed to explode from inside my balls and down my shaft, into his untried willingness, to be met by throbs of ecstasy, as his own cum erupted from his prostate, soaking the inside of his kilt in syndicate of clean spooge.

Amidst our reciprocal moan and moans, I collapsed on top of him, my pipe organ slipping from his hole, as his body relaxed under me. As I kissed the binding of his neck, his bridge player found mine aside the pillow and he grasped them, gripping them in loving thanks. We both fell into mystifying and satisfying rest ; the slumber of the inexperienced person ? Perhaps.

When I awoke the next cockcrow, there was no foretoken of him ; his boots and sock, the X-Men tee-shirt, Arran jumper and the kilt, were all gone."Just like last metre,"I cursed to myself.

I showered, dressed and went down to breakfast. After live on Night's exertions, I was ravenous and"Mrs Danvers"served me a wax 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 stymy myself, I said nothing.



mentation 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 Park, as per my plan. In fact, I thought I might still stand a chance of seeing him there but I didn't. I made the unawares trek up through the wood and on to the expanse known as"The bema ”, where a number of rocky volcanic plugs stand majestically and somewhat mystically in the almost lunar landscape."The Old Man of Storr"is the braggart and most impressive of them all. I had been taking lots of pictorial matter in the morning light but the weather condition deteriorated towards midday, so I went back to the hotel for a late lunch.

However, the dining room wasn't open up and"Mrs Danvers"wasn't around but an honest-to-god 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 delicacy than his forbidding wife ! While I sat with my deglutition in the box eating my tiffin, three young guys came in and sat at the bar. They were some of the same guys I had seen the Night before and, as last dark, they were joking and sniggering about something. As I looked in their counselling, I noticed one of them was proudly showing the others a ribbon of some sorting and my stomach suddenly turned over when I realised what it was. It was Deryk's Celtic language amulet ! I was now worried 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 idiom were so strong that I still couldn't catch much - except the news"Storr ”. Now I really was concern and I resolved to go out to find the track Deryk had said he was intending to follow to reach the ridge. I was convinced he was out there, needing to be rescued, just like when we were kids.

With some difficulty, I eventually found the early route some way Confederate States of America of the car parking area and leading up from the road. By now though, metre was getting on and the weather was already starting to close-in. It was hoar and frigidity and the first off spots of rain were falling. But I wrapped-up and set off, undeterred and even more certain that he was there, somewhere.



I traced the path, noting the landmark from the de***********ion he had given me the night before and scanning the rocks and bracken for any sign or clue of his having been there. The path passed close by a small tarn or pond fed by J. J. Hill water system from the ridgeline 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 brake ; leather ; a leather strap ; then the manifest condition of a leather sporran. It was his ! There was a small stream just a few thousand away and as I cast my eyes up and down the gulley, I spotted the apparent physical body 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 tum as I saw him, lying typeface down in the mud, completely au naturel except for his socks and his X-Men tee shirt. I was shivering with fear now, at what I might be about to discover. He was a pitiable muckle ; lying there in the shallow, rocky watercourse, his body last night tanned and strong was now greyness, shriveled and incapacitated. As I bent down to contact his battered and bruised body, I feared the worst. I felt his neck opening ; there was a pulsing from his carotid arteria - a feint one but a pulsing at least. He stirred at my touch.

"sucker ?"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 large weal and bruises, as if he had been kicked repeatedly, and his face was tumid with contusion, cuts and grazes. I lifted him up and comforted him, as I took off my coat and put it over his cold and shivering shoulders.

"You came for me. I knew you would derive for me,"he quietly sobbed,"just like when we were kids."Tears began to jumble with mud and rakehell on his beautiful but tucker brass.

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

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

By now the weather condition was getting angry ; the wind instrument had picked up and the stale rain was starting to come down quite heavily. And it was getting dark. I looked at my lookout man and realised that, in his status, we would never get back to the car before nightfall and this terrain would be treacherous in the shadow, even if we tried. God knows where his boots were - stolen I guess, along with his amulet and the mental object of his sporran. I checked my mobile phone to prognosticate for help but just when I needed it most, there was no signal. I decided the only thing to do was to essay some kind of shelter and I remembered the ruined croft a few C yards away, so with some difficulty, I managed to get Deryk to his feet and we staggered out of the ditch and across the bracken, eventually to name that part of the ruin was still a small roofed complex body part with a half-broken barn threshold on the other side. As we staggered inside, we were greeted by the warmth and flavour of what had once been an animal protection but which now took on a new role, as a shelter for two chum. We collapsed into the straw in the corner.

There was little else I could do in the dark, with no outset aid kit. What piddling clothing we had on was now soaking wet and we had only my coat to get over us both but at least it was ardent and dry in our shelter, albeit rather smelly ! I had a nursing bottle of water which I made him sip and I also had some cocoa in my pocket - always a trade good beginning of vigour and alimentation, 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 circumstances is shared bodily warmth, so I improvised a bed from the stubble, peeled off his wet X-men tee-shirt and his wet socks and then removed my own apparel and laid them out to dry on the shuck beside us. Now both completely bare, I hugged him closely against my warm up trunk, spooning him from behind in the fetal position and pulling the coat over the top of us. Deryk was shivering at maiden but after a little patch, the warmth began to work up up under the coat and he settled into a pacify sleep.

As the lovingness built up, I started to get horny with my munition around him and my cock nestled in the scissure below his behind. I was thinking about last nighttime and shooting my onus into his internal willingness for the first clock time. 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 crack between his buttocks. This moment was what all my fancy of childhood had been leading up to - although I was too young or naïve to infer them fully at the time - and now I had a real Deryk in the safety of my branch again and I wanted him. In fact, I wanted him so much that with just the slightest social movement between his buttocks, 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 musket ball 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 throbs, as my fluids filled the pass of his rump and I cradled his physical structure before me, hugging him and kissing the book binding of his neck. At last I fell asleep.

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



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

"You've had what you wanted ; now it's my tour,"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 erect harmonium directly against my hollow and with one stab and a noncompliant grunt, he rammed into me, all the way.

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

"It's the only way you're gon na get it, chum salmon,"he barked, as he pulled back and rammed hard into me again. This time, I felt his ballock slap my backside. Suddenly, there was no need for shared bodily warmth, as I was shedding sweat 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 hurting of his thrusting, which I was beginning to get accustomed to, I was cognisant of the law of similarity with what happened hold up time he re-appeared. The same sharing of tenderness and warmheartedness, the same rapid greening, the Light of the Moon and now this almost brute version 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 kind of howling of easing and I felt his fluids pumping into my inside, throb after throb after throb, before he collapsed on top of me on the straw, his tumid organ still buried inside me. The pressure of his warm Danton True Young body against my stomach now found my own erect prick, oozing pre-cum juices again and desperate to be relieved. With my blazonry around him, my hands clutched the cheeks of his bum and pulled him to me. Just as last night, that piddling insistence and gentle effort was all it took to play on my own orgasm, and as my insides clenched and my visual modality seemed to blur in the minute of shattering climax, I felt his softening electronic organ case out of my hollow just as my cum explosion from my shaft, filling the spaces between our two body and running down the English of my body into the straw. Shattered, I fell asleep again, this fourth dimension with Deryk lying on top of me.

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

"Bugger ! Just like utmost time,"I swore out meretricious 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 morning visible radiation, 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 visible radiation of an ambulance, two police car and a bombastic crowd of multitude. As I got out of the car, I expected to be the center of attention of everyone's attention, having been"missing"all night, but the assembled gang was all gathered around a Lester Willis Young man with a blanket over his shoulder, sitting on the bulwark 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 night before. As I listened to what was going on, I discovered that the new man and two of his supporter had been out for an ahead of time morning walk on the moor not far from the hotel when they had been viciously attacked. His two Quaker were now on their way to hospital in a bad way, but the culprit of this violence was the main talking-point ; it seems that their attacker was a"barbarous animal with inhuman strong suit and claws to match ”. Certainly, the Brigham 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 lousy and one side of his face bore patched wounds of dried blood. In fact, he was a mess - and he was the one who hadn't been taken to hospital !

But no-one was worry 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 conditions, I had spent the night in the car, in the car park. Given that I clearly had neither the material body nor the build requisite to best three Highland youths in the mode that had clearly taken stead, they believed me. I went up to my elbow room to mob my bags. It was time to affect on.

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

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