A Scottish Scout in Geronimo's Land - Prequel

by Toby Johnston

Chapter 10

Exploring and Blazing Trails

"We're alone?" I breathed, the words barely catching in the air.

"Really alone," Hank replied, his voice anchored by a sudden, heavy gravity. "From here to the farmhouse...it's off-limits to everyone else until Sunday."

I turned to him, my heart hammering a rhythm that had nothing to do with the fading heat of the stones. "I love you. Just like you said—from the first moment."

Tears brimmed in his eyes; his lips moved to echo the words, but the weight of the moment held his voice captive. He simply nodded, the silence between us more profound than any confession.

Then, we collided. The kisses began with a soft, almost fearful reverence before bursting into an intense, desperate exploration. Our tongues met with a hunger that had been suppressed through months of Rule Number One. My hands wandered, tracing the topography of his torso, mapping his skin by touch. I felt his abs flutter under my fingertips—a physical vibration of raw desire. When I caught him between my fingers, he let out a jagged moan, arching back toward the vast, witness-less Texas sky.

I didn't hesitate. The Raider took command, my fingers finding the leather strap of his breechcloth. It hit the red earth with a soft, final thud, leaving him completely exposed in the brilliant morning light, right there in the lengthening shadow of the sweat lodge.

For a heartbeat, he looked flustered, the Fierce Wolf guard slipping for the first time.

"You said we were alone," I whispered, my eyes locked on his, refusing to let him look away.

He nodded, shrugging off the last of his shyness and standing tall in his ancestral land. His body was still slick with a glistening sheen from the lodge; in the sharp Texas light, the moisture and the lean, hard angles of his runner's frame created a mouthwatering kaleidoscope of prisms. To my eyes, he was a masterpiece of geometry, light, and red earth.

I dropped to my knees, burying my face in the radiating warmth of the crease between his groin and thigh. The soft warmth of his balls caressed my cheek, and I felt a dizzying wave of lightheadedness as I inhaled his scent—the deep, primal musk of Hank mixed with the lingering ghost of cedar smoke.

I shifted, kissing the soft, straight hair at his groin—that Navajo heritage he'd joked about, and the feature I had come to adore. I licked the skin there, tasting the sharp, clean salt of his sweat. It was the taste of his endurance, more sacred to me than any prayer we had ever whispered in the dark.

Then, I slid his sheath back. I was fascinated by the sheer suppleness of it; it moved with a frictionless grace, gathering in soft, velvety folds. Beneath my thumb, the head was a deep, lustrous garnet, already slick and radiating a molten heat that sent my own blood into a frantic, pulsing response. He was a masterpiece of biology—his hidden head now free where I was finally allowed to study, not just with my eyes, but with the desperate hunger of my lips.

I didn't wait for a second invitation. I leaned in and claimed my Raider's prize.

My patience was evaporating like water on a hot stone. I couldn't go slow; the Raider knew exactly what he required. I opened wide, my hand anchoring on the firm muscle of his bum, and pulled him in.

"Oh, Yas," he moaned, his voice a gravelly vibration. He had already chosen his pet name for me— Yas, the Snow —plucked from the heart of my new Diné name. The practicum now confirmed my earlier observations: he was thick, stretching my lips and pressing down my tongue. My mouth was full as I slid as far down as I could, claiming every inch. I was as much in heaven as he was, lost in the taste of him and the silence of the Texas morning.

His fingers threaded through my blond hair, his hips beginning to buck with a desperate urgency. He couldn't go slow either; even without experience, I could hear the change in his breath—I knew he was close. I slid a wet finger deep into his cleft, mirroring the exploration I'd started in the shower that morning, but this time I pushed deeper. I had a theoretical idea of boy anatomy, and I was determined to find his prostate.

I did.

Hank arched back, his entire frame pulling taut as a Navajo bow. With a low, guttural howl that echoed off the cedar trees, he unleashed, flooding my mouth in a sudden, overwhelming tide. I swallowed as quickly as I could, but the heat of him still spilled over, tracing paths down my chin. I kept my mouth there, swallowing and gently swirling my tongue over the sensitized head until he jerked away with a sharp gasp.

"No, no— Yas, too sensitive!"

I pulled back and looked up at him, grinning with the unfiltered pride of a Raider who had just secured his most valuable prize. There was a profound satisfaction in knowing I had given Hank his first-ever experience—and that he had been completely undone by it.

He blushed, the heat in his cheeks rivaling the Texas sun. "I didn't last long," he murmured, sounding genuinely sheepish. "That's...embarrassing."

I leaned forward and pressed a lingering kiss to the salt-slicked skin of his thigh; my eyes locked on his. "Don't be," I whispered. "We're both world-class runners, Hank. This is only the first heat. I think we're going to have plenty of opportunities to work on our stamina."

He giggled, the sound light and clear in the morning air. "The Diné people do believe endurance, resilience, and discipline are core to our Warrior Spirit!" A slow, boyish grin finally broke across his face, replacing the last of his embarrassment. He reached down, his hand cupping the back of my neck and pulling me up until we were standing chest-to-chest, our damp skin sticking together.

"Time for the second heat, Snow Raider," he murmured. His voice dropped into that low, resonant register that made me quiver deep inside. He slid his hands down my arms, a deliberate, heavy trail of heat, before pulling them up and tucking my hands behind my head. Then, with a single, fluid tug, he dropped my breechcloth.

It hit the dust with a soft whisper. Standing there, the light breeze tickling my golden pubes, pinned by his gaze and the relentless Texas sun, I felt dangerously exposed. It was the most exciting thing I had ever felt.

Hank took his time. It was a wonderfully agonizing torture—the sexual realization of his earlier threat to leave me to the honey and the anthills. But here, in the shadow of the lodge, the ants were his flickering tongue and clever fingers, and the honey was the slick, salt-heavy heat of the Texas morning.

He touched, kissed, and licked every inch of my body, mapping me out and blazing his own secret trail through my most sensitive territories. When I tried to bring my hands down to thread them through his black mane, I was met with a stern Uh-uh, and a gaze that commanded my hands back behind my head. I obeyed, my heart thundering as he turned me around, and commenced his survey at the nape of my neck. His lips were a hot brand against my skin, moving over my shoulders and down the valley of my spine.

He was methodical, patient, and thorough. He pointedly skipped over my bum, instead working his way up from my ankles. I shivered, my knees nearly buckling when he lightly traced his fingertips along the trembling skin of my inner thighs. But nothing prepared me for what came next.

"Bend over. Hands on your knees," he ordered, his voice a thick, commanding whisper.

I obeyed, leaning forward and facing east into the rising sun. Glancing back between my legs, I saw myself through his eyes: aching, pulsing with every heavy heartbeat, my sheath fully retracted to expose the swollen, apricot head of my cock. A long, silver string of pre-cum stretched toward the red dirt, a slow-motion drip, like a runner's sweat dripping onto a starting line, marking the exact moment before the sprint turns into a blur.

Hank's hands cupped my bum, his touch a mix of reverence and possession—caressing, squeezing, claiming. "Beautiful," he murmured, the word vibrating against my skin. "Just a perfectly beautiful tush."

He pressed soft kisses to each cheek before his fingers pried me open. The sudden shock of cool air made me quiver, my body winking in anticipation. Then, I think I became the wolf, howling at the sun, as Hank's tongue flicked back and forth, circling and then pressing with a relentless heat. It was all I could do to remain still; if his hands hadn't been iron clamps on my hips, I would have collapsed into the dust.

Between my cries and Hank's low moans, we must have scared off every Great Horned Owl in the county. Then, he upped the intensity to a level I didn't know existed. I felt his tongue breach my opening, pushing inside with a rhythmic, muscular force. I watched more pre-cum burble at my slit and begin its slow journey to the ground, my stamina fraying like an old rope under the weight of his honey and anthill torture.

I moaned in frustration when his tongue retreated, but the sound died in my throat as it was replaced by a finger sliding deep inside me. My body reacted instinctively, clenching and releasing around him in a rhythm I couldn't control. Then, he brushed against a hidden nerve, and I jolted as if I'd been struck by a cattle prod.

"Oh, God, Hank! Fuck…yes!"

"Like that?" he smirked, his voice vibrating with a new, dangerous confidence. "That's your prostate, I think. It's where the video said it would be. You're reacting exactly the way you're supposed to."

He stroked it again, and whatever wire was still connecting my brain to the rest of the world snapped completely. A white-hot shockwave flared straight up my spine, wiping out every coherent thought. The night air and the ground beneath me dissolved into a blur of pure, blinding friction.

"Uhn …" The sound was crushed out of my chest, heavy and wet. My hips hitched blindly, my stamina completely bottoming out as I pushed my bum back against his hand, begging for the weight of him. "More… Hank, please… harder…"

I couldn't form a full sentence if my life depended on it. The words were just raw, breathless pieces of friction tearing out of my throat, completely at the mercy of his fingers.

He let out a self-satisfied chuckle—the sound of my Fierce Wolf who had finally mastered the hunt, "It's called milking, and I'm only just getting started."

He didn't hesitate; he added a second finger. I grunted at the sudden, stretching pressure. The momentary sting vanished instantly as he pressed back against that electric spot, the friction and force triggering a thick burble of cum to burp out of my slit and join the silver string on the red dirt.

Hank had clearly earned high marks in his studies. He began a steady, rhythmic pump, massaging my prostate with a precision that shattered my focus. I'm not sure what language I was speaking then—certainly none of the four I'd mastered—but it was a dialect of pure, unadulterated need. My eyes rolled back, my body swaying into his hand with every thrust as I sought the source of the fire.

With a visceral, animal cry, I finally released. My frame shook as I shot rope after rope of cum past my face and into the red dirt. Only Hank's iron grip on my hips kept me from toppling into the dust. He was relentless, his fingers probing and twisting inside me all the way through the peak, only slowing as I finally began to drift back to earth.

A sharp pang of emptiness flared when he finally pulled out, but he immediately eased me upright. He turned me around and folded me into his chest, his arms wrapping around me like a shield. In the quiet of the Texas morning, I leaned into him—my protector, my Fierce Wolf.

We stood there in the wide-open Texas morning, a slow tide of whispers, I love you's, kisses, and quiet caresses washing over us. The Warriors had finished their work, and now our Gentle Spirits took their turn—finding that sacred balance Amá Sání spoken of. We drifted naturally to our favorite discoveries: Hank's hands continued their slow, possessive play with my bum, while I slid my hand down to cup his balls and stroke the soft, straight hair of his heritage that I had come to adore.

"Food?" he whispered against my temple.

"Umm...yes. Hungry," was all I could manage. My scholar was officially on sabbatical.

With his hand still cupping my bum and mine wrapped around his shaft, we finally turned our backs on the sun. We made our way toward the timber and earth of the hogan—our sanctuary and our home for the next two days. We tossed our breechcloths on top of our packs of clothes—we wouldn't touch either until Sunday.

The hogan was well over a hundred years old, but thankfully Amá Sání had integrated a few modern upgrades: electricity for the low lights, a small fridge, a hotplate, and even a pump for the sink. The uncles had stocked the fridge and left two massive coolers—we certainly weren't going to starve. Even better, they'd left a thermal bag containing cheesesteaks, still warm from the kitchen.

We grabbed the food, some chips, and bottles of Gatorade—we were both seriously deficient in electrolytes after the morning's stamina training. After stoking the cast-iron stove against the lingering dampness of the lodge, we settled onto the thick bedding, sitting face-to-face, Indian-style.

We didn't talk much as we wolfed down the food, the silence filled only by the crackle of the fire and the rhythmic, low whistle of the hogan's design at work. I could feel the cool air drawing in from the door, a refreshing stream that stayed low to the dirt floor before being pulled up toward the smoke hole by the heat of the stove.

We never stopped grinning at each other—the two happiest boys in the world, tucked away in our own private universe. And we touched. Our knees remained pressed together the whole time, a constant anchor, while our hands reached out for quiet reassurance—a thumb grazing a cheekbone, a palm flat against a chest, a lingering caress along an arm still dusted with the salt of the morning.

"Bum."

Hank smirked, game on, "Tush, ass, keister…"

I shook my head, my expression turning serious. "No, not verbal sparring this time. It's bum. I like the word. A bum is small, round, tight, and pert—there's a touch of sexy innocence to it. Just like yours. And mine."

Hank's grin widened. "As long as I get to kiss, lick, and squeeze that beautiful bum of yours, I'll call it whatever you want. Oh, but the sweetest spot is your pucker. Pucker describes it perfectly, and it's tight, and wrinkly, and cute like bum."

He took another massive bite of his cheesesteak, his eyes thoughtful as he chewed. " Cock. That has to be our word for the other part. A cock is powerful—like a Warrior or a Raider. It's hard, raw, and unadulterated sexiness."

"Really?" I teased. "You're choosing cock over junk, third leg, or...todger?"

Hank gave me his best Mr. Schneider reprimanding look. "Third leg is funny but awkward. Junk is just insulting. And todger? I don't even get that one—sounds like something a Scottish Presbyterian minister invented to avoid the subject. Nope. Cock it is."

I nodded, the scholar in me processing the logic. "That works. I like cock."

Hank snorted, nearly sending Gatorade through his nose. "You love cock!"

I didn't skip a beat. I reached out, my hand sliding between his thighs to gently heft the soft, warm weight of him. "Guilty, especially this one," I murmured, my thumb tracing the skin. "And its sheath."

"Sheath?" Hank's breath hitched, his cock thickening. "Not hood?"

"Not even open to discussion," I whispered, looking him in the eye. "Wolves have sheaths. You're my Fierce Wolf. Done and dusted."

We finished up lunch, policed the trash like good Scouts, then settled in on the bedding. No words, we both knew exactly what we wanted. We snuggled in close, creating our own little arm-and-leg cocoon, and started kissing—light kisses, deep kisses; tongues caressing, darting, thrusting, wrestling. Sometimes barely kissing, foreheads pressed together, lips hovering, just inhaling and exhaling in a shared rhythm. Then the pace slowed, becoming a silent, tactile communication.

Hank bent to nuzzle into the crook of my neck. I tilted my head back, exposing my neck like a beta wolf to his alpha. His breath warm against my skin, his lips and even teeth grazing my skin with a gentle, possessive weight. My kisses ranged all across his face—his jawline, those diamond cutting cheekbones, his ears, the curve of his lip. I traced the shape of his grin with slow, reverent brushes of my own. We weren't just happy boys anymore; we were becoming a single, breathing unit anchored to the red Diné dirt beneath us.

We got hard right away, we're fifteen-year-old boys after all, but we weren't looking to get off—not right yet. Our hands were busy though—continuing the blazing of our own trails across skin and muscle, learning the lay of the land and discovering the sensitive spots that sent shivers through our frames. We moved with a slow, deliberate grace, gently caressed each other's cocks, slicking our sheaths back and forth, spreading our pre-cum.

I slid my hand down below his cock, cupping, hefting the weight. "Crown jewels," I murmured into the quiet of the hogan.

I felt Hank smile against my neck, "Not balls, cojones, or nads?"

I shook my head, "No, these are Crown Jewels, more precious than the Koh-i-Noor diamond in the Tower of London. The skin so heavy and velvety, as soft as ermine. I'm glad we're both smooth here...not like Henderson. Have you seen the sheer amount of hair on that guy's balls?"?"

"You peeking in the locker room again?" Hank snickered, his chest rumbling against mine before he conceded the point. "Henderson is seriously hairy. I think the guy has to shave every day just to find himself."

My hand drifted up to stroke his soft pubes. "And these...these are your Navajo war-party arrows. Straight, silky, jet-black."

That triggered a genuine giggle from him. "Then I'm calling yours the Golden Fleece. Only it's mine—no Jason or Argonauts allowed. It's so bright, Lachlan. And poofy, tight, golden curls."

All this touching got us raring again, and we ended up flipping around into our first sixty-nine. "Feasting," Hank murmured against my skin as he began licking my cock from base to tip.

"Feasting?" I managed to ask, my breath hitching.

"Like a wolf pack," he whispered. "The pack feasts on a kill—gorging, insatiable. Just like us."

"So, we're our own wolf pack? Mutually feasting on each other?" I liked the logic; it felt like a Warrior's communion. "It is protein! I suppose we're going to have to do a lot of gorging, then." I giggled as I opened wide, shuddering as Hank's cock slid in over my tongue.

I spooned up behind him after we'd both carefully and happily tongued each other clean; my sweaty chest plastered up against his equally sweaty back. "Crown," he murmured as we both yawned.

"Crown; not mushroom, knob, head, or glans?" I sleepily countered.

"Un uh, don't like mushrooms. Crown, goes with crown jewels," he whispered. I was too tired to argue.

After that, we finally dozed off—exhausted from the morning in the sweat lodge and our afternoon's explorations. Exploring, eating, cuddling, and sleeping set the pace for the rest of our weekend. Being good Scouts, we did plenty of exploring outside the hogan too. Hank taught me the art of milking, insisting that I get in a lot of practical experience. The late November weather was kind, the sun providing enough warmth to keep the Texas chill at bay. Since we were far from the rest of the compound, hidden by the cedar copse, we didn't have to worry about being quiet.

We even got to shower as needed, courtesy of the uncles. They'd rigged a portable camping shower from a nearby tree, using a large black bladder to catch and warm the sun's rays. Thank God for that—by Saturday morning, we were both quite ripe from our stamina training. We even quizzed one another on our new boyfriend terminology while we washed each other. If you've never showered with your boyfriend outdoors under a vast Texas sky, I highly recommend it!

Sunday morning inevitably came. Though it was a sad end to our sanctuary, I think we both recognized we needed real rest. We were happy, but completely drained from a weekend spent exploring every inch of each other. We were satiated—temporarily. They say the horniest thing on earth is a virgin, but they're wrong. The horniest thing on earth is a teenage boy who knows exactly how amazing it is to be with his boyfriend and realizes he has to wait to do it again.

We showered one last time under the solar bladder, then set about putting the hogan to order. As Robert Baden-Powell said in his final message to the Scouts: Try and leave this world a little better than you found it. We folded the bedding—which had been well shpritz'd over the last forty-eight hours, watered down the last of the hot coals in the cast iron stove, and bagged the trash. Oh, and we finally put on some clothes.

We had everything stacked neatly on the coolers when the low growl of an ATV drifted through the trees. It was Uncle Joe—our transport back to reality and a very late breakfast. He gave us a big wave as he rounded the copse, then hit the brakes, swinging the handlebars to skid to a stop right in front of the hogan with a flourish. In short order, we had the back bed loaded with our gear and jumped into the seats.

The army of picnic tables from the feast had been dismantled, leaving only one covered with food, where Amá Sání and a few others were just sitting down. Hank, Joe, and I quickly took our places under his grandmother's watchful eye. She smiled—that knowing smile that showed she perceived everything. "You boys appear to have well embraced your Warrior and your Gentle Spirits," she said softly.

We couldn't have downplayed it if we'd tried. Hank and I looked at each other, our faces breaking into the widest, most honest grins. He reached out, right there above the table top, and grasped my hand. He pulled it to his lips, giving it a gentle, lingering kiss. His eyes twinkled with the secret of the weekend. "We most definitely did, Amá Sání. We explored, we blazed trails into new territory, and we slept...a little bit."

Luka and Jimmy, two of the late night, post-Thanksgiving arrivals, exchanged knowing grins. Luka added in his soft German accent, "Sounds like Jimmy and I, just after I'd crossed the border from the East. You never saw a soldier more willing to volunteer for extra guard duty at the Marienfelde refugee camp where I was staying."

Jimmy laughed, leaning back. "We had to sneak down to the old air raid shelter below the Humboldthain Flak Tower to do our own explorations. My Luka is not a quiet boy!"

Amá Sání pounced on that one instantly. "Speaking of loud—boys, did you see any wild animals near the hogan this weekend? There must have been several. Yipping, howling, yowling...it was non-stop! I assumed it was coyotes or gray wolves, but I just couldn't tell which."

The bacon and eggs on my plate suddenly demanded my absolute, undivided attention. I shoved a huge mouthful in, completely thwarting my ability to answer with anything more than a frantic shake of my head. Hank seemed to suffer from the exact same affliction, his face buried in his breakfast.

She waited until we were clearing the table before hitting us with the next embarrassing question, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "We should get your dirty clothes into the laundry, boys. That way they'll be fresh and clean when Uncle Joe takes you back to Austin."

We turned twelve shades of red, stammering through a clumsy explanation as to why we had no dirty clothes to offer. She wasn't actually expecting any, of course; she knew full well we'd gone starkers the whole weekend. She just wanted to wind us up in that fun, grandmotherly way—teasing us into the fold of the family secrets.

Finally, the time came to say our goodbyes. Saint Luke's would be back in session in the morning, and we needed to get back, to our separate homes, to organize for the academic grind. With semester finals less than a month away followed by the Christmas break, our sabbatical was officially over.

Amá Sání gave us each a fierce hug, urging us to return soon. Luka and Jimmy followed suit, their hugs lingering just long enough to let us know their offer was sincere—they were there to talk if we ever needed guidance on how to navigate the world as a pair.

Two very sleepy boys were dropped off at our respective houses. We snuck a kiss while still in the car in front of my place, whispering tomorrow —safe enough since Uncle Joe was already in the know. Hank and I waved until the car turned the corner, and then I was home. The 'rents held off their curiosity, letting me retire to my room for a long shower—the indoor, three-head version acted as recovery therapy compared to our sexy outdoor setup—and then a long nap before dinner.

Once we sat down, however, the questions came from both directions. I talked them through the whole sweat lodge ceremony: the grueling heat and the focus topics. We discussed our origins, the Warrior Spirit —linked to scouting and cross-country—and then the Gentle Spirit. I framed that last part as being a scholar, leaving out the reality of being gay and in love with Hank; I wasn't quite ready for that parental discussion yet.

They were fascinated by my new Navajo name, Nabaahí Yas Joobaʼí — Compassionate Snow Raider. We talked through the meaning behind each word, and they were clearly impressed by Amá Sání's insight into the different components. I stayed vague on the rest of the weekend; I didn't lie, but I made it sound like a standard camp-out with a heavy Navajo flair. I told them about living a traditional life in an old hogan, the meals, the pot-belly stove, and of course, those wild animals that yipped, yowled, and howled through the night.

Even with the nap, I was truly exhausted. I gave Mum and Da big hugs and headed off to bed right after we'd cleaned up from dinner—or I got in bed, anyway. Hank texted me, and we jumped on FaceTime just so we could talk and see each other. We'd only been apart for a few hours, but it felt like forever; now I understood why Bonnie is all wiggles and whines when I come home after being out.

Shocker: we both got hard the moment we started talking. Much of our conversation circled back to the weekend—our naked weekend—exploring each other's bodies. When Hank tentatively asked if I wanted to, I panned my iPhone down to show him exactly how much I did. We took turns, so the watcher could really focus on the action. I was the watcher first, giving Hank specific, whispered instructions on exactly what I wanted him to do—mostly involving him fondling his crown jewels and playing with his sheath.

Watching him pleasure himself was far more erotic than I'd expected, and he seemed genuinely turned on by the attention. He followed my lead and gave me explicit instructions to pull my heels up toward my jewels; to cant my knees out, giving him a clear view of my pucker; and then to finger it while I stroked. The whole thing felt naughty, fun, and intensely private.

It took us twenty minutes just to say goodnight. We both cuddled into our pillows, lying on our sides facing our screens, whispering I love you, and I miss you, and I can't wait to see you tomorrow.