A Scottish Scout in Geronimo's Land - Prequel
by Toby Johnston
Chapter 17
What do you want to do for the rest of your life…
Rising juniors—that sounded really good.
We spent the weekend chilling at the saltwater pool with Bonnie. Hank gave me an early birthday present, or rather, presents: three square-cut swimsuits. One was an azure blue Scottish flag; the second was black with pink stripes down the sides; and the third was a dark red with blue stripes—Philips Academy colors. They all contrasted super well against my light complexion. Hank was adamant about the choice: we'd gotten tight, razor-sharp tan lines from our split running shorts all spring, and he wasn't about to ruin them with long, baggy swim trunks.
I was a fan from the start. The low-cut waist showed off my complete eight-pack and the deep, hollowed-out V-lines above my hips that plunged down right to my crotch. These suits were made for a tight, zero-body-fat frame—me—carved lean from endless miles on the track and corded with runner's muscle. One safety tip, though: your crown will absolutely be crowning the waistband of the suit, especially if your boyfriend insists on slowly applying your suntan lotion, back and front.
Hank had picked out three suits for himself: a deep forest green; a white one with navy stripes on the sides; and a fire-engine red with white stripes. The green was my absolute favorite. It cut low, sitting just below the sun-browned taper of his waist. On the side, a curvy, bright copper design—kind of Celtic-looking—started high on the back of his flank, swept over the crest of his hip, and spiraled forward and down until it ended right at the front of his thigh. If you fuzzed your eyes, you'd swear his honey-gold skin was showing through the fabric.
I flicked my eyes over from Book One: Return to Drakneth to see Hank, lying on his stomach, flick an image across his iPad. It looked like a school, which made no sense—we still had two years left at Saint Luke's.
"You transferring schools?" I asked.
Hank, without missing a beat, deadpanned, "Philips Academy. They've recruited me for their track team. I tried to negotiate; told them we were a package deal. But the coach wouldn't budge. Said he couldn't get past your tenth-place finish in the mile."
If you didn't know, you can pinch really well through that thin nylon-spandex fabric, as Hank discovered the hard way.
"I yield, I yield!" he laughed, squirming away. "Okay, not Philips, colleges. We have to start thinking about it, Lachlan. What do we want to study? Where do we want to go?"
That changed the dynamic in a nanosecond.
"You're supposed to warn me before we have these kinds of discussions. Way to melt my heart, asshole—my love," I murmured.
His words hit me like a physical wave— where do we want to go. The realization that he was looking at the horizon with me completely anchored in it made everything else fade away. I reached out, my fingers tracing a slow, quiet line along his tensed-up triceps. "You're looking at colleges for us?"
Hank rolled onto his side toward me. "Of course. I'm going where you're going; you're going where I'm going. We just have to decide where. I was hoping you'd want to stay here, in Texas...not go back to Scotland." It looked like he was holding his breath the second that last part came out.
I moved my hand slowly up his shoulder, cupped the back of his neck, and pulled him in for a kiss. A tender, I love you more than anything else in the world kiss. Locking eyes, staring straight into his soul, I whispered, "Like you said. I'm going where you're going—no other option. Period. Don't for a single second think anything different."
I think he gave me a bigger smile right then than when he first got the keys to the Defender. He sat up and scooted over onto my chair, pressing hard against me—shoulders, arms, legs, completely flush. I think I might be the only boy who gets rock-hard looking at colleges…
"Okay," he said, tapping the iPad screen. "There're really only three options for us. First, UT Austin. They have the McCombs School of Business, and Austin is Silicon Hills. Second, SMU—the Cox School of Business right in Dallas. And third, Rice. Private, smaller, the Texas Ivy."
I smiled in awe. Hank had just distilled a fifty-school pool down to a precise three. "So, you're still thinking investment banking like your dad?"
Hank nodded enthusiastically. "Definitely. You said about Amá Sání ; sixteen years of dad has penetrated this thick skull. I love hearing about what he does. I got to shadow him my freshman year—loved every second of it. I was thinking maybe you'd go into tech, like your dad?"
I stared at the ripples in the pool. Bonnie was slowly doing her floating-paddle, aqua-Golden Retriever thing around the perimeter. I'd been thinking about this a ton lately—what did I want to do with my life? Career-wise, obviously, because there were absolutely no questions Hank-wise. But I'd never put my thoughts into actual words, out loud.
I spun around on the lounge chair, pulling my legs up Indian-style, and took Hank's hand in mine. I took a deep breath. "I don't think so. I like tech, and I'm good at it. But Da always says you have to follow your passion." I looked straight into his eyes. "I love history. I love different cultures. I love reading. I think I want to teach...or write...or maybe both."
Hank grinned, glancing down at the cover of my book. "So, you're going to write Book Fifty-Seven: Drakneth Reborn?"
"Maybe that too. I do love fantasy. Maybe I'll write the world's first historical fiction, fantasy series," I giggled.
"Historical fiction, fantasy...yeah, that'll work." Hank pondered it for a second, a wicked spark in his eye. "That might even get you on the History Channel, right after Ancient Aliens!" He dropped his voice into a dramatic, deep announcer cadence. " Award-winning author, Lachlan MacKenzie, has uncovered incontrovertible evidence of Orcs living among us. "
I snorted, my serious mood completely evaporating. "Priceless. Then we'll show a fuzzy, black-and-white picture of Caleb's bum. That thing's so hairy, he's gotta be at least a Half-Orc."
But then the laughter subsided, and I got serious again, looking back at the iPad. "But yeah. No tech. History and writing, I think. Does that change our options?"
Hank shook his head vigorously—he'd clearly been doing his research. "Nope. Just refines it. Our three is now two; SMU is out, it's UT Austin or Rice. Both have awesome history and creative writing programs."
He started to pull one of them up on the screen, but then he saw it. I'd been rock-hard since the thought had first hit me that we were planning our future together, and my crown was still poking right out of my waistband—an eager, third participant in the college choice discussion.
Hank's finger swiped right, but not on the iPad.
He slowly spread my pre-cum around my exposed, apricot crown, then took just my sheath between his fingers, gently moving it up and down. I leaned back, my legs still crossed, my hips starting a slow, instinctive rock to meet the rhythm of his hand.
Hank was an avid student of Lachlan physiology, intimately knowledgeable of every single hot button. He splayed his free hand out across my symmetrical abs, his fingers tracing the razor-sharp grooves before sliding up to my nipples.
He circled, tweaked, and pinched. Every touch made my cock lurch in his hand.
I rose up on my knees, pushing Hank back against the cushion. "You're way too overdressed, Mr. Allen," I growled, grabbing the waistband of his suit and yanking it down, throwing the forest green nylon over my shoulder. He was every bit as hard as I was, and his cock snapped back up against his abs with a resounding smack.
The suntan lotion was handy, so when I lay down on top of him, we were both completely slick, smelling of rich coconut and heavy, delicious Hank-sweat. I felt his taut, runner's thighs lock around my waist like steel bands, his heels digging into my bum.
Exercising massive restraint, I slowly began to slide against him, mirroring the gentle rhythm of his hand from before. Locked between our flat stomachs, our slick cocks ground together with a tight, rhythmic friction, sending a heavy, blinding ache straight to my core.
Hank gripped my shoulders as I locked my arms like steel stanchions, holding myself up over him. Our faces were so close, yet not quite touching; eyes locked, telegraphing silent messages of absolute devotion. We didn't kiss; we just panted into each other's mouths, breathing in the same hot air as the friction built between us.
I went slow. I went fast. In between. Orchestrating both of us—listening for the hitch in his breath, the tone of his whimpers, the shifting pressure of his steel-vice legs around me, and the deep, electric tingle building in my jewels. I carefully modulated the pace, the pressure, the intensity. Keeping us both right on the knife-edge; easing off the moment either of us got too close.
Hank was whimpering now, a low, desperate sound. I could tell he was getting so frustrated, his hips trying to thrust up, trying to push himself over the edge.
I shook my head, rubbing my nose softly against his. "No, no, no," I whispered. "Let me do it. Let me own it."
He nodded, bit his lip, his eyes wide and dark. The Wolf submitting to the R aider.
I don't know how long we lasted like that, but it was longer than we ever had before.
Finally, I felt it. His abs began fluttering wildly against mine—one of his unmistakable signs. I knew he was right there at the point of no return, and I let the dam break. I thrust hard and fast, completely relentless now, finally letting him thrust back.
He arched beneath me, spasming as he blew. I watched the first thick rope hit the underside of his chin, then felt the rest shooting, landing, and oozing in a hot rush between our flat stomachs.
His violent shuddering in my arms tore right through me, instantly shattering the last of my control. My hips snapped forward on pure instinct, throwing everything I had left into him. A thick, blinding wave of heat erupted from my core, shooting over and over, my shpritz rushing out to join his and instantly mixing in the tight, friction-scorched space between our flat stomachs. I bucked against him until I was completely empty, every muscle in my torso locking up as the pleasure completely blinded me.
Arms still locked like stanchions; I looked down at my man. He was absolutely drenched. His cum; my cum. Ropes, splatters, and pools painting his chest and abs, already trickling down his sides in the afternoon sun.
We both just stared at each other in total awe, our chests heaving as we panted for air.
"Jesus, Lachlan," Hank managed, his voice barely a raspy whisper. "You completely...unbelievable...can't move..."
Then a small giggle slipped out, turning into a chuckle, until we were both laughing hysterically. A total, beautiful release of every single emotion. I half-rolled, dropping onto the cushion right alongside him, and we just nuzzled and kissed in the warm sun.
I reached out, tracing a lazy finger through the warm cum on his stomach, swirling it into a slow pattern. Then I began tracing the unique mosaic of his asymmetric abs, my fingertip following each razor-sharp groove. I outlined the hard ridges of his hip bones, following that narrow, athletic flare down to just above his silky black pubes.
"I love your abs," I murmured, leaning in. "They're like beautiful tiles of stained glass. None exactly the same shape, but matching up perfectly, fitted together with absolute precision. Mine are just boring, straight lines."
Hank giggled, swiping some shpritz off his chest and tracing my abs, "Makes sense though. You're the British Regulars—all uniform and straight lines. I'm the Green Mountain Boys, the irregulars owning you silly Brits."
"Oh, is that so?" I smirked, leaning down closer. "Because if I recall my history, Mr. Allen, those uniform lines marched right in and took exactly what they wanted."
I was about to show him exactly what I meant when I felt it—Bonnie's ice-cold, wet nose, right in my bum!
I yelped and squirmed, trying to twist away. Seizing the opportunity, Hank grabbed me and started tickling my ribs, turning my yelp into an uncontrollable, breathless laugh as I gasped for air. Bonnie, the absolute traitor, just barked and wagged her tail, actively helping Hank pin me down.
Finally, I broke free, rolling off the chaise lounge onto the pool deck and tumbling straight into the cool water. Bonnie leaped in right after me with a massive splash. A second later, Hank came cannonballing in, throwing a wall of water all over us.
Through the bubbles, I saw Bonnie triumphantly snag Hank's green suit, which I'd thrown over my head into the water. That started a hilarious, low-speed chase around the deep end as Hank and I tried to corral her. Fortunately, Goldens have soft mouths; when we finally cornered her and swapped the suit for a pool toy, the nylon was completely undamaged.
Breathless and soaking wet, Hank and I drifted back to the shallow end. My arms snaked around his waist, pulling his slick, athletic body against mine. Floating there in the cool water, both of us still basking in the warm, heavy afterglow of our orgasms, we could not have been more in love.
Monday we were back in the gym—Day One of our six-week, unsupervised workout program. One of the nice things about a private school like Saint Luke's was having facility access even when the academic year was over. We just had to check in with whoever was on duty each day in the Landry Athletic Center. Hank actually had to explain to me who Tom Landry was; who knew, UT, NFL player, coach of the Giants and the Dallas Cowboys. I thought it was way cooler he was a B-17 bomber pilot during the war.
Today was back and chest. Hank and I were spotting each other, of course—which meant my crotch was directly in his face on the bench press. We were both just as handsy as Jack had been. Okay, probably more. But we figured if it was okay for a trainer to touch us, we definitely had a green light with each other. Standing there surrounded by mirrors, sweat, and pumped muscles, I could finally see why so many porn scenes start in a deserted gym.
Unfortunately, there was no opportunity for us to stage an undress rehearsal of our own scenes. The weight room wasn't empty.
I was on my first heavy set of seated cable rows when I noticed the varsity lineman—the same guy who'd made the two-and-a-half-pound plates comment last week—watching me in the mirror. My chest instantly tightened up. I braced myself, figuring we were about to catch another cross-country team's in the house insult.
I was wrong. After I let the weight stack clank down, he walked straight over to us.
"Can I show you something?" he asked. His tone was surprisingly calm, completely neutral.
Hank and I exchanged a quick look. "Sure," I said, having no idea where this was going.
The lineman nodded at the cable machine. "Alan, by the way. Do another one. Just one rep. Just like you were doing before."
Feeling like I was under a microscope, I gripped the metal handle, set my feet, and pulled.
Turns out, I was under a microscope. Alan looked at Hank, pointing toward my upper body. "See how he's throwing his whole torso backward and yanking the weight in? He's turning a back exercise into a rocking chair. He's using momentum, not muscle, to get the weight up."
Then he looked directly down at me. "You're going to wreck your lower lumbar doing it that way. You need to keep your core totally locked upright, squeeze your shoulder blades, and pull through the elbows."
The heat rushed to my face, pure embarrassment pricking at my neck. "Sorry, I forgot," I mumbled, adjusting my grip on the handle. "Jack told us the same thing last week, and I forgot already."
"No worries, man. It's all good," Alan said, his demeanor completely relaxing. "We all help each other out in here. Jack's a precision coach on form—honestly, I go to him for tips all the time. He'd probably have my head if I didn't help out and he came back to find you doing it all wrong."
Hank and I paid a lot more attention after that. Alan gave us a couple more tips; and we went to the Internet for How to videos.
After our showers, we wandered out onto the front portico and kicked back on one of the stone benches. Shaded by the massive white pillars, we talked more about colleges—since our first discussion had been cut short by Hank's distracting fingers. It really seemed like either UT-Austin or Rice was the way to go. Both of us were leaning toward UT, since it was right here in town with our parents and Hank's grandmom.
Our discussion was interrupted by Mr. Schneider—in workout clothes, no less, rather than the usual coat and tie we saw him in every day.
"Looks like you're solving the world's problems, boys," he said cheerily as he trotted up the steps.
"Not the world's problems, Sir. Just the where do Hank and Lachlan go to college problem," Hank offered up.
Mr. Schneider's eyebrows shot up and he stopped short. "Aha! Be still my heart. Rising juniors thinking two years out? Getting ahead of the power curve? And which, pray tell, fine institutions of higher education are we considering?"
I laid it out for him. "We want to go to the same school, of course. Hank wants to follow his dad into investment banking. I'm thinking I'd like to teach history and maybe write—either history or novels. We're thinking UT/Austin or maybe Rice."
He stopped completely dead in his tracks. He looked absolutely gobsmacked. I think he almost cried. His usual dramatic-theater style completely dropped away.
"A teacher..." he smiled, his voice barely above a whisper. He stared at me for a long beat, just letting it sink in. He tossed his gym bag onto the stone porch and plopped down right beside it, leaning his back against one of the white pillars. He looked up at us, his expression incredibly soft and proud. "And a writer. Boys, you have just made my entire year. Come on, give me all the details."
We spent well over an hour with him sitting under the portico, talking through our goals, the schools, and the specific programs. He knew a ton about both universities—information that was way more in-depth and insightful than anything we had managed to find on the Internet. He promised to get us some additional information and made us promise to keep him updated as we figured things out.
We were just breaking up the conversation and grabbing our bags when he hit me with the ultimate deal-killer question.
"So," Mr. Schneider asked, tilting his head with a sharp, discerning look, "what do your parents think of their Scottish Scout breaking ranks with the Regulars and joining the ranks of the unnatural rebellion, misled by dangerous and ill-designing men?"
It was my turn to look completely gobsmacked. I just stood there, staring at him like a stunned mullet.
It hadn't even occurred to me to talk to my parents yet. The reality of it slammed into my chest like a physical weight. Would they even let me stay in America? What if Da gets transferred back to Scotland, or anywhere else in Europe for that matter? I could easily find myself being packed up and put on a transatlantic plane against my will—all over again.
I didn't even have to say anything; my face must have said it all. Mr. Schneider's expression softened. He reached out and put his hand on my shoulder, giving it a warm squeeze. "I've spent time with your parents, Lachlan. I'm sure they'll understand your passion and desires. Best you talk to them sooner rather than later though, hmm?"
It was a quiet ride back to my house. My brain was spinning at a thousand miles an hour. Hank completely ignored his usual strict driving rules, reaching across the console to hold my hand the whole way. He was trying to calm me down, but we both knew there was nothing he could say to fix this. We had lost track of time; Da's car was already parked in the driveway when we pulled up.
Hank wanted to come in with me, but I needed to do this alone. If things went south, I didn't want him caught in the crossfire. I leaned over, giving him a tight, desperate hug and a quick kiss before opening the car door. He made me promise to call him the second it was over—as if I wouldn't.
I slung my gym bag over my shoulder, took a deep breath to steady my racing heart, and headed inside.
Authors deserve your feedback. It's the only payment they get. If you go to the top of the page you will find the author's name. Click that and you can email the author easily.* Please take a few moments, if you liked the story, to say so.
[For those who use webmail, or whose regular email client opens when they want to use webmail instead: Please right click the author's name. A menu will open in which you can copy the email address (it goes directly to your clipboard without having the courtesy of mentioning that to you) to paste into your webmail system (Hotmail, Gmail, Yahoo etc). Each browser is subtly different, each Webmail system is different, or we'd give fuller instructions here. We trust you to know how to use your own system. Note: If the email address pastes or arrives with %40 in the middle, replace that weird set of characters with an @ sign.]
* Some browsers may require a right click instead
