The Library

The deal was struck in the library one lunchtime. It may sound a little weird, that I thought of it as some kind of formal arrangement, an agreed contract, but that was very much how it felt at the time. All very emotionless and businesslike, each party with something the other one wanted but also having to evaluate the risks. Going out with most girls isn't something that is liable to land you in hospital or ruin your chances of getting scholarships to study in Dublin or Liverpool, but Fionagh was a case apart. None of us would have dared touch her with a ten foot pole, unless there was something very tempting to tip the balance. Not that there was anything wrong with her - very much the contrary - but this girl was quite simply off limits. No friends, no social contacts in her own age group, nobody she could even chat to in the street, even though we all knew who she was... or more to the point, we all knew whose family she was.

She was the apple of her father's eye and the darling of her two fiery-tempered older brothers and some of my classmates had been warned off a number of times. The boys were determined to keep their baby sister away from the bad influence of the local lads, bring her up as a young lady and a good Catholic girl and send her off later to a bright future on the continent. Or London. Or Dublin, if need be - anything other than backwater rural Ireland. The general opinion was that the whole family were a bunch of crazies, but nobody dared do anything about it. They were pillars of the community: Mrs. FitzMorris was the wealthiest landowner in the area, her husband was the headmaster at the school who had terrorized a generation or more of local youngsters. He was also pretty much the pastor for the town too; the Father who was supposed to have that job was continuously ill (more probably on the bottle) and did no more than taking Mass and confessions - Mr. FitzMorris took on the rest of the role with the tacit blessing of the Monsignor. The sons - one the owner of the one good pub here and the other in the police, were like him: still in their mid twenties, but turning into big, solidly-built men with a reputation for blazing rows. Though with less need than their father to keep it under control; they ran things much as they pleased. I later learned that anything and everything in the way of drugs, illicitly distilled liquor, guns, you name it - were all handled through the back door of the pub. But as a teenage lad, all I knew was that the FitzMorrises were vicious, crazy, unpredictable and untouchable.

A year or so back, when we were all about fourteen, Tommo had dared to take her out to the movies once or twice. The brothers had beaten him up mercilessly until they were quite sure that he had gotten no further than a kiss and a cuddle on the back row (though he'd claimed otherwise to his friends after getting out of the hospital); the beating and kicking and the stamping on his hands had left permanent reminders on the young man.
Of course, I'm looking back quite a few years now and I dare say nobody has the kind of control any more that old FitzMorris and his clan had around Inish Mhor. Maybe they do, perhaps it's just a more subtly exercised regime. Maybe money rather than violence rules. I don't know - I've never been back and I don't ever want to.

Anyway, I hope you've got the picture now. Mostly, if a girl makes it clear that she wants to go out with you, you're flattered and interested. At any rate if you're a teenage lad in some provincial backwater where the opportunities are few and far between. Fionagh had taken a minute or two to get the message across, since it was so unexpected. I had been sat there with a math book, which was how I often had to spend the lunchtimes. Math wasn't my strongest suit, to put it mildly, and I needed the extra study if I was to get to the university: I was absolutely determined to escape from here, and not being a sports star or having any musical genuis or even the muscles and stamina to be a good navvy, I would have to pass the exams and get into college). I only looked up briefly when another student took a place opposite me in the same alcove of the library, registering the royal blue and light grey colours of the girls' school uniform out of the corner of my eye (our own uniform, which was then mandatory right up to age eighteen, was dark green and dark grey). I checked it wasn't Claire come to chat with me - the two schools are next door to each other and, both being fairly small, they share a number of facilities such as the canteen and the locker-room and the library which naturally become meeting places for the sexes. Having no reason to talk to Fionagh, I went back to my books. So she had to lean forward and begin the conversation sotto voce, telling me to my astonishment that she wanted to go out with me. Probably mostly because she was finally rebelling against the strictures of her family - the more they told her to do one thing, the more she instinctively desired to do exactly the opposite. I don't know which surprised me more, that she was coming out of her shell or that for some unfathomable reason she had picked me out.
We chatted for a minute or so, but I turned her down. Desirable though she undoubtedly was, nobody's attractive enough for a hasty kiss and a quick grope to be worth broken bones. Even to a hormone-overloaded teenager. I sat there opposite the young redhead in the school library, on the uncomfortable old wooden chairs with a big oak table covered in school books between us, leaning forward on my elbows just as she was so that we could carry on a whispered conversation without being overheard. I looked at those big green eyes behind the slightly magnifying lenses of her glasses. "You're a pretty young lass," I told her finally, "and I'd love to go out with you. But Danny and Michael would kick seven shades of shit out of me and I'd have to forget getting any good references from your pa. I can't."
She looked annoyed and scowled at me. Not that it made her look any the less pretty, not in my eyes anyway. "I reckoned you might just be the one who had the bottle for it."
"Why me? Why not Kevin: he dun't care about his exams - he knows he'll be on the farm the rest of his life. And he's a better-looking bloke than me, and he's going to be a right ladies' man when he gets away from this... prison." I waved a hand in an expansive gesture indicating the whole school.
"Maybe I just thought you'd be better at keepin' it a secret," she said acidly. "He's a big strong fella, to be sure, and you're just a pleasant quiet chap."
"He thinks he's God's gift to women." Only seventeen still, but he acted much older when we were away from the monks and teachers, outside the confines of the school. Tosser.
"... and he'd brag about it at Siopan Dubh. Sooner or later." The Black Shop, our local pub.

I'd spent months getting Claire into bed, a buxom little dark-haired thing with big dark eyes and an easy smile. I'd had a couple of weeks of her delightful company (my only sexual experience apart from when Marie had let the whole rugby team have her for a bet, and one time with Theresa when she was very drunk at a party). But once Kevin and Tommo heard that she was one of the few local girls who went all the way after sufficient persuasion, they went after her too. I was history pretty soon after that.
Fionagh saw straight through me. "You'd like to see him get the same treatment as Tommo, wouldn't you? A broken jaw, lost a finger, remember?"
I smiled. "Too obvious? Fair enough. But it dun't change my mind. I'd be riskin' my whole future for, I don't know, a snog and a quick feel." Deliberately unsubtle - a subliminal message telling her to go away. "No thanks."
She blushed a little. My choice of words had embarrassed her. "I'm not going to let you turn me down," she said softly. "I'm going to have a boyfriend, go out on dates, be a normal girl. And you're inoffensive enough that my pa di'n't object when I said you were coming round some time soon to our house to help me with my French and Latin."
She had clearly been hatching the plot for some time. I didn't exactly want her complaining to her father that I'd chickened out and refused to help her. Sweet Jesus.
"Once they're used to seein' you with me, they'll not stop us going out," she added limply.
"No way. Want to bet on it? It's not worth my while, honestly." I was nervous now.
She took off her glasses and leaned even closer. "Are you so sure of that?" she asked with an arch little smile, big green eyes looking directly at mine.
"You'd have to go all the way," I said bluntly. That should scare her off. "Right from day one," I added. "Then at least I'll have done summat to be beaten up for, even if they half-kill me after the first date."
I expected her to pack her books away and storm off. Her eyes widened slightly, but apart from that her gaze remained locked on mine during a pregnant pause.
"In for a penny, in for a pound," I said quietly, waiting for her to formulate the withering insult that was presumably forthcoming. It didn't.
"You're on," she said, and left.

The Locker-Room

The next morning when I opened my locker, a folded note fluttered to the ground.
"This evening, Mother is taking the rehearsals for the Christmas play and Father has got a meeting of the schools' boards of governors. Walk me home after school. Cook will set an extra place at tea."
I didn't believe remotely that she had any intention of going through with her side of the bargain, although just thinking of the possibility had given me a sleepless night. But she had apparently indeed gotten her father so far that he had accepted the possibility of letting me, the studious young man with the head for languages, to cross his threshold.

The Lounge

We were in the main living-room of the FitzMorris house, a huge room with a blazing fire and heavy velvet curtains. I was stunned by the place - everything was so grand, so different from anything I was used to. I had felt like I was running a gauntlet of tests and challenges all day: it had begun with Old Fitz being obnoxiously critical of my English essay, ripping what I had thought was a good piece of work to shreds in front of the class, progressing through a nervous trip to the big house (I didn't particularly like having to trust that the large wolfhounds would obey Fionagh's instructions to leave me alone) and then a meal in the kitchen with her under the watchful eye of the cook and the two maids. Apparently the master and mistress of the house had already dined and were preparing to leave. After the meal, I was led through to the lounge, which was full of splendid furnishings and bottles of drinks and more books than I'd ever seen anywhere other than the library. Two richly upholstered chairs were placed before a huge mahogany table with a deep mirror-like shine - we were apparently expected to do the homework there, but I hardly dared sit on the delicate-looking chairs. Uncertainly, I placed my chair a respectable distance from the one on which Fionagh was sitting and got the books out of the bag. She said in a low voice just to do what we were supposed to be doing, and soon enough everyone would be gone: once her parents were off to their evening appointments, the staff would be all too eager to get off to their own homes. She'd already done most of the work the evening before - a precaution I had also had the foresight to take, just in case - so in half an hour or so we'd have the place to ourselves and we could progress to more interesting studies.

I was perfectly well aware of the fact that Fionagh was not particularly concerned about me as a person. She was busy breaking the family's hold over her, trying to emerge from the shell of lonely isolation which they had imposed on her, make a small statement of her own independence. Exploring her limits too. Now that I'm older, I can recognize these aspects of teenage rebellion as being something which we all go through - my own children included, of course. But back then, it was simply a question of my being in the right place at the right time when she made the first tentative demands for a social life of her own. Initially, when she approached me in the library, her idea had only been to use me as a lever in the little power-games within the FitzMorris clan. When I had jokingly stated that I'd only act the role of pawn if the relationship were sexual, it opened up a complete new line of disobedience and rebellion for her. She had sat facing me across the scarred library bench for those few seconds, and I'm sure she wasn't considering my attributes or otherwise as a lover: she was relishing making her own adult decisions, taking actions which couldn't be reversed even if the scandal came to light, doing something which was forbidden for her even though it was tolerated - no, implicitly lauded even - when her brothers did it. Oh yes, little as I could bring myself to believe it, there was no doubt that Fionagh had made up her mind.

Hastily we finished the last of the schoolwork, so that there would at least be something to show in evidence if we were questioned later. Two small glasses of whiskey were poured - she said that there was no way it would be noticed, the cook and the cleaners and the gardener were always helping themselves - and taking off the school blazers we went over to the old sofa by the fire and sat down, primly keeping a couple of feet apart.
"So. Kenneth Michael Bernard Irvine," she said at length into the silence, pompously punctuating the air with the names as much to break the stillness as for any other reason. I was surprised she even knew my full name; most of my class wouldn't have done. "Accordin' to our deal, you must be expectin' to fuck me right now."
The expletive caught me by surprise and made me half choke on the whiskey. Navvies digging up the roads said that. Drunks in the Siopan Dubh. And of course it was much-used on the rugby pitch. Believe it or not, I don't think I had ever heard a woman utter the word before, certainly not in the broad accent making the flat 'u' almost into a short 'o': "ya mus' be 'spectin' ta fock me right now."
"Yes," I said finally, not wanting to let on that I hadn't really expected it, notdeep down inside. "If it's safe," I added meekly.
"They'll not be back for hours..." she began before stoppng and blushing a furious red. The implicit personal question embarrassed her more than the impending sexual acts. "Oh, you mean... in the month...yes, it's all right."
You couldn't get contraceptives for love nor money then. Church didn't approve. Still doesn't, but at least a blind eye is turned nowadays. Back then, we just went in bareback and hoped the girl knew what she was doing.

She took off her shiny black shoes and then sat back on the sofa with her feet in their white school ankle-socks curled up underneath her. A very closed and defensive posture, which even a seventeen-year-old lad could interpret as meaning that she wasn't ready yet. I moved next to her and put a hand on her skirt, over her knee, but left it at that for a few minutes while we talked and sipped her father's admittedly excellent spirits (yes, I learned to tell the good ones apart quite young. We all did). She made me tell her all about Claire, but volunteered little herself at first. But after the second drink she loosened up a lot and talked non-stop for ages. The venom with which she hated the menfolk of the family was clear and I just sat back and let her anger and annoyance and frustration build up until there was a full fire of emotion in the large green eyes.
Then I got up from the sofa, hauled her up to a standing position next to me and pulled her close to kiss her. I had chosen my moment well - there was hardly a moment's hesitation. She just stiffened slightly for half a second and then opened her lips eagerly for a mutual exploration of tongues and mouths. When we came up for air, she put a finger to my lips, not wanting me to say anything. Then we began again and in the course of the next few minutes she slowly got used to the feeling of my hands stroking and caressing her youthful body through her clothing. And I will happily confess that I was enjoying every minute of it. Not that it takes much to get young men fired up - "so horny the crack of dawn had better watch out" was the way they put it - but a girl like Fionagh was a new experience for me. Compared with the slightly overweight Claire she was firm-fleshed and lithe, and she was definitely much more curvaceous than the tall and bony Theresa. And I don't really remember what Marie felt like - we were all pretty drunk - and apart from spreading her thighs and sticking my prick up her I don't think I even touched the girl.
So as I'm sure you can guess, ten minutes kissing and cuddling an eager and sensuous redhead were enough to bring me near to exploding. I got up off her; somehow we had ended up rolling around together delightedly on the hearth rug in front of the blazing fire. I picked up my drink and looked down at her, lying there on her back with the flames glinting redly off the disarrayed mass of the auburn pony-tail pooled around her pale face. Her clothes were all dishevelled too - tie discarded, royal blue jumper pulled right up to show the white blouse, which was untucked from the grey skirt and partially unbuttoned. God knows I hadn't done that. Her hands were stretched out languidly up above her head (indeed, at least one of the lost buttons was there up by her thumb) and the blouse and bra were stretched temptingly taut over her breasts. Her skirt was rucked right up under her backside as a consequence of the way she'd been wrapping those slender legs around me. One long leg was stretched out and the other was bent and the knee raised. On her bottom half she had just the ankle socks and the matching plain white cotton knickers. Jailbait if ever I saw it.

She looked up at me and grinned. Not a shy little smile, nothing coquettish. Just a wide, Cheshire Cat grin. "That's definitely good," she pronounced. "Good fun. Why'd you stop, Kenny?" She reached her long arms up towards me, and let the one lifted knee flop sideways knowing full well that it let me see the pale inner thigh and the tendons which were pulling the damp cotton tight at her crotch. I could have taken her there and then: knelt, dropped my trousers, pushed the panties aside and had her. But no, she was controlling the game too much - it suddenly dawned on me that it was more a case of her seducing me than the other way round. I could play hard too.

"I don't want you in tha' school uniform," I said. "Makes me think of your pa. I want you, not him. Want to see you, remember just you." I sat back on the sofa and picked up the whiskey glass again. "You're a lovely lass, Fionagh, wantin' to be a young woman and not a schoolgirl. So let's be seein' what you've got."
She stood up, back to the fire and facing me. Hands on hips, head cocked to one side. "Sounds more like you're after me to go actin' like a shameless tramp."
"Why? I'll bet you've got nothing to be ashamed of. You're about to let me fuck you, but don't want me to see you naked? Absurd." I laughed, she scowled. "Anyway," I added, "I can make it much more fun for you that way. Honest."
The scowl melted away finally. "Alright," she said, "It is a bit absurd... Claire has been overheard to say that you know better than Kevin what makes a girl enjoy herself. And I know well enough what you boys like. What do you want me to do?"
I sat back, relaxing on the sofa with my palm upwards and eyebrows a little raised in a gesture conveying the simplicity of the request. "Strip for me."

She did just that. First the blue sweater came over her head and was cast aside, the the skirt was unclipped and unzipped at the hip and allowed to collapse into a pool of grey serge at her feet. She kicked it playfully at me and by the time I'd pulled it off my face and slung it under one of the chairs, she had already finished unbuttoning the large and loose white blouse. But she didn't take it off, choosing instead for some reason to turn away from me and face the fire. She then spent a minute or more fiddling nervously with her hair, freeing the pony-tail she always wore and finally shaking out a splendid coppery mane of fine hair, haloed in the firelight. Not a word was spoken, but it was clear that a decision had been reached somewhere. Contentedly, I watched her reach up inside her shirt to unfasten her bra at the back and ease the straps off her shoulders, before taking first the left arm then the right out of the sleeve of the blouse to free the strap before replacing the arm. She dropped the bra behind her, still not speaking, and then hitched her thumbs in the waistband of her panties to take them off as well. When she turned to face me again, she was naked except for her socks and the loose chemise that looked more like a nightshirt. I walked over to her, slowly and deliberately, and then let her kiss me again. My hand stroked her back and neck and shoulderblades, pulling her close. I kissed her neck, my lips moving down her smooth pale skin towards the collar-bones. My hands were placed gently but provocatively on her hips, hers were busily unbuttoning my shirt and worming their way inside to the warmth of my torso. Every touch, sensual but not crudely sexual, added to the anticipation.

I unbuttoned the blouse, fumbling with the little buttons at first and then giving up and simply ripping the white garment wide open. The youngster gasped at the sudden exposure and before she could react I knelt in front of her, my hands reaching up to her firm little buttocks and my face buried deep in the musky deep auburn bush at her crotch. Slowly I stood up, one hand going up her spine as she shivered in delight at what was to follow and the other moving round to where my fingers could explore the red-haired pubic thatch and the sweaty folds of crinkly flesh below. Simultaneously my mouth trailed up the smooth soft stomach and up to her fantastic breasts, large and firm and with splendid pinkish brown aureoles and nipples which rose instantly under the ministrations of my tongue. She was within seconds of orgasm - eyes closed, breath coming in short little pants, labia all juicy and wet under my fingers. But I could do better than that... I stopped and pushed her away, backing her up towards the dining table.
Fionagh looked disappointed. "You told me you know what we men like to see," I said.
She nodded dubiously and hesitated. "Cunts," she blurted out.
I took another step and bent to pick her up bodily, one arm behind her shoulders and the other under her thighs. I placed her on the finely polished table. "Virgins especially. And now you're going to show me yours."
She rolled to face me, lying propped up on her side on one elbow and with her legs out straight. I could see two of her, the mahogany had such a mirror sheen, one smiling at me and the other looking up at the ceiling. She bent one leg at the knee, then coyly parted her thighs a little before bending the other. I bent to kiss her, first on the mouth and then letting my own lips travel down to her breasts and then leaning over further so that I could head downward over the soft belly and the triangle of coarse auburn hair. I reached out above my head with my hands to hook my hands under her knees and pull her bodily closer to me. There was no resistance as I then put my weight on the insides of her thighs to force the young woman into a spreadeagled splits on the table, a more gynaecologically explicit view than any other girl had afforded me to date. She lay there uncomplaining as I drank in the sight of her pussy, a display with the extra delightful realization that mine were the first eyes to see this gorgeous teenager thus exposed. Pinkish brown labia, crinkled flesh glistening with juices, just a few downy red-blonde hairs around the vaginal entrance, and the delicate nubble under the top of the slit which I eagerly teased out with my tongue to her moans of delight. Her body bucked, her hips tried to lift, her fists were banging the table and pummelling me on my back. But I kept my weight on my hands, pinning her pale slender thighs to the wood and continued mercilessly licking and probing at her juicy young cunt and clitoris until she came with a shuddering climax.

I left her there, lying splayed and spent on the table for a moment. I had almost come myself and needed the respite too if the unfettered rogering I wanted to give her was going to last more than about two seconds. But I had counted without the unbridled libido of the flame-haired girl. After a languid feline stretch, she curled up and turned herself round. "Jesus, Kenny. That's so much better than just friggin' yourself. That's brilliant." With her legs draped over the side of the table, she propped herself up on her forearms, the blouse finally falling off the slim shoulders to that it was now little more than a rag round her elbows. She looked across at me. Even from twenty feet away I could see the sparkle in those green eyes, "It's your turn now," she called gently. "I reckon you've earned it. Come and fuck me."
She placed her stockinged feet one each on the backs of the two chairs on which we'd been doing our homework just an hour or so earlier, and then splayed her thighs invitingly wide. All I had to do was walk over, drop my trousers and underpants and start fucking her. Which is exactly what I did, vigorously and energetically; Fionagh was still so charged with adrenalin that it seemed to cause her no noticeable discomfort after an initial wincing gasp and after a minute or so she had wrapped those lovely legs round my hips and buttocks and was determinedly pulling me ever deeper inside. Fantastic. I was building up fast, pushing and thrusting, loving every moment, closer and closer, here we go... yes, yes, and yes again, superb...

The Lobby

The crunch of two sets of footsteps on the gravel outside alerted us to the fact that we were in trouble. The parents were back home earlier than anticipated, now walking right past the window! All it would take would be an unfortunate draft of air at the curtains and they would be able to see us just a couple of feet away, me with my trousers and underpants round my ankles standing between the spreadeagled thighs of their precious little girl, lying back naked on the big table.
Frantically she jumped up, looking for her clothes and knowing there was just a few seconds to sort things out. I was buttoned up and zippered up and half-respectable in no time, but she needed longer. She was still pulling her skirt up when we heard the key in the lock. She threw me her bra and panties. "Get rid of these, and head them off in the lobby."
No time like the present. Action needed... help! I stuffed the knickers in a trouser pocket, they were small and wouldn't be noticed. The brassiere? Don't panic, don't panic, don't panic... I slung it in the fire at the back, where it would be unrecognizable in seconds. Then pausing only to move her Latin books to cover the drips and smears and juices left on the shiny polished surface by our exertions, I ran to the lounge door and then tried to slow down and calm myself before going out into the hallway beyond.

The lobby was their name for the rather grandiose entrance hall behind the main front door. I just came out of the doorway from the living room in time to meet Old Fitz and Mrs. Fitz coming the other way. They looked a little nonplussed to find that I was still there, and I made a meal of stammering a welcome and being very polite and saying I was just on my way home and I was sorry if I'd outstayed my welcome.
The mother looked down her nose at me and then cut me short, saying that if I was still here I might as well at least have a cup of coffee and biscuits with them before I left, since it was bitterly cold outside. And off she went past me to the kitchen. Mr. FitzMorris, on the other hand, growled that he needed a whiskey with his and marched directly into the lounge, with a hand on my shoulder to push me in front of him. I'd gained no more than ten seconds: I was a dead man. Devastated, I waited for the explosion of rage when he saw his daughter half-dressed, wondering with a sinking heart whether she'd turn the tables on me and save a little face for her family by claiming I had violated her. But Fionagh was sitting on the sofa, her skirt covering her legs and hiding the fact that she had nothing on underneath. The remnants of her blouse had been straightened and her jumper on over it again, holding the blouse in place near the neck as if it were still buttoned up. Her glasses were back on, her hair was in a ponytail again and she had a book on her lap which I soon realized was covering a wet stain on the skirt.
So there I stood, in the lion's den as it were, trying to make small-talk with the hated headmaster while thinking delightedly of the incredible fact that I had just deflowered his dearest daughter. He was lecturing her on not letting strangers into the house again - it was lucky that it was just this once, this inoffensive and studious boy who would do her no harm, and so on and so forth.

I'd show him inoffensive and studious, I thought. A momentary fantasy: big sneeze, blow my nose - oh no, sorry, that's not my handkerchief, those are her knickers... Oh yes, by the way Mr. Fitz, she's a good lay she is, your little girl. Can I come round say the day after tomorrow and fuck her again? Back to reality...

I finally got to take my leave and go home, wiping my palm surreptitously on the stray garment in my pocket before shaking hands with the parents as I left. But the best bit was Fionagh calling out after me.
"Thanks for the extra lesson, Kenny. We'll have to make it a regular thing. See you!"