1. Deryk (2) - If Kilts Are Your Thing.......


    Date: 9/1/2015, Categories: Fantasy, Anal, Ass to mouth, Domination/submission, Extreme, Gay, Hardcore, Monster, Violence, Author: Bulge Voyeur, Rating: 25, Source: sexstories.com

    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 ...
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