Date: Mon, 17 Feb 2014 15:10:04 -0500 From: MICHAEL SOROS Subject: Breda's Little Helper Chapter 10 This story is completely fictitious and is the fruit of my own imagination. None of the characters ever existed and the town exists on no map. If you have not read the preceding chapters then either do so now or pass on as this will make no sense at all. If you cannot contribute a story to Nifty then you might try contributing some money to enable the volunteers keep this site operational. The work is free but the bandwidth, site and technical work isn't. And every little helps. It is possible to donate anonymously with a disposable credit card if you are sensitive. From the end of Chapter Nine. Meanwhile, downstairs, Matthew Corrigan, a relation of our Breda was sitting with his legs spread wide on an old armchair - a pair of the one upstairs. He had his jeans and underwear around his ankles and was recovering from a very strong orgasm. He always had powerful orgasms and sometimes passed out after them depending on how long he had been stroking it and who was stimulating him. But this time he seemed borderline. From what he could hear through the floorboards he was certain that Brendan had found his match - the match that he could never have been when he was first brought to the farm from Breda's shop when he was just 16 years old. He got on well with Brendan but realised, once he got started sexually, that one man was never going to be enough and gentle loving encounters bored him rigid. However, he made himself available and worked the land but he continued supplying his large full hurlers butt to anyone with a cock big enough to penetrate him the way he needed it. He could barely feel anyone under six inches and learned to weed them out rapidly. That was one of the good sides of hurling - apart from the ready availability of lots of fit men in their prime. A firm round butt. He started to think of his own first times with the man above.....and then fell asleep. Chapter Ten "And we'll continue our fascinating discussion on intestinal parasites in sheep following our recipe of the day. It's over now to you Nuala in our Galway studio". Click! "Well we're not going there matey" said Breda through gritted teeth switching off the radio. Although making her living largely from overcharging the local farming community Breda had thought for many years that they had too much access to the airwaves and should be restricted to the night time hours. But then the farmers would be asleep she supposed. Maybe they had a point. The bell on the shop door had just sounded prompting a slight adrenaline rush, a cardigan pulled tightly together and a move in the general direction of the shop counter. Her face dropped on entering and seeing the saccharine smile of Etty Corrigan on the other side. She was a bit more trouble than she was worth really. She was very religious, spiritual almost. A member of most of the charities in the town of Ballykillferrit she had a kind word to say about everyone, was always immaculately turned out in twin set and pearls and was fond of Breda McGovern. Despite these handicaps Breda liked her - even if begrudgingly. It was less exhausting than taking a dislike to her. Breda had learned over the years of serving behind a shop and bar counter that it is almost impossible to insult stupid people. Most insults go right through them missing the mark. Etty was one such person. She had the burden of liking her too as she was distantly related. It wasn't directly - a cousin once or twice removed. Breda knew she'd get nothing in a will so it wasn't worth pursuing. She was her mother's sister's daughter's something or other. Still blood though. On the positive side she was a gossip and, like Rumplestilskin, could spin straw into gold and rarely left a favourable reputation untarnished. "Isn't it just such a beautiful day today Breda" she oozed. "It was" she replied below her breath, then remembered the intestinal parasites and decided that Etty's visit may not be such a bad thing really. Business was slack. A lot of cars and trucks were pulling in for petrol, a lot more than usual but by the time she had seen the vehicle and walked outside they had pulled away. Although she waved they ignored her and disappeared into a cloud of dust. Where the hell was that boy? Costing her money he was. Well he would if she was actually paying him but it was still inconsiderate of him. That Brendan McIllhattan had taken him off to his farm this morning and he wasn't due back until 3 o clock. It was only 1 now. What were they doing up there anyway? Oh yes. Photography. Brendan. The boy. The farm. Photography. Where had all those words come together before? One look into the crystal blue eyes of Etty brought a flashback. Instant and powerful. She remembered standing in this exact spot almost fourteen years ago looking into those same eyes and having a pleading woman almost beg Breda to take her son Matthew Corrigan in to work for the summer. She had the local police sergeant standing behind her. Without Breda's consent her 16 year old son was to be sent to a juvenile detention centre in Dublin for an act of gross indecency. Truth be told it was more than one. Even more truth be told they were so gross they couldn't even be mentioned in polite conversation - although the impolite had a field day. "If you don't take him Breda they'll send my baby away to a prison. All those men! Locked up! My little angel! What will become of him!" pleaded the mother of the aforementioned boy. Breda looked into the eyes of the sergeant behind her. He looked at her. They said nothing but they said everything at the same time. "What'll become of him? He'll have the time of his life that's what! I bet he gets thrown out for gross indecency in there too!" is what she wanted to say but couldn't. Although Etty had borne five sons it was her youngest, Matthew who inspired her strongest maternal instincts. Breda would have just thrown away the key. She had never liked Etty's youngest. He was 'brazen' as they say in this part of the country. That basically meant he didn't show the appropriate respect. He was too stocky to hit as well. He took to boxing at an early stage and was quite good at it, winning many county and regional medals in his age bracket. He was also quite an aggressive little monster at the best of times. Etty saw none of this. She saw a champion. Against her better judgement Breda was persuaded to take the boy on as a helper. It was to be full time, unpaid of course. He was to stay in the room above the shop. He couldn't leave the grounds for three months. If - and only if - he had 'mended his ways' then the conditional sentence would be lifted and he was free to go and cause trouble somewhere else. Couldn't get fairer than that. As Breda couldn't bear the sight of him she put a plastic chair out the front and put him in charge of the petrol pump. It was to be a surprisingly profitable summer however. She knew that he couldn't touch her. In the strange ethics that governed amateur boxing the little monster couldn't punch Breda - as much as he was goaded into doing so. Old ladies were out of bounds. If he laid a finger on her he could never enter a ring again and nor would anyone enter his either. Breda knew this and played it for all it was worth. She made discreet enquiries from some of her contacts in the knitting circle and some of the more religious ladies of the parish. She knew more than the judge in the local District Court after an hour. "Little tramp" she said to herself eyeing the boy through the window of the shop bending over and chatting to some driver while he pumped the car full of petrol. They obviously knew one another. She wondered how many more men he knew who needed petrol. She fingered the key of the toilet around the back of the shop she kept in her overall pocket. Below her conscious thoughts a serendipitous plan was forming. "Boys are expensive. They cost money. I'm not a charity." Matthew Corrigan was twelve years old when he started taking an inordinate interest in the genitalia of his fellow boxers at the St Michael's Amateur Boxing Club Ballykillferrit. Despite its rather sad appearance and limited facilities it had turned out quite a few champions in its time - none more so than the present head coach Michael McLafferty, former boxing coach to the nearest military training camp. He recognised latent ability in the lads he took on to train. They had to be dedicated. They had to have stamina. They had to have commitment. They had to have shapely legs and an arse to die for as well. If he was going to be giving his time for free he at least wanted to get something out of it - even if he were just a view up the shorts of the teenage boxers entrusted to his tuition. Not that he had to look up very far. The shorts, in the fashion of the time, left little to the imagination and were practically a second skin. They stopped just below where the boys' balls fell and revealed the full length of each boxer's thighs - an area of deep interest to our coach. There was rarely an evening went by that some boxer or other didn't have to have a deep tissue massage for potential groin strain. He'd even taught them to give it to one another. One of the most enthusiastic boys was Matthew Corrigan. Coach's fingers strayed no further than the thighs. Matthew's knew no bounds and his fingers found themselves wandering around the balls and cock of his fellow boxers. He got a response sometimes, a shocked expression other times and a fight the rest of the time. He was well able to defend himself and welcomed the close contact the fight would allow him with the other boy. All fights ended up on the floor with Matthew's face in his opponent's groin. None of this was discouraged by the coaching team. "Healthy aggression" was the response as they carefully adjusted their hardened cocks in their own shorts as they pressed for the best view of the two teenagers squirming hotly against one another. This was in the days before videos so they had to make their own entertainment. Some of the boys dreaded the changing room at the end of the evening. Matthew - or Matty as he was generally called - had a habit of openly making comments on the other boys' cocks and balls. His own was on display for all to see. There wasn't a lot of it really. Average. He had an obsession with larger ones and walked round the changing rooms looking at the cocks of the older boys. After much prompting he was able to get the more heavily endowed older teens to get hard for him so he could 'see what his would be like'. Some of the older ones were just that bit afraid of the boy and went along with it. A sixteen year old didn't have much trouble getting an erection even with his friends around him. It was outside the changing rooms that Matty followed the well-endowed around the town in the hope of persuading them to let him have a feel of it. He was more successful privately than he ever was publicly. Matty had a talent for masturbating other men and boys. He had little interest in masturbating his own but he had an obsessional interest in everyone else's penis - but only if it was large and worth handling. His trained hand could bring an orgasm to a statue and rare was the teenage boxer who wasn't left with a smile on his face following a visit from Matty Corrigan. They never had to clean up either because the boy, controlling the orgasm experience, always took the cum into his mouth and swallowed it. The other boys were still in orgasmic bliss and blocked out this part but allowed the boy free access to their cocks whenever it was convenient to do so, generally after boxing training or in the toilets at school. At fourteen the young teenager had become totally obsessed with large penises and masturbating them and pursued them aggressively. His boxing skills increased because he spent so much time there arriving hours before the club even opened, generally with the coach to help get everything out. After practice the older teens stayed behind to do some weight training and were joined by Matty with the Coach's consent. No one left those training sessions with a sperm left in his balls. Some of the teenagers deliberately saved themselves and their ball juice for the training sessions so they could enjoy an explosive orgasm at the experienced hands of Matthew Corrigan. They only had to drop their little shorts and tight briefs - compulsory outfit - and just lie back on one of the benches and wait their turn. Depending on how many of the teenage boxers stayed back it was only a matter of time before those seasoned hands were working their magic and producing generous outpourings of teenage spunk. Not one drop of it ever hit the floor either. One of the older teenagers was particularly well endowed and, had a ruler been to hand, would have measured the best part of ten inches of thick throbbing meat. The head was large and beautifully shaped. Certainly wider and fuller than the average cock. It was Matty's favourite masturbation toy and he devoted a lot more time to this one cock than he did to all the others combined. Albert O Hara, the 18 year old attached to this fantastic sex toy, had found the rabid attentions of Matthew Corrigan quite demanding at first and threatened violence if he wasn't left alone. He wasn't left alone and could be seen chasing Matty down streets and around boxing rings. Matthew wasn't prepared to let the largest cock he'd ever seen pass by without being challenged. He knew that he only had to get hold of it once and it was his to do as he pleased. No one refused a second chance with those hands covered in copious amount of Vaseline squeezing and moulding and pulling and caressing. No one else in the town would go anywhere near them. Least of all a girl. And if she did no one wanted to be seen with her afterwards so they never got seconds. With Matty forever available and unsuspected they could have as much as they wanted - but all on the condition that he thought your cock worth his efforts. If you were too small for him you just got a look or a frown and no amount of coaxing or bribery got you time with those hands. Albert of course had no such problems and was eagerly sought after by the fourteen year old. Albert wasn't gay. He had no interest in men. His interest lay squarely between the breasts of women - if he could only ever get one to stay still long enough to sample them. Most of the girls who were amenable to a bit of sex in the town had been warned off Albert as his large penis was liable to cause injuries (so they believed) and the stretching would mean they couldn't pretend to be a virgin on their wedding night. When he lay back on the weights bench at the boxing gym he closed his eyes and imagined those soft sensuous masturbatory hands squeezing and playing with his cock to be that of Fiona Dooley, the girl with the largest chest in the town, instead of a fourteen year old who wouldn't take no for an answer. Albert was always last in the queue. Matty insisted on it. "The best 'til last" he'd say and race through the three or four other boys who had stayed behind. They were so horny that they came almost immediately. Although Albert was a reluctant object of Matty's lust he wasn't a complete stranger to a woman's hands on his enormous cock. In the nearest large town there was a 'Palm Reader' from Persia - Irina Palm she called herself. Her palms rarely held a card but held the rock hard cocks of the desperate male population of the surrounding towns. She had a talent for masturbating men and she made a good living from it. She was in fact Lisa Doherty of the town and had been no further than Dublin but no one cared. From time to time she had to make up a fortune for some poor unfortunate pensioner who thought she actually read palms. "Any numbers from the Lottery showing up there love?" she was asked once. "If I could see the Lottery numbers do you think I'd be sitting here with a hand towel and cocoa butter?" Albert had been a regular since his sixteenth birthday when he was given the price of a visit from his father. Whenever he could get the money together he could be found in the queue outside Madame Irina Palm waiting his turn. He knew quality when he felt it - but she was nothing compared to the practiced hands of Matthew Corrigan. He was the best. He was sensuous. He had control. He was free but he was also male. That required some mental and moral gymnastics initially but once his balls filled again he managed to jump that hurdle, lie back and enjoy the ride. Matthew had slowly worked his way through the teenage boxers and graduated to the coaching team, well the better endowed of the team anyway. It had to be the length of his two large hands. He wanted to enjoy the sensations and he wanted to enjoy controlling the orgasm of the man attached to the penis. It gave him a sense of power. As the years progressed he began to limit the number of recipients of his talents. Albert O Hara was always number one and was never refused. He could hold the young man for two hours before allowing an almighty orgasm released. As school occupied less and less of his time his hand became busier and busier but with a smaller number of larger men. He moved his search to the canal bank walk on the outskirts of the town. It was supposed to be a beauty spot but as it cost so much to upkeep the Town Council decided to let it go to seed and call it a Nature Reserve. This Nature Reserve became quite overgrown in a short time and became home to quite a lot of unnatural behaviour. One of the regulars there each evening was Matthew with his own jar of Vaseline or cocoa butter depending on resources. He knew the large cocked men and youths on sight and disappeared into his own bushes when they spotted him. It was a mark of manhood to have Matthew masturbate you because it meant you were hung. The reputation of the Nature Reserve spread, as did the tale of the teenager who could bring an orgasm to Michelangelo's David. Wind of such unnatural behaviour circulated to one of the town latter day Beadles who insisted the police bring a stop to it. As the local sergeant was one of Matthew's regulars it was to prove a bit of a problem. The local magistrate was a friend and between the two of them they decided on the course of action which landed Matthew Corrigan in Breda's shop that fateful summer's day. He was never going to end up in any Institution - not while those hands were still capable of summoning orgasms and spunk from some of the deepest recesses of a wearied married man i.e. the sergeant. Most of the men followed him out to Breda's shop where they 'discovered' that she sold petrol and alcohol. Matty was given the key of the toilet around the back 'for those that need to relieve themselves'. Breda made it clear to Matthew that the toilet key was used after the men bought something. They always did. Breda did a brisk business that summer. She never made any observations about what Matty was doing following the men to the toilet or disappearing with them in their vans for a few minutes. She was now nursing a fattening till so it was a win win situation. Towards the end of the summer Matty and Brendan became good friends and he was offered a job on the McIllhattan farm. Brendan initially enjoyed the teenager's hands but after a short time it became clear to Matthew that this man was looking for a lot more than a hand job. He wanted kisses, romance, whispering sweet words in his ear, and gentle massages. That was a bit creepy. Unnatural really. What was wrong with a good long masturbation session peppered with filthy obscene talk? That was normal. But not the other. Their intimacy came to a halt after a short time but Matty proved a satisfactory worker and was able to keep the casual labourers in line either by threat of a punch or a few hours with his practised hands if they were hung enough. He had been working for the man now for fourteen years and he was well aware of Brendan's photography work. He'd had quite a few of himself in full boxing gear for a few admirers of his other manual talents. He had however never really known Brendan to get involved with any of the lads that he brought back. He'd been listening to all the activity going on upstairs and was quite taken aback. The boy was ginger. Red headed! What was all that about? Personally he avoided gingers on the grounds that their pubic hair reminded him of a nest of mice and it put him off wanking them no matter how hung they were. This was obviously not something that concerned Brendan. And the boy looked quite young. He had never brought anyone back to the farm who was that young. How old was he any way Matty wondered? Fifteen at most. He couldn't take the moral high ground of course as he was sexually active at fourteen himself but he had always considered his sexual activities as harmless or at least not 'gay'. He hadn't been fucked until he was twenty. That was control. There was nothing emotional in his attachments to his men - they were just hung. What was wrong with an obsession with enormous cocks? However..... he was curious to know what would happen now. Brendan hadn't had an orgasm yet. He would have heard it through the floor boards yet he'd been up to some unspeakable act with that teenager as he could clearly hear the slurping and licking. He was sure he was using those toffees again. And he heard the spanking. Give me spunk any day he thought! He heard him settle back onto the chair. What were they going to do now? While Brendan took a rest from his exhaustive sexual acts with the boy, Paddy McGinty, having finished washing himself free of the sticky toffee which was all smeared between his beautiful plump bum cheeks, took some time to look around the prop room. He had never seen a room like it. It was small with just a small window to allow in some light. There were costumes and props of every description gracing all four walls. He didn't even know what most of the props were for. There were boxing gloves, swords, vases, boots and all sorts of mock weaponry. The rails beneath were stuffed with costumes of every sort - the result of 25 years of collecting other people's cast offs. Hollywood studios had less. Paddy's instinct was to search for any costume that would be suitable for him and that would show off his beautiful bottom to best effect - a nice pair of red boxing shorts for example. Nothing immediately took his eye. But then......that familiar blue and black. Where those ears he could see over the top of the rail? His heart began to speed up a bit and he walked to the back of the room to the end of the rail there. Pushing back all the other costumes squeezed onto the rail he saw the most erotic costume there could be. An answer to prayers if he ever had time to make one. It was a Batman costume. Quite a large one mind you and only the top half but it was definitely a Batman costume with mask and headgear included. The legs were missing and he looked on the floor for them but there was no sign. But there was something else there that caught his eye. A pair of Wrangler jeans. A big pair too thrown carelessly onto the floor and hidden by the rail. He was getting hard again and there was fire down below. Now in this day and age a pair of Wrangler jeans would hardly cause a lip to purse or raise a comment. Jeans themselves mean nothing and every one that wants jeans just buys them. Not so when little Paddy McGinty was a teenager. Jeans in a rural town were as rare as chickens teeth. Although in their native home Wranglers were for farm and heavy work, Wranglers were far too expensive and too much of a status symbol to be used on a farm. Irish farmers just wore whatever castoffs they had and hoped they lasted. There was no design in it. If it could keep out cow shit it was fashion. Those who could afford jeans at all in the town of Ballykillferrit wore them to make a statement. They were only available - under glass too - at Durkan's Menswear on the main street. They were paid for in instalments by the likes of Albert O Hara when he saved money with Matthew that he would have spent on Irina Palm. They were most certainly not worn horse-riding or ever saw the inside of a barn. No cow's arse ever had the opportunity to unload onto these jeans. The pair in question belonged to Brendan. He of course had been able to buy any Wrangler jeans he wanted when he was younger and was the height of fashion when he attended the local animal Mart in the surrounding districts. A trend setter. He caught the attention of many of the younger farmers wishing to catch the eye of some comely maiden in a cross over cardigan and corset with firm thighs promising healthy sons who had their eyes on a pair of jeans. They considered Brendan a threat in his Wranglers. He was turning heads. In many respects Brendan was a victim of his own modesty. He had no idea that being squeezed into a pair of jeans had such unexpected consequences. He filled them out in all the expected places and had a much admired Wrangler Butt much desired by the men about town. When he entered the one or two hidden bars that catered to the gay community - even though they didn't formally exist - in Dublin, he attracted the immediate attention of the smarter set and the lustful of course. He assumed it was his dashing good looks and personality that was drawing the cream of the crop in his direction. He was flattered and never left alone. The cream of the crop was his for the taking. It was only when on a trip to London one year that the penny dropped like a brick - if you'll forgive the analogy. He was descending an escalator in one of London's finer Department stores. As he approached the floor he noticed the image of a rather attractive man on the other side of the glass door about to enter. He was tall. Dark haired and he was wearing Wrangler jeans just like him. The thighs filled the material and the hips were full. His eyes of course raced immediately to the thick full package which the jeans highlighted. It was substantial. It was obvious. The length could be made out through the rough blue cotton. He resolved to wait until the man came through the door and follow him up the escalator and get a good view of his butt. He was wearing a short waist length jacket similar to his own. It was difficult to make out through the glass. As he hopped off the final step of the escalator he looked in the direction of the door and found he was looking at himself. The light in the store had turned the glass door into a mirror. He'd been lusting after himself! He realised now though what the men in the bars had been looking at and it wasn't his riveting personality as he'd suspected. He'd been on show in his Wrangler jeans and never suspected that his large anatomical wonder was on such prominent display to all and sundry. Brendan had exhausted himself a bit too much and wanking without orgasm had a tendency to make him sleepy. He was folding back in between the beautiful plump cheeks of the red haired teen when he was sharply brought to his senses. "Well would you look at what I've found. You just have to wear them. You just have to!" It was the lad with some sort of nylon cloak and an old pair of his jeans. "I didn't know you wanted to dress up. You should have told me and we could have chosen something together" said Brendan reaching out for the black cape. He didn't remember ever using that before. He had some nice white tennis shorts that would suit the boy. "Oh they're not for me man. They're for you!" he said presenting them to his big dark man. He threw them into Brendan's lap and walked round to the side of the armchair and up to his ear. Leaning over suggestively with his two round globes expanding across the arm. "You just have to wear them for me. You just have to wear them. I'll do anything you want. Like...anything" said the boy grabbing Brendan's engorged manhood and rather deftly smearing the oozing precum around the enlarged head. The man grabbed him and removed it immediately. He was just too sensitive there at the moment and didn't want to break the atmosphere. Taking that as a refusal Paddy kissed the man on his ear lobe and whispered ever so softly "For a birthday present. Please? Pretty please?" he whispered pursing his lips. He started to kiss him again. "Whose birthday is it then? Yours?" "Of course! Who else is in the room?" Brendan didn't believe for one moment that it was the boy's birthday but just assumed he was desperate for him to wear this bizarre combination. "I'm fifteen today. I swear" He stood up and crossed his heart - an action he had seen his mother do on many occasions as she was lead from a shop with a chicken up her sweater denying all knowledge of how it got there. Brendan turned and looked him directly in the eye. "If it's your birthday what are you doing here and why aren't you having a party with your mates?" "I've never had a birthday party. I've never really had friends because we were always moving around." Unconsciously he started playing with his balls and moved them about while looking at the ground. "And I wasn't going to miss coming up here with you. And the shop is great. I get free comics - Batman" he said nodding to the costume in the man's lap "and I think Ms McGovern's very funny. Strange funny but it's better than hanging around that old cottage I have to live in. Mam never had a birthday for me." He didn't seem too distressed about it. Immediately Brendan stood up, the costume and jeans fell to the floor. He turned to the boy and embraced him running his two hands down the beautiful plump bottom of the boy. He was still so horny after all. He kissed him forcefully. "I'll go put them on. I've never done this before but I'll do it for you. I'll be out in a minute." And off he went back into the prop room having picked up the bizarre nylon Batman costume and jeans. This was going to be a first for both of them. And didn't Batman have some sort of helper or something? He was a bit hazy about it but he racked his memory as he closed the door to the room turning quickly to catch a glimpse of the boy staring back at him. It was worth it - no matter how humiliated he felt. He closed the door and put the costume on. He had never seen it before but he had accumulated so much stuff over the years from various sources that he couldn't account for it all. He usually just let the boys choose whatever took their fancy to be photographed in. None had ever taken this one. And where was the other half? Bound to be here somewhere but he was too sexed up now to go looking for it. He had the jeans anyway. Hoped they fit. There was a full length mirror on the back of the door where he adjusted the outfit. Blackish blue top with a bat symbol in yellow across it. It hugged his wide chest very well and went down as far as his waist. The cape he put on next. It was light and covered his entire body to below his bum. He put the jeans on next - with a bit of difficulty mind you. They were tight on him as he hadn't worn them for years. With a bit of effort he pulled them up over his thighs and dragged them across his bottom. They wouldn't close in the front but he didn't think the boy would mind. He pulled the zip half way up and left it like that with the clear outline of his cock perfectly visible to the side just like all those years ago. There was a yellow belt with all sorts of pockets which closed around his waist. Lastly he picked up the headgear. Two little ears on top. Quite cute he thought. He pulled it over his head. It was a bit tight and he had to be careful. The back went down to his neck but the front only covered as far as the nose. Luckily he had the broad chin to balance the top part. He could see his diamond blue eyes shining through the eye sockets. There were no gloves. He was sure there were supposed to be gloves with this outfit. With a renewed energy he raced to the back of the room and looked for the gloves. There was nothing. But he did find another part of the costume though. The yellow cloak of the boy that used to go with Batman from the television series. Was it red or yellow? There were two here. Didn't matter. He took the yellow one and rooted around in one of the many boxes he had there. He found a little tight pair of red undies and he took them out, put them to his nose and sniffed. Fresh enough he thought. He returned to the mirror and took a long hard look at himself. "Horny bit of stuff aren't you Brendan?" he said grabbing his crotch and rubbing this long thick cock through the denim. He was looking at himself as though he were looking at someone else. He couldn't see his own face and in a strange way it disconnected him from his own person. He was in fact another person. Who that was he didn't know but he looked hot. Broad shouldered, tall, well hung with lovely blue eyes shining through the mask. And didn't that mask make an impact? It hid the man he knew. The quiet respectful man he always showed to the public. The man he always thought he was. He assumed his private and public personas were one. But were they? Now that he was looking at himself but didn't recognise himself it came to his mind that maybe he could be someone different. Someone that wouldn't be rejected by the likes of Matthew Corrigan? He pulled himself up, adjusted the mask to draw it down further on his face, opened the zip of the jeans a little bit to expose his hair and moved towards the door. He had never acted before but he felt this particular role was worth a shot. He felt confident. Cool and assured. Did a costume and a mask do that to a person? He'd always lived a double life. With the mask on he felt his public one had disappeared and his real self was no exposed to the world. When he opened the door the boy was standing by the window with his back towards him and the two perfect mounds of flesh facing him. He started to harden. The young birthday boy looked towards the door and took a sharp intake of breath. Was this true? Was this happening? It seemed to the boy that his daydreams were now occupying his waking hours. Batman had come to visit him. It was exactly as he imagined him to be. Tall. Dark. Wide. Except for the jeans of course. Paddy had always spent a lot of time examining the cartoon hero's thighs and crotch for signs of a long penis that the illustrator had put in. He never found one. But now he had it right in front of him. "Put these on lad" Brendan said and handed him the short yellow cloak and little red undies. When he put the cloak around him he was quite surprised at how soft it was against his own soft skin. It barely covered his bum and when he bent over to put on the little red bikini briefs it rode up his back. Every inch of that rising was followed by a pair of wide eyes. The briefs proved a bit of a challenge as they were tighter than they looked and he had to really try get them over his footballer's thighs. They came halfway up his tight round bum and just half covered his stiff cock. But they excited him. "Now take these jeans down". Paddy, with more haste than he ought to have shown, put his hand into the open jeans and removed the thick heavy piece of man meat that Brendan was hiding there. It was slimy with precum but he didn't mind. He had to use both hands to release it and when it sprang out it nearly hit him on the face. That was one slap he didn't mind. Pressing in just that bit closer so that the rock hard cock was against his face and lips the teenager grabbed both sides of the jeans and with some effort dragged them down to his hero's ankles. Brendan sat down immediately and opened his legs widely allowing the red headed boy to settle in between them and wait for instructions. He had never given his large balls much attention before although he had always given them air. They hung down heavily between his thighs and caused him to sweat - not that that seemed to be a barrier to the boy now pressing up against his legs with his cheeks giving little kisses. Then he felt the soft hands of the boy gently taking those two large cream makers and hold them softly and roll them around in his hands. With one hand he tried to hold them and caress them with the other. He found them fascinating. He had never been so close to a pair of balls so large and because they belonged to his hero that only increased his respect for them. "Play gently with them boy. Kiss them for me. Show me how much you think of me." Paddy didn't hesitate and moved in closer breathing in heavily as he did so. It was the smell of a man. A heroic man too. His brain had now blended Brendan and his much admired hero into the one person - to obey and admire one was to make the other happy too. He put out his soft red tongue as much as he could and softly licked the hairless skin holding those two manly orbs. He liked the way they moved around. He used both his hands to hold them up while he gently kissed them and massaged them with his tongue. He hoped they were filling up nicely. He wanted to see what he had helped produce. He was melting into his worship of these two golden balls of the man. He was able to taste something else too. It slowly dawned on him that it was the pre-cum, the man's honey that was cascading slowly down that beautiful piece of manhood that his hero had. He had become so deeply engrossed in playing carefully with the balls of the hero that he forgot there was a lot more attached to them. But he didn't want to move from them. He wanted to stay snuggled up between these thighs all day and all night. He liked being here. He also liked the position he was kneeling in and the feel of the cloak as it moved about his skin in response to the movement of his tongue. The bottom of the cloak just covered his own bottom and it made him horny. The little tight red briefs pressing against his two round bum cheeks wasn't helping either. He could stay dressed like this all day even if his Batman wasn't around. It was all consuming. From his sitting position our hero was able to see the head of his assistant - that flaming red hair contrasting so clearly with the yellow cloak. As the boys tongue moved around and around his balls he was unknowingly moving his bottom from side to side and letting Brendan get a peek at the little red undies the boy was wearing underneath. Those tight little briefs and nothing else. It was obscene - but it was just so horny at the same time. The boy was enjoying his time down there between his legs. He had no intention of moving up to his enormous cock any time soon by the looks of it. It was pulsing and thumping away. It had to be emptied. It was paining him and the pain was mixing with the intense pleasure the boy was giving him so he really didn't know if he should be in ecstasy or hell. Maybe they were the same thing? "Paddy" he called out. "Robin?" The boy looked up. He looked really beautiful with that red ball licking tongue hanging out and his eyes gazing directly into his. "Give them a short break. I know you like it. So do I but we have to leave shortly. We have plenty of time to come back up here. Move closer to me and take my cock in your mouth. Take as much or as little as you want. But hold your mouth closed. I can't last. I'm in agony here. I have to cum!" The boy needed no further instructions. He let the balls go gently and they returned to their normal hanging position. He put his hands on the man's engorged cock and could feel the blood pumping and pumping inside. It was impressive - but it couldn't be anything else on his hero. He always knew there was something hidden in those drawings. He stood up and bent over. Brendan braced himself and grabbed the arms of the chair. He was starting and he couldn't hold it back any more. Paddy could feel the movement in the man's organ and with great haste bent over and put the top of his hero's cock into his mouth. He had no room for anymore of it. Almost on contact the flood gates opened and the pump released the reservoir of thick white cream the man had been holding in his balls all afternoon. He hit the back of the boy's throat with tremendous force at least three times. Then with less force and then he could no longer feel it against his tongue but from the feel of the thick cock he knew it was still pumping out that life force. Paddy stayed still. It was his place to pleasure his hero. To see that he came to no harm. To see that his every need was satisfied. This was his place and he wanted it. When the pulsing stopped the boy started to slowly suck the giant head of Brendan's cock as it slowly deflated. He put his hands on his thighs to steady himself and they drifted down to those fantastic pair of balls again. He so badly wanted to start playing with them. Looking up briefly for permission he rather disappointedly noticed that the man's eyes were shut. They he heard a slight snore! Looks like he had fallen asleep. Le petit mort the French call it. The little sleep of death that comes to some after a powerful orgasm. It was never something that would affect Paddy. He ran his tongue around the head of the deflated cock and let it fall down. Even soft it was lovely to behold. He stood up straight and pulled the little red bikini briefs up as high and as tight as they would go. He resolved to just stand there and wait for his hero to awaken from his slumber. He wanted to be the first thing that his hero saw - his red hair, yellow cloak down to his bottom and the little red briefs. With these he had a passport to the man and he knew it. When Brendan had come round Paddy in his briefs was indeed the first thing he saw. Overcome with lust again he stood up with a dramatic flourish, grabbed the boy and turned him round pulling him in close to him. He put the black cloak around both of the so only the boy's red hair popped out from beneath it. "We have all summer Paddy. All summer for this." And he pressed his hardening cock into the back of the little bikini briefs. The boy pressed back in response. "Every day Mr Brendan?" "Every day my little hero. Every afternoon. But let's not disappoint our public huh? I'll come and collect you from the shop every morning and drop you back at three. I'll come down at night to the bar for a drink. I'll show you how to use a camera so at least if you're asked what you're doing up here you'll have something to tell them. Breda won't say a thing." Nor did she. She got the boy's free labour courtesy of Brendan's wallet. It was a bribe of course but never mentioned. She grew to like the boy in as much as she liked anyone - or at least she didn't dislike him as much anymore. She taught him the rudiments of running the shop. The blarney he had in abundance. The entire summer was passed in this manner. Weekends were special and extended sessions were held in the studio with an increasing array of costumes. However it was the Batman that appeared more often than any of the others because Paddy wanted it. His most enduring desire was to see his great dark man. Despite the hundreds of photos taken of himself, Brendan would only allow Paddy ever take one of him - outside the shop one day in August leaning against the petrol pump. He took it with a small camera Brendan had given him as a present for his birthday. "No more photos of me lad. I'm no Montgomery Clift and you don't want my image messing up inside your camera. Maybe some time in the future." If you looked carefully, and Paddy had, there is the outline of a woman's shadow in the widow peering through the glass. PRESENT DAY. "Patrick!" He could hear someone shouting in the background. "Patrick! Will you get a move on! We'll never make Galway in two hours at this rate. They won't hold off the wedding for us you know." Patrick turned, sharply awoken from his reverie. It seemed so odd being called Patrick outside this dilapidated two storey structure. In this piece of Ireland he had always been called Paddy. His partner Henry had never heard him called anything other than Patrick. When he left Ireland with his mother all those years ago he left Paddy behind him. "What a dump!" Henry said glancing across the foreground quickly. "What was this place?" Henry had lost interest already. He couldn't see why they had to leave the motorway to come down a few country lanes to this place. Thankfully they had every modern computer gadget at their disposal to enable them find the exact location. It wasn't easy. Patrick recognised nothing in the area which made Henry wonder if he had ever been here at all. Their plane was delayed so they would have to go directly to the wedding of some friends in a hotel. It was a civil partnership really but they had written wedding on the invitations. He turned to go back to the car. Patrick rarely insisted on anything outside of his photography work. He was prepared to go with the flow. Henry made all the decisions in the relationship. In this instance however Patrick made no allowance for the delay in the airport or the fact they would be late for the ceremony. They had to visit this place. What 'this place' was exactly was never explained and he didn't want one. A boarded up shop and -if the signage was right - a bar too. Looked like it had been empty for quite some time. Some vandalism. A white lace curtain blowing out from a smashed window like a flag of surrender. A rusting petrol pump in the forecourt. A plastic chair sticking out from under the weeds held tight by the grass. And a SOLD sign nailed over the For Sale board. Dreadful. Henry got back in the hired car and started up the engine tooting the horn twice. He looked casually at his good shoes and confirmed they hadn't been dirtied by the walk across the forecourt. They hadn't. Looking in the wing mirror he could see the back of his partner of more than twenty years. Broad shouldered now and filling his suit well. Still maintained his fantastic thighs and butt. It was worth marrying him for those alone. He dismissed those thoughts quick enough. They made him look cheap and these Saville Row suits didn't come cheap. Nor the handmade shoes. He wondered how long Patrick's hair would stay red. It was going white already. He was in his mid- forties now. Red heads didn't go grey. Straight to white! Not that it mattered of course. Was this some photography project? Was he eyeing this for some future photo-shoot for one of his fashion magazines. God only knows what the theme would be: farmyard casual? Hardly the background that cutting edge fashion photography was looking for. But then he was a patent lawyer. What did he know about fashion? That was Patrick's genius. One prop - a hat, a mask, a cloak - could make a run of the mill shoot into a stroke of genius. And Patrick had that touch. 'I learned it all from a master' he used to say. Never said who. Or where. Just touched the side of his nose with his index finger. Henry was sure he had just made it up. He had a great imagination. Harry just wished he'd use it to visit some nicer sights as he'd never seen Ireland before. He beeped the horn again. Taking a deep breath Patrick turned his back on the run down shop and started to walk towards the Mercedes. He hadn't seen this place since the autumn day he left it just three months after his fifteenth birthday. His mother was offered a job in London at a bar known to the police in Soho. Surprisingly she insisted her son come too. He had no choice in the matter. He finished up one evening and the next morning he was on a bus to Dublin. He had never returned. Although he had never physically visited the place he had never left it either. He had been taken out of the shop but it had never been taken out of him. Breda's wisdom had stood him in good stead over the years. 'A penny kept is a penny earned' 'Do unto others before they do it unto you' 'Never give a drunk an even break' They list was endless. It meant nothing to him at 14 but a lot at 44. He had never contacted her again as life got in the way but she was still living in his thoughts. Sometimes when walking through the park in the more affluent part of London in which he now lived he would observe a pensioner pottering about and he'd take a secret photo. He thought of Breda's enormous hand bag that could have doubled as a body bag. And quite possibly did. He thought of her 'night caps' served in a glass a goldfish could call home. The badly dyed hair that fooled everyone into thinking it was a wig. He had become her devoted underpaid assistant that summer and never regretted it. A few years after he left the place his mother received a letter courtesy of her sister in the town. It was an obituary cut from the Ballykillferrit and District Gazette. The death notice was circled. On the side margin, in spindly old woman writing were the words 'Remember? Remember!' Beside the scribble the paper was warped in some places. They could have been the marks of dried tears - or whiskey. Brendan Corrigan had died, aged 46, of pancreatic cancer and was interred in the family plot in the local graveyard. Paddy still had that cutting with the one photo he had of Brendan. He had never mentioned him to anyone. Nor was Breda's memory ever given life either. If he released them from the past they might change, and he didn't want that. She was well forgotten in the town now. No one would know now of the dreadful old woman who ran the bar and shop on the outskirts of the town or how she died even if Paddy had asked. She had passed away peacefully and with great relief by the staff at a local retirement home run by nuns. Two of the nuns had lost their faith and a nurse had been struck off for, it was believed, administering an overdose to the woman who shared Breda's room. A snorer. "Sure it could have happened to anyone - getting that dose wrong" Breda had said in a consoling manner to the nurse after the enquiry. "They must have put the wrong pills in the jar. Shocking! Is anyone safe? They're looking for cleaners at the abattoir by the way. Will I put in a good word for you?" She was safe though. She died at 92 surrounded by her family - or what was left of them. She deliberately left no will. "That'll keep then at one another's throats for years". She drew some comfort from that as she gave up her last breath. Henry looked in the rear view mirror at what they had driven so far out of their way to see and sighed. Then he looked at the man beside him with the flaming red hair that had never dimmed and squeezed his thigh gently. He wondered what was keeping him so quiet. It was usually so difficult to shut him up. "Who'd buy a dump like that? It looks like a tornado had just left it there" said Henry to Paddy and immediately drove off to find the exit to the motorway. "Yeah. You'd wonder wouldn't you?" he replied, fingering the set of well-worn keys the estate agent had sent him a few weeks previous.... Words of a poem came strangely to Patrick's mind. Words that came floating from this place all those years ago. They were the lines from a poem Breda would say to herself while knitting at the counter of an evening with Brendan eyeing Paddy over the bar. Men that had seen him drank deep and were silent...And O he was the Sunday in every week. Fin