Harry McLaurn’s Lament, or
The Leprechaun, the Teacher and Bessie Babcock
Part III
by Maximilian Cummings
The envelope was still in his left hand, the letter in the right as if he was afraid to let them go. Harry sat down slowly in his arm chair with a broad smile under his moustache. It was not an offer, no far from it, not a job offer but it was an invitation to interview, it gave opportunity that, he realised, might come to naught but it was a chance and moreover someone, some school, well not just any school actually but rather a good one, was at least prepared to see him. He was not then totally over the hill. It was a very good prep. School, admittedly some way away but he could move house. He adjusted his tie feeling better, much better—Bessie and an interview—things were certainly looking up.
Bessie was, of course, a puzzle to Harry. Why was she interested in him, if that is what it was, he could not see she was playing a game with him though perhaps that might be it. Certainly, the experience was pleasurable, it was not one he would have wanted to miss and, really, he could not think that of her. After the last meeting atop the haystack she had not actually suggested another rendezvous but that seemed to be because she would be away for a time—or perhaps it wasn’t and that was it. Still there was the interview and that in a week’s time. He would have to ready the car for the journey.
A few days later found Harry McLaurn in town shopping, walking stick in one hand, shopping bag in the other. He had been having quite a good time of the weekly shop even flirting a little, if that is what a later fifties man in a tweed suit and moustache can do with young female shop assistants; to say nothing of his lengthy chat in the street with Anna Johnson and Jayne Simmons. Harry had been surprised to find himself thinking about what lay under their tee shirts and jeans whilst talking to them. Certainly Anna was most generously endowed and that tee shirt’s neck did rather plunge and was Jayne’s hair really that colour, he would so like to check her other hair to see, though her breasts really were rather small. His thoughts had rambled as he talked to them and he had walked off bemused at having been chatting to the two young mothers for a good ten minutes with his cock hard the whole time. It was all so unlike him but actually rather pleasant. Imagine being invited back to tea with Anna and Jayne and being lured into intercourse. No chance at all, of course, but the daydream was appealing. How might it happen, well it wouldn’t... but say it did? His mind was speculating. Perhaps the conversation moving from, “Do have another slice of cake, Mr McLaurn—may I call you Harry,” somehow to bra and cup sizes and the problems of fitting—something he had no idea about and a demonstration of what they meant. He could imagine, indeed did imagine, the lifting of tee shirts over heads and the display of large and small brassieres. This simple idea in Harry’s mind was novel, not for him the complex fantasies of the experienced but jaded thinker, indeed any thought of sex was really quite novel to him—as perhaps it is to you? Anyway the idea of exposed brassieres appealed to him but he went further, imagining their removal, hands behind backs—he knew that much, and then the revelation as four breasts slipped out of the warm bra cups, Anna’s slightly flopping forward and bouncing but Jayne’s not moving at all. “You can see, Harry, how they vary in shape and cup size. Please hold them and see.” And he could imagine, oh yes he could imagine, his hands reaching out and cupping first Anna’s, lifting them slightly, feeling the hard points of her nipples in his palms and then Jayne’s much smaller sweet round breasts but again with the little hard points of the nipples pressed in the soft flesh of his palms.
“That’s actually rather nice, Harry, you do have such strong hands.” It was his fantasy, after all, and he could imagine the compliments if he wished. “Breasts really are a bit of a bother for a girl and need holding to stop them moving about—a bit like, for men, your penis I suppose. Imagine that, Jayne, special little bra-like cups to hold their balls!” The girls giggled in an attractive and sexy way (in Harry’s daydream).
“Well I don’t think it/they need such support,” ventured Harry in his mind.
“We’ll see. Go on, we’ve showed you ours: now show us yours!” More giggling.
And Harry had, naturally in his daydream, been happy to oblige. He imagined, as he walked up the street, his disrobing as the two women watched; the giggling and pointing; him standing there exposed. Now, should he be ready erect or have himself grow in their hands? An option in his story. He chose the latter.
Anna’s hand was the first to touch cupping his testes and lifting them with the ends of the fingers of each hand. “See, little cups like this, but how to support the penis?”
There was a giggle from Jayne, “No need—it’s supporting itself!”
And, not surprisingly, Harry’s penis was lifting itself upwards all by itself, foreskin rolling back and readying itself for business—just like it actually was as he walked along the street.
“Not so much a need for support as restraint!” replied Anna and with one hand she held it back against his stomach.
“Yes, you have to be firm with men, take them in hand!” They both laughed at this and Anna began moving Harry’s foreskin up and down.
He could imagine reaching out and undoing their jeans—“Why Harry what are you doing?”—but not being stopped and discovering the secret of Jayne’s hair colour and that Anna shaved (now where had that idea come from?). Touching them, feeling them, his fingers exploring opened thighs—“Why Harry what are you doing!” Being led on to intercourse. “Harry, lie on me, hold me down, take me...” But who should be first? Would he want to penetrate Anna as he sucked on her full breasts or start with Jayne with her appealing little round breasts and soft curly-haired mound? It was another choice to be made in his mind as he walked through the town, perhaps a little more self-absorbed than was his usual way.
Thinking of being lured into intercourse is a pleasing and jolly daydream but of course that is more or less what had happened to Harry with Bessie Babcock—twice, though perhaps ‘led’ might be more accurate a word than ‘lured.’ It was more Bearach Candlestick O’Floinn who had done the luring. Anyway Harry turned a corner, still immersed in his daydream, when the real thing was there right in front of him, walking up the street towards him. Harry stopped and raised his hat and was so delighted when Bessie broke into a big grin and began talking to him at a great rate about what she had been doing. He was so relieved she seemed pleased to see him.
“I was just going to make some tea,” he said, “would you care to... I have a chocolate cake.”
Well, of course, young girls are easily lured by chocolate cake and Bessie was no exception and very ready for a cup of tea after an afternoon’s shopping but, you will appreciate, what with Bearach Candlestick O’Floinn’s spell on her, she was more than happy to go with Harry, in any case, back to his house.
Harry was quite excited, and showed it, at having Bessie in his cottage. It was not that big but a pleasant little old stone-built house in a terrace which had seen modernisation over the years and was certainly in good order. He busied himself with the tea things as Bessie chatted to him in the kitchen.
It was a pleasant little tête-à-tête with the tea and chocolate cake and went on well into a second pot of tea. Harry was surprised to learn Bessie wanted to see the first floor.
“Of course, but why?”
“I thought we might get into bed.”
Well, despite Harry’s daydreaming he had not actually thought of that. He was used, if two couplings could be said to be something he was used to, being naked with Bessie in the countryside. He hadn’t thought she would want to go to bed that afternoon—but she did.
What a delight for Harry to watch young Bessie stripping off her clothes and slipping in between the sheets of his single bed. She had been surprised by him only having a single bed but he had explained he had never seen the need to buy a larger bed. He had not realised that so many single people preferred a double bed these days.
“It’ll be a bit of a squash,” he’d said.
“Nice,” she’d replied.
And it certainly was nice getting into his own bed, admittedly very much earlier than he ever did, and being close and immediately intimate with soft warm femininity. They kissed for a long time just hugging each other; Harry conscious as much of the togetherness as the sexuality of the situation despite his penis being tight against Bessie’s tummy as they held each other. Gradually kissing developed into stroking, the opening of thighs and the touching of penis to warm wetness. Even then there was no hurry over penetration, just kissing, holding and the gentle sliding of penis in Bessie’s secret folds. It was Bessie rather than Harry who caused entry, slowly pushing him up into her. Their movement was relaxed and prolonged and after orgasm they lay quietly together, still joined as Harry’s penis subsided within Bessie—indeed if they did not sleep for a short while they were certainly both not fully conscious for a time and in that space between reality and dream.
Harry was disappointed Bessie could not stay the night. He offered her a meal out but she had to go, had to get home but she readily agreed to come with him on his day trip to the interview at the Prep. School when he’d asked whether she would mind accompanying him. He thought she might like the ride and visit to the other town. It was in a couple of day’s time.
Bessie met Harry in the morning of the interview early as arranged. He really was grateful to her for coming with him, providing company on the journey and support as well. Unusually for him he was nervous—a symptom of how the dismissal from his former post had affected him, damaged his self confidence, damaged him. He did not understand why he had been regarded as ready for the scrap heap and was none too sure many of his former colleagues did either. The new head teacher was not popular or, seemingly achieving better results.
“How old is that?” Said Bessie with some surprise, she had never seen the like. Nor had Bearach Candlestick O’Floinn, but he wasn’t much used to motor cars being more of a biker—as we shall see.
“Had it since ‘71. One of the last to be made I think. It’s a good car.” Harry was a bit defensive about the vehicle though people seemed less rude about it these days. Indeed he had had the odd request to buy it off him.
“What is it?”
“A Morris Traveller. It’s an estate.”
“But it’s got wood on it.”
And indeed it had, the highly distinctive feature of ash framing around the ‘estate’ rear part, a look that had prompted Dame Edna Everage to comment, whilst filming in Stratford-upon-Avon, on it being a ‘half-timbered car.’ The joke had made Harry smile.
The journey was uneventful and Harry was very happy to listen to Bessie’s chatter. At first she’d been puzzled by the lack of a CD player. Indeed the car did not boast a cassette player or even an 8 track stereo cartridge player, which would have been seriously ‘retro,’ though it did have a radio. The sun was shining and, apart from his nervousness, Harry was really happy just driving along with Bessie beside him.
Now you may have been wondering what has been happening to the holidaying leprechaun, Bearach Candlestick O’Floinn. Was he still asleep in the haystack sleeping off a flask or two of Sloe Wine, was he tramping through the countryside in emulation of Harry McLaurn’s pastime, was he sketching in the fields? No, he was doing none of these things. He had become rather interested in Harry McLaurn and was, in fact, in the back of the car where Harry couldn’t see him and looking out of a side window and making faces at children in passing cars who happened to spot the little man and point. It is easy to imagine the conversations in those cars:
“Daddy, Mummy there’s a funny little elf in the car we just passed. He was ever so rude—he stuck his tongue out at me.”
“Don’t be silly Freddie.”
“I think it was an House Elf.”
“Humph, too much Harry Potter. There are no such things.”
But of course Freddie was not being silly. Which just goes to show... something or other.
Bearach Candlestick O’Floinn had no idea where they were going and no particular worry about that; he was an easy going sort of leprechaun and he knew his way home. He was also enjoying the experience of travelling in a motor-car, the break-neck speed at which they were travelling (a good 45 M.P.H.) and the scenery rushing by. He had gathered why Harry was travelling but it was not really the sort of thing, probably, he could help with and so Harry would be on his own.
The interview went rather well, or so it had seemed to Harry. He had liked the people, liked the headmaster and liked what he saw and heard. It was an environment, ethos and attitude that he could identify with and his answers and the supplementary questions as approaches to teaching were discussed and evidence of his experience demonstrated, seemed to flow very easily. He actually thoroughly enjoyed the meeting and would have been quite happy had the discussion gone on longer. The end result, having walked around the school and even taken an impromptu maths class—he had not been expecting that—was the offer of a job and a staff cottage in the grounds.
Harry’s moustache was particularly firm and his head held high as he met Bessie again. They settled into a tea shop and Harry could not stop talking; his breaking of the good news and his appreciation of the school poured out with Bessie quite unable to get a word in edgeways. “I shall have to move, of course,” he said and it was only then that it dawned on him that this would take him away from Bessie.
“Oh,” said Bessie, “that’s a pity.” There was silence.
“Will you need a housekeeper?”
Well Harry had managed for a good 35 or more years without one but the offer and idea was appealing—very appealing. The cottage in the grounds certainly had two bedrooms and so was big enough but what would the school say? Well they weren’t to know and it wasn’t really their business in this day and age. But did Bessie really mean that?
Out of the tea shop, Bessie and Harry walked up the street passing the plate glass windows of the modern shops and the more interesting details of the older shops including an old arcaded front of a shop now selling all manner of shoes. They did not notice a rather strange little man, perhaps five foot three high clad in red coat, white breeches and cocked hat, frowning in disapproval at the wares. Now you might have thought someone clad in that old fashioned dress and wearing a hat of all things – who wears a hat nowadays perhaps apart from Harry McLaurn with his tweed flat cap in the event of rain—might have attracted attention but it was Carnival Day and people were milling around in all sorts of dress. Bearach Candlestick O’Floinn, for it was he that they walked past, had made himself rather larger than usual for a holiday, an easy piece of magic, you will appreciate, for a male leprechaun to do, and was examining the shoes and not liking what he saw at all. He was minded to make them all left feet, or possibly right—he had not decided—when his long nose caught the distinctive smell of beer and twitched.
He had noted that Harry looked very happy and had concluded, rightly, that all was well so it would not really matter if he absented himself from Harry and Bessie and went in search of the interestingly beery smell. You know how it is, beer or women and beer wins every time. It was not long before Bearach Candlestick O’Floinn had that long nose of his in a glass; his feet tucked under a table and was surveying the other occupants of the Carnival beer tent over the glass. They were certainly dressed in all sorts of outlandish costumes. He felt a fellow feeling for the rather hairy gentlemen dressed in black leather from head to booted toe and they too warmed to him when he let slip he was a ‘biker’ too. Now quite how they got in their minds that he rode a motorbike when he meant a pedal bicycle and a very old one at that and he had not so much pedalled the contraption as sat on the handlebars whilst Feargus O’Dubhthaigh had pedalled like a mad thing up hill and down dale very much the worse for drink and all the time imagining there was a leprechaun on his handlebars leading him to a crock of gold—or so he had (unwisely) told the constable in the morning who had pulled him out of a ditch.
The bikers and Bearach Candlestick O’Floinn were soon telling each other taller and taller stories over more and more good beer. The more I think of it the more I feel there was a little bit of magic involved as it does seem difficult to credit the bikers would not have spotted Bearach Candlestick O’Floinn’s complete lack of technical knowledge regarding motorbikes as he wouldn’t have known a Triumph Bonneville from a Norton Commando or Harley-Davidson Sportster. Somehow they thought he was into ‘Harleys’ and unwisely let him try one of theirs. I blame whoever it was started the thing up but he was off, yes Bearach Candlestick O’Floinn was off riding on a motorcycle and he loved it, the wind in his hair, the blur of everything as he speeded past, the beam of light showing him the way down the dark road out of town and into the country. On and on he went, faster and faster down the straight Roman road; he was intoxicated by the speed (and the beer) and certainly had no idea whatsoever how to control the thing, let alone what the black and white chevrons meant ahead or about cornering on very sharp corners...
Bearach Candlestick O’Floinn flew through the air as the Harley came straight off the road and into a ditch. At one hundred miles an hour (almost) a leprechaun leaving a motorbike flies quite a long way as you can imagine. In his fright this leprechaun dropped right back to his smaller travelling size before flying into a tree, tumbling down through its branches and landing upside down to whizz round and round on his cocked hat just like a top until he was as dizzy as could be. It was quite a sight in the moonlight, or so the badger who saw the whole thing told me.
Bearach Candlestick O’Floinn lay on the ground stupefied and it was only the bright light of the morning that woke the bedewed leprechaun with the throbbing head and—it has to be said—throbbing of much else besides due to the bruising. What would his sister have said? Well, almost certainly something about “serving him right” and “he should never be so stupid—what at his age” but she was never going to know, that was very much for sure!
Harry and Bessie had, of course, left the town a lot earlier and travelled back in the Morris, Harry still talking about the school with Bessie more interested in the cottage which, of course, Harry had not bothered to see. It was mid-evening when they returned and Harry had the pleasure of taking Bessie out to dinner. Naturally Bessie received approving glances, many understandably thought she was Harry’s daughter or niece but those who know Bessie and Harry were puzzled by their dining together and would have been even more so had they known they would be sleeping together that night.
Indeed Anna Johnson out with her husband did see them both go through Harry’s front door later that evening and it was certainly something she remarked on at the school gate to her friend, Jayne Simmons, the next morning and they were still talking about it when they ordered second mugs of coffee at the café later on.
Inside the house Bessie had kissed Harry long and hard and thanked him for a wonderful day and dinner, her hand had dropped to his trousers, stroking the material and the hardening item within and asked if she could stay the night. It was, needless to say, what he had hoped for.
“I’d like a bath,” she’d said and Harry had shown her to it. It was not particularly an old fashioned bathroom but it did have a large bath. Bessie pushed the plug in and turned on the tap releasing hot water into the tub.
“If you wash my back, I’ll wash yours.”
To say the idea of sharing a bath was appealing to Harry would be an understatement. Of course he hadn’t at all thought of the idea of sharing a bath but that was because thoughts of sex were all so new to him; now the idea of soaping Bessie’s back and no doubt much else besides caught his fancy. The idea too of Bessie pink, warm, slightly damp and wrapped in a big bath towel was somewhat pleasing as well. Imagine such a thing in his own house, indeed in his own bedroom!
Harry just stood watching as Bessie undressed. He had not really thought before that a girl taking off her clothes was particularly interesting—now I’m not saying he had not recognised a pretty girl when he saw one but it just had not been his thing—now as Bessie undid her blouse he saw it very differently as his eyes followed button on button. The blouse slipped to the floor and Bessie reached behind her to unclip her bra. For a moment he was reminded of his fantasy with Anna and Jayne but this was real as were the two ample breasts revealed as the bra dropped to the floor. She stood there just in her skirt.
“You like them?” she said lifting her breasts in her hands.
Harry could but reply in the affirmative; he liked them very much indeed. Knickers and skirt followed and Harry began to undress himself as he watched Bessie bending over to regulate the bath taps. He supposed intercourse was possible animal like leaning over the women’s back and applying his penis under her bottom. Well of course it was, he corrected himself, and he could imagine (and did) that it would be very pleasing to have Bessie’s soft bottom pressed against his thighs as his penis sought entrance. Perhaps she’d let him try that later. He reached out and stroked her bottom cheeks and she turned to find Harry disrobed and in a state of excitement.
“You’re always hard, Harry.” And indeed he did seem to be hard so often these last few days—something difficult for him to explain.
We, of course, know the answer to the puzzle in the form of Bearach Candlestick O’Floinn who had not only ensured a remarkable stiffness and longevity on that first meeting with Bessie by the stile but left him with a propensity for rigidity and regeneration that would be the envy of a younger man.
Bessie stepped into the bath and sat down. Harry watched as a pink flush showed her skin’s reaction to the hot water.
“Well are you joining me?”
Harry got in. It was a little difficult working out quite where his legs and feet went but he was delighted with the sudden feel of Bessie’s little pink toes on his scrotum. They wriggled which was most pleasing.
“Here’s the soap,” she said, “you won’t forget my back.” And she got up turned around and sat down between Harry’s now stretched out and open legs and he began to soap her back. It was just lovely to be sitting there with this soft naked girl between his legs and feel her skin slipping soapily under his hands. You can imagine that it was not long before his hands had slipped around to Bessie’s front (well wouldn’t yours?) and he was soaping her breasts and squeezing them in his hands. Clearly they needed a lot of washing!
Then Bessie got up on her knees so Harry could reach her bottom. How very strange soaping not only those lovely round cheeks but the crack beneath and of course the little puckered bottom hole before washing between her legs, his soapy fingers slipping over curly hair and particularly soft skin. Then Bessie sat down again but a little further back up the bath, right on Harry’s penis, squashing it. She wriggled a little and then rose a little, reaching under herself and holding his penis as if about to insert it into her.
“Oh, but we are meant to be washing,” she giggled and stood up, “my legs now please.”
That was enjoyable too, making her squirm as he washed and tickled her toes and soaping up her legs, touching her pretty knees and sliding his fingers up her soft thighs.
It was as delightful being washed by Bessie and feeling her gentle soapy hands all over his body and last of all on his penis. Much more playful washing and he would have come, a sudden squirting into her soapy hands.
Out of the bath, it was good wrapping Bessie in his big bath towel and, tying one around his own waist, Harry led Bessie downstairs for a nightcap before bed. They sat watching television, Bessie by his side all wrapped up in the towel, pink and warm from her bath. It was not something Harry McLaurn normally did, sitting on his sofa dressed just in a bath towel, far less to be sitting there with it tenting in front of him and as to having a pink girl in a bath towel curled up beside him, eyeing that very tenting... well no it was not something Harry had ever done before. Bessie plucked. Yes she put her fingers together over the tenting and squeezed the end. Harry smiled fondly at Bessie from under his moustache and watched as she tugged the towel aside to reveal his standing penis. They continued to watch television but now Harry had the distraction of fingers around his penis, fingers moving the skin so gently up and down, fingers moving lightly and with no hurry, a leisurely pleasing. It was some minutes before Bessie bent her head and slipped his penis into her mouth and slowly fellated him. Harry stroked Bessie’s hair and smiled down at the back of her head. This, he thought, is utter bliss. Indeed what more could an ageing gentleman want: a glass of whisky in one hand, being seated on his comfortable sofa in his own (paid for) home, warm and comfortable, with a good programme on the television and a pretty girl clad only in a towel sucking gently on his penis with no urgency about rushing to a conclusion. Oh, you think a gentleman could want two pretty girls clad in towels, one on each side. Well you are just greedy.
Harry did wonder if he should be stroking Bessie in return—intimately rather than just her hair but the towel was tightly wound around her and there was no easy way in; and he could not reach far enough to slide a hand up into the towel from below but he was saved the need when all of a moment Bessie got up, straddled his legs, reached under herself to aim his penis and lowered herself right down upon it so it disappeared up inside the fluffy towel, indeed disappeared up into her hot wetness. She was as slippery as anything and had evidently—the evidence was clear—been building herself up into quite an excited state. And there he had her, this towel clad girl bouncing up and down on his thighs making the sofa creak. She was bouncing with enthusiasm, putting great effort into achieving lovely long strokes. He held her tightly to him as she moved up and down: the television, of course, quite forgotten. Harry could feel Bessie getting wetter and wetter and then that delightful shudder as she came, trembling in her bath towel. It was exciting and a signal to him to come, pumping spurt after spurt to add to her wetness.
“Oh, Harry that was lovely,” Bessie said.
It was so strange. One moment he was having intercourse with this delightful girl and now they were sitting side by side again watching television, she still clad in the fluffy towel. He hugged her tight and took another sip of his whisky. The job contract would be with him in a few days. It would be marvellous to be working again and as to having Bessie as his housekeeper and, it very much seemed, sharing his bed, well, that was marvellous too. Harry felt himself a very lucky man.
The television programme over and the glasses and coffee cups tidied away, Harry followed the now towel less Bessie up the stairs watching with pleasure the movement to one side then the other of her bottom cheeks, the smoothness of her thighs and the occasional glimpse of curly hair as she took another step and was that—yes it was—he could see the trickle of his own semen creeping down a thigh. Yes his very own doing not half an hour before. He, Harry McLaurn, had been having sexual intercourse with this pretty young girl on the sofa in his own living room! It was incredible. The sight was deeply erotic and it had a restorative effect and by the time Harry reached the top of the stairs he was erect again. Bessie turned and her eyes opened wide at the sight. She smiled and raised her eyebrows,
“Time for bed!” Said Bessie Babcock.
And time for bed it is indeed for, like all good stories, it is time to draw it to a close and what better time to leave Harry and Bessie than as they make ready for bed. As for the other principal character of our story, the leprechaun Bearach Candlestick O’Floinn, well we already know he has gone to bed or, more accurately at least, is lying flat out cold on the bare ground in the moonlight after his remarkable flight through the air. He is going to wake with a sore head in the morning and feel sorry for himself. Harry on the other hand is going to wake with Bessie in his bed in the morning feeling anything but sorry for himself and who knows what they might do then? Hopefully live happily ever after in the cottage at the school.
The lament of Harry McLaurn was threefold—a feeling of loss at no longer being a schoolteacher, indeed wondering if he had ever been any good at his profession; a degree of loneliness of an evening and finally a concern that he had never had much success or inclination with women. Well they say, and I am sure they are right, that should you be wily enough to catch a leprechaun then you are granted three wishes if you’ll let him go. But I’d like to see you try and catch Bearach Candlestick O’Floinn in the first place – whatever size he chose to be and whether on his motorbike or not! Harry, though, got his three wishes without so much as thinking of catching a leprechaun which shows the generosity of heart of Bearach Candlestick O’Floinn despite what you might have heard from his sister.