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Introduction:

If like me you have a fascination with what’s under a young man's kilt, then perhaps the story of my trip to the Western Isles of Scotland will get the blood pumping through those perverted veins!

During a short summer break, I was spending a week driving around the west of Scotland and had booked a couple of nights on the Isle of Skye. For years considered a dramatic destination with romantic overtones, 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 privilege - and this does tend to diminish the sense of romantic isolation. Nevertheless, the scenery when you get there is just as romantic 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 added 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 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 plan for tomorrow anyway.

I checked-in early in the evening 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 outsider and as I sat alone at my table in the window, the woman 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 efficient, while at the same time, rather grim and somewhat forbidding. It was all rather eerie and I ate my wholesome Scottish farmhouse dinner alone and in an awkward silence, 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 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 grounds 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 mellow 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 eyes travelled upwards over his young, slightly hairy legs and tanned bare knees. He was wearing typical Highland hiking clothes: walking boots, thick woolly socks and an appropriate Skye Tartan kilt, complete with a rather worn leather sporran which now lay in his lap. He had on a chunky Arran sweater and he had a large tumbler in his hands with about half-an-inch of what looked like Scotch in the bottom. He raised the glass to his lips. It was Deryk – or rather, the somewhat elusive, mysterious and handsome young guy I had met months before in London and who seemed to have assumed the role of my erstwhile fantasy younger brother from childhood.



“Hello,” he said, looking directly into my eyes with his piercing gaze. Then with that winning crooked smile of his he continued, “Glad to see we share 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 black eye-brows and against the fire glow they seemed almost lustrous, while the blues and greens of his tartan kilt seemed to reflect in their rich blue colour. Just as when I saw him months ago, he had the same short, wavy black hair which flopped boyishly forward over his forehead and he had a soft facial complexion 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, years ago when I was pre-adolescent, he had been my younger brother and was always getting into trouble and scrapes from which I had to rescue him; rescues which usually, and significantly as it turned out, involved getting his clothes off – as well as various other naughtinesses of childhood. In those days, 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 young and fertile imagination, the mystery of who this guy really was still eluded me. After our last encounter 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 mind was alive to the possibilities 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 warmth of the malt nectar 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 eyes 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 outside for a breath of fresh air? It’s quite hot in here by the fire and it’s a lovely clear night out.”

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

He was right; it was a beautifully clear, romantic night as we stood in the cold night air, gazing up at the stars and pointing-out to each other the constellations and their 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 stars of the “Summer Triangle”; and of course, the “Plough”, Ursa Major, the “Great Bear” and its pointer to the Pole Star, 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 feel even closer to him. A full moon glowed low in the sky from behind a few wisps of thin cloud. An owl hooted.

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

He was hoping I would misunderstand his ambiguous reference to the “Old Man of Storr” but I spoiled his attempt to tease me as I went on to tell him of my own plans. He nodded his approval and 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 feet. It’s a longer trek of course but if it’s clear, the view’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 full moon bathed the surrounding heather and the distant glen in a soft bluish light, while our breath made little clouds of vapour against the night air. A shooting star tore across the sky and disappeared behind the hill above the little hotel and I sighed and shivered in the 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 shoulder, turning me towards him and enfolding me with his other arm. Willingly, I fell against him and put my arms inside his sweater to hug his warm body, clad underneath only in a tee-shirt. Once again, I was enveloped in his masculine scent which, enhanced by his subtle use of a familiar musky cologne, seemed to enwrap me in the safety of a warm blanket. My face found a home against the soft comfort 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 treat of his kilted rear. His strong hairy legs 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 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 tongues and tasting the forbidden fruits of brotherly love. His lips were full and moist, slightly salty to the taste; the stubble of his shadow-beard felt slightly rugged and I inhaled the deep, masculinity of his body 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 clothes. 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 – “Wolverine” it read. My shirt was off next, then our boots and socks, before we fell into another embrace, 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 skin and he began licking and biting my ear, his warm breath sending tingles up and down my spine.

He dropped to his knees before me, kissing the white, hairless skin of my stomach and pressing his face into my crotch. Gently, he unbuttoned my jeans and lowered them to the floor; and then his face buried itself in my groin. My organ was bursting from my Cin2 briefs by this point, oozing pre-cum juices into the soft 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 jeans and raised his arms to pull 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 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 chest; it felt surprisingly cold, strange but somehow fascinating.

We returned to our embrace, kissing and hugging; my hands 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 material, I massaged the cheeks of his bottom, feeling their plump round shape and clutching at the pleats 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 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 back of his hairy legs, slowly under his kilt, higher and higher inside the secret sanctuary until I felt his hairless buttocks. I could resist no longer; I slid back down the bed and buried my head under his kilt, diving into his cleft, kissing and tonguing his crack and tasting the sweaty scent of this, the most private area 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 motion, before taking it fully into my mouth, as my nose pressed into his hairless balls – did he shave his balls? 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 of his kilt, lifting his rear. Then, gently folding back the pleats of his Skye Tartan, I exposed his beautiful, plump, round cheeks 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 find his prostate. 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 folds of his kilt, like a huge blue-green flower, I pressed my wet and slippery tool against its small target at the centre. Whether or not I was de-flowering the youth of my younger brother, I could not know but against his initial resistance, I pushed, gently at first and then more firmly, until my cock-head slipped inside the first chamber. His sharp intake of breath, followed by a slight whimpering sound, said, “Proceed”.

“Oh God!” he exclaimed into the pillow, as I pushed beyond the next barrier, into his inner sanctum.



He felt so warm and familiar, soft and comforting; I felt his thighs gripping the outside of my legs as I pressed on and I began to feel his own clenches 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! Mark,” he gasped. “I’m gonna 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 entire body began to shake.

It was all too much for me; my own cum was rising now and my action became necessarily more frantic, as I pushed faster, back and forth, in and out, until – we each let out our gasps in simultaneous relief, 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 young willingness, to be met by throbs of ecstasy, as his own cum erupted from his prostate, soaking the inside of his kilt in pools of white spooge.

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

When I awoke the next morning, 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 time,” 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 full 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 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 short trek up through the wood and on to the area known as “The Sanctuary”, where a number of rocky volcanic plugs stand majestically and somewhat mystically in the almost lunar landscape. “The Old Man of Storr” is the biggest and most impressive of them all. I had been taking lots of pictures in the morning 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 and a micro-waved pastie with rather less finesse than his forbidding wife! While I sat with my drink in the corner eating my lunch, 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 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 stomach suddenly turned over when I realised what it was. It was Deryk’s Celtic Talisman! 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 dialects were so strong that I still couldn’t catch 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 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 other path 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, undeterred and even more certain that he was there, somewhere.



I traced the path, noting the landmarks 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 hill water from the ridge 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 strap; then the unmistakable 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 unmistakable shape of a kilt, now soaking wet and filthy dirty, lying in the mud. But there was no sign of Deryk.

Stepping down into the stream, my heart sank into the pit of my stomach as I saw him, lying face down in the mud, completely naked 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 pitiful sight; lying there in the shallow, rocky stream, his body last night tanned and strong was now grey, shriveled and helpless. As I bent down to touch his battered and bruised body, I feared the worst. I felt his neck; there was a pulse from his carotid artery – a feint one but a pulse at least. He stirred at my touch.

“Mark?” he murmured, “Is that you?”

He raised his head and turned, but as he tried to get up, I realised that his body was covered with large wheals and bruises, as if he had been kicked repeatedly, and his face 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 cold 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 face.

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

“Those bastards in the bar last night,” he muttered, gritting his teeth, as if gathering strength, “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 angry; the wind had picked up and the cold rain was starting to come down quite heavily. And it was getting dark. 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 treacherous 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 mobile phone to call for help but just when I needed it most, there was no signal. I decided the only thing to do was to seek some kind of shelter and I remembered the ruined croft a few hundred 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 discover that part of the ruin was still a small roofed 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 animal 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 little else I could do in the dark, with no first aid kit. What little clothing we had on was now soaking wet and we had only my coat to cover us both but at least 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 pocket – always a good source of energy and nourishment, so I gave him that to eat. His jaw was aching from his bruising but at least it wasn’t broken.



The only other remedy for exposure in these circumstances is shared bodily warmth, so I improvised a bed from the straw, 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 warm body, spooning him from behind in the foetal position and pulling the coat over the top of us. Deryk was shivering at first but after a little while, the warmth 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 arms around him and my cock nestled in the cleft below his behind. I was thinking about last night and shooting my load into his inner willingness for the first time. I’m ashamed to say that, even in this moment of crisis, my juices were flowing again and my erection was slipping rather easily into the crack between his buttocks. This moment 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 safety of my arms again and I wanted him. In fact, I wanted him so much that with just the slightest movement between his buttocks, I felt my orgasm building uncontrollably. Part of me didn’t want it this way; I didn’t think it was “right” while Deryk was in such a weakened state. But I didn’t enter him though; I couldn’t – I shouldn’t – do that; not here, not now. Even so, my orgasm was still rising in my balls until, inevitably, I knew the battle was lost. My cum rose mercilessly through my loins and erupted from my erection in a number of gentle throbs, as my fluids filled the crack of his buttocks and I cradled his body before me, hugging him and kissing the back of his neck. At last I fell asleep.

The weather must have cleared during the night because I awoke to a shaft of moonlight through the gap in the old barn door. And against this light, I saw a shadow, the outline 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,” and he just grabbed my legs and threw my feet above his shoulders, hoisting me off our bed of straw.

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

“Jesus!” I yelled out, “Go easy – please!”

“It’s the only way you’re gonna 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 rhythm to his ramming into me,

“That’s…..exactly……what I’m……..doing!”

In between the pain of his thrusting, which I was beginning to get accustomed to, I was aware of the similarities with what happened last time he re-appeared. The same sharing of tenderness and warmth, the same rapid rejuvenation, the light of the moon and now this almost animal 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 sort of howl of relief and I felt his fluids pumping into my insides, throb after throb after throb, before he collapsed on top of me on the straw, his erect organ still buried inside me. The pressure of his strong young 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 cheeks of his bum and pulled him to me. Just as last night, that little pressure and gentle movement was all it took to bring on my own orgasm, and as my insides clenched and my vision seemed to blur in the moment of shattering climax, I felt his softening organ slip out of my hole just as my cum burst from my tool, filling the spaces between our two bodies 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 barn. I sat up. There was a dull ache emanating from my backside and Deryk was gone again.

“Bugger! Just like last time,” I swore out loud to myself.

I looked at my watch. It was 9.30 already. My clothes 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 empty and cold.

As I pulled into the lane, I saw the flashing lights of an ambulance, two police cars and a large crowd of people. As I got out of the car, I expected to be the centre of everyone’s attention, having been “missing” all night, but the assembled crowd was all gathered around a young man with a blanket over his shoulders, sitting on the wall 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 young man and two of his friends had been out for an early morning 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 attacker was a “vicious beast with inhuman 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 filthy 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 interested in me; the Police spoke to me briefly but only to establish that I hadn’t seen anything. I told them the truth – or at 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 necessary to best three Highland youths in the manner 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 comments, please!

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