deviation from the route described by K. L. Callan in 69 Things to Do with a Dead Princess. Alan claimed that we’d needed a decent breakfast and having headed out to the Safeway café it had made sense to re-order the first day of the journey described in Callan’s book. Alan’s reasoning was that we were merely attempting to test the credibility of Callan’s claims by carting a dummy weighted with bricks around the Gordon District Stone Circle Trail, we weren’t trying to recreate the journey Callan described.
Broomend of Crichie doesn’t look like much now but a few thousand years ago it was probably the most important ritual centre in what subsequently became known as north-east Scotland. We swung left by a petrol station and parked the car behind it. We climbed over a gate and across an overgrown field. I couldn’t see the stones but Alan led me straight to them. I didn’t clock the ditched henge in the field until we got right up to it. Long grass covered the dip and the weed growth was even more luxuriant around the remains of the stone circle. Only two of the original stones remained and they’d been disturbed. A Pictish symbol stone had been moved from its original position 150 yards away and placed alongside these stanes when a 19th-century railway line was being laid. There were entrances to the henge from the north and south and lines of standing stones had once led from these to other circles long since destroyed.
Alan plonked Dudley down beside the symbol stone and took a photograph of the dummy. Then he picked me up and pulled me against him while simultaneously steadying himself against one of the other stones. Alan forced one of his knees between my legs and lifting my skirt proceeded to yank down my panties. I leant back against Alan and spread my legs so that he could rub my clit. Soon he was working one of his fingers in and out of my moist chink. I pushed myself upwards and worked my hands behind my back. I fumbled for a few seconds but before long I’d undone my partner’s belt, unzipped his flies and pushed his pants down around his ankles. Alan removed his finger from my hole and I guided his prick up the moist passage. I had Alan pressed back against the stone and worked his meat at my own pace. Alan was caught between a rock and a hard place. When he came it was because I wanted him to shoot his hot spunk into my steaming cunt. We had a simultaneous orgasm and afterwards, while I was still speared on Alan’s semi-flaccid dick, he used his ventriloquist’s skills to transform Dudley into a voyeur who thanked us profusely for fulfilling his deepest fantasy.
After adjusting our clothing we got back into the car and headed down the A96 to Kintore. We parked in the centre of the village, right by the kirkyard. I stood with one arm around Dudley as I leant against the side of the symbol stone in Kintore churchyard while Alan took a snapshot. Alan carried Dudley around to the other side of the stone, where he handed me the camera so that I could take a picture of the two of them holding hands. After this we got back in the car and made our way to the standing stones near the west gate of Dunecht House. These stanes provided a backdrop for more photographs. At some point before we parked the car to one side of Midmar Kirk, Alan began talking about Nicholas Royle. I recognised the name as that of an anthologist and critic. Alan said he couldn’t fault my knowledge as far as it went but that Royle’s other skills had clearly been honed by his extensive output of fiction. In many ways Royle was working a similar territory to Conrad Williams, making good use of an intimate knowledge of both literary and genre fiction. Alan certainly rated Royle’s first novel Counterparts , which boasted a schizophrenic narration that could only be read as a full-frontal assault on the bourgeois subject.
Midmar was unlike any of the stone circles I’d seen so far, not only was it situated next to a church but
Broomend of Crichie doesn’t look like much now but a few thousand years ago it was probably the most important ritual centre in what subsequently became known as north-east Scotland. We swung left by a petrol station and parked the car behind it. We climbed over a gate and across an overgrown field. I couldn’t see the stones but Alan led me straight to them. I didn’t clock the ditched henge in the field until we got right up to it. Long grass covered the dip and the weed growth was even more luxuriant around the remains of the stone circle. Only two of the original stones remained and they’d been disturbed. A Pictish symbol stone had been moved from its original position 150 yards away and placed alongside these stanes when a 19th-century railway line was being laid. There were entrances to the henge from the north and south and lines of standing stones had once led from these to other circles long since destroyed.
Alan plonked Dudley down beside the symbol stone and took a photograph of the dummy. Then he picked me up and pulled me against him while simultaneously steadying himself against one of the other stones. Alan forced one of his knees between my legs and lifting my skirt proceeded to yank down my panties. I leant back against Alan and spread my legs so that he could rub my clit. Soon he was working one of his fingers in and out of my moist chink. I pushed myself upwards and worked my hands behind my back. I fumbled for a few seconds but before long I’d undone my partner’s belt, unzipped his flies and pushed his pants down around his ankles. Alan removed his finger from my hole and I guided his prick up the moist passage. I had Alan pressed back against the stone and worked his meat at my own pace. Alan was caught between a rock and a hard place. When he came it was because I wanted him to shoot his hot spunk into my steaming cunt. We had a simultaneous orgasm and afterwards, while I was still speared on Alan’s semi-flaccid dick, he used his ventriloquist’s skills to transform Dudley into a voyeur who thanked us profusely for fulfilling his deepest fantasy.
After adjusting our clothing we got back into the car and headed down the A96 to Kintore. We parked in the centre of the village, right by the kirkyard. I stood with one arm around Dudley as I leant against the side of the symbol stone in Kintore churchyard while Alan took a snapshot. Alan carried Dudley around to the other side of the stone, where he handed me the camera so that I could take a picture of the two of them holding hands. After this we got back in the car and made our way to the standing stones near the west gate of Dunecht House. These stanes provided a backdrop for more photographs. At some point before we parked the car to one side of Midmar Kirk, Alan began talking about Nicholas Royle. I recognised the name as that of an anthologist and critic. Alan said he couldn’t fault my knowledge as far as it went but that Royle’s other skills had clearly been honed by his extensive output of fiction. In many ways Royle was working a similar territory to Conrad Williams, making good use of an intimate knowledge of both literary and genre fiction. Alan certainly rated Royle’s first novel Counterparts , which boasted a schizophrenic narration that could only be read as a full-frontal assault on the bourgeois subject.
Midmar was unlike any of the stone circles I’d seen so far, not only was it situated next to a church but
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