Date: Tue, 12 Feb 2013 17:55:11 -0500 From: MICHAEL SOROS Subject: Breda's Little Helper Part 2 This story is a work of fiction. None of these people ever existed to the best of my knowledge and the place will be found on no map. This is not my story but you may find that it is somebody's in a farming community maybe not too far from yourself. It is slow to get going - but then, who isn't? If it is illegal to read such material in your jurisdiction then move on. If not then enter the world of Breda and Paddy McGinty whom fate has thrown together for their mutual benefit. I hope you enjoy it. "In an ideal world anyway Winnie I would like to stand here chit chatting to you about your husband's bowel operation til the cows come home but I've shelves to stock and papers organise" said Breda, with a hand firmly on the back of Winnie McCarthy shoving her out the door of the shop. She was a chore at the best of times but bowel operations? At this hour of a Sunday morning. Winnie was a slight woman, barely there in fact and lived for operations and other peoples affliction. Funerals were a big treat and she got days and days out of one. Until the coffin went into the ground the deceased was the best that ever walked the earth. It was at the 'afters' when the drink started to flow that unreturned loans and passed remarks were trotted out usually resulting in a digging match in the living room of the newly departed. 'Half an hour of her droning on and all she buys is a newspaper!" She had thought of banning her from the shop but what bit of a reputation Breda had left would be torn to shreds so she drifted with it. Also Winnie's visits filled her in on gossip she would never normally have come across rarely leaving the shop at the best of times and only going into the town when necessity arose. She felt herself like a spider in the centre of a web. Add Winnie together with the various truck drivers stopping to refuel and there was very little that ever escaped her. She made MI5 look like a truly amateurish affair indeed. The presence of the one and only pay-phone in the area also increased her intelligence gathering abilities. There were a lot of secrets which couldn't be discussed on a family phone and few were left unknown to Breda. With Winnie finally well on the other side of the shop door Breda was making a hasty retreat when she looked to her right to the petrol pump to see how her new apprentice was getting on. He had started promisingly yesterday morning and seemed in no rush to leave in the evening - something not lost on Breda. 'Willing' she said to herself. He said nothing about money either so he rose to great heights in her estimation. She couldn't see him from the shop window because he had taken to sitting on a plastic deck chair against the wall of the shop far to the right of the window from which Breda surveyed her kingdom but every time she went out he was there. Reading comics he had brought from home. And his lips moved when he was reading - always a good sign. She had a supply of well out of date comics which the distributor wouldn't take back so she intended to use them as payment in lieu of money should the matter of payment (or lack of it) arise. He was delighted of course. Couldn't believe his luck. As many comics as he could handle, a chair and free food. Well, two stale doughnuts and a Mars bar Breda had let melt in the shop window but still. Food. As much as he would have got at home anyway. He was at the petrol pump kneeling down. She could see that bright red hair bobbing up and down. What was that idiot boy doing? There was a man standing in front of him. She recognised him instantly from the expensive car parked by the pump. It was Brendan Mcllhattan - the nearest thing to aristocracy Ballykillferrit and district could muster. She pulled her cardigan together covering her rather large bust and straightened her shoulders. She quickly cast a cold eye over Winnie who was now bobbing down the forecourt. 'It's not all dead heads we can attract here ya miserable piece of work' she muttered to herself, cast one last glance at the attractive man at the pump and went inside to tidy up a bit. That head was still bobbing up and down. It was Sunday morning so she had all the Sunday newspapers laid out in military fashion with the quality papers in front and the rather downmarket ones - the biggest sellers - at the back just to give the illusion that she could still pull in quality customers. The presence of Mr McIllhattan, even on the forecourt, raised both her spirits and the standing of Breda's shop. She had known him since he was wheeled in by his mother in a pram especially bought from the city. It was as big as a creche. Was it really 40 years ago? How time flies when you're caught up in the hustle and bustle of the grocery trade! He was probably the only man she had time for - and not just because he spent his money here. Oh no. Surprising herself, Breda actually liked him as a man. He was handsome though. At least 6 feet tall, broad shouldered, slim waist, fit and those beautiful brown eyes under his light brown hair! To die for! His one flaw, never mentioned of course, were his upper teeth which protruded ever so slightly over his lower lip so he looked like he was permanently smiling. And possibly he was. He was certainly always in good spirits and polite to all - but then he never had to worry about money like she did. A constant thorn in her side and those snakes in parliament trying to suck what little profit she could make. She'd have starved to death years ago if she hadn't worked out ways - in collusion with her accountant Ernest Grabsby - how to avoid paying taxes. The McIllhattan family were relative blow-ins to Ballykillferrit arriving in 1847 - the worst year of the famine in Ireland. They had arrived from England with money to buy land which was going for a song at the time, people having to sell it and their possessions to flee to America or buy food. They had bought 600 acres of the most fertile land in the district. They were of course treated as monsters by Breda's great grandfather who had his own eyes on it but was outbid at the auction. He never mentioned that when he was tearing strips off their character after church. However time heals nearly all wounds and the fact that they had made their ill-gotten gains out of the misery of others was slowly forgotten - except in the McGovern household. Breda could see the beginning of their land - 'rightly ours' she could hear in her head still - when she looked out of the shop window still wondering what might have been if their ship coming over had sunk in a storm. Anyway.... She wasn't bitter. But she did sometimes feel guilty that she liked him and his mother. He came in to buy his Sunday newspapers and collect his mother's grocery order every Sunday without fail. He always bought the quality newspapers with an odd few farming and cultural magazines as one would expect. He also had some magazines addressed to the shop as well which he would collect every month. Breda kept them under the counter and handed them to him discreetly placed between the pages of the Sunday papers. She could never really make out what sort of magazines they were as they were tightly sealed in brown paper and didn't yield to steam from a kettle or sunlight coming through a window. 'Photography Breda' he'd said when she asked once. 'My little indulgence'. 'I'd say he's right with the photography bit anyway' she thought. She didn't say anything - and he was just so good looking. He'd be coming from church at this time she thought. A Protestant church mind you so he was destined for hell if you were to believe the priests. As long as he spent his money here before he went there then no harm done. Being a protestant church of course she could never cross the threshold without losing her immortal soul. The fact that she never crossed the threshold of her own one never bothered her in the least. They always had a collecting tin out looking for money so she viewed them as competition. "I'll be in heaven half an hour before the devil knows I'm dead anyway." The bell over the door rang and brought her out of her reverie and in walked the imposing figure of Brendan McIllhattan - with that red-headed ruffian in front of him. Lazy young dodger. What was he doing here? She wouldn't be able to gossip or flirt with Brendan with him standing there. She'd get rid of him. "Well now aren't you looking as young and as fresh as my own younger sister in Dublin. Sure you're practically twins Breda!" smiled Brendan as he approached the counter pushing the boy in front of him. "Oh Brendan, you smooth charmer" she blushed - a rarity in anyone's books. "Sure I'm as right as rain and dodging me coffin like a fiddler's arms" she replied pulling her cardigan across her bosom and re-arranging the newspapers. "I've your papers here as usual Mr McIllhattan with ehm...your own bits and pieces which arrived during the week". She was aware the boy was standing in front of Brendan and, although as bright as a 20 watt bulb she was still careful about what she would divulge in his presence. "Oh for God's sake! What's that dreadful smell? You've not walked through silage again have you?" enquired Breda, turning her head to one side and covering her nose. "Sure that's why I brought the young lad in for. I was standing behind him at the petrol pump just showing him how to fill a tank accurately by squeezing the nozzle gently when I must have gotten distracted and the tank overfilled and spilled all over my own and boy's shoes. That's the smell Breda. He was so quick off the mark to get right down and start rubbing my shoes with an old oil cloth he had there before the petrol sank into the leather. Isn't he great?" Isn't he an idiot she thought. Dope! Spilling petrol on her best customer the little idiot. She was about to get off the stool and give him a good slap across the head when it quickly dawned on her that the head didn't belong to her and she was being watched. Mind you, Brendan didn't seem to mind the incident and was quietly rubbing the shoulders of the boy. She braced herself and settled back into the stool. "Well if it's been no problem to you Mr McIllhattan sure there's no harm done so." His hands were now massaging the shoulders of young Paddy McGinty and his thumbs seemed to be moving up and down his neck. The boy was just standing there like a bag of potatoes staring up at Breda. Vacant. Mind you, Mr McIllhattan was standing there too and seemed to have forgotten that there was anyone else in the room. "Oh I'm sorry Breda. Must be the petrol fumes have overcome me. Could you bring my mother's grocery order?" She was just about to ask her little apprentice to go fetch it from the back room but one glance at him made her change her mind. He'd probably drop them too. So off she went into the back room muttering to herself about how the smell of the petrol fumes was weakening her chest and shortening her life. In the meantime, and as soon as Breda had left the stool and had her back to the counter, Brendan McIllhattan's broad hands left the boy's neck and slid down his chest coming to rest on his pectorals - or as much pectorals as a 14 year old boy could have. He moved ever so quickly against the boy's back, pressing himself up against his lovely round bottom. There was no resistance. Casually he ran his fingers over the two erect nipples he could feel beneath his hands. They were as hard as two porcelain thimbles and were obviously having an effect on the boy who was beginning to squirm about beneath him and press back against his thighs. He couldn't believe he was doing this and in such a public place too. It was the most daring thing he had done in years. He was normally a very prudent man. So prudent in fact that most of his life had been lived in shadows and secret. In a rural area there were very few secrets. Farms were not solitary places and employed a lot of seasonal labourers and his farm hired quite a lot of the local young men during the calving and haymaking season. Well, if the truth be told, only the attractive labourers. Any ugly or overweight casuals were shown the gate. He had never once gone with any of the young men who had worked the farm over the years - although he had admired their naked torsos and tight trousers from a distance ever since he was a boy. He had gone to a boarding school and - contrary to popular opinion - had never had so much as a grope from a teacher, much to his disappointment. The boys were all girl obsessed too. So he had lived a very public life going with the flow but living through his eyes. He was all man too and there was nothing to indicate that he had any interest in men at all. He played rugby and cricket and helped coach the under 16 team in the local boys school. But he had never crossed the line. Most of the neighbours were innocent enough and believed that Protestants had peculiar ways at the best of times and what with his family having English blood and all he could get away without too much social observation. He was hardly going to marry one of the local girls now was he? "Two women under one roof just wouldn't go" was his standard reply when questioned as to when he was going to get married. His answer was considered prudent as they all had horror stories of young wives being hounded to near insanity by the mother who stayed on the farm and for whom no woman could ever be good enough for her son. When it became too much for him he would disappear up to the city for a weekend and pay for the pleasures of some nice young lad down on his luck. He had the money, looks and the personality. Truth be told he didn't need to pay but his time was limited and he did the maths. By the time he had wined and dined someone and listened to their side of the story his balls would be bursting so it was quicker and cheaper to just find some hustler in a bar known for tolerating 'that sort of man' and pay him for his time. At least he wouldn't have to cook him breakfast. After 15 years of it though he had tired of the monthly routine. Sure some of the teenagers he'd been with were now married with kids. He'd seen them rarely with some woman pushing a pram down the street of the city. Other pick ups hadn't worn so well and would still approach him hoping for a repeat of old times. "Not with that old arse you won't. That's had more traffic than O Connell Street". His time was evaporating in front of his eyes and he was feeling under more and more pressure to find a wife. It was with this excuse that he found himself frequenting the Coco Kabana Tropicana Club Ballyduff not more than 20 miles south of the local town. It styled itself as a 'Bar Grill Art-Gallery and Disco' but promised more than it could deliver on all counts. The Coco Kabana Tropicana Club had many reincarnations over the years but with largely the same staff and clientele who, without realising it had all grown into middle age together but didn't want to. Any young blood stayed only until he realised that his future was sitting beside him and did a runner to the nearest city his wallet could afford. It was never officially a 'gay' bar as none of the patrons was gay. The person beside them definitely was but they weren't. They were straight men giving the local gays a hand out when they got busy. The women who frequented the bar and provided a front were of a certain breed and were known locally as 'Daisy Belles'. They were women very much at home on a bar stool and who never had to light their own cigarettes. Or pay their own taxi fare either. They were of indeterminate age too and the low lighting helped take years off them. Brendan had only come to this watering hole on a few occasions but found it too near the bone and somewhat confusing. It was difficult having someone's cock down your throat several nights in a row only to see the same young man pass you by in the street of your own town with a wife and kids in tow and you completely ignored. So the last few years had seen his right hand become his best friend and the casual labourers get a bit younger. He suspected that some of them knew about him and went shirtless deliberately in the hope that they would be treated favourably when the hiring was being done again. And of course - they were. So there were many years of pent up frustration behind what lead to the present situation with him standing tightly pressed against Breda's petrol pump attendant. He had never done anything like it before. He might have wanted to but never gave into the urge. Breda had many young lads work the pumps for her over the years but most of them were surly streetwise boys who were deeply suspicious of anyone with culture or cash both of which Brendan had in abundance. But today - well today was different. When he pulled into the forecourt of the shop having done his religious duties to keep his mother off his back he felt it was just another Sunday like any other. But it wasn't. He felt a knot in his intestines as soon as he set eyes on the red-head and without warning his cock had begun to fill. Luckily he was wearing a loose suit which gave him room for expansion because there were always some beauties to salivate over in the congregation. But he had never expected to see one in this spot. The boy was barely dressed. He was casually lying back in an old plastic chair with one leg on a barrel beside it. From the car Brendan could see the boy's underwear up the leg. And what lovely legs they were too. Strong legs. Sporting legs. Smooth legs. He had his right hand down the front of his shorts which were obscenely tight anyway. His bit of a tee shirt was lifted up exposing his smooth white belly. Eventually Brendan's eyes moved up the beautiful body to the face. That was beautiful too. A wide full mouth, nice little nose with the compulsory freckles and of course his most obvious feature - a beautiful head of flaming red hair. Fire red. He was reading a comic and with some difficulty judging by the strain on his forehead. "You'd never lose him in the dark anyway" thought Brendan to himself "nor would you want to". Brendan's car must have made an impact because as soon as the boy heard it enter the forecourt he stopped reading, let the comic rest on the leg he had on the barrel and stared at it. Well he assumed he was looking at the car. But Paddy McGinty, the much maligned son of Maggie McGinty of Ballykillferret was not looking at the car. He was looking at what was in the car. Or rather, who was in the car. To a boy who had spent his time largely alone or surrounded by a procession of dead beat 'possible father material' men his mother picked up in bars, the man in the driving seat looked like a movie star. Paddy's brain wasn't sharp but his eyes were and through the opened car window he could see a most perfect face. Perfect. Beautiful to him in fact. But he felt the old stirrings in his shorts immediately. Thankfully he had his hand down there where it usually was when he was looking at the adventures of his comic book heroes. Even at 14 he was checking out the crotches of the cartoon figures to see if there was anything revealing to be had. He filled in what was missing himself. This man looked like one of those actors in the westerns he'd seen in the cinema on Saturdays when he could get the money off whoever his mother was madly in love with that day. And that man was looking at him! He dropped his comic - The Amazing adventures of Batman - on the ground and stood up immediately putting his hand down his tight little shorts to adjust his cock which, as usual when Batman was around, was as hard as nails. He hadn't the longest or thickest cock in school but it was nothing to be ashamed of. It was a good handful. No more. No less. And it supplied Paddy with hours of fun and never seemed to tire. His wrist got tired quicker than his cock. A trick he had picked up from a boy at school - called JJ, who had the most enormous cock and didn't care who saw it - was to put it in the elastic of your shorts so it was trapped. He had to do that quite frequently himself and it seemed to work. So, adjusting himself appropriately off he went to see to his own hunky Batman at the pump. And wasn't he just the ticket. Actually he was getting out of the car just as Paddy was approaching it. He spooked Paddy a bit because he was so tall - over 6 foot by the looks of him, and very broad shouldered. His mother's pick-ups were generally mousey types whose only exercise was lifting a pen to sign for social welfare cheques. But this man was broad shouldered with a not so broad waist. He was dressed in a fine looking suit and if Paddy had ever been close enough to quality before he would have known that this was a tailored suit made specially in London. Every part of the man's body was shown at its best. As was his custom, the boy's eyes went straight to the man's zip to see if he could see the outline of anything interesting. The boy in school, JJ, had such a large one that it could be clearly see through the school uniform and Paddy enjoyed watching it from afar. Here though he couldn't make anything out no matter how intensely he looked but he did notice that the man had thick, full thighs. Sportsman's thighs. A bit like his own would be when people realised how good a footballer he was and he became a professional soccer player. The thighs completely filled out the legs of his trousers. Paddy's cock ached and was quite painful now against the elastic of his shorts. Paddy didn't even stand 5 foot high so the man towered over him. Putting out his hand Brendan shoved it into Paddy's hand which had just been adjusting his precious package. "Well it's nice to see a new face around here" said Brendan to the boy keeping a firm grip on the smaller hand. Lowering his voice he whispered "I get tired looking at Breda's face every time I come down here. Been looking at it for 40 years and it gets no better with time! Are you working here long?" Brendan knew he had only started the day before as he had seen him running about in his shorts on the forecourt when he was passing by with some cattle in the farm's truck. He'd seen the bright red hair first and it interested him immediately. He couldn't make time that evening but he knew he had to call in this morning for his papers and 'photography' magazines. From a distance he looked quite engaging but close up he looked the business. He looked really cute. Brendan McIllhattan wasn't generally so forward but something open about the boy's manner and look attracted him despite himself. It was as if he had always known the boy and he was responding likewise. He also knew that the boy's eyes were not on the car either. "I've just moved here with mam. She's from the town. We live only up the road there in McCullough's cottage. You pass us by when you go to your farm." He thought that place was an outhouse for sure but he was certainly glad the boy was living so close. They chatted and chatted and covered a lot of ground. Age, school, likes etc. This surprised Brendan as the boy was as far away from his life as it was possible to get. But he seemed vulnerable. A dreamer. But he was also a pleasure for his eyes. He couldn't take them off him. He didn't really need petrol but he stood back and told Paddy to put in oe5 worth. He wanted to see the boy in action. His tee shirt didn't reach his waist and the shorts hid little. His perfectly round bottom filled out the back of the shorts and he could see the tight white undies beneath. As he stretched up to reach for the nozzle Brendan got a clear view of beautiful white smooth skin without spot or blemish. The shorts rode up his bottom somewhat and his underwear popped out. He really did wish he was a photographer. The boy continued to chat while fiddling about with the petrol cap. The cap was locked with a key so he couldn't open it and Brendan had no intention of helping him just yet because he was bent over trying to open it with one hand and hold the nozzle in the other. The view from behind was just too much to bare and Brendan just wanted to sit down and look at it. He also wanted to run his fingers along the boy's thighs and up into the shorts but for the moment the view alone was satisfying enough. Eventually the penny dropped and the boy realised that the petrol cap wasn't going to come off. "Here. Let me unlock it for you! Sorry I completely forgot! He walked over to Paddy and stood behind him. Stood very closely behind him in fact so that his stomach was perfectly aligned with the boy's back. His crotch, the object of the boy's lust when he stood in front of the car, perfectly smooth with the boy's bottom. Paddy never moved and continued with his work. Brendan kept his hands on the boy's shoulders and gently kneaded any tension out of them. Paddy slowly pulled the trigger on the nozzle and the pump started. In the early summer morning, on a rural forecourt of a rundown store, all that could be heard was the slow pumping of the petrol, the man's humming and the distant sound of two women chatting in the shop. "Oh I'm dead sorry Sir!" shouted the boy as he yanked the nozzle out of the petrol tank. He had got so distracted with the man's hands on his shoulders and just the very presence of him so close that the petrol had flowed out of the tank and onto the car. Paddy panicked and it squirted onto the ground covering both the man's shoes and his own. His own shoes were fit for the bin anyway so they didn't matter but the man's shoes were obviously expensive. Dam. He wasn't going to lose this job! He quickly grabbed the oil cloth on the ground near the pump and started to wipe the man's shoes to get the petrol off before it ruined the leather. All Brendan could see was a fantastic mop of fiery red hair bobbing up and down at his zipper. It was at this moment that he looked across the yard and saw the familiar figure of Breda entering her shop and Winnie marching off into the morning. Breda came marching out of the back room with the box in front of her so she couldn't see Brendan and the boy stand apart suddenly. There was now about 6 inches between them. Brendan walked quickly up to the counter to help Breda carry his mother's groceries and put them gently on the counter. "God mind yourself there Miss McGovern. At your age and condition carrying boxes around. Sure you'll do yourself damage. You should be letting young Paddy here be doing that. Fine strapping young man that he is. Wouldn't he be just the person to take the strain from your day to day work? Strong as an ox!" 'With the intelligence to match' she thought be kept her own counsel. "Early days yet Mr McIllhattan. Early days yet!" Well if he had anything to do with it the job was his whether Breda wanted it or not. "Could you give me the key of the toilet there Miss McGovern. The odours from the petrol on our shoes is a bit overwhelming. We're smelling out your shop. We'll nip around the back and wash the petrol off." Breda agreed. The fumes were a bit overpowering now. She wanted them out and took the key from the cashless register and handed it to him. Turning quickly he pushed the boy in front of him and they made haste indecently. She'd never seen the like but then again he was a protestant and they had funny ways. Breda had the toilet block built in anticipation of a tourist influx following a change of mind of the leaders in Dublin who finally realised that there was money in old ruins - herself excluded. They were targeting Americans in particular as they were a lot more gullible than the English tourists and easier to part from their money. The archaeologists had decided that a ruin not 5 miles from Breda's grocery business was of significant historical importance to the State that they put a ban on anyone even touching it. A bit too late however. Although it was known officially as 'The Monument' to the archaeologists it was known locally as 'The Half Monument' because the other half formed the basis of Dinny Maloney's cow shed. That was in 1922 when the English government's back was turned and was otherwise engaged in a war with people who wanted to be free or something. Seemed a waste to leave so much dressed stone lying in a field when cows were going damp from the rain. So she had a toilet built and a bill board of sorts erected to entice the unwary tour buses or passing tourist into her shop, bar and petrol pump. She wasn't happy with the outcome though. The promised tourists never really arrived - mainly because they got lost miles away on unmarked country roads and ended up, generally, at unregistered tourist sites largely the remains of the High Kings of Ireland that no one knew had ever existed up to that point. A goldmine to any farmer with a heap of stones in the middle of his fields. The sign went rusty and the cars went passed. Breda locked up the toilet and kept the key in the rarely opened cash register so there was no chance of anyone using the facility without her knowledge. This was the key she was now handing over to Brendan McIllhattan. She was going to offer him the use of her own personal toilet but thought the better of it and watched him gently push the boy out the door. She looked at his behind. That man sure knew how to fill a suit! The block itself was nothing special. Quietly unobtrusive it occupied a corner of the yard around the back. When the door was opened you found yourself in a small annex-like room with another door in front of you. This special feature arose because of an experience Breda had some years previous in a 'swell hotel'. She'd rambled into the one toilet and, with her bloomers round her ankles and about to let loose, in walked a man. A man! And she so vulnerable! She let a roar out of her that brought another 6 men from the wedding party racing to her rescue and the inebriated man was unceremoniously dumped out on the street. Breda was given a large whiskey to calm her nerves and an apology. But since that day she was wary of any 'open door' policy and had the toilet built to reflect that. The other side of it was that the toilet became a haven for passing truckers in search of a good time because it was impossible to get caught in a compromising position because of the doors and the way it was built. Apparently, and this was mentioned to her by the visiting Police Sergeant, these 'goings on' had been 'going on' for the best part of a year. They only found out about it when they were raiding other toilets in the surrounding counties and kept coming across references to 'Breda's Bar' in black marker on the walls. "It was your innocence that protected you Miss McGovern" said one of the policemen. Breda of course was shocked to her very foundations and was visibly shook when the Garda told her this. She had to sit down and have a large whiskey to get over it. Her place, sacred to her mother's memory, was being used for immoral importuning, the young rather attractive Garda had told her. And now it had been brought to a stop. And so had all Breda's profits. Dam them! She had a fair idea that something was going on out there but business had never been better. Booming even. No one travels 20 miles to buy a newspaper and a packet of cigarettes if there wasn't something in it for them. And now it had come to a halt. You think they'd mind their own business and her taxes (if she ever got round to handing over any) paying their salaries. Shocking! It was into this building of failed hopes and debauchery that Brendan hoped to have a little bit of his own hopes fulfilled with a bit of debauchery too.