The Fools Day Hunt

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~ April 1st, 1773 ~

It was that most particular of days, April 1st, when I found myself trudging through the muddy tracks of Bearnock, a quaint hamlet sitting square in the middle of Glen Urquhart, deep in the midst of the Highland pass between Cannich in the west and Drumnadrochit, eastwards on the banks of Loch Ness.

Caledonian pinewoods stretch across the landscape, edging the open moorland beyond, such unspoilt splendour! And cutting a path through its midst: the river Elnick, feeding the mighty loch with its meagre flow.

The imposing Bearnock Lodge would have been, to many eyes, a beautiful and welcome highlight on the road, were it not for a deluge that afternoon. The expected April shower swelling into hammering rain, turning the dusty paths to rivers of treacherous mud and bringing tree-hugging mist in its wake. As soon as I spied the glowing lights of the lodge, I dashed across the road and gratefully entered its warm and inviting interior.

“Ye look a little bedraggled, young man!” grunted the kindly looking hosteler with a grin. He was a healthy, hearty, red-faced gent, with a portly stance and boisterous manner. I shucked off my greatcoat and hung it to dry by the door.

“Aye,” I replied, “I’ll not be gettin’ any further tonight, that’s for sure. Assuming you have a warm bed I can rent and a meal I can partake of?”

The proprietor grinned. “We’ll find ye a place to lay your head, sir, never fear,” he replied kindly, then indicated a stool at the bar. “But first a flagon for refreshment, perhaps?”

He reached for a pewter cup and filled it with a head of frothy ale. I ambled across the room and perched on the high chair. It was directly opposite the flickering log fire and I felt the warmth of the flames reach across to my legs. The weariness of the day melted away as I supped the warm, slightly bitter ale. It’s strength immediately brought a lightness to my head, easing the aches of my afternoon trek.

Two others shared the room with us. Rugged but kindly looking gentlemen, clearly comfortable in their armchairs bracketing the great brick fireplace. You’d be forgiven for missing them altogether, so well they blended into the landscape of the room.

“Join us by the fire, bairn,” muttered one of the men, pointing to the spare armchair with his gnarled fingers. I’d not been labelled with such a term for many a year, but I supposed his advanced age granted him the privilege. I slipped off the stool and sank in to the deep quilt of the chair. It occurred to me that even if a room upstairs were not to avail itself, I would surely sleep soundly amongst these cushions!

“It’s an abominable evening to be traversing the glen,” muttered the second man. He appeared younger, but still advanced of age and possibly well beyond the average lifespan in these tough climes. “In this mist you could find yourself in the Elnick and washed away.”

“Ahh, ’tis but a stream!” cried his companion. “Men wade through that unscathed in winter and spring. The Gowks were probably swimming it’s length this very afternoon!” The two men burst into guffaws of laughter. They seemed to me such amiable fellows that I was immediately at ease.

“Gowks, sir?” I questioned, unfamiliar with the term.

“Oh, you’ve not heard of the Hunt then?” he replied, dropping his tone. “It’s a shocking tale I can tell ye.”

The two men grimaced conspiratorially towards each other and I was immediately intrigued. I must have sported a blank expression just a moment longer than expected because the man to my left leaned across.

“Have ye heard of Clan Tavisher?”

“Aye, of course. I understand they’re of high esteem in this part of the Highlands.”

“Indeed they are. But they’re also renowned for the annual Gowk’s Day Hunt,” he replied.

At that moment, the hosteler placed a feast in front of me. Cold meats, slabs of cheese, torn hunks of dark, yeasty bread and a generous bowl of the local Cullen Skink; a rich soup of fish and tatties.

“I’ll be retiring for the night shortly,” he muttered. “Your room is prepared atop the staircase.” And then he leaned forwards and grinned. “These two old lavvie heads will no doubt entertain ye!” And with that he sidled away and I tucked into the hearty supper.

“I’d certainly like to know more about this Gowk Hunt,” I mumbled between mouthfuls.

“Then settle ye’self and we’ll tell ye all,” the old duffer replied and the two men beamed.

This is their tale.


For many across these Great British Isles, it’s known as the Day of Fools. The first day of the month of April. And for reasons lost to history’s dim memory, a day when tricks are played on naive and unsuspecting victims. But here in Scotland they call it ‘Gowks Day’; gowk being a local term for a Cuckoo, or perhaps a fool. Tradition has it that a mischievous trick be played upon the youngsters, the ‘Hunty Gowk’, where the fool is tasked with delivering a message. At each delivery point the victim is sent onwards to another destination until after many hours he or she uncovers the ruse.

But Anadolu Yakası Escort there’s another story that is told here in the Glen. Young men travel from afar to take their chances in the Tavisher Gowk Day Hunt to win an exquisite prize. What is this gem, you ask? The hand of a beautiful maiden.

For centuries the womenfolk of Clan Tavisher have been praised for their stunning beauty. Tall, slender and with perfectly proportioned breasts and hips. Rumour has it they also have, shall we just say, ‘great skills’ under the bedcovers. And one of their kin, newly come of age, is selected each year as the prize for the lucky lad who completes the Hunt ahead of his peers. But there’s also a dark secret to this challenge that few ever speak of.

My fireside companions told me of one Hunt, many years ago. Eight eager young men arrived that morning at a secret location, as instructed by letter just a few days before. A tall, imposing clanswomen led them to a wide clearing in the forest and lined them up. Facing them were five women. There appeared to be no men at all and, indeed, they’d seen none on the path into the forest.

“Gud day to ye, gents, I am Nerris,” barked the leader of the clanswomen. Her long, reddish hair was tied loosely into plats. She, along with all the women, wore a plaid skirt, a tight, figure-hugging corset hewn from rough skins, and light leather sandals tied off at the ankles. Their faces were crossed with colour – heavy brush strokes that gave them a fearsome visage. It was a scene that filled the young suitors with apprehension.

Those worries slipped away when a stunning, voluptuous young woman was led into the clearing. She shone in white, flowing robes, tied around her slender waist, carefully arranged to highlight her generous bosom. Her fair hair hung loose, framing clear skin and bright eyes. She smiled demurely.

“This is Catriona, newly come of age and ready to be wed. Pure and untouched by any man. She is your prize gentlemen. She will give herself to whoever completes our task first.”

The young men drooled with lust for her and experienced some twitching and discomfort in their loins.

“However, for each of you that fails to complete the challenge, you will belong to us,” continued Nerris. “You will be under our command until the Hunt is completed.”

“My lady, what commands would you give us?” murmured one of the men. He was a slight lad, smaller than the others and looked nervous. It seemed that, in the shadows of the strapping lads either side of him, he was having second thoughts.

“That is not for me to say,” said Nerris sternly. “Your captors will determine your punishment for failure. It is the ritual of ‘Taking the Tailie’.” Then her voiced dropped a little and she left no doubt with her tone. “But you will submit, and you will be punished.”

The boy swallowed and surmised his chances of success were slim. He muttered an apology, turned and slunk away down the path. A second lad followed and then, with some hesitation and a final longing glance at the fair Catriona, a third also left the field of battle. There were clearly nerves among the remaining five, especially given the grim and fierce expressions of the Amazonian clanswomen facing them.

Nerris turned and crossed to where Catriona stood. She stood behind the girl and pulled gently at the rope around her waist until it dropped, then she gripped the robe and slipped it over her shoulders, letting it fall away. The young beauty was naked beneath, her perfect breasts and lightly trimmed mons veneris offering a glorious display of virgin womanhood.

“Do any more of you wish to withdraw?” said Nerris quietly.

The men stood transfixed.

“Then you all agree to our terms?”

The men nodded eagerly, not removing their eyes from the paragon before them. Each lustfully imagined the possibilities this divine creature offered. Nerris re-covered the girl, and she was led away.

“The Gowky Hunt begins!” she announced. She pointed North to where the peak of a low mountain could be seen poking up above the treeline.

“That peak is your destination. It is a mere five miles. Whomever of you arrives there first wins Catriona’s hand, to do with as you desire. We will allow you 5 minutes, but then we will begin our hunt. Now run!”

The men hesitated for a moment, not fully realising the challenge had begun. Then one moved suddenly, dashing into the trees. The rest followed at a sprint.

Nerris gazed at them as they disappeared into the forest and smiled confidently. They looked a pathetic, light-timbered, motley crew this year. She wasn’t worried. The Hunt had been celebrated every year since memories existed. No lad had ever reached the peak or claimed the prize.

The group stood silently for a few minutes. Her women were the best hunters in the clan and knew the steep, treacherous terrain with the intimacy they knew their own bodies. The Hunty Gowk was their annual day to have a little fun. All the men would be caught. They were all fools to be toyed with, seduced Pendik Escort into this impossible task purely for the carnal pleasure of the clanswomen.

“Let’s hunt some cock!” she cried and they trotted into the trees.


Farlan raced ahead, swerving around hefty trunks and hopping deftly over exposed roots jutting from the soil. He’d been first off the mark and would be first to the peak, he was sure of that. A short and pugilistic figure, Farlan had not been blessed with gifts of grace or beauty. But he was tough and resilient, successful in the boxing square and oft celebrated as a young fighter who could take any amount of punishment. He held no fear of the clanswomen, or the terms they’d agreed. ‘I’ll be no plaything for this coven of witches,’ he mused, as he raced through the forest.

No sooner had he smirked at the very thought of being apprehended, his foot struck a root, hidden under loose leaf mould, but protruding just enough to catch his heel. Bowling headfirst forward, he barrelled into the ground with a thud. “Damn those roots,” he muttered angrily, heaving his body upright.

She towered above him as he reached his knees. Skena, the tallest and swiftest of the clanswomen.

“Taking a nap?” she grunted with a sly grin, grabbing his collar and dragging him to his feet. Farlan was in shock at the sudden apparition, but sure he could take her. He swung a hard right hook. Skena ducked deftly and his fist sailed over her head. Then she kneed him square into his groin and he shrieked.

“You’re mine now, pup,” she laughed. She was strong, much stronger than she looked, and almost lifted him by the collar as she dragged him to an ancient fir, twisted him and pressed his face against its trunk. Farlan flailed his arms wildly but caught only the rough bark, which bit and tore at his fists. Skena, victorious, punched him hard in the head and his brain was addled momentarily.

As his faculties returned he discovered himself bound to the tree, body and arms wrapped around its sturdy trunk with a pole of rope, tied off somewhere at the base. The woman laughed from behind and he thought he heard the metallic grating of a knife being pulled from its scabbard. For the first time in many years, Farlan felt dread in the pit of his stomach. Was he to die against this tree, like the almighty Jesus nailed to the cross?

Skena’s cheek brushed his as she leaned in behind him to whisper. “You made a bargain, boy, and you failed in your quest.” And with that he felt the cold blade under his tunic. It cut upwards through the leather tunic and Skena pulled it away. With a single deft stroke, she sliced through the belt securing his breeches. They loosened and fell to his knees. Farlan felt the chill air wash over his back and bare buttocks and shivered.

“Let’s see what I can fashion,” Skena muttered as she fished amongst the branches. She snapped off a sapling, maybe a yard long, stripping it of its leaves. “This will serve my purposes nicely,” she said, then took up position alongside the bound and helpless ruffian.

“Madam, release me immediately!” cried Farlan. “I’ll not be whipped by a wom…”


She flogged him hard and he howled in pain. 2, 3, 4 strokes across his back and buttocks. Skena grunted and roared as she heaved the makeshift rod against his body. Angry, beet-red welts formed where the sapling landed. After 6 strokes she stopped. Farlan’s body burned and tears swelled at his eyes.

He heard more rustling behind him and, thinking another rod was being collected, braced himself for further pain. But the woman strode around the trunk and came into view. Farlan’s eyes widened in horror. She’d fished some contraption from her knapsack. A wooden block, carved into the phallic form of Priapus’s swollen member, was strapped between her legs, sitting high and proud. It was at least a foot long.

“This is for you, young pup,” she murmured salaciously, gripping the dildo. “For your punishment, and my pleasure.”

Farlan whimpered and swallowed hard for he knew what was coming. He’d heard bar-room banter of the Amazon women who pegged their men to keep them in line. His anus twitched in fear. Returning to her position behind him, she lay the wooden beast against the crack of his backside.

“We call this ‘Taking the Tailie’, lad,” she whispered close to his ear. “Y’er free to bawl as much as ye like.”

And with those ominous words she thrust into his arse, laughing as she did so. Farlan’s anus burned as she fucked him ruthlessly, his screams echoing through the forest.


Gawen reached the edge of the forest, screams reverberating through the trees behind him. ‘One man down,’ he thought. At first, the sudden screams chilled him with fear, but that same fear spurred him onwards.

The forest opened on to what seemed like a vast moorland, dense with gorse, bracken and heather. He knew it was just a mile or two to the edge of the mountain, which now rose into the sky ahead of him. Gazing across the moor he saw no evidence of the other runners Kurtköy Escort and assumed he was ahead. The image of Catriona’s ravishing body slipped into his mind, drawing a sly smile. ‘Oh, what a night it will be tonight,’ he thought gleefully. ‘I’ll break that virgin cunny and ride her hard.’

There was a loud squelch and Gawen’s pace shuddered to a halt. His foot had sunk into deep stinking mud, hidden under the bracken. “Damn,” he grunted, pulling at his leg. It was stuck fast. He began to struggle, clawing at the sloppy mud, panic rising in his chest. Stomping down, a second foot sank into the gloop and he knew he was trapped.

“Well, well,” came a soft voice from ahead of him. He looked up, panicked by the sound, and saw a sickening sight. Tira stood calmly a few yards away, hands on hips, grinning like a king’s fool. She was hopper-arsed with thick thighs and a voluminous chest, but breathed easy and had caught him with little effort.

As he struggled in the mud once more, she strolled closer until she stood just a pace off.

“These bogs are treacherous, for sure,” said Tira. “Best keep to the line of Heather when crossing the moor.”

Still buried deep in the bog he was sinking to his knees and he knew he was lost.

“I submit,” he mumbled dejectedly. “Help me up and I’ll take my punishment.”

“mmm, not so fast,” she cooed, grinning. “I always enjoy the sight of a man on his knees.”

“But I am sinking, madam!” he squealed, for indeed he had noticed the mud had reached above his knees now. He tried moving his legs but they held fast and slipped another inch into the clag.

Tira chuckled, stepping around the bog, using the Heather at its edges as a firm foothold.

“I’ll pull you up if you get me off,” she said firmly. Gawen thought maybe he misheard, but she lifted a leg towards his face. “Kiss my feet, dullard,” she instructed firmly.

Gawen knew he had no choice and planted a kiss on her muddy toes. Proffering her legs one by one, she scraped her feet cross his mouth and he kissed each toe. Her feet and leather shoes were rank with the excrement of the forest floor, but he continued gamely, planting more upon her ankles and calves. He breathed heavily, trying to control his panic, now up to his waist in the sticky mud.

“I’m feeling a little loose in the rump,” she moaned. “A good tongue-lashing should scratch the itch. Now lick my arse and cunny, and you’d better pay special attention to clitty if you don’t want this bog to be your grave.”

She straddled his head and he looked up into the depths of her skirt. Her fanny was uncovered, matted with black hair, just the slightest line of her womanhood peeking out from the furry mass. She sank into a squat, reaching under the folds and pulling her bulbous, muscular buttocks part, revealing the dark stain of her anus.

“Start here,” she commanded, pushing her crack down onto his waiting face and plunging him into darkness. “Get your tongue in there, lad.”

Her arse stank, but Gawen knew it was life or death and gingerly pressed his tongue against her damp crack. He retched but took a deep breath and began lapping at her bum, taking long strokes from her quim along the length of her crack to her anus. Her pussy tasted of stale piss, and there were little nuggets of shit matted into her hairy skin. He gagged again as he tried to please her. She was clearly strong and held the squat, pushing down onto his face. She started moaning and her pussy moistened.

Gawen buried his face into her snatch, licking hard against the nubbin of her clit, catching her wiry pubes in his teeth. He didn’t dare stop as he continued to sink into the mud. As it reached his chest he knew he only had minutes to live if he didn’t satisfy this terrifying she-devil. Tira’s movement quickened as she moaned, riding his face hard, groaning at every stroke of his tongue. And then she shuddered and cried out and a flood of pungent, sticky fluid gushed over his face and into his mouth.

Gawen was almost neck deep in the bog, no longer able to hold his arms above the surface, crying and begging to be saved.

Tira finally rose, stepped back and straightened her skirt before turning to face him. She towered over him, looking down into his eyes, and smiled wickedly.


Broderic had taken a circuitous route to the base of the mountain. By chance he’d crossed moors like this before and knew the dangers hidden beneath the bracken, so skirted the forest’s undulating edge until he found a narrow path, carved over decades by the sheepherders and their flocks. It appeared to lead to the mountain that dominated the horizon so he trotted onward.

He’d always been a man of care and attention to detail. Attentive in his childhood studies and hard working as an apprentice to the smith in his village. The consequence of his labours was that he remained a virgin himself, even at the ripening age of 19 years. Fully a man, yet naive and unaware of the delights of womanhood that awaited. Truthfully, that fleeting view of Catriona’s nakedness was his first of a woman in her full, delicate glory. The delight of her radiant countenance, the deliciously curved riches of her soft breasts, and that jewel below! Indeed he struggled to clear the image from his mind as he dashed along the path towards the mountain.

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