The Stag

Almost a month later Richard was back at his desk – he was now the Battalion Assistant Adjutant - in Chelsea Barracks. Cairndoull Fort and Mike were now fading, albeit enjoyable, memories. The 'phone rang: 

“RAF Wittering on the line for you,Sir!” 

“Oh bother! I wonder what they want?”

(A pause)

“Richard? It's Mike – Mike Sumner –Please would you do me an enormous favour?” 

“Oh, that Mike!” Richard was already starting to get an erection. “Well, it rather depends what it is...” 

“Please would you be Best Man at my wedding? My brother Dave has had to drop out!”

“What's happened to him? Or is it an unmentionable disease?” 

“No, its much worse than that: broken leg – motorbike accident – He'll be in hospital for weeks.”    

“Well, Mike, to be honest I hate weddings and particularly this one, which I recall that I advised you to bail out of. Surely one of your dashing RAF fighter-pilot friends could perform that office? They must know you better than I – if not quite so intimately – and be better-placed to make a witty and well-informed speech?” 

“That's just what I don't want. There have been – incidents and episodes – that I would not want in the Best Man's speech, and which they would insist on putting in. But it gets worse. The Best Man also organises the Stag Party or, these days, the Stag Weekend. Have you ever been at an RAF Stag Party?” 

“Nope: I avoid that sort of thing like the plague.” 

“Well, they are like rugby-club outings; indescribably horrible, especially for the guest of honour.Everyone gets drunk and throws up, but the poor bloody groom is made to drink more than anyone else. They play ghastly practical jokes. At the very least, I could expect to be stripped naked and dumped in a remote suburb, to get myself home somehow. On the day I would almost certainly still be horribly hung-over and look like death warmed up in all the wedding photos. I would probably arrive at the church late, incurring Sheila's, the Witch Queen of New Orleans' and my own mother's wrath. Whoever I chose would think it funny to pretend to have lost the ring, causing me to have a nervous breakdown, and then would quite likely prove really to have lost it! ”  

“Well, what would you prefer instead?” 

Mike lowered his voice. “An evening dinner with you, Richard, and no-one else; better still, a whole weekend in the depths of the country - and for you to  fuck my brains out one last time!”  

That put the request in a different light, so Richard responded warmly: “Okay, I'll do it. I'll go through with the ghastly ceremony. As for the stag business, I'll take two or three days' leave and we'll do it properly over a long weekend.” 

“Oh, mega-thanks, Richard! One other request, please. Would you wear your full-dress uniform at the wedding?”

“Hmmm... Guards Officers don't normally wear uniform at weddings. We leave that sort of thing to the Navy and obscure County Regiments. They marry in uniform; we get married in morning-dress.”

“Oh please, Richard! It would be really helpful to me and would chuff both families no end!” 

“Oh all right. Anyway, It'll save my having to hire the kit from Moses Bros. Their dress-hire service has become rather expensive. And  it's not as if your wedding is likely to be chronicled in The Tatler,” Richard added, somewhat insensitively.  

“It will however be in The Observer!” said Mike, mischievously.  

“Oh no! But how? Why?” Richard was aghast. The Observer! That would never do. 

“The Hornchurch Observer, you chump!” laughed Mike. “It's the local rag! Local weddings always get good coverage in it and the Witch Queen will see to it that this one does! It'll be a chance to upstage her social rivals.”

“Ah! And having a Guardee as your Best Man will help with that! Well, that's all right!” 

Richard carefully planned Mike's last fling. This time it would be easier, given that he knew for certain that Mike was gagging to have sex with him. 

“Mike wanted to go back to Scotland, of which he now had very fond memories.  I didn't  want to risk going back to Glenbollocks; the hotel staff and any instructors from the Mountain Leadership School that we encountered might well remember us. Finally, I remembered about a shooting lodge near Kildonan in Wester Ross that belonged to the parents of one of my friends. It was not the shooting season, so the lodge would be shut up. But it could easily be opened and would be perfect for Mike's and my last fling because it was so remote. The arrangements were quickly made; an employee from the estate office arranged cleaning, made up the beds, put some food in the pantry, laid fires and stacked logs and peat by all the fireplaces, because there was no central heating. We went there by overnight train, which allowed for a bit of intimacy, although I have never found cramped railway sleeping-compartments really satisfactory for that sort of activity, and collected a hire-car in Glasgow.  

“Soon after we got to Kildonan Lodge, Mike appeared in a Black Watch kilt. He had great legs, and I am both a male leg man and a kilt-perve.  It is possible that I had mentioned this to Mike: at any rate, there he was in a kilt and clearly feeling randy. It took me only a few seconds to get completely naked and then I went for Mike. Of course, he was naked under the kilt. I flung it up, rimmed, probed and lubricated him, then bent him over and fucked him. Then I got him on his back, impaled myself on his cock and rode him for a bit. Finally, I spread his legs and fucked him again, this time on his back. He loved that so much that he seemed to pass out in ecstasy; quite a compliment, really. I doubted that his legitimate 'transports of delight' with Sheila would produce anything remotely like that effect, but did not say so. There's a lot to be said for Highland Dress; it greatly facilitates pissing, diarrhoea and, above all, sex.”     

“So I've heard,” I remarked. “You may recall that you tried to get me to wear it when we went shooting in Perthshire just before I got posted to Kenya.” 

Richard nodded, smirked and continued: “Those days and nights at Kildonan were some of the randiest of my life. Mike and I couldn't keep our hands off each other and it was a wonder, looking back on it, that we were not caught in flagrante delicto more than once. The fact that we both knew that it had to end soon made our rough fucking urgent and bittersweet. 

“Part of the estate was given over to forestry; the long, dark and silent forestry roads  made good running-tracks. I still remember the sweet, resinous smell of the fir-trees. I've never returned to Kildonan since that visit with Mike, but even now that intoxicating aroma brings it all back with painful clarity and makes me relive that strange long weekend. We went running there early on every morning of the holiday. Seeing Mike's long, strong and beautiful legs bounding away from me never failed to spur me to greater and greater efforts, to catch him. He wore the shortest and flimsiest running-shorts and minimalist tops; occasionally no top. At half-time we almost always had sex, with Mike braced against a convenient tree trunk, fence or boulder and his shorts round his ankles. Mine too, of course. Sometimes, however, he wanted a spot of role reversal and it was I who got ploughed. Either way, we would both be soaked with sweat from running and fucking long before we got back to the Lodge. Our shorts and tops would be sopping rags clinging wetly to our bodies. We might as well have been naked. And all the while we were breathing that sharp scent of pine-sap. It was almost like a presence."

He paused and looked thoughtful.  

“Yes, Sir! we were taking a hell of a risk. The Highlands are the last place in which one should have alfresco sex. There is always someone around. The land may look empty but there is often a gamekeeper, a ghillie, a shepherd or even the landowner himself, perched maybe  a few miles away, on a hill or a tower, keeping an eye on his territory. Any and all of these people are likely to be carrying binoculars or a telescope, with which they sweep the landscape.  They are of course looking out for poachers, deer-drivers or sheep-stealers; even for animal vermin like foxes, but they would all have taken a dim view of Mike and me having sex.There could have been a scandal, resulting in us both being court-martialled.” 

“I see. You were lucky.” 

“Very lucky. We were only caught once. This is how it happened...”

There was one place that Richard particularly wanted Mike to see. In a small glen on the edge of the Kildonan estate, known to very few people, was a series of spring-fed pools known as Oran's Pools. St Oran was said to have baptised some Pictish notables in them in early Christian times. Before the Reformation they had been a place of pilgrimage by people seeking miraculous cures for various diseases, but the Protestant Church had put a stop to the pilgrimages and the place got forgotten.  However it remained a numinous, haunted place. There was even evidence of a pre-Christan pagan cult; an imperfect circle of standing-stones stood in a nearby field and, beside the largest pool was an oblong altar-like slab of sandstone, now covered with delicate green moss, which Richard had nicknamed 'the Slaughter Stone'.     

“The legends are not entirely bollocks,” said Richard. “The water in the pools definitely contains beneficial minerals. People might well have felt better after washing in it or drinking it. I always felt like a million dollars after swimming there. But that has also been its undoing: I recently heard that the family want to cash in on this and that the water is to be extracted on a commercial scale, bottled, marketed and sold as 'Kildonan Spring' . We'll soon be able to buy it in any supermarket! But the atmosphere will be ruined; for that and other reasons I shall never go back.” 

At that time however the pools retained their remote, spooky charm. The glen was silent; for some reason birds did not sing there. The only sound was the soft music of the water. Above the water-line fragile green ferns drooped gracefully. The pools, which were linked, were very deep, cold and devoid of weeds and algae. Their sides were bare rock.  The only fish were small, dark fingerling trout. Swimming under the crystal-clear and unpolluted water, it was easy to open one's eyes, look around and see the fish. 

Mike was delighted with the pools,which they reached after a long, hot and tiring hike.  He liked being naked and lost no time in stripping off and diving in gracefully. Richard stripped too but did not jump in immediately; instead, he crouched down and watched Mike's golden-skinned form swimming around underwater. Not for the first time, he mused: “Mike is so fucking beautiful and agile. Even his swimming seems to be choreographed. What a waste.”  He was starting to get hard again. The cold water might cure that, or it might not.  Their swim became an amorous chase, with Richard pulling Mike under the water to kiss him, when he caught him. Then they would rise to the surface, gasping for breath.  Sometimes one would suck the other's cock underwater, but 'submarine sex' was not really satisfying: as Richard said, “One ran out of breath and there was a distinct danger of drowning”. 

When they came out and towelled themselves dry, they were in no hurry to get dressed again. It was quite warm and there was no breeze. Richard sat down with his back against a tree-trunk, relaxed and closed his eyes.  

“Hey, Richard, look!” 

Richard looked up to see Mike lying on his back on the Slaughter Stone, his legs held wide apart and his ass temptingly on offer. He had already applied the lube; his man-hole glistened in the sunlight. What man could resist that invitation? Certainly not Richard.  

“Seen from behind, we must have made a perfect St Andrew's Cross,” chuckled Richard. “I grabbed his ankles. His spread legs and my straddled ones were like the upper and lower extended 'v's of the saltire. I plunged in. Mike had his eyes shut; he was grunting and groaning happily. His whole consciousness was concentrated in his ass, cock and balls, mostly his ass.”     

Mike was in good voice. As he got more and more excited, his usual 'Uh-uh-uh, Oh Wow! Wow! Wow! Ah-ah-ah-ah, OH FUCK!!' resounded through the glen. 

“WHAT THE FUCK'S HAPPENING HERE?” 

Richard looked up, startled. A young, ginger-headed man with tough good looks and a ruddy, freckled complexion was standing higher up the slope of the glen, looking down at them, and he was carrying a gun.  There was no doubt as to his trade: he was one of their landlord's gamekeepers. The wealthy landlord in question had had the whim to clothe all his keepers in an Edwardian uniform of close-fitting fawn breeches, polished brown leather boots and gaiters, yellow waistcoat and jacket in the estate check. A silk cravat and flat-cap, again in the estate check, completed the stylish ensemble. In this case the cap was pushed well back, showing short ginger hair.  

“What does it look like?” gasped Richard, who could not think of anything else to say.   

This could have been a disaster. Richard was already thinking of ways in which to murder the keeper, but the man started smiling and his next words were reassuring:

“Eh! Is this a private function or can anyone join in?” 

The keeper was groping his own crotch; an encouraging sign; he wanted a fuck. Richard took an instant executive decision: 

“You can join in!” 

Richard continued to serve an ecstatic Mike. The young man, who later turned out to be called Rufus Finlayson, needed no further encouragement. He carefully set down his shotgun, placing his cap under the moving parts. Then, despite the numerous buckles and buttons of his Edwardian dress, Rufus got naked in a very short time. He looked seriously strong; Richard suspected that he might play rugby. He had a pale, muscular body with a few freckles; he evidently did not tan.  He also possessed the best ass that Richard had seen in ages; a hard bubble-butt. After helping himself to a dollop of lube, Rufus attacked Richard from behind, grabbing and deep-fucking him. Rufus was hot ginger and dynamite; his assault spurred Richard to fuck Mike's brains out. Richard roared with mixed pain and pleasure; Mike groaned softly. Then Richard and Mike took turns to fuck Rufus, who shouted and groaned in his turn. Afterwards  they all swam in the cold water and washed away the sperm and lube. Once they had dressed, Rufus gave them both a hug and then, whistling for his well-trained dog, which had been sitting patiently nearby as a keenly interested spectator, he strode off.  

Mike's wedding passed off without a hitch,although there were murmurings from the RAF contingent: Why had Mike appointed a Guards Officer as his Best Man?  What was wrong with his own Service? Who is this guy anyway? But, apart from that, even the Witch Queen of New Orleans had been in a good mood.  The happy couple finally left in a shower of shoes, confetti and other missiles, to begin the long littleness of life. As they drove off Richard became keenly aware that he urgently needed to urinate. 

So, apparently, did everyone else. There was a queue a mile long at the Gents. Richard's room, which had en-suite facilities and which he had retained for that night so that he could enjoy drinking alcohol and not risk being breathalysed on the drive home, was on the top floor of the hotel; it would take too long to get up there.  So he headed for the garden, found a secluded spot among the rhododendrons, unbuttoned his fly and was releasing what felt like a gallon of urine, when he became aware of another man doing the same near him. He was a “Rock Ape”; in other words, a member of the RAF Regiment, who are responsible for the security of air bases and run the RAF's fire and ambulance service. He wasn't as good-looking as Mike but he seemed fit, had a cheerful grin and close-cropped fair hair. A cigarette was glued to his lower lip. 

“Ah, the gallant Best Man,” said the Rock Ape out of the corner of his mouth.  “Don't look so sad. There are other fish in the sea!” 

Richard sensed a possible threat in this: had he said something that had given his game away? “What the fuck do you mean? Do you want a fight?” Richard responded aggressively. 

“Calm down,” said the other. “I'm only pissing, not taking the piss. You looked the picture of misery just now. Not right or usual at a wedding. The only explanation – indeed the only possible explanation for your presence here today, since no-one had ever met or heard of you before - was that you and Mike had very recently become very close. I don't blame you! He's an easy guy to fall in love with and there have been rumours. I think that he probably had to marry to disprove them and ensure that he got his next promotion.” 

“Thank you for your frankness. I'm not saying anything, of course,” was Richard's reply. 

"You don't have to say anything. You gave yourself away in your speech, when you said that you'd first encountered Mike in an Army versus RAF rugby match. That came as a surprise to all of us. You see, while Mike might have played rugby at school,  in the RAF he has only ever gone in for three sports:  running, squash and golf!" 

"Golf! How boring," said Richard, avoiding the unspoken question.  

"Boring? I hardly think so," smiled the Rock Ape. "Mike's an Inter-Service golf champion, of almost professional standard!" 

Richard nodded thoughtfully. Golf, squash and running explained how Mike came to be so incredibly fit. The other man buttoned himself and grinned. He clicked his heels. 

 "I'm Jeremy Dowson.  I was a bit smitten with Mike too.” 

“Good to meet you,” said Richard stiffly, without further comment.  

“Let's cut to the chase. Neither of us has much to do for the rest of the day. Let's console each other. D'you fancy a fuck? Jeremy grinned at him, head on one side, hands in pockets, and waited for his response.  

Richard had a weakness for fair-haired men. “Yeah, let's do it. I'm in Room 211. I'll go up now. You follow in a few minutes.”  

“And what happened?” I asked. 

“Jeremy was a good fuck; just what I needed then. He was both oversexed and inventive. One small detail made me chuckle. He was wearing Air Force blue bikini briefs under his uniform, just like Mike's. It might have been a  coincidence or it might not. Perhaps it was a love-token. Not that they stayed in situ for long. He had a bloody good body, with a lot of fair hair on his arms, legs, chest and of course at his crotch. It glittered in the late afternoon sunlight."  

Richard smiled reminiscently. 

"Left to myself, I'd have just moped gloomily and probably drunk too much. As it was, after some enjoyable foreplay - entwined hugs, kisses, physical exploration etc - Jeremy soon had me naked and face-down on my hotel bed. He started by giving me a good massage - I had some muscle oil with me - with a few original kinky touches of his own. Then he said: 

'Richard, you are still too bloody tense. You need something drastic to break the tension and make you unwind.'    

He now proceeded to deliver it. He grabbed my neck in an unsporting wrestling hold called "the sleeper", which temporarily weakens the other man, and then started to fuck me. After the initial shock and surge of anger, I realised with blinding clarity that he was right. I relaxed and surrendered to him completely. Jeremy gave me a fully comprehensive fucking. When he finally finished my ass was very sore , as were some other bits of me, and I was exhausted; but somehow or other  life seemed much better."