SWD 5.2

(Chapter 5, continued…Not safe for work.)

As soon as he and Rory shut the bedroom door to the outside world, the reality hit him. He was going to the Highlands. Not just in a few weeks or days—but tomorrow. Before crack of dawn tomorrow. He half-listened to the splash of Rory’s long piss in the bathroom twenty feet away while his heart pounded a fast beat, a kettledrum rattling in his rib cage.

When Rory walked back into the bedroom, his Levi’s fly gaping open, Alex was still rooted to the spot, his back against the door, trying to sort it all out in his mind.

“What shall we take? When will we leave? Fuck, Rory, I feel twelve years old again.”

The Scot closed the gap between them in six strides, pinning back his hands and licking his mouth. “That sounds good, lad.”


“What you said. Fuck Rory.”

He had no intention of putting off a good resounding fuck. And tonight  by god he would be the fucker. He’d been horny all day, since he’d squatted with his back to another door, listening to the call of seabirds, thinking about Rory’s talented mouth, pulling his own prick. 

Memory—and interruption— are powerful stimulants.

jeans off cloudsHe let Rory unfasten his button and unzip the loose Levi’s while they took turns sucking each other’s tongue and cheeks and earlobes.

“Tub,” he managed to gasp.

“Bicycle seats are sexy, Alejo.”

“For you maybe.” He untangled his hands and grinned at Rory. “Put me in the tub and at least wash my balls first.”

“Och, I can do that with my spit.”

“And I’ll never say never. After a bath.”

A few minutes later he was reclining in Rory’s massive marble tub, legs spread, letting his dedicated lover lather his cock and balls, trying to hold back a long moan.

“Good, love?”

“Very good, Rory. Too good. Trade places with me.”

“Och, I owe you from this morning…”

“Since when do we keep score?”

Using the edges of the tub, he hauled himself out of the soapy water and stood looking down at his kneeling companion. “Lie back, Rory. And face me. Now.”

He could not explain a sudden need to take this dominant man, make him shout until he was hoarse.

“Is that an order, Alejo?”

Si, cabrón.”

Rory’s mustache lifted under an evil smile. “Gang warily.”

gang warily

The Drummond Clan cry, the one Rory had directed to be engraved on their rings. Go carefully.

“Raise your legs to my shoulders, love. And I promise I’ll go, and come warily too.”

They rarely fucked in the missionary position—mainly because Rory was usually too impatient to turn him on his ass instead of his belly. Also because the big guy invariably struggled for dominant position.

But tonight Alex was a beast. He was willing to crack the goddamn marble tub to get his way. 

“A highland fuck, Rory. Legs up. A ride to the peak.”

He saw the smolder in the man’s sea-green eyes, knew him well enough to sense the moment of surrender.

in tub

He knelt between Rory’s raised thighs and leaned into his mouth. His prick knew the way well enough, below the swollen testes, past the taint, into the cumberland gap, up the trail of tears…

He timed his tongue-sucks with his measured thrusts. Once or twice he pulled away from the open mouth to watch the face, the way his partner’s glazed-over eyes rolled back…loving the slack of his jaw, the grunts of desire, the chipped-flint of his nipples.

When he could not hold back, when Rory’s tunnel began to buck and shiver and jump, when he heard the guttural bellow of his lover’s release, he came in a cascade of hot need.


He was satisfied on one level. But lying in the dark next to his bed mate, Alex felt a hunger for more.



“What is a spittal?”

“Och, lad. ’Tis hospital with the hos removed.”


Rory sighed and rolled onto his side.  Tracing his mouth with one finger, he spoke in sleep-blurred syllables.

“Long time ago. Hundreds of years. In the Cairngorms, Alejo, the wolves…the human predators too…the highlanders built spittals, places for healing.”

“So Gleann Cu is a spittal?”

“Aye, once. Now less than a hamlet. The word cù means whelp, Alex. Or better, it means wolf. Back when the worst killers wore claws instead of the king’s colors.”

Rory collapsed back onto the soft bed, ready to resume his slumber. Five-thirty in the morning would clamor soon. They planned to leave a little before daybreak, half after seven, hit the road before traffic built up. There was still a lot to do before then, including sleep. Alex knew that, but he was too keyed up to succumb to dreams. He had enough real-life fantasies he could ride, hard, into the coming dawn.


thistle deco

I’ve held back posting this part of chapter 5, but WTF. I’ve already invoked Shakespeare’s Nick Bottom for performing “courageously and obscenely.” And of course, I am a writer of gay lit. Those who don’t like explicit are kindly invited to go on to the next chapter! 😀

thistles 3

The Nevada Highlander quartet is here:




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