The Stag

Paris in the Springtime: Richard Finch and I had been lunching on the pavement terrace of a  restaurant near the Pantheon, watching the passers-by; Parisian crowds are always interesting. Richard did not look like a tourist and I had taken my cue from him. Which was just as well, given that the French do not welcome badly-dressed tourists in their better restaurants.  

That had earlier been made clear in that very restaurant: a German family, obviously  tourists, had marched in.  Their porcine forms, immodest and vulgar clothes clashed horribly with the décor, which was Second Empire. When they asked at what hour lunch would be served, the elegant waiter took one look and simply said:  

“Il y a un MacDonald's au coin de la rue la-bas, Madame!” And  he pointed in that general direction. “Au revoir, Monsieur-dame!” 

He then went back to polishing his beer-glasses. Nonplussed, the Teutonic invaders had retreated. 

By contrast, Richard's dress-sense could not have been faulted. He was half-French anyway and had inherited the BCBG elegance of his natural father, Thierry. On this occasion he was wearing a well-cut dark-blue blazer with pale fawn trousers, which subtly emphasised  his broad shoulders, narrow waist and strong legs. For the rest, he wore a white shirt and, as a gesture to France, a Hermes silk tie with a cunning design of mediaeval heraldic banners. His cuff-links sported cameos of Roman Emperors. He himself looked like a young, ruggedly handsome soldier-emperor: he was clean-shaven and his dark, curly hair had been neatly cut by a French barber, even shorter than his usual cut, a few days earlier. This heightened his resemblance to a Roman. Unlike a Roman Emperor, he was smoking an after-lunch cigarette. He sat with his legs apart. Very occasionally, when the subject of sex came up, as it did from time to time, he would absent-mindedly touch the neat bulge at his crotch. 

We were at the coffee stage and, since we were on leave, had ordered a brandy digestif each. Richard was instructing me about French politics, about which he knew considerably more than I did.  So engrossed was he that he failed to notice a sports-jacketed, good-looking and almost certainly English man, who had halted on the other side of the street and was staring at Richard, hesitating for several minutes as though to reassure himself that it was indeed who he thought it was, before coming across and saying: 

“Richard! What a surprise! Fancy seeing you here!”    

The man, who was indeed English, was called Michael Sumner. Richard insisted that he should join us for a coffee and brandy. He introduced us; Michael, it emerged, had been in the Air Force. After a few minutes of banal conversation, in which everything from squash to golf was mentioned – yes, golf, which Richard usually considered to be the most boring game ever invented – plus the health of Michael's wife, Sheila, and the achievements of their three  children, Michael had to leave us; he was scheduled to take the two eldest to visit the Louvre, to see the Venus de Milo and Mona Lisa.  

“Good luck,” said Richard cheerfully. “You'll need it. Today is the one day this month when admission is free. So it'll be bedlam; full of coach parties, students, flocks of screaming children and grannies!” 

Michael grimaced but said that he'd promised them, so that was that. He hurried away. Richard  followed his retreating back with thoughtful, narrowed eyes. He fell silent and continued to stare into the middle distance. I had sensed that neither of them had unreservedly enjoyed the encounter. Their body-language had  been ambiguous; it had conveyed mixed messages. Had Richard really been pleased to see Michael?    

“Ten francs for your thoughts. What's the story, Richard?”

Richard came back from his reverie. “Oh, you mean how did Michael and I meet and become friendly, given that I am pretty allergic to the RAF?” 

“That too, but did you...?”

Richard pretended to be shocked: “For Pete's sake, James! The things you come out with! You might almost be French yourself, you are so bloody direct, sometimes!” 

“That is the kettle calling the pot 'black-arse'. I ask again, what's the story?” 

Richard looked at me for a moment. Then he smiled: “Oh, all right: If you must know, I was his Best Man a few years ago!” 

“Is that all?” 

He had said it with studied nonchalance – which should have alerted me - and sat back to watch my reaction. Evidently it was satisfactory; I was gobsmacked. Richard being anybody's Best Man was a remarkable occurrence. He never normally attended weddings, almost always having some imaginative excuse for not doing so. In fact, Richard hated weddings, especially if the bridegroom was a close friend of his. He tended to regard marriage as an act of disloyalty towards him and the groom's other bachelor friends. On the other hand, he usually sent a decent present. 

“No, James, that is not all. But, as for how I became his Best Man, there is no mystery.” Richard briefly broke into song: “He had a brother like any other.. . and the chump managed to break his leg in an accident shortly before Michael's wedding.  He was still in hospital; the great day was looming ever more closely and Michael asked me to take his place. By that time, Mike and I had become close friends. When he appealed to me like that, what else could I do?” 

“That was good of you. But couldn't one of his RAF colleagues have performed that office?” I inquired. 

“He didn't want any of them, for reasons that will become clear,” replied Richard. He continued. “It was gruesome: not only was Mike's fiancée, Sheila, needy, demanding and seriously boring, but she in turn was controlled by her mother, a complete horror, whom even Mike called “The Witch Queen of New Orleans”, and he was marrying her daghter. I felt desperately sorry for Mike and tried to get him to see sense - by every available means - but he reckoned that it was too late for him to back out, and he had fucked Sheila a few times, so I suppose he felt bound to make an honest woman of her. When a man does something really stupid, it is usually for the highest motives. So in due course I turned up at Hornchurch Parish Church in fucking Essex, resplendent in my scarlet tunic and gold braid. I did my duty; did not lose the ring; outshone the bridegroom and all the other RAF Officers in their horizon blue, to say nothing of their ghastly womenfolk, who wore hats that they should have been made to eat; and I gave that poor blighter Mike up to a fate worse than death; that, at least, is my view. But I'm running ahead of my narrative.”  

“And where did you first meet?” I asked.   

“At Cairndoull Fort in Scotland,”said Richard. “I don't suppose that you've ever heard of it?”  

“Never in my life!”  

Richard explained: "It is one of the forts that Field Marshal Wade built to help to pacify the Highlands after the 1745 Rebellion. Most of the others have either been pulled down and their stones recycled, or they have become ruins.  But this one still belongs to the Army. It housed - and still houses - the Mountain Leadership School and a mysterious unit, whose members we hardly ever met. I now know that it was some kind of training facility for the Special Forces. Externally the Fort is a magnificent building set amid beautiful Highland scenery. It has wide parade-squares, Ionic pilasters; even a few tasteful bas-reliefs in appropriate places... the Hanoverian version of the royal coat of arms, trophies of weapons, that kind of thing. Internally, it is rather grim and basic. 

“Neither Mike nor I was seriously interested in rock-climbing. For different reasons we were both fugitives, keeping our heads down. That is how we found ourselves at Cairndoull Fort. I was still in the Bombardier Guards then, but on very bad terms with my Commanding Officer, Stewart Stockwell, now Major General Sir Stewy Stockpot KCB. He suspected that Mark Stainer and I were having an affair. Well, we were and you know all about that. So I got myself on as many courses as possible. The Mountain Leadership Course, which was undeniably relevant to infantry soldiering, got me out of Wellington Barracks and five-hundred miles away from Stewy Stockpot for two or three weeks. Mike was fleeing from his own wedding preparations, which were in full swing, even though the event was still a few months away. Mike's mother and the Witch Queen of New Orleans were both going into orbit and having fights over everything from the order of service and the wedding reception venue to the colour of the bridesmaids' dresses. It was very stressful. Like me, Mike had to get away for a bit, to keep his sanity intact.”  

I nodded sympathetically. 

“At Cairndoull Fort I found that most of the other men on the course were Army Other Ranks. There was also a sailor called Steve and two or three very keen Territorials.  Out of maybe twenty-five, only four of us were Officers. Two were Royal Signallers; they were old friends and did  everything together. That left me and Mike, the solitary RAF officer, so we chummed up together.  That should not have been a problem; he was, as you have seen, a nice man. The problem that arose was that he was also terribly attractive and I had difficulty in keeping my hands off attractive men, especially if they were blond. And for the record, I did not want any sexual adventures at that point because I knew that Stewy Stockpot had his eye on me. 

“In the event, the whole bloody course was a non-stop 'Temptation of St Richard'. By the special intervention of the Devil, all the men on that particular course were young, fit and good-looking.  We all messed together in austere, white-walled and oak-beamed Georgian barrack-rooms and perforce spent our leisure  time together. The weather was unusually warm for North-West Scotland. In the evenings, after climbing, abseiling etc, everyone lounged about on their bunks naked, apart from those very brief coloured bikini briefs that just-about every young man wore then: cleaning our kit, oiling our boots, chatting, playing cards, pocket chess and draughts, sipping canned or bottled beer (there was no pub for miles around) and listening to the radio - endless pop music. The exception was Steve, the sailor, who wore baggy boxer-shorts and was mocked for it ('Gonna play soccer, Steve?'). We all slept naked. So I had to control my emotions and  my erections, which was even more difficult, and to keep my hot, sticky eyeballs to myself, especially in the showers. Taking ice-cold showers helped a bit, but not much. Meanwhile I gained a reputation for being a very hard man indeed. One of the squaddies called me 'Iceman'. How little he knew!”  

“I see what you mean!” I commented.

Richard continued: “In Mike's case, exercising restraint was easier said than done, because he took a shine to me. He never seemed to be far away.  Like many bisexual men, which is what he is, he posed a special threat because, as you know, James, it is possible for a bisexual man to breeze along happily for years, rogering his wife, mistress or girlfriend and not causing any trouble to anyone. Then, suddenly, he meets a man whom he really, really likes and gets  emotionally involved. Since he is not officially, or even predominantly, homosexual, he often does not at first recognise what is happening; thinks it is just a ripening friendship, and does not perceive or heed the signs until too late.  His other nature has come sneaking back and taken over. Mike had started, quite innocently, to fall in love with me.”  

"That is all too easily done," I remarked drily and was rewarded with a very big grin and a pat on the leg. Richard continued: 

“On my side, I felt a powerful attraction to Mike. That, however, was straightforward lust, although I liked him a lot, too. The first time that I ever saw him, we were in the showers. Naked, Mike was a wonderful sight: super-fit, slim and athletic. His golden tan extended all over his almost hairless body; no tan-line.  His hair - well, you saw it –was pale-golden and curly, even more so then than it is now. His crotch-hair ditto. He stood there in the golden early morning sunlight, cheerfully soaping himself and singing some ditty by Gilbert O'Sullivan. He was a golden boy! And I wanted him!  And how! My desire for him was at times so-fucking-strong that it hurt!  Oh fuck!”  

“And did any of the other students on the course suspect you?” I inquired. 

“No. And if they had made any such suggestion, I'd have bashed them. But they did not. Remember that my  physique was on display for quite a lot of the time, as well as everyone else's.”    

That figured; Richard was an exceptionally strong man, with serious muscles. That was obvious when he stripped. He went on:  

“In any case there was, among other reading matter, a stack of old copies of Soldier magazine.While he was flipping through them, one of the boys found some pictures of me boxing and playing rugby for the Army. Coo, wow!  That impressed them enormously. And, as we all know, gay men can't box, play rugby or even march straight. Then another boy said that I bore a curious resemblance to a certain Dick Rock, whom he had seen wrestling in the East End of London under the auspices of NHB Wrestling. That could have been a bit awkward.” 

I knew that Richard wrestled on the side, as well as boxed. “How was that awkward?” 

“Because I really was Dick Rock. NHB Wrestling is neither respectable nor legitimate, although the financial rewards can be significant if you win your bout. The initials stand for 'no holds barred'.  It is very homoerotic.” 

“Tell me more!”  

“James, I've always liked to walk on the wild side. NHB Wrestling was one of my ways of letting off steam when I was on boring ceremonial duties in London. It was great fun to go from a raucous, nearly-naked, sweaty scene like that  famous George Bellows painting, A Stag at Sharkey's to a posh regimental ball or dinner. Variety is the spice of life, in case you hadn't noticed! Of course, I used a false name - Dick Rock - and kept my two existences separate. The Army would never have approved, had they known. Stewy Stockpot definitely would not have, either.” 

“That, I could believe.”

Richard continued: “The bouts mainly happened in the back rooms of pubs or warehouses before an invited or carefully-screened audience. Only men were allowed to watch; many of them were macho queers, as were most of the wrestlers. It was bloody exciting because the rules were not applied strictly. The contestants did not even necessarily abide by the rules of common decency. Some pretty dirty fighting took place. For example, the winner often stripped the loser and took his trunks as a trophy. The loser, if he was able to stand, had to walk off, or be carried off, naked apart from his boots and, if his opponent was feeling unusually chivalrous, his thong or jock. Often we didn't wear trunks anyway; I fought a lot of bouts in a jockstrap only; that affords no protection to the ass and adds to the fun. Shoving a finger up an opponent's asshole if the opportunity arose was considered a legitimate wrestling-hold! Sometimes the victor would ambush and fuck the loser in the showers or changing rooms. That went with the territory.”  

“Crikey! Did that ever happen to you?” 

“Only once. I'd lost a match on points. The Ref decided that I'd committed a foul. The victor never tried it again, however. In fact, he had to give up wrestling for a while; I damaged him and fucked him for good measure,” said Richard. “But back to Cairndoull Fort and the inquisitive squaddies: Another soldier fortunately shut up the guy who'd noticed my resemblance to Dick Rock.  He was one of those 'know-it-all' gabby Scots: 

'Eh! Th' Army disnae wrestle and Officers sairtainly dinnae!' 

So that seemed to settle that, although the suggestion that I might have been Dick Rock did me no harm with the Other Ranks. They treated me with respect; even with caution. They teased Mike, mainly because he was RAF, and he took it in good part. I had one further advantage over the others: they had all arrived at Inverness by train, been collected from the railway station and brought to Cairndoull by Army transport, so they were now effectively marooned in the sticks - and I mean really in the sticks - until the end of the course. I however had driven up from England in my sports car, which I had garaged in a distant part of the fort. Hardly anyone else knew about it, because I had arrived a day early and kept the car out of sight.Occasionally, when I reckoned that I would not be missed, I would disappear for an evening's recce by myself. In the course of my explorations I discovered a splendid,  isolated old inn; a small hotel really, beloved of serious rock-climbers but not well-known to others. It had good food, a decent wine-cellar and comfortable bedrooms. It also had an unpronounceable Gaelic name; I call it the Glenbollocks Inn. It sounded something like that.” 

“I suppose that you mean the Glenbrollachan Inn?” I interrupted. “George Malory, the Everest climber, used to stay there.”  

“No doubt I do,” said Richard,  “but to me it will always be Glenbollocks.” 

“So what happened next?” I wanted to know. 

“Nothing much, or not immediately, but it became clear to me that God – not the Christian God, but a pagan Greek one; Eros or Priapus – intended me both to take Michael and to save him, if he could be saved, from Sheila and the Witch Queen of New Orleans. The latter might be a tall order, but anyway, I'd have a go. The signs were propitious.” 

“And what were these signs? I take it that the God did not appear in person to counsel you?”  

“No but, as I said, the auguries were good. We did not do rock-climbing and abseiling every single day.There were other activities and the last two full days were to be given up to what was supposed to be a “fun” event; a competitive two-day orienteering exercise across some extremely rugged terrain. Mike and I made up a two-man team. Because it was a two-day exercise, we were supposed to pass one night in a “bothy”, a very basic former shepherd's cottage in the back of beyond, now the property of the Army, and to return to Cairndoull Fort at some point on the second day. The day after that was the last one of the course; we would be free to leave after lunch.” 

Richard sipped his coffee thoughtfully. 

“It pays to do your background research. I had discovered some important things:  Firstly, that Mike and I were by far the best orienteers on the course. We were also the fittest. A  plan began to evolve in my mind that we should not spend the night in that bothy, about which I had bad vibes, but get back to Cairndoull Fort that first evening. It could be done, if we really pushed ourselves. Provided that we managed to do that and to get a witness to confirm it, we would have won the orienteering competition, although that was not my main motivation. Having changed, we would have a free evening without any other course members or instructors around or in the way. We could use my car – about which Mike still knew nothing at that point - to go for a spin to the Glenbollocks Inn, where I should somehow manage to seduce Mike; both physically and to scare him away from the ghastly marital trap into which he seemed to be sleepwalking.  I had also learned from Mike's casual remarks that there was a television programme that he would have liked to watch that very next evening - some vintage war movie that was not often screened –  and that he had a birthday looming. All of these factors could be woven into my plan.  

“Anyway, the orienteering exercise went brilliantly. The weather was good, but even with ideal conditions to help them, Mike and I were soon miles ahead, and out of sight, of the others. We reached the bothy more than an hour before the earliest projected time of arrival. It was as awful, grubby and depressing as I had intuited. The idea of passing the evening and night there; eating compo rations, listening to pop music on someone else's radio and finally kipping on the bare boards in my sleeping-bag did not appeal. Mike needed little persuasion. We left a written message saying that we intended to press on to the Fort and wishing the others a pleasant evening. Spurred by the pangs of hunger, we pressed on at an amazing pace and got back to the Fort before sunset. We reported, showered and changed immediately. Then, like a conjurer, I produced my sports car; Mike was  wowed by it, as it was his kind of car. Fighter Pilots and Guards Officers evidently have similar tastes in personal transport.  

'Dinner's on me tonight!' I told Mike.' We're dining at the Glenbollocks Inn. No horrible compo rations for us, unlike those other poor blighters in that grim bothy!' 

'Why are you such  a good chum to me?' asked Mike innocently. 

'Cos I choose to be and because it's your birthday, or soon will be,'  I said. 

We had worked up a great appetite and the dinner provided by the Glenbollocks Inn was first-class. We had local scallops, fresh from the sea, followed by Scottish lamb with all the trimmings,followed by Cranachan. Because I had earlier chatted up the very pretty head waitress, we were given extra-large helpings of lamb on huge oval steak plates. I had ordered a magnum of champagne in honour of Mike's birthday and he drank slightly too much of it. It made him, who was normally cheerful but correct and reserved, laughing, garrulous and indiscreet. He even told me a risqué story, which I thought was a good sign. We finished eating, drank our coffee and rose from the table. 

'Where now?' asked Mike. 'Back to the Fort?' 

'No way. You wanted to watch that film.That's what we're going to do. It starts in five minutes. C'mon!' 

'You wonderful guy!' chuckled Mike. 'You think of everything!'

I reckon that on that occasion, I genuinely had. I had certainly given it a lot of thought. Seizing the champagne bottle and two flutes, I led the way upstairs and ushered Mike into a top-floor bedroom with – by the standards of the day and especially of the Highlands - quite an advanced TV set with a big screen. It might even have been a colour TV. It faced the enormous double bed. 

'Now, sit down or lie down. Relax and make yourself comfortable,' I told Mike. 'The show is about to begin!'

As, in more than one sense, it was.

He gave a “Wow!” of satisfaction,pulled off his shoes and socks, waggled his bare toes, arranged some cushions on the bed to prop himself against, and stretched himself out, ready for the film to begin. I handed him yet another glass of champagne and switched on the TV set. A  few moments later there was a burst of martial music. The familiar figures of Kenneth More, Richard Todd, Lawrence Olivier and others began to appear on the screen; the war film had begun. Mike was as happy as a sand-boy. So far, so good.   

“As I said, I had an instinctive feeling that things were going to go my way that evening. They soon started to do so. I left the room for a few minutes, leaving Mike gazing at the screen. When I returned, he had stripped to his briefs, which were microscopic and Air Force blue. That would  have been  quite usual in the evening in our barrack-room at the Fort. He grinned  up at me:  

'You said to make myself comfortable, so I did!' 

'Fine by me!' I said. 'I'll join you.' 

I stripped off too. To Mike's amusement, even in our very minimal attire we were still kind-of in uniform, because I was wearing scarlet briefs - the army colour - and he was sporting his RAF horizon blue ones; for the moment, anyway.  I poured myself a glass, lay down beside him and pretended to watch the film. Since Mike was obviously enjoying it, I did nothing while it was on.”  

Richard smiled reminiscently. 

“Once the film had finished, I made my first move; I rolled over and leaned  on one elbow while I looked down at him. He smiled up at me. Then, because I couldn't resist any longer, I kissed him. Mike gave a sharp intake of breath and then a chuckle. I took that as a good sign.”

'Give over!' he laughed. 

'No way!' I replied. I also messed his hair. 

A Rubicon had been crossed. There could be no going back, so I moved rapidly southward. The Air Force blue briefs were soon pulled off and tossed into a corner of the room; I was gently noshing, and then deep-throating, his cock. Mike's reaction was a mix of panic, shock and delight. He sounded like this:

'Uh-uh-uh, Oh wow! Wow! Wow! Wow! Ah-ah-ah-ah, OH FUCK!!' 

Which was a fair comment, I suppose! Presently he grabbed my ears like handles and started to use  my head like a fuck-toy. Mike was definitely enjoying this, He was getting into the spirit, all right! 

“What happened next?” I wanted to know.

Richard continued: “I didn't want either of us to come so soon and we had got a bit hot, so I decided that we should take five. Mike looked at me: 

'What the fuck do you call that?'  he gasped. It still seems, even in retrospect, a ridiculous question. Wasn't it self-evident? 

'Oral sex, of course!' I said. 

Mike looked puzzled as well as shocked: 'I thought that that was something men did to girls?' was his surprising comment.  I had to choose my next words carefully:

'Well, of course they do, putting your tongue inside her little love-box and all that. But girls can do it to boys, and men to each other, as I have just done to you. It's meant to be great fun!' 

Mike had no idea of any of this. Apart from having had his sex education shamefully neglected, it appeared that Sheila, whom – without ever having met her - I was coming to dislike more and more, had only one concept of sex: that was to lie there like a starfish and expect Mike to do all the work. I'd have to educate him, and fast. Equally, I did not want to traumatise him. The next stage was ass-fucking, so I'd have to be the bottom, to start with.” 

Richard sipped more coffee. I knew what would have happened. Richard preferred to be the top but, when the occasion seemed to demand it, he could take it like a man. Strictly speaking, he remained on top, while his sexual partner lay underneath him, being ridden like a horse in the Grand National. Richard did not exactly submit; but when he 'gave himself', it was one-hundred percent and very exhausting. That is what now happened to Mike.  

Richard got him hard again, anointed Mike's cock and his own man-hole with lube and slowly impaled himself, Mike groaned gently. There followed a session of “reverse push-ups”. Richard, supported on his exceptionally strong arms and legs, took Mike's cock deep inside him, rode up and down on it tirelessly, with his own cock in permanent, hard erection, repeatedly bringing Mike close to orgasm and then denying him, before slowly starting all over again. Mike pawed Richard's chest, tweaked his nipples or just held his ankles tightly. There was a lot more of : 

“Uh-uh-uh, Oh wow! Wow! Wow! Wow!Ah-ah-ah-ah, OH FUCK!!!”  

Finally Richard spun on his axis, which was Mike's cock, faced Mike, bent forward and, still impaled, kissed him passionately. 

“Mein Gott, but he tasted good!” said Richard, with a reminiscent smile. “Mike said in a weak voice: 'I can't believe that any of this is really happening!'” 

It was now time to fuck Mike. Richard knew that it would hurt, so he tried to do it as gently as possible.He carefully prepped Mike's ass by rimming it, probing it gently with his fingers and opening it up, once more blowing Mike's mind and provoking more cries of “Wow!” and Aaargh!” 

“C'mon,” said Richard. “Follow me!” 

He grabbed Mike, half-carried  and half-waltzed him into the bathroom. As Richard already knew, Glenbollocks bathrooms contained both baths and showers. 

“Mike, get one foot up on the edge of that bath. Now bend over, brace yourself against the wall if you feel insecure. Now take some deep breaths and relax if you can."

Once more Richard deftly massaged Mike's hole, lubricating it.  He was now ready to enter and gently eased his cock inside. All the while he was reassuring Mike: 

“Relax, this isn't a race. I love you, Mike. Now take it; take it slowly. I'm going in now...” 

Mike shut his eyes tight and gasped as Richard slid inside. He was quite used to breaking-in inexperienced younger men.  

“Take it, Mike. Take it now! Good man!” 

Suddenly Mike was taking it; pushing his ass backwards, even moving it around, the better to take Richard's cock inside him. Richard, who did not want to hurt Mike, continued to make affectionate noises and hugged Mike warmly from behind.  He almost lifted Mike into the air - he was so strong – so that Mike had the impression that he had become weightless, or was flying, like Ganymede borne aloft by Jupiter in the form of an eagle. He almost lost consciousness. 

“Okay, Mike?” 

“Yes, be gentle with me. I never had this happen before, never even dreamed of anything like this!” 

“Well, let's hope it's a good dream!” Richard responded.  Mike gasped again and said nothing. He bit his lip. 

Richard reached under Mike and found his cock. It had shrunk a bit with the shock of his violating; Richard skilfully coaxed it back to full-size. It began to drizzle a little pre-cum. Mike relaxed and Richard glided in. His balls splashed wetly against Mike's well-oiled backside. Richard partly withdrew and then slammed his weapon in again. The combined pain and pleasure were so sharp that Mike almost passed out. Richard began to pound Mike's ass in earnest. The wall against which Mike was braced was covered in dark mirror-glass; opening his eyes for a moment, he could see himself and Richard  like baroque saints in ecstasy, wearing expressions of the most refined suffering. 

I could die like this, thought Mike. What a way to go!

Richard speeded-up the pace of his thrusting. Mike began, without even touching himself, to spout creamy sperm. Richard came deep inside Mike, thrusting harder and harder until he could hold it in no longer. Mike was sore, bruised but deeply content. 

Later they showered and slept together. Richard, one of whose strong points was planning, had paid in advance for their room and breakfast the following morning. They took breakfast in the dining room as early as possible, to avoid suspicion. Because the Glenbollocks is  a serious alpinist's hotel, that was at 7.00 am. Not too many others were up at that time; those who were, probably assumed that they had a long day's climbing or hill-walking ahead of them, requiring an early start. An acute observer might however have noticed the odd smiles that passed between them, for which there was no obvious explanation  in their desultory and superficial conversation. A very worldly-wise observer might even have guessed the reason. 

They got back to Cairndoull Fort well before the others arrived and greeted them cheerfully as they trudged muddily and wearily in. The following day  the course dispersed after lunch. Mike had to catch a train from Inverness, so Richard drove him there in his sports car. As they drove, Mike's hand rested lightly on the inside of Richard's left thigh. At the station Richard helped Mike with his two small pieces of luggage. Mike was very efficient and travelled with the the workable minimum of clothes and kit. 

“Bye Mike. Good Luck!” Richard patted him on the arm. 

Suddenly Mike threw caution to the winds: he dropped his bags, hugged Richard in a rib-crushing embrace and kissed him. They both got erections. 

I could do with another good Mike-fuck, thought Richard regretfully. 

Fortunately very few people were around and even fewer stopped to look; they were hurrying to catch the train, which was about to leave. A whistle blew piercingly and Mike ran for it. He jumped aboard at the very last moment. 

He's so fucking beautiful, mused Richard, even when he's fully-clad. Look at the way he moves when he runs! His voice, his walk, his laugh; everything about him is delightful. He added silently: Well, that's the end of that; short but sweet!

The train pulled out of the station and gathered speed, carrying Mike southwards to his new life as a married Officer. Richard went back to his car and drove away. 

But that was not the end. Fate had a few more tricks to play on Mike and Richard.