During a inadequate summer break, I was spending a week driving around the west of Scotland and had booked a brace of nighttime on the Isle of Skye. For class considered a dramatic destination with romantic partial tone, nowadays of course you don't so much go"over the sea to Skye"as you go"over the bridge"to it - paying a hefty toll for the exclusive right - and this does tend to diminish the sense of amorous isolation. Nevertheless, the scenery when you get there is just as romantic and as dramatic as it ever was.

I had booked into a pocket-sized private guest-house hotel somewhat off the mystify raceway, partly for the added love story of its remoteness but also for its localisation in the Frederick North of the island, not far from the"Old Man of Storr ”, a conspicuously phallic granite outcrop some 535m senior high school. Just like so many passing holidaymaker, I had seen it from a space but never up close and I thought that the salubrious trek up to it from the road might be rewarding. That was my program for tomorrow anyway.

I checked-in early in the eve 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 cognisant of a group of about 6 guys at the lilliputian 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 Goidelic. I felt very much the foreigner and as I sat alone at my tabular array in the window, the charwoman of the house 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 Olivier and Joan Fontaine, you'll know what I mean ; she was polite and effective, while at the Saame clip, rather grim and somewhat forbidding. It was all rather eerie and I ate my wholesome Scots farmhouse dinner alone and in an inapt silence, while the local anaesthetic continued their conversation in murmurs of Gaelic, interrupted by the episodic burst of laughter and a glimpse in my direction - which just made me palpate even more uncomfortable.

Afterwards, I retired to the comfort of the sofa, after first ordering a good 20 year-old malt whiskey from the bar - making for sure that I did not give the locals reason 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 attack, filled with my repast and warmed by the malt whiskey, I began to feel high and rather sleepy.

As I dozed, I became conscious of the figure of a kilted Loretta Young man half-sitting on the arm of the sofa next to me. My optic travelled upwards over his Whitney Moore Young Jr., slightly haired legs and tanned bare knee. He was wearing typical highland hiking dress : walking kicking, thick woolly windsock and an appropriate Skye tartan kilt, complete with a rather fall apart leather sporran which now lay in his lap. He had on a chunky Arran sweater and he had a with child roller in his manpower with about half-an-inch of what looked like Scotch in the derriere. He raised the crank to his sass. It was Deryk - or rather, the somewhat knotty, mysterious and handsome young guy I had met month before in London and who seemed to have assumed the role of my one-time fantasize younger brother from childhood.



"Hello,"he said, looking directly into my center with his piercing regard. Then with that winning crooked grinning of his he continued,"sword lily to see we share the Lapplander tastes."

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

His middle were deep-set beneath easygoing black eye-brows and against the fire glow they seemed almost lustrous, while the blue angel and putting green of his plaid kilt seemed to reflect in their rich juicy colour. Just as when I saw him month ago, he had the same brusk, wavelike black hair which flopped boyishly forward over his brow and he had a soft facial complexion that included a carefully cultivated shadow-beard. He had lovely, kissable lip ; a niggling weather-worn but plump and tasting slightly salty, I recalled, as I gazed back at him.



Of track, years ago when I was pre-adolescent, he had been my younger chum and was always getting into bother and scrapes from which I had to rescue him ; saving which usually, and significantly as it turned out, involved getting his clothes off - as well as assorted other mischievousness of puerility. In those daylight, he would have been just a few years younger than me but he was now unaccountably still only in his mid-20's while I was nearly 40. Evidently, the years had been kind to him ! However, since the only Brother I had known was the one of my Loretta Young and fertile imagination, the secret of who this guy really was still eluded me. After our last clash 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 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 view of what happened last time, my brain was alive to the possibilities 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 warmheartedness of the malt nectar seemed to percolate through my body, as I gazed back into his blue kitty of yummy 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 optic narrowed as he screwed-up his face in an expression of pretend embarrassment.

"Hmm - best not to really,"he affirmed, promptly changing the subject."Fancy slipping exterior for a breath of reinvigorated air ? It's quite hot in here by the flame and it's a endearing sort out nighttime out."

I was tempted to make a remark along the line of merchandise of his feeling cooler if I were to undress him of his Arran jumper and gravid kilt but I thought the better of it - for now at least. Instead, I simply nodded and got up to follow him, as the plait of his kilt swayed seductively from slope to side and he headed for the door.

He was right ; it was a beautifully exculpate, romantic night as we stood in the cold Nox air, gazing up at the stars and pointing-out to each other the configuration and their John Major sensation ; the unmistakable"W"of Cassiopeia high in the north-east ; the luminosity of Arcturus in the west and above us, Deneb, Vega and Altair, the ace of the"Summer Triangle"; and of course, the"Plough ”, Ursa Major, the"Great Bear"and its pointer to the Pole whiz, Polaris. He seemed to realise just as many of them as I did, and I was impressed by his knowledge and interestingness ; it made me feel even closer to him. A full moon glowed low in the sky from behind a few wisps of lean 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 equivocal reference to the"Old Man of Storr"but I spoiled his attempt to tease me as I went on to evidence him of my own plans. He nodded his approving and intellection 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 1000 pes. It's a longer trek of course but if it's discharge, the persuasion's well worth the effort - or so I was told."

He went on to describe the rather hazardous path they had told him to take from the road instead of following the established tourist path 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 total lunation bathed the surrounding Calluna vulgaris and the distant glen in a soft bluish light, while our breath made minuscule swarm of vapour against the night air. A shooting star tore across the sky and disappeared behind the mound above the small hotel and I sighed and shivered in the cold. My Scotch malt whiskey was now gone and I was only wearing a cotton shirt. It was at that second that he moved closer to me and slid his arm around my shoulder, turning me towards him and enfolding me with his former 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 scent which, enhanced by his subtle use of a familiar musky cologne water, seemed to enwrap me in the safety of a warm blanket. My face found a home 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 goody of his kilted rear. His impregnable hairy legs clad in chunky wool socks disappeared into that unknown region beyond the swaying pleats 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 open my door and invite him in but once inside, by the visible light of the moon from the window, we finally embraced with a confessedly cacoethes of longing. At concluding, we kissed, farsighted and lustfully, probing with our tongues and tasting the forbidden yield of brotherly beloved. His lip were full-of-the-moon and moist, slightly salty to the gustation ; the shuck of his shadow-beard felt slightly rugged and I inhaled the deep, masculinity of his eubstance as we remained locked in a remorseless grip.

We surfaced for air but standing in the moonlight, 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 base as I pulled his sweater off, revealing the Saami"X-Men"tee-shirt he had worn the last time we met -"Michigander"it say. My shirt was off future, then our charge and air sock, before we fell into another embracing, kissing and necking, ventilation and heaving. He sank his sass into my neck opening and I gasped in Adam, as his chaff lightly scratched at my sore bare pelt and he began licking and biting my ear, his warm breath sending tingles up and down my spine.

He dropped to his articulatio genus before me, kissing the white, hairless tegument of my stomach and pressing his expression into my crotch. Gently, he unbuttoned my jeans and lowered them to the story ; and then his expression buried itself in my groin. My pipe organ was bursting from my Cin2 briefs by this period, oozing pre-cum juice into the soft white fabric, which he eagerly sucked and tasted, gently biting at my cock and Ball through my briefs and driving me wild.

As he stood up, I stepped out of my jeans and raised his arms to pull in off his tee-shirt, revealing his well developed chest, peppered with soft hairs, in the centre of which hung on a leather necklace, a striking bronze medallion in the frame of a Gaelic Talisman. It glinted in the Moon and when he saw me looking at it, he smiled knowingly and pressed it against my chest ; it felt surprisingly dusty, strange but somehow fascinating.

We returned to our embracement, kissing and kissing ; my workforce now following the configuration of his hairless back, his prickle and then at last, his bum, still covered by his kilt. Through the heavy woolen material, I massaged the impertinence of his bottom, feeling their plump round figure 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 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 discover but also wishing to prolong the act of discovery, I ran my hands up the back of his hairy stage, slowly under his kilt, higher and higher inside the closed book bema until I felt his hairless buttocks. I could reject no longer ; I slid back down the bed and buried my head under his kilt, diving into his cleft, kissing and tonguing his cleft and tasting the sweaty aroma of this, the most common soldier area of his vernal dead body. I spread his wooden leg, to discover his balls and erect rooster, 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 handbill move, before taking it fully into my mouthpiece, as my nose pressed into his hairless balls - did he shave his bollock ? 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 straw man of his kilt, lifting his hindquarters. Then, gently folding back the plait of his Skye Tartan, I exposed his beautiful, plump, cycle impudence to the soft moonlight. I needed no lubricant ; I was oozing pre-cum for all I was Charles Frederick Worth ! So, smearing my pre-cum in and around his anus, I first finger-fucked him gently. He gasped, as the first finger pushed inside to come up his prostate gland. I felt it, slightly hard and swollen with excitement. He groaned, more loudly this time. Then, kneeling between his spread thighs and exposed rear, and surrounded by the faithful of his kilt, like a huge bluish green peak, I pressed my wet and slippery tool against its small objective at the center of attention. Whether or not I was de-flowering the young of my younger Brother, I could not know but against his initial resistance, I pushed, gently at offset and then more firmly, until my cock-head skid inside the low gear sleeping room. His sharp aspiration of breath, followed by a slight whimpering audio, said,"Proceed ”.

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



He felt so warm and familiar, soft and comforting ; I felt his thigh gripping the exterior of my wooden leg as I pressed on and I began to feel his own clutch from within his bowels. I established a slow, firm but gentle action, pushing fully into him and then slowly pulling almost all the way out, but not quite, then in again, back and forth, back and forth.

"Oh Fuck ! Oh God ! patsy,"he gasped."I'm gon na cum like this,"he groaned in ecstasy. I could feel his inside clenching me, as I kept pushing across the vain hardness of his prostate gland. His entire trunk began to shake.

It was all too often for me ; my own cum was rising now and my natural action became necessarily more frantic, as I pushed faster, back and forth, in and out, until - we each let out our pant in coincidental substitute, as we both came in two shattering climax, each reinforcing the other, as my cum seemed to break loose from inside my ball and down my dig, 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 syndicate of white spooge.

Amidst our common groans and moans, I collapsed on top of him, my organ slipping from his cakehole, as his consistence relaxed under me. As I kissed the rear of his neck, his custody found mine aside the pillow and he grasped them, gripping them in loving thanks. We both fell into bass and satisfying sleep ; the sopor of the inexperienced person ? Perhaps.

When I awoke the following daybreak, there was no sign of him ; his kick and wind sock, the X-Men tee-shirt, Arran sweater and the kilt, were all gone."Just like stopping point time,"I cursed to myself.

I showered, dressed and went down to breakfast. After last night's exertion, I was sharp-set and"Mrs Danvers"served me a full cooked breakfast in her characteristically quiet and effective style. 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 blockade 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 ram on up to the"Old Man of Storr"car Park, as per my program. In fact, I thought I might still stand 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 Sanctuary ”, where a number of rocky volcanic fireplug stand majestically and somewhat mystically in the almost lunar landscape painting."The Old Man of Storr"is the with child and most impressive of them all. I had been taking plenty of picture show in the break of day light but the weather 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 older guy was behind the bar - probably"Mr Danvers"- and he served me a Scotch malt whiskey and a micro-waved pastie with rather less finesse than his forbidding wife ! While I sat with my drink in the street corner eating my lunch, three young guys came in and sat at the bar. They were some of the same bozo I had seen the dark 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 sort and my belly 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 night, they were talking in English language ; not that it did me much good 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 way Deryk had said he was intending to follow to hit the ridgeline. 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 park and leading up from the road. By now though, clock time was getting on and the weather was already starting to close-in. It was Lady Jane Grey and cold and the first gear 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 course, noting the turning point from the de***********ion he had given me the night before and scanning the rocks and bracken for any foretoken or cue of his having been there. The path passed unaired by a low tarn or pond fed by hill water from the ridgepole and there were the remains of an old barn or croft nearby. I was about to make the detour to investigate when I spotted something in the bracken ; leather ; a leather shoulder strap ; then the unmistakable shape of a leather sporran. It was his ! There was a small watercourse just a few yards away and as I cast my centre 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 watercourse, my nub sank into the pit of my stomach as I saw him, lying facial expression down in the mud, completely naked except for his socks and his X-Men tee shirt. I was shivering with concern now, at what I might be about to discover. He was a pathetic heap ; lying there in the shoal, rocky stream, his dead body shoemaker's last night tanned and firm was now grey, shriveled and helpless. As I bent down to touch his battered and bruised body, I feared the spoilt. I felt his cervix ; 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 chief and turned, but as he tried to get up, I realised that his body was covered with great wale and bruises, as if he had been kicked repeatedly, and his look was puffy with bruises, cold shoulder and grazes. I lifted him up and comforted him, as I took off my coat and put it over his cold-blooded and shivering shoulders.

"You came for me. I knew you would come for me,"he quietly sobbed,"just like when we were kids."tears began to mingle with mud and blood on his beautiful but beaten boldness.

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

"Those son of a bitch in the bar last nighttime,"he muttered, gritting his teeth, as if gathering intensity level,"I should have known better. They fucked me all roads, the bastards. But at least you're here now."

By now the weather was getting tempestuous ; the fart had picked up and the cold rain was starting to fall down quite heavily. And it was getting darkness. I looked at my watch and realised that, in his condition, 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 boots were - stolen I guess, along with his talisman and the contents of his sporran. I checked my wandering earphone to call for help but just when I needed it most, there was no signal. I decided the only thing to do was to assay some variety of shelter and I remembered the ruined croft a few C yards away, so with some difficulty, I managed to get Deryk to his understructure and we staggered out of the ditch and across the bracken, eventually to discover that part of the ruin was still a pocket-size roofed bodily structure with a half-broken barn door on the other side. As we staggered inside, we were greeted by the warmth and smell of what had once been an fleshly shelter but which now took on a new office, as a shelter for two sidekick. We collapsed into the pale yellow in the corner.

There was little else I could do in the dark, with no for the first time aid kit. What little clothing 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 warm and dry in our shelter, albeit rather smelly ! I had a feeding bottle of water which I made him sip and I also had some chocolate in my pocket - always a salutary source of vigour and nourishment, so I gave him that to eat. His jaw was aching from his bruising but at to the lowest degree it wasn't broken.



The only other remedy for photograph in these circumstances is shared bodily warmheartedness, so I improvised a bed from the straw, peeled off his wet X-men tee-shirt and his wet sock and then removed my own clothes and laid them out to dry on the chaff beside us. Now both completely naked, I hugged him closely against my warm torso, spooning him from behind in the foetal attitude and pulling the coat over the top of us. Deryk was shivering at first but after a picayune spell, the lovingness began to build up under the coat and he settled into a gentle sleep.

As the warmth built up, I started to get horny with my branch around him and my peter nestled in the crack below his posterior. I was thinking about end Night and shooting my lode into his privileged willingness for the first 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 wisecrack between his buttocks. This moment was what all my fantasies of puerility had been leading up to - although I was too Lester Willis Young or naïve to understand them fully at the time - and now I had a literal Deryk in the safety of my implements of war again and I wanted him. In fact, I wanted him so much that with just the tenuous movement between his buttocks, I felt my orgasm building uncontrollably. portion of me didn't want it this way ; I didn't think it was"right"while Deryk was in such a counteract 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 musket ball until, inevitably, I knew the engagement was lost. My cum rose mercilessly through my loins and erupted from my erecting in a number of gentle throbs, as my fluids filled the crack of his buttocks and I cradled his consistence before me, hugging him and kissing the back of his neck. At last-place I fell asleep.

The weather must hold cleared during the night because I awoke to a shaft of Moon through the gap in the old b door. And against this light, I saw a phantasm, the scheme at least, of Deryk, on his knee joint astride my body.



"You seem to give birth 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 threw my metrical unit above his articulatio humeri, hoisting me off our bed of straw.

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

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

"It's the sole way you're gon na get it, chum,"he barked, as he pulled back and rammed hard into me again. This time, I felt his balls 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 cycle to his ramming into me,

"That's…..exactly……what I'm……..doing !"

In between the painful sensation of his thrusting, which I was beginning to get accustomed to, I was aware of the similarities with what happened final stage clock time he re-appeared. The same sharing of tenderness and affectionateness, the same rapid rejuvenation, the light of the moon and now this almost sensual interlingual rendition 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 howl of relief and I felt his fluids pumping into my interior, throbbing after throb after throb, before he collapsed on top of me on the straw, his erect organ still buried inside me. The pressure sensation of his strong Whitney Moore Young Jr. body against my stomach now found my own erect cock, oozing pre-cum juices again and desperate to be relieved. With my arms around him, my hands clutched the nerve of his bum and pulled him to me. Just as close Nox, that little pressure and gentle movement was all it took to fetch on my own coming, and as my insides clenched and my vision seemed to confuse in the second of shattering culmination, I felt his softening organ slickness out of my hole just as my cum burst from my tool, filling the space between our two trunk and running down the sides of my eubstance 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 ho-hum ache emanating from my backside and Deryk was gone again.

"sodomist ! Just like net time,"I swore out loud to myself.

I looked at my watch. It was 9.30 already. My apparel 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 cool morning light, 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 lights of an ambulance, two police cable car and a large crowd of masses. As I got out of the car, I expected to be the centre of everyone's attention, having been"missing"all night, but the assembled crowd was all gathered around a young man with a blanket over his shoulders, sitting on the rampart 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 young man and two of his supporter had been out for an early morning base on balls on the moor not far from the hotel when they had been viciously attacked. His two supporter were now on their way to hospital in a bad way, but the perpetrator of this violence was the main talking-point ; it seems that their attacker was a"brutal beast with inhuman persuasiveness and pincer to couple ”. Certainly, the Cy Young man in the mantle looked as if he had been heavily beaten and scratched. His clothes, or what remained of them, were torn and filthy and one face of his expression bore patched injury of dehydrated parentage. In fact, he was a jam - 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 show that I hadn't seen anything. I told them the truth - or at least, role 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 chassis nor the soma essential to best three Highland early days in the style that had clearly taken place, they believed me. I went up to my way to pack my grip. It was clip 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 advise how I should develop him - constructive comments, please !