Date: Sat, 9 Sep 2006 10:10:49 -0400 From: Jeff A Subject: Good For The Soul Good for the Soul a story by parrafan Disclaimer: This story is adult fiction, not for use by minors. All of the characters, places and situations are of course imaginary. The author is not an official spokesperson for the religious organisations mentioned. Dedication: This lighthearted piece of blasphemous twaddle is dedicated to the author who writes under the nic 'Will S', whose tale "Fantasy Football" I recently read and thoroughly enjoyed. Since Will left no forwarding address, I cannot send him a note to express my enjoyment and appreciation, so this little story will have to suffice. Cheers, Will. * * * Good for the Soul "I won't be tellin' you boys again, now get your idle bottoms out of those beds, down those stairs and to the breakfast table. We haven't got all day!" Widow O'Finnegan's voice resounded from her kitchen throughout the small townhouse that had been home for herself and her five boys for the four weeks since she moved back to the town of her birth, the little hamlet of Ballygrip Village. At eighteen, Rose O'Mara met a young man from the larger town of Knockalilly, who courted her something terrible. She fell for the charms of Fergus O'Finnegan, and the two were married in St Columbkille's Church in Knockalilly, and she became Rose O'Finnegan. As a dutiful Catholic wife, Rose gave her husband a child each and every year thereafter: first Francis Xavier, then Declan, then Patrick, finally the twins Conor and Aidan. It was the twins that ultimately did poor Fergus in - after celebrating with his workmates on the night following their birth (having enjoyed doubles of every drink on account of them being twins) he attempted to walk home and collided heavily trying to avoid a stationary lamppost. The lamppost suffered little damage, but poor Fergus fell to the cobbled street. 'Twas the gutter that broke his fall - and his head. His half frozen body was found the next day by the ale carter. Rose and her five boys struggled on in Knockalilly for a further ten years, until her mother-in-law, old Mrs O'Finnegan, passed away. She had been assisting Rose in looking after the little tykes while Rose worked as a seamstress in a factory in the town, but with her departure there was no longer anything keeping Rose in her husband's town, so she returned to her roots in Ballygrip. The O'Finnegan family was small by Ballygrip standards, only five children and no husband, but Mrs O'Finnegan held her head up high and taught her sons to do likewise. It was no fault of hers that she was a widow, and nothing was going to stop her bringing up her boys in the faith of her fathers. Today was the first Saturday of the month, and that meant Confessions in the small church of St Finoula. "Get those lazy arses out of those beds and down to this table this minute, or I swear to Christ they'll feel my boot!" she shouted up the narrow staircase. Boys in nightshirts came tumbling down the stairs within seconds of this final imprecation. They were very well aware that their mother did not make such threats idly. Francis Xavier, at fourteen years of age Rose's eldest, was first down the stairs and seated at the breakfast table. The front of his nightshirt tented out quite prominently with his morning wood, but he was not embarrassed by it. His mother had assured him many times that the Good Lord had given him everything in life, including his erection, so he should be thankful for it and not abashed, but woe betide him if she should catch him playing with it, for that was a sin in the eyes of the Lord. Several stains spotted the front of the nightshirt, just about in the exact same region that Francis Xavier's pointy penis was prodding the coarse fabric at that very moment. Scrub as she might, Rose never could quite remove the faint but persistent spots, but she did not task her son with their appearance. Her own late husband had similar stains in the same location, and he was a happily married man, so they could not be the result of any sinful self-pleasuring, she reasoned. The next boy to clamber noisily down the stairs was her second-born, Declan. Aged thirteen, he too had a tenting protuberance, albeit smaller, at the front of his nightshirt, but no matching stains. He gave his mother a peck on the cheek and a "Mornin' Ma" before sitting at the table next to his brother. Even though there was barely twelve months between them, Declan was a good foot and a half shorter than his older brother, having not yet experienced his growth spurt. The twins Conor and Aidan clattered down the stairs seconds after Declan. They wore tiny white briefs, not following the family custom of nightshirts. "Too hot!" they claimed, as they shared a double bed. The briefs were made to appear even more brief by the little tentpoles in the fronts, which the boys snatched at as they wrestled their way to the table Patrick was the family sleepyhead, always last to appear at breakfast. Still yawning as he stepped carefully down the wooden staircase, he blinked his eyes to focus and wandered over to his seat at the table. His nightshirt was a hand-me-down, and it probably should have been handed straight to the rag bin, as it was several inches too short for him. The nightshirts of his older brothers came almost to their knees; Patrick's stopped just above his crotch, as evidenced by the fact that its front hem now sat on top of his little morning erection. But his brothers did not give him any grief over it - they had all been frequently lectured by their mother about natural bodily functions, and they knew all too well the folly of throwing stones from within glass houses. Once the boys were all seated, it was easy to see familial resemblances among them. Declan and the twins had their mother's sandy hair and green eyes; the two older boys had the dark auburn hair and blue eyes of their late father. Patrick had his father's angular hawklike face, but the other boys favoured the more rounded physiognomy of their mother. All of the boys were lean and wiry, as was their father - none of them mimicked Mrs O'Finnegan's more curvaceous build. "Eat up your porridge, all of ye, or we'll be late for Confessions", Mrs O'Finnegan ordered after saying Grace, and the boys fell to, devouring their morning fare in short order. "And mind ye tell the Father every sin -" here she glared at Declan "- and if you get fewer than twenty rosaries Declan O'Finnegan, I'll know ye omitted a terrible lot of sins!" Following breakfast, the boys stormed back upstairs to the large bathroom the family shared to begin their ablutions. The scene in the bathroom was one of organised chaos: any parent would be all too familiar with it. One of the most important rules was to make sure that you were not directly in front of the washbasin when all five boys brushed their teeth; when it came time to spit, nobody's aim was too good and if you were the boy in front, you might cop several mouthfuls of minty froth running down your neck and back. The parish church of St Finoula was situated only a fifteen minute walk from the O'Finnegan's, and the boys trooped dutifully in front of their mother, like a family of ducklings in reverse order. Reaching the Gothic structure, Francis Xavier pushed aside the heavy oak door to allow his brothers and mother to march past him into the gloom of the centuries-old building. Mrs O'Finnegan indicated with a glance of her eyes which pew the boys should file into, and each one solemnly genuflected before edging along the narrow space and seating himself on the hard wooden bench opposite the Confessional. For those readers not familiar with medieval Catholic architecture, a brief note of explanation might be beneficial. A confessional is essentially a pair (or trio) of dimly lit, narrow booths which allow the penitent to kneel and confess his (or her) sins to the priest. They are each the size of a small toilet cubicle (without the smell). The priest's box is the middle of the three (if there happen to be three). It contains a chair against the back wall (not unlike a large toilet seat). If the priest were seated in the chair, he would find set in either wall just in front of each of his shoulders a sliding door about a foot square in size. The point of this arrangement is that a penitent can be kneeling in the booth on one side, sliding door open, confessing his or her heart out, while the penitent on the other side awaits his turn. You know your turn has come when the sliding door opens, and you can make out the profile of the priest through a mesh grille. The priest gives ! you a verbal nudge ("proceed!", or some such) and you go through the ritual of telling all your sins since your previous confession. As the eldest child, Francis Xavier was the first of the O'Finnegans to confess. As penitents seated on his right gradually rose to pass through the confessionals, all the O'Finnegans edged along the seat until it became Francis Xavier's turn. He stood up and walked to the dark polished door, pulled it open, entered the confined gloomy space and knelt at the wall, facing the grille side of the sliding door. After about ten minutes, during which he could hear muffled voices through the wall (but make out no distinct words), the sliding door scraped open and a tired elderly voice murmured "Yes, my child?" This was the Parish Priest, Father O'Casey, an embittered old gent who had been passed over for a bishopric too many times to recall. Francis Xavier began his confession. "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been, uh, four weeks since my last confession, and in that time, I have committed the following offences against God and his Holy Church: uh, I missed my night prayers seven times, I, um, got into fights at school twice, I, er, punched my younger brothers thirty-seven times...um..." "Anything else?", came the priest's bored voice. "Oh, yes", remembered Francis Xavier. "I played with myself sexually fifty-eight times". "Mother of God!" the priest exploded. "Are ye tryin' to set some kind of record?" "No Father", the teen replied shyly. "It just gets stiff a lot and I have to play with it to make it go soft. You know", he added, expecting the priest to remember his own teenage years, a vain hope. "It seems to me you have too much time and energy on your hands", the priest counselled, making an unintentional pun. "I suggest you tell your Mam that you're going to begin playing soccer for the school, and attending training every afternoon. See the Coach, Mr O'Hennessy, on Monday, and tell him I sent ye. Some good honest football practice should tire you out, and give you something else to think about aside from your, er, aside from...well, something else to think about. Say ten rosaries for your penance, on your knees, at the Communion rail. Now, I absolve you of all your sins, in the name of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost, Amen" "Amen", responded Francis Xavier, crossing himself, but the sliding door had already slid shut. There was not any spare time for pleasantries - the next penitent was ready in the booth on the other side, and it was the next O'Finnegan, Declan. "Go ahead, my child", Father O'Casey droned. "Bless me father, for I have sinned. My last confession was one month ago, and in that time I have committed these sins: I, uh, gave cheek to me Mam six times; I, um, fought with my younger brothers nineteen times; I took the Lord's name in vain eleven times; I, er, neglected my night prayers fifteen times...um..." the boy trailled off. "Is that all?" asked the weary voice of the priest. "Yes, Father. Oh, no, wait. I had impure thoughts eighty-nine times", Declan added. "Holy Michael and all the Archangels!" the priest bellowed. "Surely you're too young to be havin' impure thoughts?" For Father O'Casey had heard in Declan's high, unbroken voice a resemblance to the voice of the previous penitent, and correctly guessed that the two voices belonged to his new parishioners, the O'Finnegans, specifically the two eldest O'Finnegan boys. "Just what exactly do you mean by 'impure thoughts', boy? Just havin' thoughts isn't a sin, unless ye dwell on them and derive a wicked pleasure from them." "It's my teacher, Father. I imagine my teacher is kissing me, holding me, touching my penis, licking my-" "Yes, yes, I get the picture", Father O'Casey interrupted. "You know, child, at your age it isn't unusual for a boy to have a crush on his teacher," he counselled in a mild voice. "Some of those young colleens teaching nowadays would turn any boy's head, and I can underst-" Declan interrupted the priest immediately. "My teacher's a man, Father. It's Mr O'Riley. He's a real stud. He's got big strong muscles all up his arms, he has, and nice hair, and a little twinkle in each eye, and really straight teeth that sparkle when he smiles, and when you look at the front of his trousers you can just tell he's got a really big-" "Now, then, that's quite enough, my boy", Father O'Casey cut in. "For your penance, twenty rosaries, kneeling in front of the Crucifi- er, better make that kneeling in front of the Blessed Virgin's statue at the side altar. Now, I absolve you in the name of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost. On your way, my boy." "Thank you Father, er, Amen" the boy replied, but the slider had already scraped closed, and opened on the other side to the third of the O'Finnegan brood, Patrick. "Bless me Father, for I have sinned. My last confession was...um...was...er", the dreamy boy began. "Not to worry about dates and times, boy, just get on with it", the impatient priest urged. "Oh, ah, I, um, pinched money out of me Mam's purse three times, um, I told lies five times, er, I cheated on a test at school once, um...er..." Patrick's voice faded to a whisper. "Anything else you want to tell me?", the old priest urged, not because he especially wanted to hear any more, but he didn't want the boy to have an incomplete Confession on his conscience. "I let Father O'Regan fuck me twenty six times", Patrick noted simply. "Jesus Mary and Joseph!" the old clergyman shouted. "Father O'Regan? Father Dermid O'Regan? My curate?" "Yes, Father. He does it to me at altar boy practice each afternoon", Patrick explained matter-of-factly. "Is that so?", the old priest replied. "Well, I'm thinking that you're nearly too old to be an Altar Boy any longer, and it might be best if you were to take up a different afternoon occupation. Now let me see...ah yes. The Pharmacist in the Village, Mr O'Davis, is losing his delivery boy shortly. That leaves an opening for you to be gainfully employed, riding your bike around the Village delivering the prescriptions. I'll speak to him myself after Mass tomorrow. On Monday, ye'll be starting a much more, er, wholesome activity after school each day. Thirty rosaries for your penance, facing the back wall of the Church. Now, I absolve you in the name of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost. Amen" "Amen", murmured Patrick in a hollow voice, but the sliding door had slid closed. Patrick was already feeling a void deep inside himself as he began to encompass the loss of his regular fuck. From his first day back in his Mam's home town, Father O'Regan had picked him out of a class of forty-two boys, nurtured him, caressed him, and eventually seduced him, ploughing Patrick's tight little bottom in the Sacristy after Altar Boy practice. Some days, Father O'Regan was so horny he did Patrick twice, both before and after practice. While the younger altar boys were practicing folding the altar linens and learning the responses for Mass, Patrick was accommodating Father O'Regan's substantial tool up his little fanny only fifteen feet away. Patrick felt that the young priest was the only person who truly loved him, so Father O'Casey's pronouncement had left him bereft. He left the dark booth and trudged to the back of the Church to begin his penance. The twins were the next to confess. When Father O'Casey slid the door back to find two heads behind the grille, he started to protest. After all, it was strictly forbidden by Canon Law to hear two confessions at once. On the other hand, Father O'Casey had never ejected anyone from his confessional for any reason, and he wasn't about to let a couple of brazen boys spoil his record. He held his tongue and waited for the boys to begin their confessions. "Bless us Father, for we have sinned", they recited together. "It has been one month since our last confession", they continued in unison, "and in that time we have done the following sins:" At this point Conor took over. "We threw rocks and smashed seventeen windows at the old warehouse". Aidan then added "We let down the tyres of our teachers' cars nine times". Conor chimed in with "It was eleven times, Aidan. Oh, and we fought with our brothers sixteen times". Aidan contributed "We tricked our teachers by pretending to be each other thirty five times". Conor laughed, then declared "An' we cheeked our Mam forty three times between us". The old priest sighed, then asked "Anything else, boys?" A soft chuckle from one of the twins, Father O'Casey couldn't tell which one, followed by a smug "We did oral sex with each other seventy seven times". "Oral S-!", Father O'Casey gasped loudly. He couldn't bring himself to repeat the words. "Oral - What... what do ye mean by it, boys?" "It means we suck each other's cock, Father", Conor explained helpfully. "I know what it means, ye daft bugger", Father O'Casey yelled. "I meant, what do ye mean by committing such a...such an awful sin?" "Well, we share a bed at home, an' it gets boring sometimes just lyin' there", Conor explained. "An' it feels wicked!" Aidan added. "Conor does this thing with his tongue that-" "All right! Yes! Enough!" the priest commanded. "I'll be talkin' to yer Mam about yer sleepin' arrangements, an' you'll be splittin' up as from today. For the good of yer immortal souls, boys! Twenty rosaries each fer yer penance, on yer knees, at opposite ends of the Communion rail! Now I absolve ye both in the name of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost!" "Amen!" both boys responded, but the slider had already closed and they were left to exit the dark space and make their way to the Communion rail to commence their penance. Having seen all of her boys to Confession, Mrs O'Finnegan relaxed. Their immortal souls would be safe now, should lightning strike, or heart attack, or any of the hundreds of calamities that she was warned about at school for the souls of the unshriven. She gathered up the boys and ushered them out the door and back towards their home. "Sure and can I have a word, Widow O'Finnegan", Father O'Casey called after her as she left the Church. She stopped, turned, then told the boys to keep walking. "Certainly, Father, and what would you be wanting with me, on this fine morning?", she enquired. Trotting to catch up with Mrs O'Finnegan, Father O'Casey tut-tutted. "It's nothing of any import at all, at all, Mrs O'Finnegan. As ye know, I've just heard the boys' confessions, and there are one or two suggestions I have, if I may be so bold." "Certainly, Father, any help you may offer is most welcome", she replied graciously. "Well, it's nothing really, Mrs O'Finnegan, just a few small pointers if anything. I dearly hope I'm not presuming, but I think it might be beneficial if your first, Francis Xavier, were to take up some kind of after-school sport, maybe soccer. What do ye think?" "Soccer? Well, Frannie has never been the athletic type, but if you think it's a good idea, then of course, I will encourage him. Anything else?" The priest continued. "Well, it's only a small matter, but I think your third boy Patrick is about at the age where he is a little too old for the altar servers. Maybe an after-school job of some kind?" "Job? Patrick? He's not exactly the most motivated of boys, Father", she retorted. "I happen to know of a position vacant at O'Davis' Pharmacy. Delivering prescriptions. I'm sure Mr O'Davis would welcome an application from your Patrick. Would you give it a try?" "Sure, Father, if you think it's a good idea. Is that all? Only I have to get the roast started", Mrs O'Finnegan urged. "One little thing, Mrs O'Finnegan. The twins, Conor and Aidan. I understand they sleep in a double bed, is that right?" "Yes, Father, it was my bed, mine and my late husband's. They're only young boys, I didn't think there'd be any harm". "Oh, no harm, no harm, to be sure, Mrs O'Finnegan. I was only going to suggest that the boys might sleep better if they were apart. You know as well as any how young boys are, chattering away all night. Perhaps if there was some other sleeping arrangement that might enable them to get a good night's rest, I don't know, maybe other beds?" "Well, it will be a bit awkward, but if you think it's the right thing to do, Father, I'm sure I can manage...somehow", she trailled off, wondering what on earth her boys could have told the priest in confession to make him come up with all these...suggestions. She caught up with the boys and continued on her way home. * * * Sunday breakfast in the presbytery was a sombre affair at best, the two priests each serving themselves from the well-laid sideboard (prepared by the housekeeper, Mrs O'Flaherty). Sundays tended to be a little busier than weekdays, as the first of the Sunday Masses started at 7 a.m. So it was at six o'clock that Father O'Casey engaged his curate in conversation, over boiled eggs, bacon and coffee. "Did ye see the letter from the Bishop, Father?", the parish priest enquired sweetly. "Letter? Er, no, Father, it must have escaped my notice. I'll catch up with it during the week. Anything important in it?", Father O'Regan replied. "Oh, nothing of any great moment, Father. Though there was one little thing - a directive regarding altar boys", Father O'Casey answered. Father O'Regan jumped as if he had touched a live electric wire. "Al-altar boys?" he asked nervously. "Yes", continued the older man, eyeing his younger colleague. "It seems that there's this group of women agitating for equality of the sexes in the altar boys - sorry, altar servers. They are pestering the bishop to have all altar servers - er, what's the word - integrated? bisexual? No, that doesn't sound right. Well, what they're demanding is equal numbers of girl and boy altar servers. In every parish". He watched his curate carefully for a response. "Really?" replied Father O'Regan, not knowing what else to say. "Of course, the Bishop is an old hand at these matters. He has left it open to each parish priest to decide for himself which path to take - the two choices are: full integration, with equal numbers of girls and boys; or if there are insufficient numbers of girls desirous of being altar servers, disbanding altar servers altogether. And as you are the person who would be training them, I wanted to get your opinion before I make my decision", the wily priest suggested blandly. "My opinion? Well, Father, er, I, um, the boys are, uh, you see, girls, they..." Father O'Regan floundered. "Exactly my point, Father", the old priest nodded sagely. "I will announce at all Masses today that henceforth the altar servers shall be disbanded, until further notice. I'm sure we can do the fetching and carrying for ourselves, eh? Why, Father, you look a little pale. Are ye quite sure you're all right?". The young priest excused himself from the table with a few muttered words, and scurried to his room. Father O'Casey's eyes glinted as a thin smile played on his lips. * * * "Why, 'tis Father O'Regan, to be sure. Come in, Father, come in, I'll make a cuppa", Mrs O'Finnegan fussed as she stepped aside to allow the curate entry to her home. "And what brings you here on such a fine Sunday morn, Father?", she asked as she set out cups and saucers for the tea. "Oh, well, Mrs Finnegan, just doing the Lord's work, you know. I was out and about, all the Masses are completed, and I happened to find myself on your doorstep, so I thought I'd knock. I suppose I was half wondering how young Patrick was taking the news about the altar boys being disbanded. Is he here, by any chance?" "That he is, Father, he's upstairs. The other boys are all out doing goodness knows what, but Patrick's a homebody, always has been. He'll be getting into some kind of mischief in his room, I'll warrant. Shall I call him for ye?", Mrs O'Finnegan asked politely. "Oh, well, if it's no trouble, Mrs O'Finnegan, I'd be obliged to ye", the priest answered. "Patrick!" she shouted towards the stairs, "Get your lazy bum down here this mi- oops, sorry Father, forgot myself there for a moment. Patrick! Father O'Regan is here to see you!" Her sentence had not been completed before the twelve year old flew down the stairs and stood alongside the priest, smiling shyly, as he sat at the kitchen table. "Your Mam says you were getting into mischief in your room, Patrick", the priest teased the boy, who shook his head in denial. "Does he often cause you trouble, Mrs O'Finnegan?" "Well, now, he's a boy, isn't he. They're born troublemakers, aren't they, no offence intended to your good self, Father. It'd be different if my husband, God rest his soul, were still alive, to give him a good thrashing now and then, teach him to mind his mother", Mrs O'Finnegan sighed. Father O'Regan put his hands on the boy's waist and gave him a little shake, as one might with a puppy. "Needs a bit of discipline, does he, Mrs O'Finnegan?" "All boys need it, Father, but this one's lazier than most. Cheeky, too. Never minds a thing I say". Father O'Regan swivelled the boy around and pulled him onto his lap. "Have you been cheeky to your Mam, Patrick? Because if you have, I might have to give you a belting myself!" "Did you hear that, boy? Father O'Regan has kindly offered to give you the spanking you so richly deserve, if you give me any more grief. And I just might take him up on that offer, you mark my words!" Mrs O'Finnegan had barely finished her utterance when Patrick poked his tongue out at her. "Did ye see that Father? The brazen little devil!" she exclaimed. The priest stood the boy back on his feet, facing his mother, and clutched at the boy's bottom with one hand, out of her line of sight. "See what, Mrs O'Finnegan? Did he give you cheek?", the priest declared indignantly, still squeezing the boy's derriere like a grocer testing a ripe mango. "There! He did it again! The nerve!", Mrs O'Finnegan wailed, as Patrick poked his tongue out again at his mother, and left it out. "You're a very willful boy, Patrick O'Finnegan, and need to be taught a lesson you won't soon forget!", Father O'Regan declared, and flipped the boy face down over his lap. In full view of his mother, the priest pulled Patrick's shorts down at the back until they were below his buttcheeks. He laid his hand on the boy's underwear-clad bottom and gave it a little rub. "Now, Mrs O'Finnegan, a little advice, if you please," the priest asked, looking the widow straight in the eye. "Would your dear husband have spanked the boy through his drawers, or with drawers down, on the bare bottom?" Mrs O'Finnegan tossed her head back. "I'm sure my husband would not have allowed any boy that cheeked me to have any relief from his just desserts, Father". "Very well", replied the curate, and pulled the boy's underpants down as well. Laying his hand now on Patrick's bare bottom (and giving it a surreptitious rub) the man of the cloth made a final inquiry. "Now, Mrs O'Finnegan, before I give this cheeky boy's bottom a touch up he'll not soon forget, I wonder, would your husband have spanked the boy here in your kitchen, where his wails would trouble you even more than his naughty tongue?" He openly rubbed and squeezed the boy's bum while waiting for the widow to reply. "Indeed not, Father - he'd have taken the rascal to his room and punished him there, so that I would be spared the sight and sound of the little wretch", Mrs O'Finnegan declared. "I thought so", the priest answered. "You're coming with me, young man", he said to the boy as he hoisted Patrick's small frame over his shoulder like a sack of flour, short pants and undies still around his upper thighs, and carried him to the stairs. "Which room is Patrick's, Mrs O'Finnegan?", the priest asked, pausing at the bottom of the staircase. "It's the first on the left, and God bless you for doing this, Father, you're a Godsend", the harried widow replied. Pushing the boy's bedroom door open with his free hand, Father O'Regan set the boy down next to his bed and shut the door. "We haven't much time, Patty. Grab the pillow and climb on top", he whispered as the boy wriggled out of his clothes and onto the bed. The priest undid his belt and zipper and shook his trousers down to his ankles, then pulled down his shorts. By this time, Patrick had climbed atop the pillow and was presenting his bottom to the ceiling. Father O'Regan took a small phial of Holy Oil from his top pocket, which he always carried with him in case he had to give the Last Rites in an emergency. This certainly qualified as an emergency, he thought, uncapping the little bottle and spreading some of the oil on Patrick's pucker. His dick had been hard since he knocked on Mrs O'Finnegan's door, so he didn't need to waste any time. Lining up his lance with Patrick's tight brown nether lips, he drove hard and fast into the boy's hot rectum, at the same time slapping his own bare thigh with his free hand. >From her seat in the kitchen below, Mrs O'Finnegan smiled as she heard the muffled sounds from above - the sound of bare hand slapping on bare flesh, and the wails of her third son, who interspersed his yells with bursts of "Oh Jesus, me arse!" and "Oh, Father!". Though she did not think of herself as a cruel woman, she climbed the stairs to hear more clearly, just to make sure that the boy was getting a good flogging. "Would ye like a glass of something stronger, to keep yer strength up, Father", she called through the closed bedroom door. "Thank- thank you...uhh...Mrs O'Finnegan...unh...unh...I'm just...coming now", the priest replied as he shot his clerical cum deep in Patty's fanny. He heard Mrs O'Finnegan's footsteps descending the stairs as he slumped on his young lover's body, breathing deeply the aromas of the boy's hair. Reviving a little, he heaved himself up off the boy and dressed, then helped Patrick into his shorts and shirt and led him downstairs. Mrs O'Finnegan was again seated at the kitchen table, this time with a half-full pint bottle of Irish Whisky keeping her company. The priest sat opposite her, with a red-faced Patrick standing close by his side. "I hope you reddened his bottom good and proper, Father. It sounded like you were giving him a good one", she observed. "To be sure, Mrs O'Finnegan", the priest replied, brazenly pulling the back of Patrick's shorts down and pretending to examine the boy's butt. "I certainly did give him a good one, and I'll be glad to do it again in the future if I hear he's been misbehaving again". His hand wandered over the boy's bare bottom, his middle finger finding the boy's crack and lightly stroking through the puffy flesh around his anus. "You make sure to tell me if you need a man's hand on Patrick's naughty bottom in the future, Mrs O'Finnegan, and I'll be around. I'll wale on his tail all night if I have to". Hearing this, Patrick gave a shudder that the priest could feel through his finger up the boy's arse. "But one thing in his favour, he takes his punishment well", the curate continued. "Another boy, less well brought up than Patrick, might resent being chastised by me. But Patrick took his medicine, and I respect that in a boy." "Father O'Casey promised to find the boy an afternoon job with the Pharmacist, delivering prescriptions. That will keep him busy now the altar boys are no more", Mrs O'Finnegan advised. "Ah, yes, Father O'Casey. What would we do without him, I wonder?", the young priest concurred. * * * Sunday evening brought with it the change that Father O'Casey suggested in the O'Finnegan children's sleeping arrangements. For Mrs O'Finnegan, even though she didn't understand the reason for it, the Parish priest's suggestion carried the authority of Holy Writ. Before that night, Francis Xavier, Patrick and Declan slept in one room, with Patrick and Declan in a double bunk and Francis Xavier in a single. The twins slept in a double bed (formerly the marital bed) in the second room, and Mrs O'Finnegan had a single bed in her own small room. To separate the twins, it seemed logical to Mrs O'Finnegan that they should swap with Patrick and Declan - take the double bunk. That would leave the two middle boys to share the big bed. "Sure, Mam, we don't mind, Aidan declared happily. Conor nodded his consent. But as soon as the twins thought Francis Xavier was asleep, Conor slid over the side of the upper bunk into Aidan's waiting embrace. "It's better like this, Connie", Aidan assured his brother. "This way Mam will think we're sleepin' apart. Just hafta make sure you get back into yer own bed before sunrise. Now crawl down and suck me dick an' I'll suck yours, I've been burstin' for it all day". * * * Monday was a school day, of course, and all of the boys were awoken, fed, washed, combed, dressed, shod and turned out the door by eight-thirty. School for Francis Xavier was a welcome respite from his Mam and brothers, and he was also looking forward to giving soccer practice a go that afternoon. Straight after school let out, Francis Xavier forsook his customary route home and walked briskly in the opposite direction, to the town playing fields. He knew the coach, Mr O'Dwyer, by sight, and quickly found him in the middle of a marked soccer pitch, with about a dozen boys jogging laps around the touch-line. "Ah, it'll be Francis Xavier O'Finnegan then, I take it?", the man said as he saw Francis Xavier approach. Francis Xavier gave a shy smile in reply, nodding his head. All of the jogging boys appeared to be wearing football boots, sports shorts and singlets, he noticed, and he was still wearing his grey trousers and school shirt and tie. "You'll be needin' football kit, me boy", Mr O'Dwyer observed, giving Francis Xavier a friendly pat on the shoulders. "Just run along to the equipment shed, right there, all I'll be with ye in two shakes of a lamb's tail". Francis Xavier trotted off to the dilapidated shed and entered. He stood patiently awaiting the coach, who was as good as his word and arrived a minute later. "Well now, Francis Xavier O'Finnegan, that's a bit of a mouthful to be sayin' every time I talk to ye", Mr O'Dwyer began. "Me Mam calls me Frannie", the gangly teen muttered to the floor. "Well then, Frannie it is. You can call me Coach if ye like. Now, while I'm lookin' for a pair of shorts and boots and a top for ye, ye might slip those school togs off and pop them on yon chair. Can't have ye gettin' yer school stuff all sweaty and muddy, now, can we?", the man pattered on in a jovial manner. Francis Xavier undressed slowly, draping his shorts and shirt and tie over the proffered chair. Maybe it was the undressing, or maybe it was Mr O'Dwyer's friendly manner, or perhaps it was just being in a confined space with a big athletic male, but whatever it was, Francis Xavier's prick rose to the occasion. It pushed the material of his undies out so far, a gap opened between the waistband and his flat tummy. Francis Xavier could see straight down all the way to the small bush of pubic hair at the base of his cock. He turned towards the Coach, who paused in his search and gazed admiringly at the boy's near nudity. "Er, Frannie, there's a bathroom yonder if ye want to take care o' that - it might get in the road at football practice if ye leave it in that condition", Mr O'Dwyer advised gently, nodding towards the teen's tenting undies. Francis Xavier held his arms tightly by his side, and shook his head slightly. "Me Mam says it's a sin to touch it when it's stiff", he whispered. "Ah, well then, maybe you just need a little help from Coach. Come closer, Frannie, come on over here", the man beckoned. Francis Xavier walked the few steps across the floor of the small hut and stood in front of the Coach. "I'm here t'help ye, lad", he said softly, turning the boy around so his back was to him. He reached both arms around the teen and carefully rubbed the boy's stomach and chest with his open hands. "Did yer Mam ever tell you it was a sin to rub yer chest and tummy like this?" the man whispered in the boy's ear, his face close to Francis Xavier's hair. "N-no, coach, she never did", the skittish teen replied, writhing under the man's caresses. "And did she ever tell you it was a sin to rub your nipples, Frannie", the man whispered again, moving his hands upwards to caress and squeeze the boy's fleshy nubbins with his fingertips. "N-no, coach, she never said that. Ooh", Francis Xavier sighed as he spoke. "And did yer Mam ever tell you it was a sin to run your fingers through this fine patch o' hair around yer mighty manhood, Frannie", Mr O'Dwyer continued, gliding both sets of fingertips all the way down the boy's abdomen and inside the gap in the front of his underwear to wander all around the sparse little bush of Francis Xavier's pubes. "Ooooh, n-no c-coach, she never, oooh, never said that, aah", Francis Xavier cooed as he replied. "And did yer Mam tell you it was a sin to stroke yer balls, tuggin' and squeezin' them until ye feel ye just wanna burst?", the man urged, carrying out the action he was describing to the aroused boy leaning against him. "Oh jesus, aah, n-no, coach, she never even mentioned my b-balls", the boy groaned. The Coach lifted the waistband of Francis Xavier's underwear up and out and freed the boy's pole, which pulsed with his heartbeat, clearly happy to be let out of its cotton confines. "Now, I know yer Mam told you it was a sin fer ye to touch this beautiful hard cock, but Frannie, did she ever tell you it was a sin fer me to touch it?", the man asked, now slowly stroking Francis Xavier's foreskin back and forth over his scarlet knob. "Oh god no, coach, she doesn't even know you, mmm, aah, uhh, uhh, yes, oh god", Francis Xavier exclaimed as his semen spurted forth in three longs strings onto the wall. Mr O'Dwyer took his handkerchief out and wiped the end of Francis Xavier's still-dribbling prick, making the boy shudder, then pulled his underwear back up and into place. "There, now, me lad. Slip your football kit on and go join the other boys runnin' laps. You'll find ye never need to play with yer own tool as long as ye keep turning up to football practice. A boy with a mighty weapon like yours will never want for friends around here. Off ye go now", Coach added, wiping his hands. "Thanks, Coach", Francis Xavier smiled as he quickly dressed and raced out of the equipment shed. He had a feeling he was going to enjoy playing soccer this year. * * * Declan's schoolday passed a little differently than his older brother's. The first unusual thing he noticed was that his regular teacher, Mr O'Riley, had been replaced by another teacher, a Mr O'Doyle. Declan didn't know what to think - he had spent months trying to get Mr O'Riley to notice him, without a shred of success, and now he was gone. What Declan didn't know was that two days before, on Saturday afternoon, both Mr O'Riley and Mr O'Doyle had received urgent written instructions, hand delivered from the Parish Priest himself, Father O'Casey, to swap teaching jobs. "I can't go into it now", the priest explained to each of the two men when he visited their separate flats, "just take it from me that it's vital that ye move to where I'm puttin' ye". Being good Catholic men - they both taught in Catholic schools after all - they immediately complied with the priest's wishes. Mr O'Riley was reluctant to accept the new position at first. No-one, not even Father O'Casey, knew that Mr O'Riley had a strong physical attraction to adolescent girls. He had deliberately taken the position at the all-boys school to avoid the temptation that young girls' bodies afforded him, but now he was being asked (told, really) to swap jobs with a teacher in the all-girls school. Well, he consoled himself, he had tried, and the job had now fallen into his lap. He may as well enjoy himself. In one of those astounding coincidences that one sometimes reads about in magazines, Mr O'Doyle had felt a similar trepidation, for a similar reason. He had taken his job at the girls' school in order to avoid being tempted by boys, for whom he held an unbecoming fondness (for a teacher). He now found himself thrown into a class of thirty one thirteen-year-olds, one of whom, a thin boy named Declan O'Finnegan, appeared to be attempting to seduce him. "Is there anything I can help you with, Sir?", Declan asked Mr O'Doyle sweetly after the other boys had departed for lunch. Every time Declan had asked this question of his previous teacher Mr O'Riley, the man had easily fended it off, telling Declan to go out and enjoy his lunchtime with the other boys. Mr O'Doyle had already spent an uncomfortable morning in Declan's presence: the boy had come out to his desk within five minutes of the commencement of lessons with an obvious erection pushing out the front of his grey school shorts, asking to be excused to go to the toilet. Then there was the incident with the pencil: Declan sat in the front row, and had quite deliberately (in Mr O'Doyle's opinion) knocked a pencil onto the floor. He then got out of his seat and crawled around the floor on hands and knees 'searching' for the pencil, all the while waving his tightly-clad bottom in his teacher's direction. The flea bite was the last straw for Mr O'Doyle. At morning recess, after the other boys had left the room, Declan claimed to have been bitten by a flea. Falling into the adolescent's trap, Mr O'Doyle replied "Oh, yes, Declan? Whereabouts did this flea bite you?". "On my bottom, Sir", the disingenuous boy replied, twisting his body and pulling his shorts and undies down to reveal a gorgeous buttcheek, the first one Mr O'Doyle had seen close-up since his own school days. If it was not for another boy interrupting them to get a forgotten wallet, he might have lost all reason and ravaged the boy right there. As it was, he pulled the boy's pants back up and suggested that a flea bite was not fatal, and he should forget about it. In his mind, however, he decided the boy was hot, and begging for it, and that if the boy offered him one more opportunity, he would take it with both hands. That opportunity presented itself at lunchtime, when Declan made Mr O'Doyle his open-ended offer of help. "Why, yes, Declan, thank you", Mr O'Doyle replied cordially, "there was something you can help me with: Mr O'Riley had the storeroom organised the way he liked, but I'm afraid I'm used to a different arrangement. I need someone to help me reshelve all of the class supplies. Do you think it's something you'd like to do?" Declan gasped. This was the first time a teacher had accepted his offer to help at lunchtime! And Mr O'Doyle was quite a nice looking man - not too old, good strong muscles, closely shaven, no warts or blemishes - he was no Mr O'Riley, but he was still a man. "Ooh, yes Sir, I'd love it - to help, I mean", Declan gushed. "Where do you want me?" Mr O'Doyle was a little distracted by Declan's neverending stream of suggestive phrases, but he kept his cool long enough to shepherd the boy towards the storeroom at the back of the class. "Well, first, how about you climb up those steps and bring all those boxes of paints to the front where I can see them", Mr O'Doyle suggested, indicating a small stepladder down the end of the narrow storeroom. "Up the ladder, Sir? Ooh, I might fall - can you hold me steady, Sir, please?", Declan simpered. "This is really getting too much", thought Mr O'Doyle. "A plaster saint would have cracked by now". To Declan, he said, "Okay, my boy, up the ladder you go, and I'll just keep a grip on you around your waist, er, your hips, um, your thighs, oh, what the hell, come here!" He grabbed the boy by the shoulders and pulled his face to his own, planting a big kiss on the boy's lips. Declan did what any faggot boy would when kissed by his teacher in a dark storeroom: he melted into his teacher's arms. Tongues wrestled, hands stroked, voices murmured. Mr O'Doyle pulled Declan's shirt out of his trousers and ran his hands up the boy's bare back. Declan responded by moaning loudly and throwing his head back so the man could kiss his throat, jaw, chin and earlobes. "Wait, wait boy, just hold on!", Mr O'Doyle wrenched himself apart from the boy a few inches, still holding him at the waist. "Let's not do anything now that we'll both regret in ten years' time", he panted, surprised at his own restraint. "Exactly how far did you want to go,er, with me?" "Go, Sir? All the way!" the bewildered but horny boy responded. Even though Declan wasn't entirely sure what that meant, he had heard other boys say that they went 'all the way' with their girlfriends, and they sure looked like they had enjoyed it. "All right, yes, good", the teacher whispered urgently. "But let's cool it for now, Declan, otherwise things will get out of hand quickly. A storeroom isn't the best place for lovemaking, in spite of what ye might have seen at the cinema. Now, here's what I want you to do: think about what you want to happen between you and me; take all afternoon if you like. After school, come and visit me at my flat, and we'll do whatever you want". "I can tell me Mam I need extra tuition, Sir", the boy suggested excitedly. "Yes, that will work. I already like you, Declan, and I don't want you to rush into anything you might be sorry you did later in life. I know a few teachers who got the midnight knock on the door from the Garda regarding some boy who they had feelings for ten or twenty years earlier, who ratted the teacher out to the boys in blue", Mr O'Doyle counselled. "I would never do that to you, Sir", Declan whispered fiercely. "I know you feel that way now, but just think about it, eh? For me?", the man begged. "I'll think about you all afternoon, Sir", the boy replied. "Can I write down some thoughts and bring them with me this afternoon?" The teacher thought about this for a moment - thought about a boyish love letter with his name on it being presented as Exhibit A at a future trial - but relented. "Sure, boy, you do that. Write it in code so no-one'll understand it but me and you, eh?" Declan grinned as he nodded energetically, finally releasing the teacher from his arms. "Until this afternoon, Sir", the boy promised, giving the man a last peck on the lips. Tucking his shirt back into his shorts, Declan left the storeroom with one last backwards glance and grin at his teacher and skipped off to lunch. Mr O'Doyle sat on the top step of the short ladder and pondered what the devil he had gotten himself into. * * * Straight after school, while his brother Francis Xavier was walking towards soccer practice and his other brother Declan was running home to tell his Mam about his extra tuition at Mr O'Doyle's flat, Patrick O'Finnegan rode his bicycle to the small clutch of shops at the middle of Ballygrip Village. He thought it best to take the bike because it would make the delivering easier. "Ah, there ye are, me boy", the genial pharmacist Mr O'Davis greeted Patrick as he entered the pharmacy, leaving his bike leaning against the front window outside. "Father O'Casey said ye'd be by about now. Come in, lad, come behind the counter - ye're staff, now!" Patrick allowed himself to be led behind the tall shopfixture to the dispensary section, where Mr O'Davis had prepared a parcel of prescriptions to be delivered that afternoon. "Now, lad, there'll be three deliveries to be makin' today. All of them have been paid for, so ye've no need to be collectin' any moneys, but if any of these folk are desirin' to give ye somethin' fer yer trouble, why, it'd be ungracious not to accept, now wouldn't it", the man explained. "Now here's a sign to hang on the front of yer bike, see there it says 'Pharmacy Deliveries' in big letters. That's so folks who see ye will know ye're not up to no good, callin' in at people's houses and so forth. That there is a list of the addresses, and I've numbered the parcels so ye can't go wrong, a bright boy like yeself". Patrick gave the addresses a cursory once-over, but his eyes were instantly drawn to the third address on the list - the Presbytery. He looked up at the pharmacist with an inquisitive glance. "Ah, I see ye've noticed the last delivery. Father O'Regan himself phoned that through just this afternoon. Between you and me, the poor man must be havin' trouble with haemorrhoids, because the little tube of ointment he asked for is called 'Anal-eze' - it takes away the pain back there, ye know". Patrick knew all about 'the pain back there', and he was secretly delighted that he was going to see his clerical lover this afternoon, and, that Father O'Regan had apparently purchased something to make his lovemaking less painful. Patrick grinned at the shopkeeper, gathered up the sign and the parcel, and scurried out the door to collect his bike. After affixing his new sign, he cycled off to make his first delivery. "Ah, if only all boys were as keen to earn an honest penny", the pharmacist reflected as his eyes followed the boy out of sight on his bike. Patrick delivered his first two items speedily, spurred on by the anticipation of his meeting with his beloved Father O'Regan. By four-fifteen, he had wheeled his bike around the back of the presbytery and was knocking at the kitchen door. Father O'Regan answered with a quick look left and right (for nosy neighbours), then grinned at Patrick, ushering him inside the warm kitchen. "Father O'Casey is visiting the Bishop, and the housekeeper has gone home for the day", he whispered to the boy, although there was no-one else to hear him. "I missed you", he gasped urgently, picking up the slight boy in his arms and hugging him to his chest. "I missed you too, Father", the boy replied happily. "I have your parcel: here it is", he waited for the priest to put him back down, and handed over the small packet containing the tube of ointment. "Thank you Pattie my boy", the priest smiled at his young lover. Taking his packet with one hand, Father O'Regan led the boy to the stairs with the other. Ascending quickly, they entered Father's bedroom in the cool, quiet darkness of the large presbytery. The curate sat on his bed, inviting the boy to stand between his spread knees. He placed his hands on the boy's hips, just as he did in the boy's own home the day before, almost in a gesture of ownership. "Did ye like what we did in your bedroom yesterday, Pattie?" the priest began. The boy smiled shyly and nodded, "Yes, Father, I liked it. It hurt a bit, but it felt really good". "It felt good to me too, Pattie", the priest replied. "Was it exciting for ye to do it knowin' yer Mam was so close by?". The boy nodded again. "That made it more fun, Father, 'cause she might have caught us". "Would ye like to take all yer clothes off for me now, Pattie", the priest asked huskily, gently groping between the boy's legs to check that his arousal matched his words. Without reply, Patrick reached to the bottom of his sweater and pulled it over his head in one movement. Shirt and vest followed. Smiling at the priest, he unclasped his shorts and slipped them down his hips. Underpants followed, then shoes and socks. Patrick stood in front of the priest now naked, his little fingersized penis stiff and throbbing. "Yer a fine boy, Pattie, an' no mistake. Would ye like to climb on the bed here and suck my cock, while I get yer arsehole ready for a good hard fuck with the ointment you brought?", Father O'Regan urged. He unzipped his black trousers and slid them down his hips, then his boxers. Patrick jumped up onto the bed, but paused before gobbling down the big fleshy pole. "Aren't you getting undressed, Father?" the boy asked innocently, waving his bottom towards the priest's face. "No, Pattie me darlin', I can't. Ye've got about thirty-five minutes before Mr O'Davis will be closin' his pharmacy, and I have some home visitin' to do as soon as ye leave. So just slick up that pole while I slick up yer lovely arsehole", he replied. Patrick accepted this explanation, and set about lubricating the priest's prong with his spit, licking and slavering all over it, enclosing the knobhead in his mouth each time his lips cruised to the top of the clergyman's cock. He turned his bare bottom towards the priest, who had by this time uncapped the tube and squeezed a generous glob of the numbing gel into his fingers. Holding the boy's cheeks apart with the thumb and index finger of one hand, Father O'Regan applied the goo to his anal lips with two fingers of the other. The boy shuddered as the cooling gel touched his arsehole, then moaned as Father O'Regan pushed both fingers in up to the second knuckle to spread the greasy substance around inside the boy's anal ring. "Okay, Pattie, I think that'll do the trick", he advised the boy, who was still tonguing the priest's engorged knob. "Swing around this way, an' lie on the pillow. Spread yer legs, Pattie, ye know how I like it". "Yes, Father', the boy replied, eagerly complying with the priest's wishes. He knew very well how the priest like it, and Patrick had been happy to accommodate the clergyman's vigourous sodomising ever since his Mam had moved the family back to Ballygrip Village. Patrick climbed onto the pillow, positioning his hips on it and spreading his thighs as wide as he could. Father O'Regan trailled his fingernails lightly down the boy's back, buttocks and legs, making his shiver. It was only a little gesture, but he liked to begin each lovemaking session with it, and the boy liked it. "All right now, Pattie my love, I'm putting it in", the priest warned, lowering his hips onto the boy's bum, supporting his weight on one elbow while his other hand guided the thick tool towards Patrick's lubricated and medicated hole. "Uh", was Patrick's only reply, as he sensed the heaviness of the priest's prick lodging at his nether portal, then entering. That tube of cream was sure taking away the pain, Patrick thought. Father O'Regan pressed forward to the hilt, resting his loins on the boy's bottom, then began pumping. "How's that...uh...feel, Pattie, uh, urgh", the priest asked, reaching around under the boy's hips to squeeze his little prick back to hardness. Patrick only moaned, so the priest continued. "Ye know, Pattie, yer a hot little one an' no mistake. Sex mad, ye are, needin' it all the time, needin' a hard rod up yer fine little arse at least daily". "I...I do?", Patrick gasped, surprised by the clergyman's words (and by his vigour). "Oh, yes, my boy. I can tell these things ye know. Now, I'm not sure I can service ye every day, though I'd like to. So what I'm goin' t'suggest might sound a bit strange to ye, but hear me out. When I was your age, I was delivery boy for Mr O'Davis. I rode me bike all over the valley, taking medicines to all and sundry. Sometimes, the men I delivered to would take me to their beds, just like I'm doin' t'you. There are many men in the Village and the country hereabouts who pay well to show a bit o' lovin' to a fine boy such as yeself. I want you to start visitin' those men. Mr O'Davis will tell ye who they are". In spite of being ploughed relentlessly up the arse by the man's thick cock, Patrick had enough presence of mind to understand what he was being asked. "Father, you, er, want me to let other men...fuck me?", he gasped between thrusts. Father O'Regan hurriedly reassured the boy. "I'd still be yer lover, like, and come round to yer house every now and then, maybe even once a week, and give ye a good fucking in yer bedroom like yesterday, but I need ye to do the right thing by these other men. They'll pay ye - don't worry about that. An' Mr O'Davis will keep all the money in an account for ye until ye reach yer eighteenth birthday, safe an' sound. The money he saved for me put me through the Seminary, it did. So will ye do it, lad? Fer me?" The boy thought for a minute, his body shaking as the priest lanced his prick in and out of his rear end like a bike pump. "Okay, Father, for you", he responded, smiling, and thinking that his afternoons were soon to become a whole lot more interesting. * * * Declan O'Finnegan's afternoon was also about to become a whole lot more interesting, starting from the moment he knocked on Mr O'Doyle's door. The teacher lived in a small block of one-bedroom flats built to accommodate the single men of the town. Declan's Mam was somewhat surprised that the boy needed extra tuition, him being the brightest O'Finnegan in over two hundred years, but she gave way under Declan's relentless pleading. Mr O'Doyle opened his door to admit the boy, welcoming him warmly just in case any big ears were listening in. "Ah, ye've come fer yer tuition, me boy, excellent, and on time, too, I'm a firm believer in punctuality, Bring yeself in here now, there's a good lad". He guided Declan through the hallway to his sitting room and invited him to sit on an overstuffed couch, then sat himself alongside the lad. "Now, I take it yer Mam said it was okay to visit?", the teacher began. "Oh, yes Sir, I only have to get home in time for tea, around six o'clock". He gazed at his teacher with almost palpable but virginal lust, wondering which of them was going to make the first move. He didn't have to wait much longer. Mr O'Davis edged closer along the couch, and carefully draped an arm over Declan's shoulder. "Declan, my boy, before, er, anything happens, I just want to be sure ye're, um, happy to be here, like", the man asked. "Oh, yes Sir. I've thought of nothing else all afternoon", the boy replied. "Good lad, good lad. Er, there was just one thing...do ye mind if I make a movie of, er, of us, on the couch, here this afternoon? It's just fer me bad memory, y'see, ye're such a beautiful boy an' I wanted something to remember this afternoon fer the rest of me lonely life". The teacher's eyes shone with such sincerity, that Declan had only a slight reservation before agreeing. "A movie? With me? Um, would anyone else see it?", the boy enquired. "Oh no. No, no, no my lad. It's just so I can remember ye exactly as ye are right this minute", the teacher reassured his student. "It's all set up, I just have to turn it on. You won't even know it's going", he explained, jumping off the couch and stepping over to a sideboard which had a digital movie camera sitting in it. Pressing a switch on the device, he returned to the seat and put his arm back on Declan's shoulder. "Just forget it's running", he advised the boy. "Do ye want to, er, y'know, like we did in the storeroom, maybe?" Mr O'Doyle asked hopefully. Declan's face brightened, then flushed. "Oh, yes Sir, I've been wanting to do it all day", he answered enthusiastically, then threw himself onto his teacher and kissed him passionately, in a reprise of his actions earlier that afternoon. The two wrestled on the couch for several minutes, lips locked, hands searching and caressing. It was Mr O'Doyle who broke their kiss first - he decided it was time to move forward. "Declan, my boy, would you like to take off your clothes for me, and show me that beautiful body?", he asked. Declan blushed, but nodded shyly, and stood up, fingers reaching for his shirt buttons. "No, no, son, turn towards the camera, please? And smile - for my memories", Mr O'Doyle added. A little disconcerted, but still willing to do as his teacher asked, Declan turned his back to the man and smiled weakly at the tiny red light on the front of the movie camera. He undid his buttons slowly, taking off his shirt and undervest, dropping them on the couch behind him. He fumbled with the snap of his trousers, then unzipped them and shimmied his waist until the garment fell to his ankles. Pushing his underwear down, he stepped out of the clothes and turned back to the teacher, who had not removed any clothes, only unzipped his fly and pulled out his dick. "That's great, my boy, good stripping", Mr O'Doyle complimented. "Now, kneel up on the couch next to me, and give my dick a little suck, please". Declan climbed onto the couch as directed, but hesitated at taking the next step, staring down at the man's rigid penis poling out of his trousers. "Please, Declan? For me?", the man pleaded. Declan sighed and lowered his face to the man's knob. He opened his lips gingerly and began licking and kissing the bulbous head. Mr O'Doyle put his hand on the back of Declan's head to keep it there, urging the boy to take his dick deeper into his mouth, use his tongue more, keep his hands away, and smile for the camera when possible. Declan was beginning to wonder whether Mr O'Doyle was ever going to let go of the back of his neck, when he felt the man push his cock even deeper into his mouth and groan, his hips shuddering and jerking. The confused boy then tasted something awful in his mouth, and nearly felt like throwing up. Mr O'Doyle had ejaculated in his mouth! How could he do such a thing? The teacher groaned a few more times, still holding Declan's head down, then sighed and let go. Declan jumped up and off the couch, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, but it was too late - he had already swallowed. Mr O'Doyle had already zipped up and walked over to the movie camera, switching it off. "Goodness me, is that the time?", he commented to Declan, who was still naked and disoriented by what had happened. "You better get dressed and get off home, my boy. I'll be in my study, er, with the movie. You can let yourself out, there's a good chap", he added, leaving a nude and now unhappy Declan to gather his clothes and dress himself. The boy shut his teacher's front door behind him, head downcast, and trudged to the street where he turned for home. How could Mr O'Doyle use him like that? Is that what men were like? He had thought men were beings to be admired, with their big muscles and their good looks and, well, their big dicks. But Mr O'Doyle didn't seem to want to do anything with him, he just wanted Declan to get him off. "Hey, Dec, what's up?", the disconsolate boy heard a voice alongside him ask. At the same time he heard two small bicycles pull up on either side of him. He looked up long enough to see that it was his younger brothers, the twins, then looked back down at the ground and kept trudging. "C'mon, Dec, wassamatta?", Aidan persevered, pedalling extra slowly. "You look sad", he added. "It's nothin'. Now beat it", Declan spat miserably. "Aw, c'mon Dec", urged Conor, who had dismounted and was walking his bike. "You can tell us. We won't tell nobody. Don't matter how bad it is, confession is good for the soul, that's what Father O'Casey told us in school today". "Ha! Confession! That's where all this started, I think. I never shoulda told him nothin'," Declan grumbled. "I'd prob'ly still have Mr O'Riley fer a teacher if I'd just shut me big yap". "Jeez, Dec, you're really miz'rable", Aidan observed. "Me an' Connie wanna help ya. Yer our brother!" "Yeah, Dec, me an' Aidey promise we won't tell another soul, not even Father O'Casey", Conor vowed. "Yeah, or even Mam!" Aidan added. "Look, we'll even swear on our balls!", the boy suggested, thrusting his free hand down the front of his shorts. This last declaration finally brought a faint smile to Declan's lips as he watched both of his brothers jam a hand down the front of their respective shorts and (presumably) clutch their nutsacks. "If we ever tell, you get to rip our balls clean off!", Conor proclaimed solemnly. Declan's smile broadened into a chuckle, then a laugh. "Okay, all right already! I'll tell you all about it when we get home. Is Mam home?" "Nah, she's polishing candlesticks at the Church. An' Frannie's at soccer practice", Conor explained. "An' Pattie's delivering medicines an' stuff for Mr O'Davis, the pharmacist", Aidan finished. "It'll just be us until dinnertime". The three boys continued their journey, Declan's step a little lighter at the prospect of relieving his burden. He had never thought of his younger brothers as confidants before, but he knew he needed to tell someone. The twins dropped their bikes at the back door of their home and trailled their brother inside and up the staircase. Declan flopped onto the double bed that he and Patrick now shared, which had formerly been the twins' (and before that their parents'). The two younger boys crawled up beside him, sitting cross-legged on either side of the prone boy, waiting expectantly for their brother to tell his tale. "Now you guys promised, right?", he began. The twins both nodded vigorously. "All right. I wanted to find out what sex was like, so I got Mr...er, I got this guy to, er, do it with me. But all he did was make me blow him, and he never got me off or anything. Plus I had to strip off for a movie camera, AND he shot in my mouth! It was vile!". He screwed up his face and shuddered, recalling the taste of Mr O'Doyle's semen, at the same time carefully scrutinising the faces of the twins, to see whether they would laugh or make fun of him. But there was no laughter from the boys, only sympathy. "That's really mean of him, Dec", Aidan began, patting his older brother on the shoulder. "Yeah, mean", concurred Conor. "When me an' Aidey do it, we always make sure the other one finishes", he remarked. "You mean- you guys suck each other?" Declan gasped. "Sure", replied Aidan easily. "All the time. It's great". "An' we don't shoot yet, so there's no mess. An' we can do it tons o' times, not like grown ups", observed Conor. Aidan glanced at his brother for silent approval, then directed his next words at his older brother. "Y'know Dec, we hate seein' you sad and miz'rable like this. So me an' Connie are gonna make it up to you fer what that man did today. Just lie there an' let us do all the work. Our treat. Do ya like kissin'?", he asked unashamedly. "Er, sure, I guess", Declan answered. "Well, then, yer in luck, 'cause I reckon Connie's the best kisser ever. Me, I like dick, an' I can suck you like you wouldn't believe". "He can, too", Conor agreed, bending his face down to join lips with Declan. His little tongue darted straight in and began poking at Declan's oral digit, while Aidan set to work on Declan's trouser clasp and zipper. Soon all three boys were buzzing with satisfaction, Aidan on Declan's hairless genitals, Conor on Declan's lips, mouth, jaw and earlobes. There were no sudden movements, no violent tearing off of clothing - just two brothers comforting a third. As Declan approached his climax, Aidan raised his head and said to Conor "I think I'll give him me special", to which Conor wordlessly agreed. Just at the moment of release, as Declan arched his back, Aidan slipped his thigh under Declan's buttocks to support him, wrapped both arms around his brother's waist, then clamped his teeth behind the ridge of Declan's knob and hummed deep in his throat, giving Declan his most extended and exhausting orgasm ever. The three boys lay quietly on the double bed, breathing heavily, as they recovered from their exertions. Declan was the first to break the silence. "Do you guys- er, that was great...um, do you want me to, er..." "It's okay, Dec, we never keep score. An' we like doin' it, so it's not like work or nothin'. 'Sides, yer our brother", Conor replied. "Yeah", Aidan added. "But anytime ya wanna, we ain't gonna fight ya off", he grinned. "An' remember ta be nice to us", Conor mentioned. "An' next time yer in Confession", concluded Aidan, "remember where it got ya last time". end parrafan@ureach.com