A Scottish Scout in Geronimo's Land - Prequel
by Toby Johnston
Chapter 7
Teetering on the Verge
The official invitation from the Amá Sání arrived early in November. Not that it really needed to; our social calendar was a barren landscape compared to the American frenzy. In Scotland, Thanksgiving isn't a thing—no brothers or sisters were flying in from London or Edinburgh to join the throngs of travelers clogging the airports. There were no competing traditions, no legacy plans to negotiate.
My parents were more than happy to accept, agreeing that they would come down for Wednesday and Thursday, and then I would stay over through the weekend. Since landing in Texas, they had become fast friends with Hank's parents—a friendship that had grown by extension of Hank and I. But as the date approached, Da and I decided that we couldn't just arrive as empty-handed guests. If this was to be a true melding of cultures, we needed to represent the Highlands. We decided to plant the flag and introduce the Kinyaa'áanii, Towering House Clan—to a true Scottish tradition: haggis.
I could already imagine the look on the faces of the Navajo aunts and uncles. In a culture that respected the spirit of the animal and used every part of the sheep, the haggis was perhaps the only Scottish dish that could hold its own. It was a savory, peppery warrior pudding—oats, suet, and heart—encased in a stomach and boiled to a richness that matched the intensity of the Texas sun.
We spent the week before Thanksgiving foraging the countryside. It turned out that finding a butcher in the Texas Hill Country who could provide sheep's offal wasn't difficult. My father and I stood at the counter of a dusty meat market in Fredericksburg, negotiating for the pluck—the heart, liver, and lungs—and a cleaned stomach casing.
The butcher was a weathered man with skin like cured leather and a steady, measuring gaze that made me stand a little straighter. He could have been my Scoutmaster Coughlin's long-lost brother, right down to the calloused hands and the way he held a knife with effortless, practiced authority. He looked at us like we were speaking a Martian tongue until my father explained the dish.
"Sheep's stomach stuffed with the vitals? Sounds like some of the old-school ranch cooking my granddad used to talk about," he grunted, sliding the heavy, wax-paper-wrapped bundle across the counter. "I reckon this will do you just fine."
The transformation of our kitchen began on Tuesday, and I was right in the thick of it. This wasn't just a family dinner; this was a practical assessment. I was working towards my Thistle Award back in Scotland, and the Heritage and Community requirement felt particularly relevant as I stood over a pile of sheep's offal in a Texas suburb.
I took point on the pinhead oats. I toasted them in a heavy skillet until they were a perfect, nut-brown gold, the scent competing with the sharp, earthy smell of the simmering pluck .
"Watch the suet, Lachlan," my father cautioned, though he was smiling. "The balance of the fats is what makes or breaks the pudding."
Balance. There was that word again.
I worked with a methodical, scout's precision. I diced the heart and liver into uniform pieces, my movements rhythmic and focused. It felt like I was bridge-building—using a Scottish recipe, Texas ingredients, and a set of skills I'd honed in the rainy Highlands to prepare a gift for a Navajo matriarch.
By the time we packed the car on Wednesday morning, the house smelled like our home in Edinburgh. The finished parcel—heavy, round, and meticulously tied—sat in the cooler like a secret weapon we were smuggling across the state line. I felt a surge of quiet pride. I had used my hands to create something from the vitals of the land. I was ready to present my work.
I proudly carried the haggis into the bustling kitchen and presented it to the Amá Sání . She didn't flinch at the sight of the casing; instead, she leaned in, questioning me on the ingredients with the clinical interest of a master chef. When I finished, she nodded warmly.
"Ahh, this is wonderful," she said, her voice resonant over the sound of chopping vegetables. "It is much like our Díła'íłjini —blood sausage—or Achii' . We understand the value of the spirit in the intestines. This will blend perfectly with tomorrow's menu!"
Hank, however, was less convinced. He hovered at my shoulder, looking at the bundle suspiciously. He poked it tentatively with one finger. "Is it...supposed to be this gray? Your parents did oversee things, I hope. I know you wanted to do this all by yourself for the Thistle Award, but man..."
"Just wait until tomorrow," I challenged, a smirk playing on my lips. "It's all about the whiskey sauce—which I will be making from scratch. Once I get the shallots sautéed in butter and whisk in the Macallan 12-Year Double Cask single malt, the double cream, and just a hint of grainy mustard, you'll be fighting the cousins for seconds and thirds. It's rich enough to sustain a man through a winter in the Grampians."
He still looked skeptical, but I saw his nose twitch at the mention of the Scotch and cream. "Single malt, huh? You're really trying to bribe my ancestors with firewater!"
"Whatever works, Hank."
We didn't have time for more teasing. The Towering House Clan was mobilizing, and we were immediately conscripted as manual labor for the setup.
The logistics were staggering. This wasn't a dinner; it was a festival. I counted fifteen picnic tables being dragged into alignment—enough for a hundred and fifty people, ten times the crowd I'd weathered when I first met Hank's family. There were multiple grills being staged like artillery pieces, bags of charcoal stacked like sandbags, a deep fryer, and an endless line of coolers.
The uncles were in charge, acting as the field officers, the cousins being the rank-and-file troops executing orders with a practiced, silent efficiency. Clearly, they had done this before. There was a set plan, deliberately executed, and as a Scout, I couldn't help but admire the Be Prepared reality of it all. I fell into line next to Hank, our shoulders brushing as we hauled heavy benches into place.
When the mission was completed and we were properly dismissed, Hank and I lounged side by side on one of the tables. We were tucked away, quietly shielded from the house and the hum of activity by the lush, late-season growth of the Amá Sání's garden. We looked out over the expanse of the countryside.
I was still reeling. "A hundred and fifty people, Hank. I had no idea. I assumed your Thanksgiving would be...well, subdued . Given the history. Westward expansion, the Trail of Tears, the reservations."
Hank took a deep breath; his eyes fixed on the distant tree line. "I guess we could look at it that way, but we don't. For us, this is a celebration of family—and this family defines the old American Melting Pot . Tomorrow, our table will be Indian, white, Mexican, Asian...you name it. Remember, my Allen ancestors came here in the 1600s. That's almost four hundred years of roots."
I thought about that, the sheer scale of it. "That makes sense. It seems the Diné influence is the anchor, though with Amá Sání ...she's the heart of it. Defining you. But obviously not all, we did the report on your Ethan Allen side."
"There's so much more than just what we put in that report," Hank said, his voice low. "It's not just Ethan Allen. The Allens have fought in every war this country has ever had—the French and Indian wars, 1812, the Civil War, both World Wars, Vietnam. It's the same on my mom's side; my great-granddad in the Pacific in WWII."
I just nodded, trying to fathom a history that moved in so many directions at once.
"And it's just as much of a melting pot on the Indian side," he continued. "Mostly Navajo, yeah, but tomorrow there'll be Apache, Sioux, Hopi, Shoshone, Ute. There was a time when all those nations were at war with each other—the same fight over land, water, and resources that the white men were fighting."
"Hard for a guy like me to contemplate," I admitted. "I'm just...Scottish. One line, one land."
"Me too, in a way," Hank said, turning to look at me. The fire from the sunset caught the honey-gold of his skin. "It's the balance thing all over again, Lachlan. Just like you and I needing to balance our Warrior and Gentle Spirits ...I have to balance my Indian and white ancestry. It's like I'm a walking peace treaty between all of them."
I didn't have an answer for that. It was too big, too heavy. We both sat quietly, contemplating the weight of four hundred years of balance , until the silence got too thick and a sudden, random thought popped into my head. I couldn't help it; I giggled.
"What?" Hank nudged me, his brow furrowed.
Embarrassed, I tried to shrug it off. "Nothing. Just a stupid Lachlan thought."
"I know that look and I love Lachlan thoughts," he threatened, shifting his weight. "So, spill it or else!" He made a sudden, lunging move for my ribs.
Tickles being one of my primary kryptonites, I quickly folded. "Okay!" I turned red as I finally gave voice to the thought. "I was just wondering… umm… from which side did you get that really thick cock? You're way bigger than me!"
Hank snorted, a genuine, booming laugh. "Told you I love Lachlan thoughts! Well, since you asked, I'm pretty sure it's from my dad's side. I've seen his. But I don't think I'm any bigger than you are. Tough to say for sure since we've never done a side-by-side comparison."
We both eyed each other, the tension palpable. I could feel the sweat all of a sudden trickling from my pits. The garden was silent, the uncles busy on the other side of the house. Hashkeh Mąʼiitsoh , the Fierce Wolf , pounced first.
My eyes bugged out when I heard the rhythmic pop…pop…pop of his Levi's. I looked down, and there he was. He'd gone commando like me, so nothing was hidden. His triangle of silky straight pubes a war party's arsenal of fine black arrows all pointing at the stark, budding weight of his manhood. His cock was stunning—thick, rapidly hardening, and stretching out, framed by the faded denim. I gulped, a low, hoarse "Oh wow," escaping me.
My gaze was frozen, but my fingers were not. They flew to my own waistband. Pop…pop…pop. I'd gotten hard the instant I'd asked my question, and way harder when I heard the first pop of his jeans.
Hank was treated to a close-up view of my very swollen shaft, my head already poking halfway out of its sheath. There was no 'looking from a distance' anymore, like when we'd peed in the woods. Our denim-clad hips were already gravitating together until we were pressed hard against each other.
The rough fabric of our jeans was the only thing separating us. Looking down, I could see the vein, the pulse in his shaft, so close I could have reached out with my tongue. The change in perspective was dizzying; from a safe scout's three feet away, it had been a discovery—from mere inches away, it was an epiphany!
This was sexual. We were having sex!
I gently stroked mine, encouraging it to full expansion. I slicked the skin back and forth so he could take in the vivid apricot of the head, giving it another healthy squeeze until a clear bead bloomed at the tip.
"Fuck," he whispered, leaning back slightly to thrust out, showing me the ripe plum of his own head in all its glory. "See? I don't think I'm longer. Thicker, yeah. Definitely thicker."
"Yours is so dark compared to mine," I whispered, mesmerized by the contrast. "It's like we're dawn and dusk."
"Balance!" we both whispered, giggles bubbling up again.
I mustered my best, gravelly Amá Sání impression: "You must find balance, Mąʼiitsoh . Otherwise, you will fall down when your knees buckle as you climax!"
Hank absolutely lost it. "Lachlan, you're evil. Pure evil."
I was about to throw caution to the wind—to finally reach out and see if his plum felt as hot as my apricot—when the heavy clang-clang of the farm bell shattered the moment. Lunch. Our looks of shared frustration were identical.
"Rain check," Hank murmured, already standing up.
"Aye, defo!"
Reluctantly, we stuffed ourselves back in and buttoned up, our eyes twinkling with a secret that made the upcoming lunch feel like a victory lap. We'd only made it two steps toward the house before Hank launched the next round of our linguistic war.
"Cock…Hard-on."
I didn't miss a beat, "Tadger…Knob."
He leaned in, his breath tickling my ear, and using a drawn-out Texas drawl, delivered a perfect, "Schlong…"
As we hit the patio, I countered with the German Schwanz and my French favorite: La queue .
Still smirking and whispering synonyms, we joined la queue for food. We used our plates for air-cover, holding them strategically low until we'd both settled down enough that the outlines of our cocks weren't shouting through the soft, faded denim. Sitting side by side with Hank's cousins provided a much-needed distraction, though it was a dangerous one.
Every side-glance, every shared giggle over a cousin's joke, and every accidental brush of a hip or leg under the picnic bench felt like a live wire. It remined me of our rain check, and sent a jolt of tingling energy straight back to my groin, a persistent reminder that Hank's stunning cock was hidden just inches away from me.
By evening, the cadre of workers had departed, leaving the compound quiet until the storm of guests arrived tomorrow. It was just the Allens, the MacKenzies, and the Amá Sání for an intimate dinner. The adults seemed to be getting along famously, their voices a low, comfortable murmur of shared stories and laughter.
Hank and I, meanwhile, were operating on a completely different frequency. We spent the meal playing footsie under the table, our eyes locked in a cycle of grins and shared secrets. Every time his foot brushed mine, I felt that jolt of Dawn and Dusk memory.
I was desperate for the night to end, just so tomorrow could begin. But honestly? I wanted tomorrow to be over just as fast. Hank had been deliberately vague and misleading about Friday, and my mind was already furiously mapping out the possibilities. I suspected it involved me—a final piece of the puzzle falling into place.
When the parents finally retired to the sitting room for more discussion, Hank and I took the opportunity to head upstairs. I stood in the hallway for a long moment, looking at his door. The rain check was burning a hole in my brain, and the urge to sneak into his room got my heart, and my cock, pounding. But the reality of my parents right downstairs and their room right next door to mine, made it too risky. Getting caught and hauled back to Austin in the morning would be too high of a price to pay.
I slipped into my own room, the scent of cedar and Texas dust clinging to my skin. I laid there in the dark, staring at the ceiling, my brain bouncing from my Macallan sauce to Hank's swollen shaft. The balance was definitely shifting. On one side, I was counting out shallots and measuring heavy cream; on the other, I was replaying the pop...pop...pop of those Levi's and the thrill of having been so close to him, both of us fully exposed in the light of midday.
The whole household was up early the next morning, with Hank and I being the slowpokes. By the time we were showered and downstairs, Amá Sání and all the parents already had coffee and tea brewed, and breakfast prep was well underway. I gave Mum and Da a hug and a kiss when I came in, catching the unmistakable whiff of bergamot from her Earl Grey tea—the scent of home and Edinburgh.
Me, I bypassed the teapot and eagerly poured Hank and I each a mug of Gohwééh . The traditional Navajo coffee had been a staple of our weekends for the past month, and the dark, nutty roast felt right in my hands. I caught Mum giving Da a look that mirrored the cowboy hat indignity from the start of school, but I chose to be the bigger man and purposefully ignored it.
Breakfast was a simple buffet, a tactical move to keep us out of the kitchen, which was already fully engulfed in the final countdown to the afternoon event. Hank and I grabbed our food and beat a quick retreat to the side porch. I was settling into my chair when I felt him sidle up close behind me.
He leaned over and whispered in my ear, the warm breath triggering a familiar, involuntary shiver. He does it on purpose—I know it—but since I like the torture, I didn't complain. "I wanked last night, thinking about us out by the picnic tables," he murmured, his voice a low vibration against my skin. "Only this time we weren't interrupted by the bell, and I got to wrap my hand around your beautiful cock for the first time…"
My plate actually lifted off my lap as the beautiful cock in question responded instantly, pulsing against the denim of Hank's old jeans.
Hank settled into the adjacent chair, looking insufferably pleased with himself. I waited a beat, then leaned over, bringing my lips right up against his ear—no warm breath for me; I tortured him with the actual press of my lips.
" Ich schlug den Deutschen auf seinen Helm, zweimal! Ich träume von deinem wunderschönen Schwanz ," I whispered. I pulled back, holding up two fingers and staring pointedly at his crotch just to make sure nothing was lost in translation.
Artillery right on target! Hank half-choked on his coffee, my Fierce Wolf suddenly scrambling for air as he set his plate down to recover.
He was leaning in for a retaliatory strike when Amá Sání floated onto the porch. "Morning, boys. What spiritual topic are we discussing this morning?"
"Balance!" we both blurted out.
The word triggered a round of helpless, hysterical laughter. Every time we managed to catch our breath, one of us would catch the other's eye and send us spiraling again.
"No doubt," she finally managed to squeeze in, her eyes twinkling with a look that suggested she had a very precise idea of what the balance topic was for two teenage boys.
She knew six weeks ago; she certainly knew now. When Hank got up to make another food run, my eyes went straight to his cute little bum, tracing the way the denim moved as he walked away. When his cuteness finally disappeared from sight, I turned back to find her watching me. Busted!
She didn't scold me. She just smiled and said, "Embrace your Gentle Spirit ."
I grinned and nodded. I was learning that being Gentle was just as much a part of the warrior's path as our endurance running.
While the Thanksgiving meal was not until 3:00 pm, that was not the start of events. Members of the broader Towering House Clan started arriving soon after breakfast. Some joined the frantic activity in the kitchen; others the outdoor preparations; but the majority were here for the glory of the games.
The cultural spiderweb that was the extended Allen family played out across the compound as Hank and I joined the fray. The cousins pulled together a touch football game that would have given a rugby pro pause. I discovered quickly that in this family, touch meant touch right before they tackle you into the dirt . I was initially put off when Hank put himself on the opposite team, but I soon realized his strategy. It was so he could surreptitiously grope me every time he brought me down.
My yards-gained stat plummeted once I figured that out. I found myself angling directly into Hank's path, seeking the collision . He was shameless. At first, it was just firm pressure through the denim, but as the game progressed and the pileups grew more chaotic, his hand found its way down the front or back of my waistband—finding actual skin. I wasn't looking for a red card to call a penalty, mind you. I gave as good as I got, my own fingers slipping beneath his loose waistband as I defended against him. Any coach would have benched us for being completely unproductive, but no one was really keeping score; they were too busy laughing and dodging flying bodies.
Other games were more disciplined—some of Indigenous origin like archery and stickball; others pure Americana like cornhole and spike-ball. The compound was a whirlwind of activity, the smell of cedar smoke from the outdoor grills mingling with the yeasty, golden scent of rising frybread.
But as the sun climbed, I kept my eye on the clock. At 11:30, I retreated from the dust of the field to the sanctuary of the kitchen. Amá Sání was presiding over a sea of prep bowls like a conductor. She caught my eye and gestured to the cleared section of the counter and the specific oven rack. "Your parents say this dish is the heart of your home," she said. "It should have its own place here."
I nodded, my chest tight with a mix of gratitude and high-stakes nerves—my first solo haggis and an entire Clan of critics waiting. "Thank you, ma'am."
I pulled the haggis from the cooler. It was cold, heavy, and silent—a piece of Scotland resting in the heart of a Navajo kitchen. Taking a sterilized needle, I began the ritual of the prick—precise, shallow stabs to the casing.
"Giving it breath?" she asked, pausing her chopping to watch my hands.
"Yes, ma'am," I replied, my voice steadying as the ritual took over. "If the steam can't vent, the balance is lost. It'll burst before it ever hits the table."
She watched me for a second longer, then gave a single, sharp nod of approval. Da appeared just as I was getting ready to wrap the parcel in its protective foil; he performed his own silent, clinical inspection of my pricking. He looked for the depth and the placement, finally meeting my eyes and giving me a small nod to proceed. With the weight of two cultures watching me, I slid the tray into the oven and checked my watch.
Twelve o'clock. The countdown had begun. I had two and a half hours of waiting before the Macallan sauce required my command.
Da mentioned that some sort of exposition was beginning in the center of the compound, so I wandered back out into the bright Texas sun. I didn't make it far before I was intercepted by Hank. He didn't say a word, just grabbed my arm and dragged me toward an open seat on the outer edge of the picnic tables. He sat me down, giving me strict orders not to move one inch—no matter what.
Then he was off, sprinting back toward the house and treating me to an extended, rhythmic view of that wonderful bum in motion. I stayed put, curious about the exposition, and clearly everyone else was as well: games were pausing, and the crowd was gravitating toward the open space in the middle. Whatever was about to happen, Hank was right in the center of it, and I was exactly where he wanted me: watching.
I didn't have to wait long. From beyond the copse of cedar trees to the east of the farmhouse, a series of yips and yells began to rise. The sounds ebbed and flowed, building into a rhythmic, ancestral crescendo that made the hair on my arms stand up. Then came the thunder—the literal vibration of the earth—as a dozen Navajo warriors burst from the tree line.
They fanned out, a line of muscle and speed pounding across the field in a line abreast at a full gallop. The audience erupted, their own yips and cheers blending with the cries of the riders.
The warriors—all cousins, all family—were stripped down to deerskin leggings and moccasins. I felt the air leave my lungs when I spied Hank. He was bare-chested, his powerful shoulders gleaming in the sun, his black mane of hair flowing behind him. My eyes locked on him in absolute awe. Good God, he can ravage me any time he wants—please.
They were riding Navajo style—nothing but blankets, no saddles, their legs locked onto the horses with a strength that seemed impossible. Each warrior carried a bow and a quiver of arrows. They reached the far end of the field with a spray of dust, then wheeled around, reorganizing into a single-file line before spurring their mounts back into a terrifying full gallop.
One by one, they thundered past the archery targets. With the horses at full tilt, they launched arrows with surgical precision. When they reached the end, they drew more arrows and turned again—five passes in total. By the end of the exposition, the targets were well and truly killed; a straw-man version of the 7th Cavalry at the Little Bighorn—bristling with fletching and utterly overwhelmed by a force that moved like the wind.
The warriors made one final, triumphant yipping pass in line abreast, a wall of muscle and speed. Then they wheeled, slowing to a trot to receive their accolades from the cheering crowd. I was right there with them, abandoning my post and violating orders not to move an inch as I jumped wildly in the air, waving my cowboy hat, and shouting until my throat was raw.
The riders began to peel off, hopping down to greet their families. Of course, my warrior came straight to me. Hank swung off his horse, grinning ear to ear, his face flushed with the rush of the hunt. His honey-gold chest was heaving, sweat glistening in the midday sun and rolling in slow tracks down his torso.
I watched, mesmerized, as his breath came in deep, heavy pulls, drawing the waist of those deerskin leggings away from his hips with every inhale. It created a dark, flickering gap between the soft leather and his skin—a shallow canyon that seemed to widen and narrow with his pulse, practically begging my hand to slip inside and explore the heat beneath.
I licked my lips as I saw a bead of sweat slide into that shifting shadow. I figured it probably wouldn't be socially acceptable to drop to my knees and start licking him right there in front of the entire Clan, but a hug was non-negotiable.
Hank practically leapt on me, his momentum nearly knocking me back as he pulled my face into that hot, sweaty chest. I didn't waste the opportunity; I snuck a couple of quick licks in, reveling in the sharp, salty taste of him. My arms were wrapped tight around his equally sweaty back, tracing the graceful line of his spine.
We clung to each other, neither of us wanting to let go, until the reality of the crowd set in. We realized both sets of parents were standing right there, waiting to congratulate the star archer. We parted quickly, smoothing our hair and trying—unsuccessfully—to downplay the lightning-bolt excitement vibrating between us.
I walked with Hank as he and the other warriors returned their horses to the stables. Hank took the lead, explaining the tactical cooldown each animal needed after the intensity of the show. First, walking them to steady their breathing. Next, hosing them with cold water, focusing on the neck, the barrel, and the inside of the legs where the blood vessels run close to the surface.
As Hank leaned over to reach the horse's hock, I watched the way the sweat had turned the deerskin to a dark, heavy amber where it pressed against his thighs. The leather was already surrendering to his skin, sinking into the curve of his bum and mapping every corded muscle in his legs as he moved around the horse. It was a rhythmic, damp exposition all its own.
My mouth went dry, even as my own jeans started feeling a bit too tight for comfort. I looked at the cool, clear water splashing over the horse's neck and then back at the heat radiating off the boy in front of me.
I decided then and there that the Boy Scout Handbook was woefully incomplete. It had chapters on identifying pit vipers and surviving flash floods, but it offered absolutely no Safety First protocol for encountering a Navajo warrior boy in sweat-soaked deerskin. There was no mnemonic for this— no leaves of three, let it be . This was a high-level field hazard, and I was walking straight into the danger zone without a compass.
I snickered, trying to find my voice. "I think I might be needing a cold-water cooldown for a whole other reason!"
Before I could even retract the joke, Hank swung the hose. I took a direct hit of freezing water right in the crotch. I yelped, spinning around to avoid the spray, but that just earned me a soaking shot to the bum. Revising my strategy, I charged. I closed into close-combat range and wrestled him for the hose—all three of us, Hank, the horse, and me, getting drenched and cooled down in the process.
In the struggle, Hank twisted around until his back was firmly plastered against my chest, my arms wrapped around him, my crotch pressed into the sweat-drenched cleft of his bum. Tucked away in the shadows of the stall, this was it. Three months of yearning came to a head. I crossed my Rubicon. My lips once again brushed his ear as I leaned in and whispered, "I love you, Hank Allen. No...I am in love with you."
Hank nodded, gasping out, "Oh God, Lachlan, I love you too. Day one. The moment I turned and we locked eyes."
I didn't hesitate. I slid my hand down into that gap in the waist of his leggings—the shallow canyon that had been beckoning me. I moved past the soft deerskin and the damp skin, continuing down until I touched his soft pubes. It wasn't a coarse tangle; it was straight and surprisingly soft, like silk against my palm. I pressed on until I found the base of his shaft.
I shifted my free hand across his chest, caressing a rock-hard nipple. His entire body went rigid, save for the part of him in my hand. He began to swell rapidly, his cock shifting upward into my palm with a life of its own. I squeezed—a firm, grounding pressure.
"Oh, Lachlan," he moaned, his head tipping back against my shoulder as his hips pushed into my touch. The horse just turned a massive, dark eye toward us, seemingly unimpressed by the earth chattering event happening in his stall. With a snort, he decided the cool water from the forgotten hose on the floor was more interesting.
I gently pushed his foreskin back and ran my thumb around the head. I felt the slippery bead of pre-cum oozing out and began to spread it, slicking the ripe plum of him until his cock was throbbing and he was shuddering in my arms.
We both heaved heavy sighs, quietly reveling in the admission and the intense intimacy of the moment—until the skirl of a thousand pipes erupted from my back pocket. The Massed Pipes and Drums were stepping off at the Edinburgh Tattoo with Scotland the Brave! My alarm.
"Fuck!"
"The haggis?"
"The haggis. Let it burn!"
"Probably not a good idea," Hank whispered, though he didn't pull away.
"No, probably not," I mumbled, giving him another squeeze and milking a dose of his pre-cum to the surface to be caressed around his head.
"I need to finish scraping down the horse," he said reluctantly, though he still didn't move an inch. "And you...you need to go make your whiskey sauce."
I nodded into the space between his shoulder blades, still swirling my thumb around his head, and whispered back, "I'm going to finish this, Hank. Whenever the world stops interrupting us."
I gave him a final, lingering series of kisses across his wet back—a deliberate callback to the night in the tent. Then, I pulled my hand back, feeling the cold air rush into the space I'd left.
Reluctantly, I backed out of the stall, our eyes locked the whole way. I paused at the entrance and fiercely whispered, "I love you, so much!"
Hank tapped his hand to his sweaty chest, his grin widening. "I love you more!"
Finally, I tore myself away and sprinted out of the stable. I darted up to my room, falling over twice as I peeled off the damp denim that smelled of horse and cold water. I pulled on a fresh pair of dry jeans, the fabric feeling stiff and clean—a needed reset.
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