Scotch Mist by Joncy
Date: May 27, 2022

Sounds like some kind of intoxicating perfume, doesn't it? Actually, it's the kind of rain or constant drizzle they get in Scotland. I tend to associate mists with that poem of John Keats they used to drum into us at school. 'Ode To Autumn' I think it was called. I only remember the first two lines: 'Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun.' And I only remember those because we had a real hot English teacher who doubled as scoutmaster in my early teens. I used to drive him nuts with my short pants, long legs and even longer looks. I know because he told me after I finally got into his pants when I literally 'came' of consenting age and seduced him under the stars. Although actually he wasn't wearing pants at the time. Recently I got a whole load of 'mellow fruitfulness' and a few 'close bosom friends' as well as a regular dose of scotch mist and malt whisky on my visit to a little place called Menmuir. The name attracted me because if you split it up into two syllables you get 'men' in English and 'muir', which means 'ripe' in French, albeit spelt differently, and as you know, I like my men 'muir' and not too mature.

I was a little disappointed at first as the place consisted of only three houses: The Old Schoolhouse, The Manse, and The Old Inn but my guide book told me that around 250 people lived in the area and that the community hall was well used as Menmuir was home to a thriving Scouts Group. The book also said that "Menmuir straddles the boundary of the fertile coastal land and the start of the Grampian Mountains." It was that little word 'straddle' that turned me on. Straddling is one of my favourite pastimes and I had a feeling that the 'fertile coastal land' might be a fertile place for it. And I love scrambling up mountains. And by that, I mean mountains of muscles.

Anyway, let's get back to my seduction of my English-cum-scoutmaster. What a combination! He was trying hard to go straight but was torn between a blown-up sense of responsibility and a strong desire to blow me. But when I was a tousle-haired twink and a boy scout I was pretty hard to resist and David eventually gave up the stalwart struggle and succumbed on my 18th birthday. By the way I forgot to tell you that he was 25, athletic and gorgeous, so he was hard to resist too. Everybody on the camp site got a little squiffy celebrating my birthday and David's resistance was low and my expectations high. His tent was at the top of a kind of hummock so he could overlook the rest of us down below. I watched his shadow getting ready for bed and it really turned me on. It made me so horny for him that when he blew out the light, I threw caution to the winds and wormed my way under the flap of his tent. It was pitch dark inside and dead quiet. Then I heard the deafening sound of a zipper being pulled down. He was opening the side of his sleeping bag for me to crawl in. I'd expected to be rebuffed and reprimanded but this was not the case at all. Quite the contrary.

Not a word was spoken but he was obviously expecting me as he was naked inside the sleeping bag and the first thing, I encountered was the stiff meat between his legs. I'd dreamt of his dick for over two years and was finally rewarded. I wrapped my fingers around it and rejoiced in its formidable girth and in David's warm welcome. In spite of its fabulous stiffness his dick began to leap and jerk as my exploring hands lovingly fondled it. My flaccid seven-and-a-half incher soon grew to its full nine-inch size too as he started playing with it, inserting his tongue inside the foreskin and tasting my pre-cum. Such a thing had never happened to me before. Not even in my wildest wet dreams. I'd been jerked off and had jerked other guys off but nobody had ever gone down on me like this. He kissed the tip of my leaking dick and then licked the whole shaft from top to bottom, then he grabbed my butt cheeks and pulled me closer towards him so he could take my dick totally down his throat. I hissed with pent up pleasure. At the same time, he was fingering the outer rim of my ass, teasing it ever so gently, and inserting his middle finger with the help of a little spit. I felt his firm schoolmaster-cum-scoutmaster finger slide in and out of my ass, plowing its way along the furrow of my being and my dick going further and further down his throat. It was fabulous. It felt just like I was being fucked at both ends at the same time. No question of 'spare the rod, spoil the child.'

Then just as I was about to shoot my teenage load he released my demented dick from his moist mouth, flipped me over and, using my own pre-cum as lube, thrust in a few more fingers. I groaned with impure pleasure and, like a cat in heat, thrust my butt high into the air and my buns wantonly against him. My undulating ass made his own ten-incher even harder and this soon replaced his fingers. I felt its mushroom head oozing into me. He massaged my dick and balls to help me relax as he eased his way slowly and surely along my tight passage. I did my best not to scream as he tore me apart with the girth and thrust of his dick. Tears filled my eyes as he filled me to the brim. A searing sheet of flame shot right through me galvanizing my gut. Then the pain turned to pleasure, a heady mix of agonizing ecstasy and total disbelief that anything this painful could feel so good.

"Fucking hell," I howled in great joy and the wind echoed my cries. The tent flaps seemed to be in agreement too and in synch with my butt flaps. The whole thing became awesomely symbolic for as he tore into my ass, the wind tore the tent from its moorings, and we were left wallowing in the mud and each other's cum as we were engulfed by the elements. We gathered his things together and ran to get out of the rain seeking refuge in my tent which was pitched in a more sheltered spot. He had to leave early in the morning before anyone discovered him with his dick dipped deep in my cookie jar. We saw a lot of each other after that although I had to swear on scout's honour not to 'betray' him. I didn't tell a soul and I didn't fool around with anyone else either but when we were together I betrayed him with my eyes as I worshipped the ground he walked on and people began to notice.

Eventually he was transferred to another town which stopped the tongues but not the heartache. I hadn't realized I was in love. Seven years have gone by but I still have a yen for scoutmasters. I even thought of becoming one myself. So, as you can imagine, when I arrived in Scotland, I wasn't too surprised to find that I ran slam bang into one. On my first day too. Very much 'slam bang' as things turned out! His name was Angus and he was also a waiter at the hotel I stayed at. I didn't get much chance to talk to him other than order food but it turned out he had a room on the same floor as mine and we had to share a bathroom. Divine providence. Those lucky stars again.

It was a pleasant change from some of the situations I'd found myself in whenever I'd developed the hots for a waiter as, in most hotels, guests were allowed to have 'serving staff' in their rooms only for the time it took them to wheel in or wheel out a trolley. Or dining cart as you probably call it over there. This made the kind of room service I required almost impossible. Except in Tunisia where it was common knowledge that if you left your dinner tray outside your door your favourite waiter would climb into bed with you sometime during the night. I had a few hot and torrid nights when I was staying in one of those hotels and I've written a story about it. Trouble is I've forgotten the title. One forgets certain things very quickly but not an experience like that.

Maybe you'd like me to give you a quick re-cap. Excuse me if I keep going off on tangents but it was the first time I'd been fucked by an Arab and I was half-asleep when he slipped between my sheets and into my ass. Actually, I had a wonderful whiff of him that invaded my nostrils before he invaded my butt. You might say I smelt him before I felt him. His tight, taut body exuded not only manly sweat but an erotic aroma of its own that made me heady with desire but the horny bastard wasted no time in titillation and rammed his way into me, stretching my sphincter with the biggest fucking dick my ass has ever accommodated. It really hurt. Much more than David's ten-incher. It hurt like hell and at first, I derived absolutely no pleasure from it. What's more, the harder he fucked me the bigger his dick seemed to grow and if it hadn't been for that heavenly scent of him, which went straight down to mingle with my own sexual juices, I think I would have passed out from the excruciating pain of it all. Instead, he turned me into a raging butt slut and I couldn't get enough of him. He fucked my white ass like he was avenging his entire race. Which brings me back full ass and full circle to Scotland as there's not much love lost between the Scots and the English either.

The day I discovered Angus didn't wear underwear he told me that in times gone by, the Scottish army would lift their kilts and show their English opponents what they were made of. Like that famous scene in 'Braveheart.' This was meant to demonstrate that if they were tough enough to march through prickly heather and stinging nettles with nothing covering their private parts or tender areas then they were tough enough to withstand anything the English could attack them with.

He told me with a grin that any Scotsman worth his salt would always let his balls and dick swing free except maybe when dancing or doing the Highland Fling in the presence of royalty.

"After all," he added. "It wouldn't do to show off your crown jewels in front of Her Majesty!"

However, Angus soon let his all hang out and was proud to show me 'what he was made of.' As soon as we got better acquainted that is. Which didn't take too long. And the first time I saw him under the shower I was happy to see that naked he wasn't as chunky as he looked in his waiter's uniform and was able to admire his lithe muscle distribution and notice that, even soft, his dick was a good seven inches long and fittingly framed by a nest of wiry pubic hair that looked rather like a mound of heather itself. This was nicely complimented by a pair of manly balls. I was reminded of that first glimpse of him much later when his Celtic cock was doing battle with my British butt and I could feel those wire-brush pubes scraping against my aching asshole. It didn't hurt as much as my night on the Tunisian tiles with the Arab but still felt like Angus was avenging his entire race. And as he wedged his sturdy way further and further inside of me it felt like I was welded to his dick for all eternity. The cherry on my pie was when he erupted like a geyser all over my face and chest. My tongue darted out like an upside-down umbrella and I had a real gutter-full experience.

Maybe I'm getting a little ahead of myself in the story but I've been stuffing so much information and past experience down your throat I thought it was time to tell you about some other varieties of 'stuffing' and how I was getting my oats from this gorgeous Scotsman. One of the best fucks we had was to the tune of bag pipers playing downstairs in the restaurant. He'd slipped up to change after work and, accidentally on purpose, had slipped into my ass to this horny accompaniment. I ground my way down on him till his balls were slapping against my ass and fondly fondled them. He returned my affection by pinching the hell out of my nipples and biting deep into my neck. We bounced so hard together on that hotel bed that the springs squeaked from the strain as he chugged along my love channel while the bagpipes played on and he palmed my penis to a climax. I could tell that he was only a cum-step behind me and starting his own orgasm so I clenched his dick tight with my ass lips and fucked him back. To give myself more leverage I reached out behind me and my hands found his rock-hard glutes. He humped me towards a frothy heaven. My ass was on cloud fucking nine as he screwed me senseless. It was my first experience of losing my senses while at the same time being full of soaring sensations. That's the paradox of sex, I suppose. And the screech of those bagpipes made the whole thing more surreal and real at the same time.

Just to give you some respite after all that let me tell you some more about Scotsmen and their kilts. As we lay side by shagged and shattered side, I asked him if he ever had an erection when he wore a kilt. I mean from all the rubbing against that tartan and stuff.

"It's nigh on impossible to get an erection in a kilt." he said in his cute Scots accent.

"Why that?" I asked fascinated.

"On account of the sporran me wee Sassenach laddie. It's a kind of groin guard."

Joncy the simple Sassenach still didn't understand.

"It's pretty heavy," Angus explained, "and serves to keep your dick and your kilt down.".

"Is that where you keep your money?" I asked him. "In your sporran?"

"Amongst other things," he said mysteriously and kissed me. I soon forgot all about sporrans.

Next day, he was called away to take charge of a group of scouts in another part of Scotland. The regular scoutmaster was ill. I was miserable without him. The weather was miserable too but I still went for a long walk on the misty moors. I didn't run into any scouts or anyone mildly interesting although once there was a good-looking crofter herding his flock of shaggy sheep. Both he and the boy with him, looked like they might be willing for a shag themselves after a few whiskies but they didn't respond to my 'overtures' so I pressed on through the misty rain. I thought of that Scottish poet Robert Bruce and his story of the spider: "If at first you don't succeed try, try and try again." The weather got worse. There were no convenient caves around to shelter from the storm so I went into a pub and got into conversation with a great guy who turned out to be a champion 'putter of the shot.' Just in case you don't know what that is, it involves throwing a heavy metal ball, called the shot, as far as possible. It takes a hell of a lot of strength I can tell you!

His name was Andrew and he looked friendly so I sat down next to him. He looked like he might be well hung too. I was fascinated by his sporran which was made out of horsehair and was somewhat bedraggled on account of the rain. It sat on his lap like a small pet dog. I immediately wanted to stroke it and encounter the big Doberman that I knew was lurking underneath his kilt. His legs were muscled and massive and he seemed to be on his second bottle of whisky. They sure drink a lot in Scotland. He accompanied me back to the hotel and I invited him to my room to dry out. It was a case of when Angus is away Joncy will play. And Andy seemed game for anything. I worked the conversation round to kilts and under garments and he stood over me on the bed with his legs wide apart so I could look right up his kilt and check it out for myself. One thing led to another and putting the shot took on a new sexual meaning for me as I looked up the length of his inside legs while he fist fucked his fabulous pole and sent a shower of his Scottish seed spilling down into my open Sassenach mouth. He'd had no problems with his sporran and had turned it around his waist to let it hang on his hip in a more casual position. It had dried out and the long horsehairs swished hypnotically from side to side as he offered me his own very personal version of the Highland fling. I tell you man I got absolutely loads of his 'mellow fruitfulness.'

I worked and sucked voraciously as tank loads of Andrew's own personalized version of scotch mist came raining down on me and jet after jet ended up in my mouth and down my throat. But that wasn't the end of the surprises that rainy day had in store for me. It was only the beginning actually. As I found out to my cost later. But let me tell you about the horny parts before the thorny parts.

First off, I discovered that like a lot of big muscular, macho men Andy was a closet butt slut and secretly longed to be fucked. He just couldn't bring himself to admit it that's all. When I came out of the bathroom after a quick gargle and rinse, I found him spread out on the bed butt naked. One glance at his perfectly formed shot putter's pumice stone body caused my knees to weaken and my dick to stand tall. In fact, it was a struggle to stay on my feet.

Earlier I'd been so 'over-cum' by the time he'd finished that I didn't cum myself. Sometimes that spoils all the fun and renders you weak when you want to be strong although I was already weak from the sight of Andrew jerking off above me and filling my mouth with his ambrosia. When I was a little boy, my mother used to feed us with something called Ambrosia Creamed Rice. It comes in a can. I used to hate the stuff. That's before I got a taste of the tangy sperm that Andy had on tap.

If he hadn't already shot his load I would have been on my knees before him. I read somewhere once that nature seems to encourage cock sucking by weakening a man's knees and causing them to bend before another man. I really couldn't agree more. As it was, I asked Andrew if I could feel his muscles, which he reluctantly allowed, but I could tell it was a practiced reluctance. Un-reluctantly, I ran my hands over his arm muscles and butt muscles and over his cast-iron chest. He grew hard again and it could only have been less than fifteen minutes since he had covered my face and neck with bolts of his red-hot cum.

At this point I have to give you a bit of Joncy advice. That's if you need it of course. A lot of guys are more than willing to open their gates of paradise for you. Trouble is, when push comes to shove, they're often just as shy as you are. So, if you don't take the initiative and make the earth move for them when you're both hot to trot, you're hardly likely to get a chance again. Go right on in there. Dick held high. Mentally pole vault that short distance between you. You won't regret it. I certainly didn't. It made a man out of me and I suppose technically it made a woman out of Andrew.

I tell you man I wasn't exactly a twink when I pole vaulted my 'putter of the shot' but I was hardly in the same league muscle wise. Still, it was one of the high spots of my stay in the Highlands. For me, nothing can beat the sight of my nine-inch-man-muscle slipping in and out of the magnificent ass of that weight-lifter's body, watching his hard muscles tighten and twitch as I shoved my dick into him. What a feeling to see the immediate effect it had on him. It was as if his body muscles needed my dick in his ass to make them tauter. With every thrust I gave him, his body seemed to grow harder and stronger. He needed this fucking and, I sure obliged his need. I thrust my tongue in his ear and pinched his nips. He let out a huge sigh which seemed to come from the depths of his sporran and his ass began to buckle. My dick was in there like a homing pigeon. He cooed and crooned a bit like a pigeon too as I oozed my mushroom head in there.

"Oh fuck, man. Where have you been all my life? You're turning my ass into a fucking pussy."

But the long, low guttural groans and growls he began to emit sounded more canine than feline.

"Fucking hell man, that hurts so good... fuck, fuck, fuckkkkkkk... Don't stop."

"Don't worry, I won't," I said having got a taste for his butt. A bit like one does with haggis.

My bed was creaking like crazy again so I ended up cranking him on the floor. He took to my dick like a duck to water and heaved and sighed and couldn't get me far enough inside him. Still he had to go and spoil things a bit by saying something dumb. I suppose we all do at such times.

"Listen just because I wear a skirt and I'm taking it in the ass doesn't mean I'm a fag!"

It was a that precise moment that I hit his love button and he hit the roof. I hit it several times in succession and had him vibrating like a top and weeping like a baby. I looked directly into his sex glazed eyes as I fucked the Scottish ass off him and got a kick out of seeing his tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth and those eyes of his sinking into the back of his head.

"Fucking hell," he repeated. "Fucking, fucking, fantastic hell... ... ..."

I remembered all the butt fucking lessons I'd received. I also remembered something Bette Davis had said with regard to acting. "It doesn't matter if you copy someone as long as you make it your own" and I was definitely bent on making this straight Scot my own and gave him the full Joncy works including my corkscrew fuck which I'm sure I don't need to describe to you.

I'll go ahead and let Andy do it for me. Try to give you the whole sight and sound image.

"Fuck man, what are you doing to me!! Fuck, fuck, fuckety fuckety fuuukkkkk ... !"

His encouraging screams of unbridled pleasure had me changing gear with my dick to build up speed and spur me on in my hell for leather race to ride this Scottish super stud all the way to the finishing line. I felt great. Like I was putting the shot myself. He may have been at the other end of my joy stick but I was the man possessed. He was big, he was beefy and he was beautiful. And one of the best fucks I've ever had. I thanked my lucky stars like I had that night in the tent with David, so many 'close-bosomed' suns ago, and the first fortuitous night I'd spent with Angus in Scotland.

Momentarily, I'd forgotten all about Angus in the heat of that fantastic fuck-moment. But life can be a bitch sometimes, as well as beautiful, and bring you crashing down when you're riding high. Most especially when you're fucking a complete stranger on what, to all intents and purposes, has become your nuptial marriage bed. Angus arrived back without warning and caught us mid-coitus.

This rather put the kybash on our relationship. Hell hath no fury like a Scotsman scorned.

Or betrayed. Seems in Scotland it never rains but it pours.

I was literally caught with my pants down and Andrew without his kilt.

Naturally, it was difficult for me to continue staying in that hotel after this little episode so I moved in with Andrew and eventually moved on to a nearby village where I straightway ran into a group of boy scouts on a jamboree.

But I'll leave that story for another time.

'Joncy's Jamboree' sounds such a great name for a story. Don't you agree?

Meanwhile I've left you with some horny shots of a genuine Scot.

I've given you a misty cumshot of him too for good measure.

After all, that's why I've called this story "Scotch Mist."