Tales of Bearach Candlestick O’Floinn
By Maximilian Cummings
Tale 2
It was a soft old day and Aoife was none too pleased at the prospect of walking home in the dark and wet so she had fecked off home in her gabardine raincoat well before she should have. It was three miles or more across the fields and what with the wind blowing and all, she got quite cold. It was coming round a hump in a field that she slipped and slithered a bit off the path down on her rump on the cold wet grass. For a moment she lay there, as the rain poured down, quite shaken. As she got back to her feet and put the shoe that had come off back on her foot she saw she was not alone.
“You poor craytur,” said the man. He was quite three foot high and dressed in a sort of red jacket with breeches and grey stockings. Aoife was quite taken aback. His face was old and, you might say, withered though his eyes were bright enough and there was nothing wrong with his teeth. He raised his very old fashioned cocked hat to her.
“Well not quite cat.” Oh, she knew who, or what, she was speaking to alright. She’d learnt about the wee folk and she knew about the leprechaun; had not her grandmother, let alone her mother, warned her, but this one seemed safe enough to her. Weren’t they, after all, neither good nor bad; ‘good from whim, and mischievous from caprice’ she’d heard it said. He didn’t look dirty, in fact rather the opposite as the lace around his cuffs and neck were quite dandified and as white as you could wish. She wondered about the washing.
And well she might. For Bearach Candlestick O’Floinn is not a married person and it is his very sister who ‘does’ for him. Oft times have I heard her mention the washing and himself and none too complimentary and as to how does he manage, at his age, which is considerable, to get his breeches and stockings so dirty: it was no different when he was a boy and look at him now, well into his ninety-eighth year, so should he not be better by now—but wasn’t. That wan is a difficult one I can tell you and not one to cross.
“You’re a Logheryman,” Aoife said.
“It wouldn’t do for to say that,” said the old man, “Maybe yes and maybe no. You shouldn’t be walking across the fields in this weather and in those shoes.” He was looking at the shoes and there was a look, a look almost of distaste that came over his face as if something did not please him. But it was fleeting and Aoife wasn’t sure that was what she’d seen. “You want to come inside and dry yourself?”
Aoife looked around in puzzlement. They were in the midst of a field with just the cows sitting around chewing the cud and looking glum. There was not a cottage or house for miles. She could be wary when she got to his house and not go in if it didn’t look safe. “Well, I suppose...” she said.
One moment she was standing with the wind and rain blowing around her: next she was in a big circular room with a peat fire smouldering away and a general feeling of cosiness. She looked upwards—there were roots growing down through the ceiling so she was very evidently underground which is, after all, where most of the wee folk live, as you know. Aoife moved close to the fire warming herself, feeling its radiant heat on her unstockinged legs. She knew she shouldn’t be there. Things had got a little out of hand.
“I was thinking of a drink,” said the old man. Aoife did not think he meant tea. She was of course correct and it was warming.
It was hot in that little room under the hill with the fire burning away. Aoife moved from being chilled to the bone to really rather warm indeed. She took off the gabardine.
“Not too warm for you?” said the little man.
“No, no. Might you be the one called Bearach Candlestick O’Floinn?”
Now the old man beamed all over his face, “Ah, you’ve heard of me. I suppose I am well known in these parts.”
He was pleased at that. He liked the idea he had a reputation. Certainly his sister did nothing to lessen that—the reputation I mean, not his feeling of importance. She did nothing to increase that: certainly not, rather the opposite with her ready put-downs regarding her brother whenever she could.
Aoife was not exactly worried, after all Bearach was almost half her size and clearly old. She didn’t know how old he actually was and would never have guessed—he wears well you see.
“You have the advantage of me, so who might you be?”
“Aoife, Aoife _____.”
“Ah yes from ______. I knew your mother.”
Now that was odd, her mother had never mentioned such a connection to Aoife. The old man was polite, invited her to sit on a stool, and asked after her, he asked about Aoife’s work and many other things. The conversation was easy and flowing. Occasionally she noticed the leprechaun would glance at her shoes and the look on his face seemed to confirm her earlier suspicion.
“You don’t like my shoes do you?” It was a direct question and the leprechaun looked a bit disconcerted.
“Not as such, you see,” he said, “may I?”
It was a surprise to Aoife to find the leprechaun’s strong small hands at her ankle relieving her of a shoe. The explanation as to what was wrong with the shoe was rather complicated and technical but seemed to her to centre upon their quality of make, quality of materials and that they did not fit as evidenced by her earlier upset.
“I’m good at fitting,” he said without the trace of a smile, “would you like me to see what I can do for you, it is my trade you know.”
Aoife knew, her grandmother had told her of the sound she had heard all alone when coming from Carrigenagh on the Brandy Pad road one evening, the sound of a shoemaker’s hammer tap tapping away but in the midst of wildness where no honest folk would dwell.
Aoife considered, was this some sort of trick, “a pair do you say - for are you not known as the ‘One-shoemakers.”
Bearach smiled, “It is easier, I suggest, to work on one at a time.”
His strong fingers held first one foot then the other feeling them all over. It was not an unpleasant feeling, in fact quite soothing having your feet rubbed and gently pushed. It gave her a bit of a tingling feeling running up her calves and around her shapely shins past her knees to warm her thighs.
“I think I have the measure. Just wait and I’ll be back and do some making.”
Returning the leprechaun seemed to have cut down his clothing somewhat and put on a sturdy apron from his neck almost to his knees and set to work with his tools sitting on a stool. Aoife watched the diminutive cordwainer at work with scissors, awl, pincers, knives and his hammer.
After a time the young girl got up and wandered around a little looking at the room, at the furniture, the pictures on the walls with their cords held by a wooden peg simply knocked into the earth of the walls and the doors leading out who knows where. She walked back to the fire and received a bit of a shock as she came up behind Bearach Candlestick O’Floinn for it was quite obvious from his back view that he had divested himself of rather more than just some of his clothes as his bare behind was placed on the stool. It was obvious all he had on was his leather apron.
Aoife sat herself down on a stool; hands resting on the cotton of her dress drawn across her knees, and watched the strange little man at work. His nimble fingers worked quickly cutting, sewing and hammering and in the heat of the room the sweat stood out on his forehead. It really was very warm in the room but still the fire burned throwing red shadows around the subterranean room. Aoife plucked at the cotton of her own dress, the heat was making her sweat and the material stuck to her. It was no wonder, she thought, the little man liked to work naked but why did he let the fire get so hot?
Occasionally the leprechaun looked up at Aoife over the top of his spectacles perched on his pointed nose.
“It’s very warm in here,” she said.
“Cosy,” said the leprechaun, “there’s a jug of water over there.”
Aoife drank deeply spilling some of the contents down her dress adding to its dampness. She pulled again at the material.
“I play the fiddle, you know,” said Bearach getting up from his stool, he went over and picked the instrument off a shelf, “would you like to dance?”
“I’m not very good...” said Aoife.
“It’s much to do with the shoes,” said the leprechaun, “come, and try these on.”
Aoife had not realised the work was done and seemingly so quickly. She let her old shoes drop from her feet and went over to the leprechaun and once more his nimble fingers touched her feet and ankle giving her a funny tingling sensation which trickled up and up her legs. It was not unpleasant. Carefully he pulled first one shoe then the other onto her feet, resting each foot in turn in the lap of his leather apron. They fitted perfectly and so comfortably Aoife could not but comment that she had never worn such shoes.
Bearach smiled almost modestly and picked up his fiddle, “Shall we try them out?”
And all at once the music started, music that she had not heard the like before, and she was dancing, dancing around the fire as Bearach played. Sometimes the music was fast and wild, sometimes slow and measured and Aoife found her feet took the time perfectly and her movements were flowing and fine quite unlike her more usual miss-stepping.
But it was hot, so hot.
“Perhaps,” said Bearach Candlestick O’Floinn, “you might like to let your pretty cotton dress hang by the fire to air.”
For a moment the music stopped and the idea seemed such a good one that Aoife complied almost without thinking.
“And perhaps your underclothing?”
The music started again and Aoife realised all of a sudden that she was dancing for the little man absolutely naked but for the wonderful shoes. Not that she could stop or even wanted to stop, it felt so free and wild. The little man was standing now to play the fiddle and as Aoife whirled and spun, she saw he had put away his leather apron and was standing with the fiddle on one shoulder, one foot resting on a stool and with the most outsize penis she could imagine hanging between his thighs. It was so out of proportion to his body, bigger, much bigger, than a full sized man’s; not that she had seen such a thing though she had imagined Mick O’Rourke’s cock more than once in the privacy of her own bed. If only he would invite her out and not that silly Mary D____.
The leprechaun’s balls hung below his penis and the sack, it really did, reached to his knees. The whole assembly looked so ridiculous that it was very difficult not to glance at it, even laugh. The little man was moving in time to the music and his balls and penis as a consequence swung like the pendulum of a clock.
“It’s a pity we can’t dance, but there’s no one else to play the music.”
Aoife could not imagine how she could dance with a man who came no higher than her thighs; perhaps she would have to hold him up in her arms as they danced around the room with that great cock of his bouncing around against her tummy.
The music was fast now and Aoife tried spinning around on one leg with the other raised—what was she doing? Not only could the little man see her black bush but in the firelight the opening of her thighs would reveal her most secret flesh. Slowing she looked again at the leprechaun and his penis and the thought of what would it be like erect came into her mind. If it was that big soft, how long would it be when extended, like the bull in the field she saw so often?
“Perhaps the jug of water to cool you?”
Aoife sat on her stool panting from the wild exertion of her dancing as the little man went to get the jug. The cool clear liquid splashed into the beakers and Aoife drank thirstily. She was surprised to feel the little man sit himself upon her thigh; the feel of his bare buttocks was unnerving and was that his scrotum casually knocking against her bare skin? Were such generous proportions normal for the wee folk?
“If you don’t mind me saying you seem remarkably well hung for such a little man.” Aoife, started, she could not believe she had voiced what she had been thinking and in such terms.
The little man winked and settled himself more comfortably on her thigh, beaker in hand. “Well this is how it is, you see, the longer we go without, without relations with a women, the bigger it grows and it has been a passing long time since... me not being a married man and all. If you was offering to relieve the symptoms, like, I would be very grateful. A bit of a balance with the shoes.”
Aoife was in a bit of a fix, she was clearly beholden to the leprechaun, he having taken her in out of the rain and made the wonderful shoes, but, well, she was a virgin and not accustomed to offering her favours just like that. She saw a way out.
“I am sure it would be far, far too big for me (she was not wrong), me being a virgin (she was truthful) and it is a most impressive organ (flattery was a good stratagem) so I fear I cannot help (wrong!).
Now Bearach looked at Aoife in that way he has, “I would not mind a little petting, a little stroking, it all helps you know.”
Aoife caught his drift and so it seemed did the penis of Bearach Candlestick O’Floinn for there was a definite movement there. Aoife watched wide eyed as the resting penis gently lifted itself from his hairy thigh where it seemed it had been resting and then moved a little upwards and to the front, thickening as it went before beginning its rise to point up in the air. And it kept growing and as it grew the foreskin began to roll slowly back to reveal the shiny head. I do believe that when it had done its growing if Bearach had wanted to he could have licked the head, had he been minded, so high had it risen.
“Oh,” said Aoife, “oh.” She really had never seen the like, indeed not even the normal sized variety and this was, it has to be said, quite extraordinary. She really did not have too much of an idea what she was meant to do, though there had been some discussion with her girl friends but that had hardly prepared her for this. She had been told to use the ring of her thumb and forefinger around the shaft and to move the foreskin up and down but there was no way... she would have to use both hands.
Bearach Candlestick O’Floinn just smiled widely as Aoife tentatively put out her hands and touched his penis, it was warm but hard. He had said stroking and petting, well she could try that—and did. Slowly her fingers explored the large shaft, before searching below to lift the ball sack and feel its impressive contents. She knew she needed to move the foreskin to stimulate the head and with one hand each side she encircled it, its diameter must have exceeded two inches, and began to slide the skin backwards and forwards over the head almost covering the quite large slit at the head’s summit. Aoife was not so innocent as not to know what the end result of her work would be if she did it right and what would come from that slit.
She had to admit that she was fascinated by the cock, it really was very good to hold and move, if only the leprechaun was Mick O’Rourke’s she’d be happy to try sucking it but there was no way she could get this leprechaun’s cock in her mouth and, anyway, he wasn’t Mick O’Rourke’s. Had Mary Cuinn? It didn’t bear thinking of.
Evidently she did something right, her petting was suitably pleasing to Bearach for he gave a most contented sigh and all of a sudden the slit opened and a stream of semen shot out across the room and kept coming, spurting and spilling out onto her hands; there was so much of it Aoife did not know what to do, it was even running down onto her thigh and she was not sure some of it hadn’t got elsewhere on her body; when would it stop? It was hot and sticky on her hands, getting between her fingers and hanging in strands. There was nothing to hand to wipe it on. Bearach gave a grunt of satisfaction and hopped off Aoife’s thigh.
“Good, good,” he said, “you have eased me somewhat, reduced the swelling. It has been some time.”
Aoife was relieved, she had dealt with the leprechaun’s improper request, had given something in return for the shelter and shoes and all without any risk to her virginity, of any sort really. Subsiding, as it now was, the cock was no longer a threat to her and the leprechaun’s interest would be past. But there was so much of the stuff, she had not expected that.
Once more the leprechaun picked up the fiddle and began to play and Aoife could but dance around and around the fire, her feet hardly touching the ground so well did the shoes help her. The merry fiddler had a broad grin on his face and he played fast and as he played Aoife felt not only energised but actually quite aroused, she had felt a little bit that way before but now it was much more definite. She could feel the engorgement below and the wetness; she looked with even more interest at Bearach’s cock swinging between his thighs. It was indeed not as large as before so evidently what he had said was true; she was almost sorry it was soft and not at attention given the way she was feeling and it was if it had heard her thoughts because the next time she came around the fire it seemed to be on the move again; one more circuit and there was no denying the erection.
The merry fiddler seemed to tire of standing still or with one foot on a stool because he began to caper after Aoife around the fire, the beauty of his playing contrasting with the obscene shaft and the swinging of his balls as he followed Aoife around. The dance went on as the fire burned, Aoife felt hot and tired and was relieved when finally Bearach stopped the playing. She flopped onto the floor in front of him.
“I’m so tired, so worn out with the dancing; I need a drink to restore me.”
The smile on Bearach’s face was particularly wide, always an interesting sign.
“Try this, it will, I am sure, do the trick.”
Aoife opened her eyes to find he was standing on the stool by her and presenting the very end of his erect penis to her, the smooth dome and slit, and was inviting her to, to... suck the end, draw out another draught. And what was strange, in her excited state, it seemed a simply lovely thing to do. There was of course no way, even though it was smaller now, that she was going to get the whole thing in her mouth but she could stimulate the end. Leaning forward she pushed out her tongue and touched the smooth skin and licked and licked. Bearach nodded as Aoife’s pink tongue slipped right along the divide of the dome head to the fraenum, where it was most sensitive, and tickled. Stretching her lips Aoife could almost get the whole head in her mouth, but not quite, so she contented herself with the tickling and suckling of the smooth end. She was surprised at herself for wanting to do this so badly and the more so at finding she had put a free hand between her legs and was doing to herself what she had earlier done to the leprechaun. Her tongue played with the little slit, teasing it, pushing at it.
“It is ready now, just for you,” said Bearach
Aoife knew what he meant and she pursed her lips right at the end of the dome, around the little slit and tickled it with the end of her tongue. All at once her mouth was filled with a pulsing viscous warmness; as it came she swallowed greedily and her fingers played in her wetness, squeezing and moulding. She was surprised at the quantity but it did just what Bearach had said, as she swallowed she felt revived and ready to dance again! And dance she did.
Now Aoife had not intended to get quite so intimate with the leprechaun, indeed had thought her manual work would have quietened his enthusiasm for matters sexual and certainly could not conceive that it would again be such a short time before Bearach was erect, albeit not so impressively large. Had she not just emptied him again?
“But that cannot be,” she said once more verbalising her thought.”
“Three times is good for a leprechaun and one for a fuck,” said Bearach Candlestick O’Floinn as if quoting an oft repeated line.
The excitement had not gone from her; indeed it was, if anything, stronger and she cast longing glances at the erect penis. It was now about the size of Mick O’Rourke’s—or the size she hoped it would be if she ever had the chance to see. How she would like to have the opportunity to be alone with Mick, to undo his fly and shyly pull him out and stroke him to standing before slipping his cock between her lips. She’d show Mary D who could suck a man. Why had she not learnt from the little people?
The idea was in her mind that she should practice and she tackled Bearach Candlestick O’Floinn without him needing to ask in any way. This time, his penis was more mouth sized, indeed just right for sucking and Aoife practiced with enthusiasm letting the long shaft go far into her mouth and running it wetly backwards and forwards between her lips as her tongue softly stroked. She could tell what was right and what was not so right by the leprechaun’s sighs of satisfaction. She felt she was learning well and it seemed almost a pity when the lesson had to come to an end with the leprechaun’s third ejaculation of the afternoon spraying the back of her mouth.
The little man was by now quite tired out and he sat on his stool with a rather small pizzle between his legs, much more in keeping with his diminutive size but something which would have been of great embarrassment to Mick O’Rourke had he possessed such a cock.
Aoife, though, was invigorated by her second draught of leprechaun juice and was almost shaking with sexual energy. Despite Bearach watching her she could not keep her hands from her sex. The triangle of black hair was shiny wet with moisture and the inside of her thighs glistened in the firelight. She was playing with herself, thighs quite spread on her stool and her fingers dancing with no attempt to hide the engorgement of her sex and its very liquid state from the leprechaun. To her very great surprise the sight seemed to affect him for the little cock stirred and began to rise up to its now limited full height, a good three and a half inches.
“Well, well,” he said and his hands touched her breasts for the first time.
They were so sensitive, the nipples standing as hard as could be in the palms of his little hands, and so ready to be played with. The leprechaun’s gentle fingers tweaked the nipples and kneaded the breasts. Reaching down one of his hands made contact both with Aoife’s fingers and her sex and she found his fingers were most cunning. Wet now with her lubrication her oiled her nipples, his little fingers sliding easily around them making them wet and even more sensitive.
Taking her hands from her sex Bearach placed them on her breasts before getting down on his knees.
Then Aoife felt a very small tongue licking up one thigh, lapping up the moisture that had trickled from her but getting closer and closer to the centre of her current excitement. The tongue made contact and once again Aoife was experiencing something she had only thought about in her own bed. Oh yes, she had imagined David O’Rourke’s fine head between her thighs and had come on the thought once or twice sweatily between her own sheets.
Bearach’s beard tickled a bit but his tongue sent jolts of pleasure through her and when his tongue touched her clit why she positively gushed (I have Bearach’s description to confirm). It was very difficult to stay seated just on a stool. The little tongue circled and the feeling grew until Aoife, underground and in the hot glow of the peat fire, came like she had never come before. On and on it went as the little tongue continued to suck her little clit, drinking in the surrounding liquid.
Aoife fell off the stool onto her knees panting, eyes shut, still reeling in orgasm.
Now can you imagine it? The white plumpness of Aoife’s bottom presented to Bearach, he a manly leprechaun as we know, he with a leprechaun’s erection standing proud, an erection at just the right height so what should he do, what could he not do?
Aoife was barely conscious of the invasion as Bearach slowly slid the head of his cock into her until his balls were right against her and his stomach pressing against the softness of her bottom.
“Oh no, I’m a virgin,” she was conscious now, could feel Bearach inside her. She started to crawl away but Bearach walked with her, the movement pleasurable allowing him to slide around inside her.
She was, of course, virgin no longer. It is not the emission of semen which marks the loss of virginity but the penetration. Now I am not saying the physical evidence would have showed the loss for, you have to remember, Bearach’s was now a very slim member. Had he earlier in the afternoon achieved entrance things might have been different, hymen-wise.
Despite the recentness of Aoife’s orgasm she felt another building. It has to be remembered that the penis inside had not a little of magic about it. She was being taken as she had seen the cows and sheep in the fields be taken though the relative sizes of herself and the leprechaun did not equate to those of the heifer and covering bull.
It must have been quite a sight to see, naked Aoife crawling around the fire, breasts hanging with their pointing nipples, the dampness of her black bush catching the firelight and the diminutive little man walking behind her clearly embedded and with his hands holding to her hips maintaining connection.
Another orgasm was coming closer and Aoife’s arms gave way and she slumped to the floor, leaving her bottom high in the air. Bearach pumped and Aoife, through her orgasm, felt the hot fluid of his ejaculation spurting into her. It was once again copious, indeed she felt herself dripping when, after a time, Bearach with his penis softening backed away to look at his handiwork.
Now some of you will think that the small leprechaun should not have taken her that way but presented his thin penis to the upper hole and, given its size, slipped easily into her bottom. Well, as Bearach has told me, and this story is from him rather than Aoife you see, his original plan had been for the third effort to be a traditional bout but Aoife got to him first and he was more than happy to watch her pretty lips at work again, so in the end he had to complete the saying on the fourth because a fifth would have been quite beyond him at his age. And for Aoife it was perhaps as well for bottoms penetrated by the leprechaun have a certain tingle ever after and a nagging desire to be filled. Now should Mick O’Rourke’s tastes go that way, and they may well have, that would have been fine: but what if not?
The little man was tired and settled himself back in his armchair by the fire and dozed. Aoife, now that her sexual needs had been satisfied, and so well—never in the confines of her own bed had she felt something like that—was worried the leprechaun would keep her, keep her for his pleasure, so she quietly crept past him, picking up her discarded underclothes, cotton dress, gabardine raincoat and a candle on the way, tried to find the way out. First she went into one room, and then another but eventually found a door into a passage. It was long and winding with many a room off and Aoife was not surprised but certainly amazed at the quantity of gold she saw in some; plates and cups and all sorts of torcs revealing that much of it was really rather old, the accumulation of a collector over a long period indeed.
Aoife came up out of the passage and into a field. The rain had stopped and a watery evening sunshine was shining onto the bright green land and her pale skin. Never before had she stood naked outside and she paused for a moment before hurriedly dressing. It would not do for someone to come by and see her like that.
She wasn’t going to forget where that entrance was, not with all that gold, and it was not as if it was probably the leprechaun’s anyway and what use was it stuck in a dark room or two hidden away; so she took the ribbon from her hair and tied it to a stick and put that in the ground right by the entrance. And there the ribbon was a fluttering in the breeze, right streaming out, as she walked away and she could still see it blowing away, marking the door as clear as anything, from a long way off. Home she ran in her new shoes, her feet seeming to dance across the land, and tells her Pa and brothers all about how she has found the Logheryman’s house with his gold - well not quite all of the story you understand.
Back they come with her, her brothers all enthusiastic and excited with spades to dig if needs be and a sack to carry but her father not so keen, “A ribbon you say, on a stick, a red ribbon? Hmmm.”
They crest the rise where Aoife knows she can see her stick from the top—and so, indeed, she could—yet she stops dumbstruck for there, fluttering in the breeze, from one field to another were hundreds of little sticks all with their own little red ribbons flying gaily in the wind, her own little stick and hair ribbon somewhere amongst them—but where?
“He’s had you good and proper,” says her Pa.
And Aoife knows she’s been had, good and proper.
Aoife slunk back home with her brothers jeering at her all the way. She had a strong belief in her own cleverness, a misplaced sort of self confidence but it is not clever at all to underestimate the Logherymen, least of all Bearach Candlestick O’Floinn. And as she neared home she could see he was there before her right on the ridge of her house, upside down and balancing on the point of his hat teetering as if about to fall and laughing as if there was no tomorrow and then he was gone.
Aoife had found the hard way that there’s trouble with fecking off early! But she had her new shoes and they lasted her and when they became worn out with holes in she would find that next day or the day after they had been re-soled without her asking or visiting a cobbler, and, of course, she had learnt some new things, things a young girl needs to know, and Mick O’Rourke certainly appreciated them (though that is another tale and very little about Bearach Candlestick O’Floinn).