4 comments/ 15109 views/ 4 favorites Harry McLaurn's Lament By: Drmaxc Harry McLaurn's Lament, or The Leprechaun, the Teacher and Bessie Babcock by Maximilian Cummings Part I Bearach Candlestick O'Floinn, the leprechaun, was on holiday—What! A leprechaun on holiday you exclaim and say what nonsense; indeed what can I be thinking of and who has ever heard such a thing? But why not? Are not the wee folk entitled as much as we Bigguns to a vacation? And if you could have looked, there Bearach Candlestick O'Floinn was sitting in a patch of sunlight between a dock leaf and a dandelion, just getting out his flask of blackberry wine and peeling off his red coat and brightly coloured holiday shirt to let the sun warm his rather shaggy hide when he heard Harry McLaurn's lament. Now Bearach did not usually take the side of the Bigguns or help them in any was at all—certainly not—not after that time when he had tried to be kind to Molly Mackie and ended up in that pail of milk. He'd swum about for what seemed like hours—and he didn't like swimming in any case—before he'd been rescued and that by his sister of all the embarrassing things (she didn't let him forget the event and that must have been nigh on seventy year ago). Now I'm not saying he did the other thing—play tricks or worse: he wasn't a Pooka after all. But, by and large, he kept himself to himself so far as the Bigguns went. Harry McLaurn sat at the side of the road, an old dusty road he had known since childhood, sitting carefully on a patch of grass, as he rested from his long walk through the day. A long walk indeed as he had risen at six as was his habit and, apart from bread, cheese and ginger beer at a wayside inn had been walking steadily right into the long afternoon. It was a Tuesday, a workday, and all his life it seemed he had been busy: yet he wasn't anymore. No? He had been made redundant. Sacked from the job he loved, his profession what is more, dismissed from his post as a teacher of mathematics for 'inefficiency.' All his life, since college, he had been teaching. First boys in a 'prep.' school and more recently in the state, not public school system, both boys and girls the fascination of mathematics or 'maths' as he liked to call it. But that was over now. Harry sighed. He did not find it easy to have leisure time on his hands but he had applied himself to the new challenge and certainly during this first summer had crossed and re-crossed the local countryside finding the paths and hidden places he had not known about. Outwardly he looked little different. Certainly if you met him in the street he was still the tall distinguished tweeded gent with the big bristling moustache (a left over from the army) and blackthorn walking stick but underneath he was much harder, muscles now firm with considerable exercise and, fair enough, you could not miss the nut brown complexion which was the result of being out in the sun (and wind and rain for this was England after all). He had not really understood why he had to go—well the dismissal had been quite clear from that rather odd new head teacher, what was her name? It didn't matter. But what had he been doing wrong? The results in examinations were as good as ever (and, even being modest, he knew they were very good), the children interested (keen even) and discipline perfect (not one boy or girl put a foot wrong or he would have been on them like a shot). No, he could not see that he had failed at all as a teacher. But she had been on about lesson plans, filling in innumerable pointless forms, following the current ways of teaching the subject (this month's particular fad—or so it seemed to him. Maths was maths and hadn't he taught it successfully for many, many years in a way he had found achieved the objective—or at least what he thought was the objective—children understanding maths and passing their exams as well). She, this new head teacher seemed to think doing things the new way (this month) was what really mattered. It was peculiar. Of course he was not as young as he had been but, there again; he had not been required to leave because of age. He had had no desire to leave. The dismissal had not been, at least ostensibly, about his age but his 'inefficiency.' "Perhaps," he said out loud, "I have always been doing things wrong. Perhaps I've never been any use." It sounded quite dejected. Well this wasn't good. Bearach Candlestick O'Floinn did not like to hear this sort of talk. Too depressing by far and, what is more, he on holiday and about to have a picnic. "Perhaps I should have taken more interest in women rather than the boys and girls." Bearach Candlestick O'Floinn's eyebrows shot up. What sort of talk was this? "Perhaps I should never have been a schoolteacher at all." Ah! Bearach Candlestick O'Floinn was much relieved. That explained the boys and the girls. "It would be good to have someone to share the long evenings without the marking." He sounded almost wistful as if he missed reading the homework. Bearach Candlestick O'Floinn frowned, surely that would be tedious in the extreme? He could only see the homework as so much bother: far better to be out and about on the frolic. "But I've never had much success with the fair sex: or any inclination really." There was a deep sigh then silence. Bearach Candlestick O'Floinn put down the flask of Blackberry wine. This really would not do at all; no interest in women; no success with women! This was sad indeed and not the sort of problem Bearach Candlestick O'Floinn had. The problem for him was rather the reverse and in part accounted for the holiday though the reasons behind that were perhaps better not gone into (or, indeed, what his sister had said on the subject—thrice). Now it was not at all usual for him to bother himself with Bigguns problems but really... and his sister was not here to criticise him. He pursed his lips. Not far away Bessie Babcock had been entertaining her young man, Charlie Creek, or perhaps it was the other way around? Anyway, they were entertaining each other in the way young people like to do in the long grass at the sides of fields, in the haystacks or hidden dells of the countryside. It was a tryst they had been keeping the whole summer long—a carefree time twixt school and work—a time of laughter, joy and coupling. Now Bearach Candlestick O'Floinn had espied them in the field, for he was not one to miss such things, but had not dallied to watch their merry doings for he was more intent on his stomach and the prospect of luncheon in a shadier place. He could hear them now coming up a field path for his hearing was much sharper than you or me; indeed you only needed to look at the size of his lugs, and pointed ones at that, to guess his hearing was as acute as many a creature that scuttled in the undergrowth. Whilst he had not dallied, he had not missed that young Bessie Babcock was comely and rounded in all the right places. Indeed her nakedness, and that of Charlie Creek, had left none of these right places hidden from his view and he had nodded appreciatively as one might do to a particularly good bottle of Oxlip wine, or blackberry wine for that matter, for he was a connoisseur of such things, as is only right. The juxtaposition of the imminent arrival over the stile of young Bessie and the seated Harry McLaurn presented an opportunity in Bearach Candlestick O'Floinn's mind; an opportunity to remove the cause, or at least part of, Harry McLaurn's lament. Harry McLaurn looked up from his dejection as the sound of voices to his left seeped into his thoughts. Just at the moment he looked up Bessie was swinging her leg up and over the stile close to where he sat. He caught a glimpse of long brown leg rising up and up, indeed right under the summer dress she was wearing, so high indeed that had she been wearing any Harry would have seen her knickers. As it was, he caught, or thought he caught, a glimpse of auburn curls for Bessie was a red head: that happy left over of the Celts but alas something she had been teased about at school—'copper knob' and such names. How she had wished she had had just plain ordinary brown, black or fair hair rather than the cascading copper that was her lot—or glory depending upon your point of view. Bearach Candlestick O'Floinn was of the latter view. Now up to that moment Harry McLaurn would have been at best embarrassed, at worst offended by the sight but his reaction was unexpected and uncharacteristic. Of course the sight of long brown legs, the dapple play of light under and through a yellow summer cotton dress on smooth thighs, the sight of a pretty girl, copper hair swinging and a smile on her face would have caught the attention of any normal red blooded man without the special glimpse afforded Harry. It was, of course, the doing of Bearach Candlestick O'Floinn. You will know that many of the little people can 'do' magic to some extent or other and this leprechaun was uncommon skilled—indeed how else do you think he had come to England on holiday? Do you imagine he had gone to an aerodrome and hopped aboard an aeroplane? Well, no he hadn't. And how did he do this magic I am sure you are just dying to know? Did he waggle his pointed hairy ears, did he pronounce ancient Gaeilge incantations, did he produce a magic wand and wave that about? Well, yes, the latter actually and this was another thing that so annoyed his sister. "Why Bearach do you have to do that? Why can't you waggle your ears or your conk like any self respecting leprechaun? Why do you have to wave that around—it's plain disgusting that's what it is!" The magic, as it happened, was not actually terribly substantial to either Harry or Bessie but it was sufficient. A little tampering with the mind or inclination, hardly anything really. To Harry's surprise he felt desire, a movement in his trousers—a readying of an organ never used for one of its intended purposes, yes he felt a swelling—an erection. Harry looked at the girl with great interest, watching the second leg come over the stile and the pronounced bounce, as she dropped to the ground of what any impartial observer would confirm was a generous bosom. She did not see Harry and turned as her friend came over the stile, "Tomorrow then?" she said. It was Charlie who first caught sight of Harry and his eyes opened wide and the colour mounted on his cheeks, "Sir," he mumbled, "er, good afternoon, Sir." Despite Harry's surprise at his own reaction to the girl he was not slow in recognising in the young couple two former pupils, children he had taught for several years some time back. He recognised them notwithstanding the change just a couple of years had made. What had been very clearly schoolchildren—rather skinny and awkward in Charlie's case and rather verging on plumpness in Bessie's had turned into fine young people. Harry knew their names; he did not forget easily any of his charges—indeed he could quite unnerve former pupils with his recall. "Ah, Collins Minor, you never did give me that piece of algebra homework did you?" The man was forty and a successful accountant crossing Green Park deep in thought when he had bumped into Harry. "Sorry Sir, no Sir," he had said instinctively despite not having seen Harry McLaurn for twenty-five years or so. Slightly embarrassed at his reaction, he had been delighted to meet again the man who had had such an important influence on his life—his interest in numbers. Harry got to his feet holding out his hand to shake his former pupils warmly by the hand. Conscious of the swelling in his trousers, certainly puzzled by it, but reasonably confident of the obscuring nature of the trouser material. Unlike Charlie, Bessie did not redden and, rather than an embarrassed mumble of a greeting, her smile was warm and, perhaps, surprisingly welcoming as she looked at her former teacher, clasped his hand and readily began chatting about what she had been doing, asking after him, how the school was and so on. She was surprised to hear he was no longer teaching. Charlie, on the other hand, was only too glad to be away and having already arranged to meet Bessie the next day and with an appointment to keep was soon heading away down the dusty road and, as it happens, out of our story. Bessie dallied. It surprised and rather pleased Harry that this former pupil was so happy to talk to him, moreover he liked her company, liked particular the way her bosom rose and fell as she talked, the way she tossed her hair and moved her eyes and lips. He did not find his erection subsiding, indeed it seemed to push at his trousers all the more but he tried to ignore it despite the presence of this pretty young girl in what seemed a very thin cotton dress. Now Harry McLaurn may well have been surprised at his reaction but Bearach Candlestick O'Floinn was not surprised at all. No, not at all. Nor at Bessie having stayed to talk—indeed flirt a little with her old teacher. His grin was broad, stretching nearly from one hairy, long and pointed ear to the other. No, this was his doing and not a surprise at all. A little basic mind changing—comparatively easy compared to..., he thought carefully as he uncorked the bottle of blackberry wine and reached for his picnic, well to some other things like placating his sister when annoyed. Events, he judged, could now unfold at their own pace. He could check on them later. The wine poured out in a long lilac-purple, indeed blackberry coloured, stream. Bessie was surprised to find Harry McLaurn by the road and moreover over dressed for a hot summer's day, had the man no practical sense, why not walking shorts and a light shirt? Harry had, of course, rolled his sleeves up and put his coat over his shoulder but he had not really expected the day to turnout quite as fine as it had. She was pleased to see him again—what a good teacher he had been, oh yes strict, but everyone liked him, respected him. He had been interesting to listen to—even about maths. "Have you swum?" she said. Harry hadn't, had not even thought of the idea and, in any case, had no idea there was anywhere to swim nearby. Bessie had laughed and taken him by the hand and led him over the stile. This time he had not caught such a glimpse as before but the drawing back of the material up her thigh as she stepped onto the stile sent an ache through him. He knew he shouldn't but could not really resist, it was so very pleasant—no more than that—to have this girl's hand in his, such a small soft delicate thing pulling him on. He had not known how close the river was, how well it still ran despite the summer or how inviting the chalky stream looked in the cool of the overhanging boughs. "It would be good to dip my feet," he'd said wistfully. "Don't be silly," she'd said. "It's for swimming." Harry was about to say something about swimming costumes and that not only had he not brought one but did not possess one when Bessie did a naughty thing—she lifted, yes lifted in one simple fluid movement, her dress over her head. Well, would you believe it; she had nothing on underneath—not a stitch. She half turned to Harry with a sly smile on her face. "I swim here often with Charlie. We don't bother with costumes." Harry's mouth dropped open for he had never seen anything quite like it, a vision of erotic naughtiness. There Bessie was, breasts firm and full, pink nipples standing, a little tummy with dark pool of tummy button and then the swell of hips and rounded bottom with its crack rising to two little dimples. A naked women, all curves, pinkness and naughty copper curls, standing, one thigh a little to the front of the other, in a glade by a slow running river all dappled with sun and shade—a vision from another time. "Are you coming too?" Well Harry said he couldn't, couldn't possibly and he couldn't. He had never, never done anything like that before, it would be... and, in any case, how could he with his penis so obviously swollen. What would the girl think of her old teacher so obviously aroused by her nakedness? Bessie slipped into the cool water. Harry felt jealous; it really would be good to be out of his hot clothes and into the river. He watched Bessie, watched her graceful movements—the school had taught swimming—watched her bottom and the steady movement of her limbs. She really was a lovely creature. He would so like to touch her. He was thinking that perhaps he should leave, return to the road, when, all of a sudden, Bessie came out of the water and came up to Harry. Having this dripping naked creature suddenly before him unnerved Harry. It was simply not in his experience. "Come on, Sir, you must come." And before he could stop her, wet fingers began to undo buttons. It was, of course, difficult to resist, difficult to say no, difficult really to do anything but let the disrobing happen. Well, could you, would you have resisted? I think not. Hands on Harry's belt jolted him out of his inaction. "Really I... young woman I don't think..." But it was too late, with a yank the trousers were down and the prominence of the erection obvious in the limited confines of the boxer shorts. It wasn't as if it was a slight swelling, a tendency to tumescence. No, Bearach Candlestick O'Floinn had seen to that, it was a rock hard No. 1 boner of an erection. Bessie had looked up from his trousers at him with a grin. "The cool water'll see to that, Sir—it does to Charlie." "I'm sorry," he'd said but had not prevented her easing the waistband of the boxers over his erection. Harry had found it strange but somehow not embarrassing to be standing on the riverbank with Bessie despite both being naked and he painfully erect. He could not recall ever being so erect even when waking early morning with a need to relieve himself. His foreskin had rolled back fully exposing the head of his penis—he had not even the modesty of that covering. Bessie had taken his hand and led him towards the water. To be just there in the shade and coolness of the riverbank naked, erect and with a young naked women beside him was so very peculiar but so very pleasant—liberating even and certainly erotic. But feeling erotic was not Harry McLaurn—it was not him at all. He thought it better to get into the water than think about Bessie's nakedness, or indeed his own, too much. It was, as she had promised, such a delight to slip into the silky cool water, wash the dust and sweat from his body as it cooled. How Harry wished he had thought of doing this before, of finding places to bathe on his long summer walks—not that he would have ever thought of sharing it with a naked young woman. Despite the time spent in the water and its cooling effect, there seemed to be no diminution in Harry's erection, indeed the slightest touch of Bessie's skin swimming near him seemed to give it added strength. He wanted to get out of the water and dressed without Bessie noticing but she got out before him and sat on the bank watching him so there was no opportunity and he had to climb out still obviously encumbered by his erection or, if you prefer, still obviously sexually aroused and with a puzzling and unfamiliar desire to quench his need. Bessie was sitting by his clothes. He was unprepared for her next action when, as calm as anything, she reached up and cupped his balls in her hand. The sense of feeling that shot through him was quite unlike anything he had felt before, the sheer delight of a naked young woman holding him there. It was perhaps surprising, and Bearach Candlestick O'Floinn must be complimented in his work here, that Harry did not come straightway, did not simply spurt as Bessie held his balls, the unused seminal glands sending a spray of creamy fluid jetting all over Bessie's face and hair. Oh Harry gasped all right but did not come; he continued to simply stand quite amazed as Bessie's cunning little fingers played with his ball sack. Harry McLaurn's Lament "I like Charlie," she said matter of factly, "but he came too soon today." Bessie began to get up. "I didn't come, you know." She was standing now, her hand sliding up his shaft, moving close to him with her breasts touching his chest. "You know no one with a moustache has kissed me before." To be truthful no girl had kissed Harry's lips before, well not since he was a child anyway, moustache or no moustache, and he was quite taken away by the softness, the warm wet softness and the tickling tongue. He had not expected the pleasure of feeling a tongue snaking its way between his lips, touching his teeth, his tongue. And if that was not enough, Bessie had put her arms around his neck and lifted herself up and planted herself right on his penis there on the riverbank and he felt himself just slide up into her wet heat: or was it that he felt her wet heat slide down upon him? Does it matter? One moment this young girl was kissing him: the next his penis head was somewhere inside her, a little behind and a little below her tummy button. It was the most surprising thing to happen. Bessie bounced up and down a few times causing Harry to stagger. He was not braced for this. Not prepared for such a thing at all. Bessie got off and stood looking at him giggling. "Come," she said, "it's nice over here." And she led him out into the sunshine of the field where the sun was warm and drying. Leading Harry McLaurn, the respected teacher of mathematics, naked and with a particular prominent erection, by the hand. "Let's lie here and... oh no, look at that." She was looking at Harry's penis, as solid as ever but now not only coated with Bessie's wetness but also creamy semen as well. But it wasn't subsiding, it was not drooping in post orgasmic fatigue, it had not just released the full reservoir it undoubtedly had. "Oh, silly me, that's Charlie's doing. Let me." And before Harry could say anything Bessie had bent her body and he felt, unbelievably, the warmth of her mouth enveloping his penis, sucking, licking, and removing the evident traces of Charlie's earlier presence. "You just lie down and let me..." And Harry had lain down on the warm ground in the field just as he was told and found Bessie doing simply remarkable things to him, things he had not conceived of less than an hour before, things he had never expected himself to be doing. He looked down at himself in astonishment; here he was, completely naked, lying in the sunshine with a naked girl bouncing up and down on his hips, his penis imbedded, and her breasts in motion. Harry realised he had never held a girl's breasts, never felt their rounded fullness in his hands. It seemed, though, a day for remedying his inexperience. He took action—he reached, he held, he squeezed. Bessie was delighted with her ride. Sir's hardness seemed just to stay, letting her reach her orgasm—indeed be on her way to her second with no sign of that early spurting, before she was ready, that so many boys did. Harry was surprised at the lack of orgasm, he felt himself on the brink time and time again but nothing happened, the spurting did not begin. It was odd. It was not as he understood things were—how men were. Back in the shade of a dock leaf, should you have bent your ear quite low to the ground, you would have heard a very soft sound of snoring. Had, of course, you been a leprechaun with good hearing, such as the sister of Bearach Candlestick O'Floinn, you would have heard the most dreadful racket, a nasal snoring of quite unendurable proportions. So perhaps, after all, you are glad you do not have long pointy ears of surprising hairiness—or perhaps you have? Not that I am saying there is anything wrong with hairy pointy ears. Why many of my best friends... and I have the odd hair growing on my ears too, so there. The leprechaun gave a start as a particularly nasty sound rumbled from under the dock leaf—and he woke up. Yes, he had woken himself up by his own snoring. What a thing to do! He stood a little unsteadily and looked about him wondering where in Ireland he was. He scratched his rather matted red hair as he puzzled out the problem. It took him some little time to realise he wasn't. And rather longer to recall he was meant to be seeing how Harry McLaurn and Bessie Babcock were doing. They were doing fine. Or at least Bessie was but perhaps Harry was beginning to wonder if he would ever come and if Bessie's enthusiastic bouncing would ever cease. This was not how he understood things were. Bessie was on her third of the day—remembering, of course, she had been unsuccessful with Charlie—though, certainly, their tumble had been 'nice.' It took Bearach Candlestick O'Floinn a little time to wend his way under the hedge and across the field—remember he is quite a small fellow—but on reaching Harry and Bessie he broke into a broad grin at the tableau in the field. His plan seemed to have gone, I suppose you could say, according to plan. He was not sure how long they had been at it but it was probably time to let Harry come and let his imposed tumescence subside. Bearach reached for his magic wand—Bessie really was a most delightful creature. Part II The former teacher, Harry McLaurn, stood at the stile watching the steadily reducing figure of Bessie Babcock as she walked away down the dusty road. She really was a lovely thing and, despite what had happened, he could scarce believe he knew what lay beneath that gently swinging cotton dress. He most certainly knew and moreover, and that was even stranger, was interested in what lay beneath! He rubbed his moustache. This was so very different from what he had been feeling that morning and so unlike him. What could possibly have happened? It was like magic. Perhaps this was the start of things getting better again. Throwing his coa t rather casually, for him that is, over his shoulder he set off down the road for his cottage, his house in the town. That evening found Harry McLaurn standing in his bedroom looking at his reflection in the full length wardrobe mirror. This was an unusual thing to do, possibly only something he would have done had he had put his dinner suit, Marcella shirt and black bow tie on for a function. He was not dressed like that now: indeed he was not dressed at all. Perhaps, he was thinking to himself, he did not look too bad, considering; at least, there was no running to fat—though there was no disguising his age. It was very difficult for him to credit what had happened that day. To have been intimate with a woman was quite difficult to contemplate, let alone a young woman and a pretty, comely lass at that. He had never been interested in women—nor in men either for that matter. Oh yes he had wondered if he was... but there had been no feeling there either. He had been indifferent. Yes he liked people, had friends enough but not felt that way about anyone. He had seen how others behaved and had concluded he was asexual. Frankly it had never worried him. What you've never had and don't desire you don't miss. But now? Now his mind seemed to turn readily to women and particularly Bessie Babcock. He had been in his bath and as soon as he thought back to the afternoon and her standing all naked and wet by the river up had come his penis, all ready and interested. Now towelled dry he was still erect. He had walked out of the bathroom priapic and stopped to look at himself in the mirror—look at this unaccustomed sight. It was a pity Bessie was not there to help him—she had been so helpful and obliging in the fields and by the river. He smiled and lightly touched his cock. It certainly was firm, something to be proud of at his age perhaps? He turned and looked at his profile. Yes, it would be quite delightful to have Bessie staying the night. They could go out for a meal, perhaps a candlelit table and then, and then imagine what it would be like to have her all cuddled up in bed, warm, cosy and intimate. Dinner in a restaurant! Tucked up in bed.... what was he thinking of, he was old enough to be her father—grandfather indeed. What would she want with him and what would people in a restaurant think? He pursed his lips; well actually they would think he was treating his daughter or granddaughter to dinner. But the rest—crikey it was only just legal. No, it was mere fantasy to imagine that Bessie might... yet, yet she had asked him where he was walking tomorrow, he began to stroke himself, yes, he would certainly follow the route he had outlined. Not only did Harry enjoy a solitary wank before sleep but had a wet dream to boot. Neither had happened since he was a lad. No really! It was another gorgeous day with only a few clouds scudding high up across the sky. There was a certain spring in Harry's step, though he had hardly been shuffling along throughout the summer. His pace remained brisk but there was a definite something. You could see it as the loss of his virginity, if you like. Mrs Anna Johnson had remarked on it to her friend Mrs Jayne Simmons as he had passed them in the market place. He had raised his hat to them which was not at all unusual, ever Harry McLaurn the gentlemen, but there was something else and the two friends, fresh from dropping the children at school and about to be 'Mums who do coffee' commented on it. "You know, Jayne, I had the strangest feeling, something I have never had before with that man." "What, as if he was mentally undressing you, Anna?" "Exactly so. He was looking at my breasts not my face I'm sure." "Me too, but Harry McLaurn! It can't be!" And they were not the only ladies who felt the same. Nancy Mitchell who had known him since he was a boy, indeed had once hoped he was going to ask her out—she had been eighteen at the time—thought he looked at her quite differently; rather more like she had wanted him to do decades before and just the few words he had spoken seemed to have a hint of the flirtatious; but Harry McLaurn? No, it couldn't be, that was not the man. The bus dropped Harry miles out into the countryside in accordance with his plan so he could walk back to town. He watched the departing bus and then, stick in hand, turned from the road and across a field. It was not unpleasant having the opportunity to walk and walk exploring the countryside though, he reflected he did miss school and having a job. The walk was therefore enjoyable and there was also the interesting possibility of meeting Bessie Babcock again, not that she had said she would meet him but she had asked where he was walking. He would keep to his planned route. It was about eleven thirty when he came across some hikers coming the opposite way to him. A pair of enthusiastic girl hikers with backpacks, walking poles and everything. As they came closer Harry found himself admiring their long brown legs and the attractive way their breasts were restrained by the backpack strapping. They were pretty to boot and Harry was pleased when they stopped to chat and he was able to ask them where they had been the night before, were they camping, where were they going and what they thought of the weather? Harry stood watching the girls retreating backs as they headed on their way, they turned and waved and he waved back. He had the most vivid image of them walking away from him naked with rounded buttocks alternately rising and falling as they walked; the glimpse of (restrained) breasts and nipples as they turned to wave at him. A most surprising idea for him to have -- just not the sort of thing his imagination would ordinarily have come up with. The idea of them equally naked in their tent came to him, hot, sweaty bodies after a day's walking now in close confinement, brushing against each other as they readied for their sleeping bags, perhaps the unintentional brush of an arm against a nipple causing it to rise. Harry was surprised at his thoughts. It was not like him, leastways not before yesterday. What on Earth had happened to him? Had the fairies put a spell on him? He was erect now, actually had been since the girls got close to him. They were almost out of sight now and certainly couldn't see him. He released himself, allowing his erect cock out into the open to stand proud in front of him. It was a relief to touch it. He thought of the girls in their sweaty tent looking at each other, saying 'shall we?' and deciding to be daring and escaping the confines of the tent to hurry, naked in the moonlight of a hot summer's night across the farmer's field, down to the stream to splash and cool together. Harry liked the image of the two monochrome moonlit bodies splashing, the moonlight reflecting off the water on their skin. He imagined himself, the farmer, watching as he leant on a stick in the shadow of a hedge, watching the naked play before stepping forward to speak. The girls, surprised, embarrassed yet surprisingly docile as the farmer almost herded, yes he liked that word, herded, the girls to the farm kitchen to sit together on the wooden bench, a towel draped over their shoulders, and sip cocoa and whisky as the farmer talked of his life farming the land, the richness of his fields and the fecundity of his cattle. Was that really likely, thought Harry, that these young girls would consent to go into the farmhouse like that with the old farmer, still less do what his daydream was leading to? His hand stroked, yet Bessie Babcock had yesterday, most definitely consented, no led him on with the swimming and the touching so stranger things did happen. Was it magic? He certainly did not feel the same; think the same as he had done the day before yesterday. He would never have dreamt of, let alone thought of, standing like this on a field footpath exposing his cock and stroking himself whilst thinking about naked girls in a farm kitchen. Would the farmer make the first move, had he already made it? Two plump little heifers ready to be covered? Would the girls be surprised, frightened by the calloused hand lightly resting on their breasts, go running across the field to their tent. Would that save them, would the farmer round them up with his dogs, herd them back into the kitchen or into the barn to be tied ready to be put to the bull—or rather the farmer himself? Harry liked the image of the two girls bent over the old scrubbed pine kitchen table, a table that was perhaps not unused to such activity in its long sojourn down the years at the centre of the farmhouse kitchen, the very centre of the farm. Bent over so the farmer could service each in turn; his trousers removed and clad only in his old shirt, penis pointing from it, seeking the warm moist softness of the girls' vaginas; taking first one, then the other in a rhythmic and purposeful motion. Harry could imagine himself as the farmer, moving from one soft bottom to the other, reaching under to squeeze and play with the hanging udders and teats of the plump little heifers. It was of course, all too strong imagery for Harry and a spray of creamy semen flew from his penis to fall, pitter patter, on the grass as his hand moved quickly. Harry felt a little cross with himself, a little down in spirit as he reflected that he had rather wasted his erection when he might meet Bessie at any moment. Though, actually, meeting her was really rather unlikely. Yesterday had just been odd. It was hardly likely such a young pretty girl would seek out an old, useless, teacher like himself, still less likely she would seek him to have sex with him when there were virile, fresh boys like Charlie around. The day, though, was yet quite young and Harry's spirits revived as he stepped out and covered the miles, crossing stile and road, copse and field, ditch and meadow before reaching the river again. As he stood on a footbridge, looking down at the water, he remembered the day before when he had gone swimming in the cool water. His walk had taken him quite a bit down river from the swimming point of yesterday and the river here was wider. A little down from the bridge a patch of gravel showed an easy way in and Harry was very tempted to swim, to cool himself in the water as he had done the day before. The footbridge, river bank and indeed the path he had been following were free of other people and Harry succumbed. Feeling less self conscious than he would have been the day before yesterday, and perhaps not thinking completely straight he stripped off, folding his clothes neatly, and stepped out into the water to lay down, letting the soft water flow over him. It would have been most pleasant for Bessie to have been there and to have watched the water flow over and around her brown body. He was pleased to find himself rising to the thought, his cock regenerated from its morning exercise in the field when Harry had been thinking of the farmhouse kitchen and the girls bent over the table. It would not do for them to come by on the footbridge now and see him naked and erect in the river but that would not happen as they had been walking another way. The thought made him conscious of his position too close to the footbridge and as if to confirm his concern he heard voices and two women stepped onto the bridge. Harry turned over in the water hiding his tumescent penis—just in time because he saw one of the women pointing. There was laughter and waving. Harry waved back and was relieved to see them pass on their way. They seemed unconcerned and so was he—not like the old Harry at all. Dressed once more, but cooler, Harry crossed the footbridge and turned first along the far bank for a mile or so and then turned away from the riverbank and up and across a hay field that sloped upwards away from the river. He moved steadily up the path across the field, the sun right in his eyes, towards the silhouette of a hay stack standing at the top of the field. He paused in the shade of the stack and looked back at the belt of trees hiding the river. It was funny, he thought, how things could be so hidden. From his vantage point the river was quite obscured by the trees and if you had not known it was there you might have missed its existence. Indeed, very like the day before when he had not realised how close he had been before Bessie led him down to the river. It is indeed funny how things can be hidden yet can suddenly reveal themselves. All of a sudden Harry heard Bessie say from above him, and you can imagine it made him jump, "Hallo, Sir, I hoped you'd be coming this way." Harry looked up in astonishment and there was Bessie leaning over the edge of the haystack, copper curls all falling around her head and naked bosom peaking over the top of the hay. "Well, are you coming up to join me?" It was not an offer he was going to refuse, indeed the prospect of seeing and being with Bessie had been uppermost in his mind all day. Without a hint of his age, Harry was up and atop the haystack in a trice. What a delight he found—Bessie as naked as the day she was born but rather more womanly now, her round, round breasts, full lips, inviting thighs and so interesting patch of curly orange hair catching the sunlight and showing copper gold. "Hallo Sir," she said and put her arms around him and kissed him just below his moustache right on his lips, "I've been waiting for you." The invitation was plain. "I've been lying up here all afternoon in the sun; you can feel how warm my skin is." Harry touched her arm; the skin was soft, hot with just a hint of dampness—perspiration from the sun. "I'm warmer here." She moved Harry's hand to her breast and begun to unbutton his shirt. It was, like yesterday, such a strange experience for Harry to be naked in the open air. Here he was on the soft top of a haystack, the sweet hay all around him, feeling the sun all over him. He was, of course, erect and had been since he clambered up onto the stack, Bessie's placing of his hand on her breast had not lessened his excitement. Naked now and with Bessie he was somewhat unsure what to do. Yesterday Bessie had taken the lead and, he was relieved to find, today was no different. Harry McLaurn's Lament "No sir, you just lie there and look at the clouds, Bessie'll take care of that." And so Harry McLaurn had lain, spread-eagled and naked as the day he was born atop the hay stack whilst the clouds scudded across the sky and Bessie Babcock attended to his cock. Nestled down in the hay he could not see anything but sky (and hay and of course Bessie—particularly the back of her head); he could not see the fields, the hedgerows, the woods or the occasional orange or grey roof of a house or cottage; it was as if Bessie and he were alone in the world, except for the occasional soaring lark, atop a haystack miles up in the sky. They were not actually alone on top of the haystack for a rather small gentleman clad in red coat and breeches was peeping out at them from a burrow in the hay. Yes, Bearach Candlestick O'Floinn had chosen that very haystack for his sojourn for the night. Now I am not saying this was a coincidence—though such things happen—because it was actually rather more by design. He had been watching Bessie, indeed had stayed close to her the night before (no, not that close) and knew she would be waiting there for Harry—given she had already entertained Charlie Creek there earlier in the morning. I shan't tell you what transpired because, as I have already mentioned, Charlie does not have a further appearance in our story. Suffice it to say that the meeting had not been as jolly or pleasurable as earlier joinings in the summer. Something seemed to have gone out of the meeting and indeed it was the last coupling Charlie was to have with Bessie Babcock: so I hope he made the most of it. Certainly, as Bearach Candlestick O'Floinn commented to himself, he made a lot of noise about it. So what was Bessie doing to Harry? You want the details? Well she tickled him with a blade of grass. Where you ask? Right on his penis, not just any old where but right on the head, on that division of the head on the underside which goes by the technical name of the Fraenum. The what? Well I don't know a colloquial name but I'm sure you really know what I mean and just how sensitive it is there. No? Well you want to find out then. It certainly made Harry jump and Bessie giggle at his reaction. She kept up her play, tickling Harry's penis all over, shaft, head, everywhere. Just little touches with the end of the blade of grass with Harry not knowing where it was going to land next. Bessie tickled his balls as well, playing with the crinkled skin, teasing it with the blade of grass. "Do you like that?" asked Bessie. Harry could think of little better things to be doing than lying on top of a haystack in the summer sunshine, watching the clouds and having a pretty naked girl play contentedly and at length with his penis. It was simply something he would not have conceived of, let alone thought of enjoying, a week ago but now that is what he wanted to do. After a time there was a change, the tickle was no longer from the blade of grass but, Harry realised, from the tip of Bessie's tongue tickling him in all the same places. The tickling light touches gradually changed to licking until the tongue concentrated its attention on the head. There was a pause. Harry was by now seeing not so much the shape of countries and animals in the clouds but erotic shapes, breasts, couplings, buttocks, penises. He felt the softness of Bessie's lips encircling the very tip of his penis, ringing the little hole and lightly pushing against the soft skin of his penishead and then slowly they slipped downwards as gradually his penis was absorbed into her mouth. "Bessie, I'm...oh." And Harry experienced that most delightful orgasm when the semen pumps into the waiting mouth as a tongue brushes backwards and forwards across the gushing so sensitive hole. An exquisite experience. Harry could not believe it—he was ejaculating into Bessie's mouth, he couldn't stop himself. The feeling and idea was delightful but he hadn't meant to, hadn't meant to come. What would she think? Yet she did not pull her head away, quite the opposite as she kept playing with him, her tongue stroking the head of his penis. It was only as he softened that she released him. Harry raised himself up a little so saw her mouth detach itself from his penis. What a sight to see and remember! And then Harry saw her swallow, yes swallow his semen and smile and wink at him. "Told you I'd take care of that, Sir!" It was a happy afternoon in the sunshine on the top of the hay stack. Lying there talking about all sorts of things and later, when Harry was ready again, engaging in sexual intercourse with Bessie lying back in the hay as Harry pushed down on her, releasing the sweet scent of the hay whilst his penis pistoned. Part III The envelope was still in his left hand, the letter in the right as if he was afraid to let them go. Harry sat down slowly in his arm chair with a broad smile under his moustache. It was not an offer, no far from it, not a job offer but it was an invitation to interview, it gave opportunity that, he realised, might come to naught but it was a chance and moreover someone, some school, well not just any school actually but rather a good one, was at least prepared to see him. He was not then totally over the hill. It was a very good prep. School, admittedly some way away but he could move house. He adjusted his tie feeling better, much better—Bessie and an interview—things were certainly looking up. Bessie was, of course, a puzzle to Harry. Why was she interested in him, if that is what it was, he could not see she was playing a game with him though perhaps that might be it. Certainly, the experience was pleasurable, it was not one he would have wanted to miss and, really, he could not think that of her. After the last meeting atop the haystack she had not actually suggested another rendezvous but that seemed to be because she would be away for a time—or perhaps it wasn't and that was it. Still there was the interview and that in a week's time. He would have to ready the car for the journey. A few days later found Harry McLaurn in town shopping, walking stick in one hand, shopping bag in the other. He had been having quite a good time of the weekly shop even flirting a little, if that is what a later fifties man in a tweed suit and moustache can do with young female shop assistants; to say nothing of his lengthy chat in the street with Anna Johnson and Jayne Simmons. Harry had been surprised to find himself thinking about what lay under their tee shirts and jeans whilst talking to them. Certainly Anna was most generously endowed and that tee shirt's neck did rather plunge and was Jayne's hair really that colour, he would so like to check her other hair to see, though her breasts really were rather small. His thoughts had rambled as he talked to them and he had walked off bemused at having been chatting to the two young mothers for a good ten minutes with his cock hard the whole time. It was all so unlike him but actually rather pleasant. Imagine being invited back to tea with Anna and Jayne and being lured into intercourse. No chance at all, of course, but the daydream was appealing. How might it happen, well it wouldn't... but say it did? His mind was speculating. Perhaps the conversation moving from, "Do have another slice of cake, Mr McLaurn—may I call you Harry," somehow to bra and cup sizes and the problems of fitting—something he had no idea about and a demonstration of what they meant. He could imagine, indeed did imagine, the lifting of tee shirts over heads and the display of large and small brassieres. This simple idea in Harry's mind was novel, not for him the complex fantasies of the experienced but jaded thinker, indeed any thought of sex was really quite novel to him—as perhaps it is to you? Anyway the idea of exposed brassieres appealed to him but he went further, imagining their removal, hands behind backs—he knew that much, and then the revelation as four breasts slipped out of the warm bra cups, Anna's slightly flopping forward and bouncing but Jayne's not moving at all. "You can see, Harry, how they vary in shape and cup size. Please hold them and see." And he could imagine, oh yes he could imagine, his hands reaching out and cupping first Anna's, lifting them slightly, feeling the hard points of her nipples in his palms and then Jayne's much smaller sweet round breasts but again with the little hard points of the nipples pressed in the soft flesh of his palms. "That's actually rather nice, Harry, you do have such strong hands." It was his fantasy, after all, and he could imagine the compliments if he wished. "Breasts really are a bit of a bother for a girl and need holding to stop them moving about—a bit like, for men, your penis I suppose. Imagine that, Jayne, special little bra-like cups to hold their balls!" The girls giggled in an attractive and sexy way (in Harry's daydream). "Well I don't think it/they need such support," ventured Harry in his mind. "We'll see. Go on, we've showed you ours: now show us yours!" More giggling. And Harry had, naturally in his daydream, been happy to oblige. He imagined, as he walked up the street, his disrobing as the two women watched; the giggling and pointing; him standing there exposed. Now, should he be ready erect or have himself grow in their hands? An option in his story. He chose the latter. Anna's hand was the first to touch cupping his testes and lifting them with the ends of the fingers of each hand. "See, little cups like this, but how to support the penis?" There was a giggle from Jayne, "No need—it's supporting itself!" And, not surprisingly, Harry's penis was lifting itself upwards all by itself, foreskin rolling back and readying itself for business—just like it actually was as he walked along the street. "Not so much a need for support as restraint!" replied Anna and with one hand she held it back against his stomach. "Yes, you have to be firm with men, take them in hand!" They both laughed at this and Anna began moving Harry's foreskin up and down. He could imagine reaching out and undoing their jeans—"Why Harry what are you doing?"—but not being stopped and discovering the secret of Jayne's hair colour and that Anna shaved (now where had that idea come from?). Touching them, feeling them, his fingers exploring opened thighs—"Why Harry what are you doing!" Being led on to intercourse. "Harry, lie on me, hold me down, take me..." But who should be first? Would he want to penetrate Anna as he sucked on her full breasts or start with Jayne with her appealing little round breasts and soft curly-haired mound? It was another choice to be made in his mind as he walked through the town, perhaps a little more self-absorbed than was his usual way. Thinking of being lured into intercourse is a pleasing and jolly daydream but of course that is more or less what had happened to Harry with Bessie Babcock—twice, though perhaps 'led' might be more accurate a word than 'lured.' It was more Bearach Candlestick O'Floinn who had done the luring. Anyway Harry turned a corner, still immersed in his daydream, when the real thing was there right in front of him, walking up the street towards him. Harry stopped and raised his hat and was so delighted when Bessie broke into a big grin and began talking to him at a great rate about what she had been doing. He was so relieved she seemed pleased to see him. "I was just going to make some tea," he said, "would you care to... I have a chocolate cake." Well, of course, young girls are easily lured by chocolate cake and Bessie was no exception and very ready for a cup of tea after an afternoon's shopping but, you will appreciate, what with Bearach Candlestick O'Floinn's spell on her, she was more than happy to go with Harry, in any case, back to his house. Harry was quite excited, and showed it, at having Bessie in his cottage. It was not that big but a pleasant little old stone-built house in a terrace which had seen modernisation over the years and was certainly in good order. He busied himself with the tea things as Bessie chatted to him in the kitchen. It was a pleasant little tête-à-tête with the tea and chocolate cake and went on well into a second pot of tea. Harry was surprised to learn Bessie wanted to see the first floor. "Of course, but why?" "I thought we might get into bed." Well, despite Harry's daydreaming he had not actually thought of that. He was used, if two couplings could be said to be something he was used to, being naked with Bessie in the countryside. He hadn't thought she would want to go to bed that afternoon—but she did. What a delight for Harry to watch young Bessie stripping off her clothes and slipping in between the sheets of his single bed. She had been surprised by him only having a single bed but he had explained he had never seen the need to buy a larger bed. He had not realised that so many single people preferred a double bed these days. "It'll be a bit of a squash," he'd said. "Nice," she'd replied. And it certainly was nice getting into his own bed, admittedly very much earlier than he ever did, and being close and immediately intimate with soft warm femininity. They kissed for a long time just hugging each other; Harry conscious as much of the togetherness as the sexuality of the situation despite his penis being tight against Bessie's tummy as they held each other. Gradually kissing developed into stroking, the opening of thighs and the touching of penis to warm wetness. Even then there was no hurry over penetration, just kissing, holding and the gentle sliding of penis in Bessie's secret folds. It was Bessie rather than Harry who caused entry, slowly pushing him up into her. Their movement was relaxed and prolonged and after orgasm they lay quietly together, still joined as Harry's penis subsided within Bessie—indeed if they did not sleep for a short while they were certainly both not fully conscious for a time and in that space between reality and dream. Harry was disappointed Bessie could not stay the night. He offered her a meal out but she had to go, had to get home but she readily agreed to come with him on his day trip to the interview at the Prep. School when he'd asked whether she would mind accompanying him. He thought she might like the ride and visit to the other town. It was in a couple of day's time. Bessie met Harry in the morning of the interview early as arranged. He really was grateful to her for coming with him, providing company on the journey and support as well. Unusually for him he was nervous—a symptom of how the dismissal from his former post had affected him, damaged his self confidence, damaged him. He did not understand why he had been regarded as ready for the scrap heap and was none too sure many of his former colleagues did either. The new head teacher was not popular or, seemingly achieving better results. "How old is that?" Said Bessie with some surprise, she had never seen the like. Nor had Bearach Candlestick O'Floinn, but he wasn't much used to motor cars being more of a biker—as we shall see. "Had it since '71. One of the last to be made I think. It's a good car." Harry was a bit defensive about the vehicle though people seemed less rude about it these days. Indeed he had had the odd request to buy it off him. "What is it?" "A Morris Traveller. It's an estate." "But it's got wood on it." And indeed it had, the highly distinctive feature of ash framing around the 'estate' rear part, a look that had prompted Dame Edna Everage to comment, whilst filming in Stratford-upon-Avon, on it being a 'half-timbered car.' The joke had made Harry smile. The journey was uneventful and Harry was very happy to listen to Bessie's chatter. At first she'd been puzzled by the lack of a CD player. Indeed the car did not boast a cassette player or even an 8 track stereo cartridge player, which would have been seriously 'retro,' though it did have a radio. The sun was shining and, apart from his nervousness, Harry was really happy just driving along with Bessie beside him. Now you may have been wondering what has been happening to the holidaying leprechaun, Bearach Candlestick O'Floinn. Was he still asleep in the haystack sleeping off a flask or two of Sloe Wine, was he tramping through the countryside in emulation of Harry McLaurn's pastime, was he sketching in the fields? No, he was doing none of these things. He had become rather interested in Harry McLaurn and was, in fact, in the back of the car where Harry couldn't see him and looking out of a side window and making faces at children in passing cars who happened to spot the little man and point. It is easy to imagine the conversations in those cars: "Daddy, Mummy there's a funny little elf in the car we just passed. He was ever so rude—he stuck his tongue out at me." "Don't be silly Freddie." "I think it was a House Elf." "Humph, too much Harry Potter. There are no such things." But of course Freddie was not being silly. Which just goes to show... something or other. Bearach Candlestick O'Floinn had no idea where they were going and no particular worry about that; he was an easy going sort of leprechaun and he knew his way home. He was also enjoying the experience of travelling in a motor-car, the break-neck speed at which they were travelling (a good 45 M.P.H.) and the scenery rushing by. He had gathered why Harry was travelling but it was not really the sort of thing, probably, he could help with and so Harry would be on his own. The interview went rather well, or so it had seemed to Harry. He had liked the people, liked the headmaster and liked what he saw and heard. It was an environment, ethos and attitude that he could identify with and his answers and the supplementary questions as approaches to teaching were discussed and evidence of his experience demonstrated, seemed to flow very easily. He actually thoroughly enjoyed the meeting and would have been quite happy had the discussion gone on longer. The end result, having walked around the school and even taken an impromptu maths class—he had not been expecting that—was the offer of a job and a staff cottage in the grounds. Harry's moustache was particularly firm and his head held high as he met Bessie again. They settled into a tea shop and Harry could not stop talking; his breaking of the good news and his appreciation of the school poured out with Bessie quite unable to get a word in edgeways. "I shall have to move, of course," he said and it was only then that it dawned on him that this would take him away from Bessie. "Oh," said Bessie, "that's a pity." There was silence. "Will you need a housekeeper?" Well Harry had managed for a good 35 or more years without one but the offer and idea was appealing—very appealing. The cottage in the grounds certainly had two bedrooms and so was big enough but what would the school say? Well they weren't to know and it wasn't really their business in this day and age. But did Bessie really mean that? Out of the tea shop, Bessie and Harry walked up the street passing the plate glass windows of the modern shops and the more interesting details of the older shops including an old arcaded front of a shop now selling all manner of shoes. They did not notice a rather strange little man, perhaps five foot three high clad in red coat, white breeches and cocked hat, frowning in disapproval at the wares. Now you might have thought someone clad in that old fashioned dress and wearing a hat of all things -- who wears a hat nowadays perhaps apart from Harry McLaurn with his tweed flat cap in the event of rain—might have attracted attention but it was Carnival Day and people were milling around in all sorts of dress. Bearach Candlestick O'Floinn, for it was he that they walked past, had made himself rather larger than usual for a holiday, an easy piece of magic, you will appreciate, for a male leprechaun to do, and was examining the shoes and not liking what he saw at all. He was minded to make them all left feet, or possibly right—he had not decided—when his long nose caught the distinctive smell of beer and twitched. Harry McLaurn's Lament He had noted that Harry looked very happy and had concluded, rightly, that all was well so it would not really matter if he absented himself from Harry and Bessie and went in search of the interestingly beery smell. You know how it is, beer or women and beer wins every time. It was not long before Bearach Candlestick O'Floinn had that long nose of his in a glass; his feet tucked under a table and was surveying the other occupants of the Carnival beer tent over the glass. They were certainly dressed in all sorts of outlandish costumes. He felt a fellow feeling for the rather hairy gentlemen dressed in black leather from head to booted toe and they too warmed to him when he let slip he was a 'biker' too. Now quite how they got in their minds that he rode a motorbike when he meant a pedal bicycle and a very old one at that and he had not so much pedalled the contraption as sat on the handlebars whilst Feargus O'Dubhthaigh had pedalled like a mad thing up hill and down dale very much the worse for drink and all the time imagining there was a leprechaun on his handlebars leading him to a crock of gold—or so he had (unwisely) told the constable in the morning who had pulled him out of a ditch. The bikers and Bearach Candlestick O'Floinn were soon telling each other taller and taller stories over more and more good beer. The more I think of it the more I feel there was a little bit of magic involved as it does seem difficult to credit the bikers would not have spotted Bearach Candlestick O'Floinn's complete lack of technical knowledge regarding motorbikes as he wouldn't have known a Triumph Bonneville from a Norton Commando or Harley-Davidson Sportster. Somehow they thought he was into 'Harleys' and unwisely let him try one of theirs. I blame whoever it was started the thing up but he was off, yes Bearach Candlestick O'Floinn was off riding on a motorcycle and he loved it, the wind in his hair, the blur of everything as he speeded past, the beam of light showing him the way down the dark road out of town and into the country. On and on he went, faster and faster down the straight Roman road; he was intoxicated by the speed (and the beer) and certainly had no idea whatsoever how to control the thing, let alone what the black and white chevrons meant ahead or about cornering on very sharp corners... Bearach Candlestick O'Floinn flew through the air as the Harley came straight off the road and into a ditch. At one hundred miles an hour (almost) a leprechaun leaving a motorbike flies quite a long way as you can imagine. In his fright this leprechaun dropped right back to his smaller travelling size before flying into a tree, tumbling down through its branches and landing upside down to whizz round and round on his cocked hat just like a top until he was as dizzy as could be. It was quite a sight in the moonlight, or so the badger who saw the whole thing told me. Bearach Candlestick O'Floinn lay on the ground stupefied and it was only the bright light of the morning that woke the bedewed leprechaun with the throbbing head and—it has to be said—throbbing of much else besides due to the bruising. What would his sister have said? Well, almost certainly something about "serving him right" and "he should never be so stupid—what at his age" but she was never going to know, that was very much for sure! Harry and Bessie had, of course, left the town a lot earlier and travelled back in the Morris, Harry still talking about the school with Bessie more interested in the cottage which, of course, Harry had not bothered to see. It was mid-evening when they returned and Harry had the pleasure of taking Bessie out to dinner. Naturally Bessie received approving glances, many understandably thought she was Harry's daughter or niece but those who know Bessie and Harry were puzzled by their dining together and would have been even more so had they known they would be sleeping together that night. Indeed Anna Johnson out with her husband did see them both go through Harry's front door later that evening and it was certainly something she remarked on at the school gate to her friend, Jayne Simmons, the next morning and they were still talking about it when they ordered second mugs of coffee at the café later on. Inside the house Bessie had kissed Harry long and hard and thanked him for a wonderful day and dinner, her hand had dropped to his trousers, stroking the material and the hardening item within and asked if she could stay the night. It was, needless to say, what he had hoped for. "I'd like a bath," she'd said and Harry had shown her to it. It was not particularly an old fashioned bathroom but it did have a large bath. Bessie pushed the plug in and turned on the tap releasing hot water into the tub. "If you wash my back, I'll wash yours." To say the idea of sharing a bath was appealing to Harry would be an understatement. Of course he hadn't at all thought of the idea of sharing a bath but that was because thoughts of sex were all so new to him; now the idea of soaping Bessie's back and no doubt much else besides caught his fancy. The idea too of Bessie pink, warm, slightly damp and wrapped in a big bath towel was somewhat pleasing as well. Imagine such a thing in his own house, indeed in his own bedroom! Harry just stood watching as Bessie undressed. He had not really thought before that a girl taking off her clothes was particularly interesting—now I'm not saying he had not recognised a pretty girl when he saw one but it just had not been his thing—now as Bessie undid her blouse he saw it very differently as his eyes followed button on button. The blouse slipped to the floor and Bessie reached behind her to unclip her bra. For a moment he was reminded of his fantasy with Anna and Jayne but this was real as were the two ample breasts revealed as the bra dropped to the floor. She stood there just in her skirt. "You like them?" she said lifting her breasts in her hands. Harry could but reply in the affirmative; he liked them very much indeed. Knickers and skirt followed and Harry began to undress himself as he watched Bessie bending over to regulate the bath taps. He supposed intercourse was possible animal like leaning over the women's back and applying his penis under her bottom. Well of course it was, he corrected himself, and he could imagine (and did) that it would be very pleasing to have Bessie's soft bottom pressed against his thighs as his penis sought entrance. Perhaps she'd let him try that later. He reached out and stroked her bottom cheeks and she turned to find Harry disrobed and in a state of excitement. "You're always hard, Harry." And indeed he did seem to be hard so often these last few days—something difficult for him to explain. We, of course, know the answer to the puzzle in the form of Bearach Candlestick O'Floinn who had not only ensured a remarkable stiffness and longevity on that first meeting with Bessie by the stile but left him with a propensity for rigidity and regeneration that would be the envy of a younger man. Bessie stepped into the bath and sat down. Harry watched as a pink flush showed her skin's reaction to the hot water. "Well are you joining me?" Harry got in. It was a little difficult working out quite where his legs and feet went but he was delighted with the sudden feel of Bessie's little pink toes on his scrotum. They wriggled which was most pleasing. "Here's the soap," she said, "you won't forget my back." And she got up turned around and sat down between Harry's now stretched out and open legs and he began to soap her back. It was just lovely to be sitting there with this soft naked girl between his legs and feel her skin slipping soapily under his hands. You can imagine that it was not long before his hands had slipped around to Bessie's front (well wouldn't yours?) and he was soaping her breasts and squeezing them in his hands. Clearly they needed a lot of washing! Then Bessie got up on her knees so Harry could reach her bottom. How very strange soaping not only those lovely round cheeks but the crack beneath and of course the little puckered bottom hole before washing between her legs, his soapy fingers slipping over curly hair and particularly soft skin. Then Bessie sat down again but a little further back up the bath, right on Harry's penis, squashing it. She wriggled a little and then rose a little, reaching under herself and holding his penis as if about to insert it into her. "Oh, but we are meant to be washing," she giggled and stood up, "my legs now please." That was enjoyable too, making her squirm as he washed and tickled her toes and soaping up her legs, touching her pretty knees and sliding his fingers up her soft thighs. It was as delightful being washed by Bessie and feeling her gentle soapy hands all over his body and last of all on his penis. Much more playful washing and he would have come, a sudden squirting into her soapy hands. Out of the bath, it was good wrapping Bessie in his big bath towel and, tying one around his own waist, Harry led Bessie downstairs for a nightcap before bed. They sat watching television, Bessie by his side all wrapped up in the towel, pink and warm from her bath. It was not something Harry McLaurn normally did, sitting on his sofa dressed just in a bath towel, far less to be sitting there with it tenting in front of him and as to having a pink girl in a bath towel curled up beside him, eyeing that very tenting... well no it was not something Harry had ever done before. Bessie plucked. Yes she put her fingers together over the tenting and squeezed the end. Harry smiled fondly at Bessie from under his moustache and watched as she tugged the towel aside to reveal his standing penis. They continued to watch television but now Harry had the distraction of fingers around his penis, fingers moving the skin so gently up and down, fingers moving lightly and with no hurry, a leisurely pleasing. It was some minutes before Bessie bent her head and slipped his penis into her mouth and slowly fellated him. Harry stroked Bessie's hair and smiled down at the back of her head. This, he thought, is utter bliss. Indeed what more could an ageing gentleman want: a glass of whisky in one hand, being seated on his comfortable sofa in his own (paid for) home, warm and comfortable, with a good programme on the television and a pretty girl clad only in a towel sucking gently on his penis with no urgency about rushing to a conclusion. Oh, you think a gentleman could want two pretty girls clad in towels, one on each side. Well you are just greedy. Harry did wonder if he should be stroking Bessie in return—intimately rather than just her hair but the towel was tightly wound around her and there was no easy way in; and he could not reach far enough to slide a hand up into the towel from below but he was saved the need when all of a moment Bessie got up, straddled his legs, reached under herself to aim his penis and lowered herself right down upon it so it disappeared up inside the fluffy towel, indeed disappeared up into her hot wetness. She was as slippery as anything and had evidently—the evidence was clear—been building herself up into quite an excited state. And there he had her, this towel clad girl bouncing up and down on his thighs making the sofa creak. She was bouncing with enthusiasm, putting great effort into achieving lovely long strokes. He held her tightly to him as she moved up and down: the television, of course, quite forgotten. Harry could feel Bessie getting wetter and wetter and then that delightful shudder as she came, trembling in her bath towel. It was exciting and a signal to him to come, pumping spurt after spurt to add to her wetness. "Oh, Harry that was lovely," Bessie said. It was so strange. One moment he was having intercourse with this delightful girl and now they were sitting side by side again watching television, she still clad in the fluffy towel. He hugged her tight and took another sip of his whisky. The job contract would be with him in a few days. It would be marvellous to be working again and as to having Bessie as his housekeeper and, it very much seemed, sharing his bed, well, that was marvellous too. Harry felt himself a very lucky man. The television programme over and the glasses and coffee cups tidied away, Harry followed the now towel less Bessie up the stairs watching with pleasure the movement to one side then the other of her bottom cheeks, the smoothness of her thighs and the occasional glimpse of curly hair as she took another step and was that—yes it was—he could see the trickle of his own semen creeping down a thigh. Yes his very own doing not half an hour before. He, Harry McLaurn, had been having sexual intercourse with this pretty young girl on the sofa in his own living room! It was incredible. The sight was deeply erotic and it had a restorative effect and by the time Harry reached the top of the stairs he was erect again. Bessie turned and her eyes opened wide at the sight. She smiled and raised her eyebrows, "Time for bed!" Said Bessie Babcock. And time for bed it is indeed for, like all good stories, it is time to draw it to a close and what better time to leave Harry and Bessie than as they make ready for bed. As for the other principal character of our story, the leprechaun Bearach Candlestick O'Floinn, well we already know he has gone to bed or, more accurately at least, is lying flat out cold on the bare ground in the moonlight after his remarkable flight through the air. He is going to wake with a sore head in the morning and feel sorry for himself. Harry on the other hand is going to wake with Bessie in his bed in the morning feeling anything but sorry for himself and who knows what they might do then? Hopefully live happily ever after in the cottage at the school. The lament of Harry McLaurn was threefold — a feeling of loss at no longer being a schoolteacher, indeed wondering if he had ever been any good at his profession; a degree of loneliness of an evening and finally a concern that he had never had much success or inclination with women. Well they say, and I am sure they are right, that should you be wily enough to catch a leprechaun then you are granted three wishes if you'll let him go. But I'd like to see you try and catch Bearach Candlestick O'Floinn in the first place -- whatever size he chose to be and whether on his motorbike or not! Harry, though, got his three wishes without so much as thinking of catching a leprechaun which shows the generosity of heart of Bearach Candlestick O'Floinn despite what you might have heard from his sister.