by DHP Authors
He didn’t argue or hesitate even for a moment, another clue that he’d actually done this before. Getting onto his hands and knees on the grass, he opened wide and let me all the way in. His tight ass bobbed up and down eagerly, his fat balls smacking against his thighs as I fucked him hard, using every last ounce of strength I had in me.
Soon I could feel the first dabs of pre-cum splash the inside of the condom. At the same time, his body went totally stiff, and his swollen cocktip slapped up noisily against his silky belly. He let loose a second torrent of cum that pooled on the ground between his knees.
I held onto his hips and pumped like crazy until I felt a giant load descending. To Malcolm’s credit, he clamped down on me with his ass-cheeks as hard as he could. I felt the muscles deep inside him contract against my cock.
It was so warm and snug inside him that I never wanted to pull out and peel that saturated condom off. But eventually I had to. A few dribbles of jizz dripped down his softening cockhead while he shifted into a crouching position and watched me.
“You can do this in America all the time?” he asked. He was so wiped out from his climax that his voice came out in a breathless chirp.
“Sure. Every night, if I want to.” Okay, so I was exaggerating a little. Why ruin the lad’s fantasies? “Maybe someday you can find out for yourself.”
“Alas, I told you. ’Tis not in the cards for me. This village is me home and always will be. But you know I’ll be dreaming of you, William Doyle.”
“I still think…” Distracted, I glanced down for a moment while I tied off the rubber and wrapped it in some tissues I had in my pocket. When I finished with that, I looked up again and to my astonishment, I found him gone. Him, his clothes, everything. Even the puddle of cum had vanished from the ground. I had no explanation except the one I’d come to rely on more and more that night—I must have drunk a lot more than I realized at the pub. Maybe I‘d actually blacked out and he had taken off. So much for building up my tolerance while I was here.
Somehow, I got dressed and found my way back without stumbling or falling flat on my face. I went up the back stairs of the pub, avoiding the barroom this time, and collapsed in my rented bed. It had never felt more comfortable, since I was totally wiped out. I only wished Malcolm was there to share it with me. At least he played a prominent role in my dreams. I hoped he was telling the truth and that I was in his, too.
****
The next morning, I wandered back into the pub to get some breakfast. I wasn’t hung over, though I had expected to be. The events of the night before were jumbled up in my mind, like some half-remembered movie I’d tried to watch while I was doing something else. I was totally off-balance.
“Feel better?” Jacky, the bartender asked as he handed me a cup of strong-smelling coffee without being asked. “Quite a night you had, ay?”
“What do you mean?” I asked. I fought back a blush—was Malcolm right about the rate at which gossip spread around here? Had someone seen us?
Jacky laughed. “You must be joking. We all saw you over there, talking to yourself in the corner. Eventually you wandered off outside, still jabbering. Couple of the lads thought about going after you, but we thought it best not to embarrass a guest.” He shrugged. “Well, ’tis not a crime to be a bit pissed here in the Emerald Isle. We’re known as hard-drinking men. You’re becoming one of us, I s’pose.”
“Talking to myself?” I repeated stupidly. I was too self-conscious to mention Malcolm. Had they not noticed him slipping out with me? Well, I wasn’t about to blow his cover if so. I was leaving soon—he had to stay here, as he had pointed himself more than once.
“Don’t worry. Mum’s the word.” Jacky held a finger to his lips. I didn’t pursue the topic further.
Later, I looked around town for Malcolm, but I never saw him again before I left two days later. I missed him, but I accepted it. He’d given me a good vacation memory. He had his own life, I had mine. Better to let things be.
Back home, about a week later, I sat down with my grandfather and told him about my trip. He hung on every word and even hauled out that old box of photos again. One of the faded pictures caught my attention right away.
“Hey! That’s the Bell and Whistle.”
“Ah, yes,” Grandpa said wistfully. “This was the great darts championship of 1935. My da was the champion that year. See? There he is, in the front row.”
I looked down with pride at the young man posing with a trophy in his hands, one who looked very much like me. The Doyle genes were strong.
Then I saw the man standing right next to him.
“Who is that?” I asked Grandpa, pointing. “Did you da ever tell you?”
“Indeed he did.” Grandpa laughed. “That’s none other than Mad Mal. He was a terror around our village. Terrible fibber, but always good for a laugh. Lived outside the norm, if you know what I mean.” He lowered his voice even though there was no one else in the room. “Not interested in girls, they said. Bit like you, come to think of it.”
I blushed. Grandpa knew I was gay, but we never really discussed it, and I never went into any detail. I respected that his age and background made it an uncomfortable subject for him, but he always seemed to respect me and I found that good enough. This statement, though, took me totally by surprise.
“Full of life, my da always said. The village was never the same after he was gone.”
“Gone?” I began to get a sinking feeling in my gut. “Gone how? What happened to him?”
“Influenza. Carried him off in a matter of days. Things were tough back in my day. Not like in America. You young folk don’t know how good you’ve got it.” Then grandpa started on one of his good-natured rants about the failures of modern youth to live up to their potential.
I wasn’t listening, though. Instead, I stared at the face in the photo for a long time. It sure looked like the Mal I knew. It could have been a relative of his, I supposed, just like my grandpa’s da—my great-grandfather—bore a passing resemblance to me.
Somehow, though, I didn’t think so.
THE LEP-PRICK-CHAUN
DIANA SHERIDAN
Seamus almost dreaded the end of the evening. He knew how it would go—the same as always. He and Todd would come home to his place—or, occasionally, to Todd’s apartment—from a good dinner at one of the local restaurants they enjoyed. While their dinner settled, they’d either play a game of chess or watch a classic movie on the DVD. Intermittently, they’d talk, and Seamus would be captivated, as always, by Todd’s quick wit and his rollicking (and sometimes ribald) sense of humor. Warmed by Todd’s personality and inspired by his red-headed good looks, with those warm and sparkling brown eyes and ready grin, Seamus would suggest that they “go upstairs”—to the bedroom.
And that’s where the trouble would start.
The couple would get undressed, kiss, and fall to the bed. And once again Todd would exclaim that he wanted to get fucked, but not with that.
“That” was Seamus’s dick, and it was generously proportioned by anyone’s standards. Seamus had had his share of boyfriends over the years, but even some of the size queens had recoiled in horror at the gargantuan dimensions of Seamus’s endowment. Only a few men had been able to take it, and Todd, alas, was not one of those few.
Seamus had been attracted to Todd from the moment they met at a neighborhood watch meeting, and they’d started dating almost immediately. They were well suited in personality, temperament, and shared interests, and they both had strong sex drives, but their experiences in bed had been frustrating to say the least.
The first night they got together, Todd flatly refused to let Seamus try to fuck him. Although Seamus was normally a top and Todd a bottom, Todd swore he wasn’t going to let anything that large anywhere near his butt. Todd topped Seamus that night, an arrangement that didn’t really please either of them. Todd tried to suck Seamus off after that, but accommodating that monster in his mou
th proved to be as daunting a task as taking it up his butt. The best he could do was suck the top quarter of it while wrapping his hand around part of the remainder.
On their second date, Seamus wheedled Todd into at least trying to take the huge cock up his ass. Todd gritted his teeth, and Seamus prepared Todd for his entry in every way that he could. He sucked Todd’s dick to get him good and hot. He thrust three fingers up Todd’s ass and slid them purposefully in and out, the better to get Todd loosened up and even further heated. He slathered copious quantities of gel on both Todd’s sphincter and his own latex-covered dick.
But when he tried to insert the head of his dick within Todd’s hole, he caused Todd so much pain that he finally gave up trying. Seamus’s cock was not only extra-long but extra-thick, and the pain was so intense that tears came to Todd’s eyes.
Most nights, after that, they settled for mutual jerk-offs. It wasn’t what either of them wanted, but practically speaking it was all that was possible. Yes, Seamus could suck Todd off, and yes, Todd could fuck Seamus, but neither of these was what they really desired to do.
Tonight, though, Seamus’s disappointment was keener than ever. They retreated to his bedroom, got undressed, and settled on the bed. “Try to suck it a little,” Seamus wheedled. “Just suck the head, if that’s all you can manage.”
Todd did his best to take the head into his mouth, but it was a tight fit and uncomfortable. The resulting blowjob was not very satisfying to Seamus, and Todd didn’t enjoy it either. Todd totally balked when Seamus asked if he would consider trying to take it up his ass again—and that’s when he dropped the bombshell.
“Seamus, you’re perfect for me in every other way,” Todd began, a frown creasing his forehead, “but sexually we’re totally incompatible—and sex is a very important part of my life.”
Sensing where this conversation was going, Seamus broke in with, “Mine too, but we have so much else going for us. We have so many shared interests, and our temperaments suit each other, and we get along great, and—”
Todd cut him off. “Yes. All true. But what good is it without sex?”
“I thought our feelings for each other were mutual,” Seamus responded.
“They are. To tell you the truth, I’m even beginning to fall in love with you. That’s why I want to break it off now—before I get in any deeper. I’m sorry, dude, but neither of us really wants a sexless relationship, and that monstrous dick of yours just won’t fit up my ass no matter what you do to it. Or in my mouth, really, either. I hate to end it—”
“Then don’t!” Seamus urged him fervently.
“I think I have to.” Todd resolutely rose from the bed and began pulling his clothes on. “Good bye, babe. It’s been wonderful—all except the sex part.”
“Aw, shit, man. Don’t go!”
“You gonna sandpaper that thing down to a manageable size?” Todd asked with a wry smile.
“Wish I could!” Seamus spit out bitterly.
Todd finished drawing his clothes on, slipped into his loafers, and kissed Seamus on the forehead. “Thanks for everything,” he said.
“Are you sure you have to leave?” Seamus asked.
“Yes,” Todd said simply, and he walked dejectedly out the bedroom door. Seamus followed him downstairs to lock the front door behind him.
A week passed. Seamus kept hoping Todd would have a change of heart and call saying, “I miss you too much. What are you doing tonight?” But that call never came. Meanwhile Seamus grew more and more depressed. Despondent, he decided he needed a change of scene. He would use his frequent flier miles and book a trip to Ireland. He had been to his father’s native land once before and liked it. He had even kissed the Blarney Stone. Perhaps another visit would raise his spirits.
He found the vibes of the Emerald Isle as welcoming as ever. Seamus had booked a reservation for a week at a bed-and-breakfast in a small town off the beaten tourist track. The bed-and-breakfast had three guest rooms. One was currently occupied by a honeymooning couple from Dublin. One was vacant. And Seamus had the third.
He rented a car and drove all over the countryside, viewing farms, eating traditional foods, and trying to recuperate from his major disappointment with Todd. That Saturday he visited a fair and bought a number of keepsakes to take home with him, although he couldn’t help thinking, “Todd would love this!” when he encountered a wooden pipe with a distinctive character.
That night, he stopped at a tavern for some good Irish whiskey and food. The corned beef and cabbage was tempting, but he settled on a hearty Irish stew. Digging in, he savored the food and took frequent sips of his whiskey in between bites.
By and by, the tavern grew crowded, and finally a burly, ruddy-faced fellow stopped alongside Seamus’s table and inquired politely, “Would you mind some company? There are no seats left at the bar and no empty tables.”
“Sit down. I’m Seamus.” He extended his hand.
The stranger grasped Seamus’s hand and shook it with “I’m Patrick. Pleasure to meet you,” then plopped his butt in the empty chair across from Seamus.
“You’re not from around here,” Patrick observed.
“Very far from here. America.”
“Where?” Patrick asked. “I have a cousin in Denver.”
“The suburbs of Boston,” Seamus answered.
“Ah, well, then you wouldn’t be knowing my cousin,” Patrick said with a sigh. “How long are you here for?”
“A week, which is just about up. I fly home tomorrow.”
“Have you been to the museum?” Patrick inquired. “It’s not that large, but it’s interesting. It’s not every small town that can be boasting of having its own museum.”
“Yes, I’ve been there. Fascinating, actually.”
“Have you been down to the bog to look for the leprechaun?”
Seamus laughed. “Leprechaun? No. I’d hardly take the time to search for something that’s a myth.”
“Oh, he’s no myth!” Patrick said earnestly. “Woody is very real.”
“Woody?”
“Well, that what folks hereabouts call him. Because he lives in the woods alongside the bog, you know.”
“You’re having me on, aren’t you?” Seamus said with a grin.
“Oh, no!” Patrick replied with a most serious demeanor. “Woody is real. At least, that’s what the folks insist who’ve seen him. I never have myself, mind you, but even Father O’Toole swears Woody is real. It seems they had quite the conversation down in the bog one evening.”
Seamus was amused. “Is Father O’Toole a tippler by any chance?” he asked.
“Not Father O’Toole! He won’t even touch a drop of good Irish whiskey! No, he was stone-cold sober when he encountered Woody, for sure.”
“Is he a joker, then? A tease?”
“Why won’t you believe in the little people?” Patrick asked. “Just because they don’t have leprechauns in America…. No, Woody is real. And a warm, soft night like tonight is just the sort of time when Woody likes to go wandering about. I suggest that after you finish your dinner, you go down to the bog and look for him.”
“I think you’re trying to get rid of me so you can have the table to yourself,” Seamus teased.
“All the way from Boston and you won’t even go try to find our local leprechaun.” Patrick shook his head disbelievingly. “Unremitting skepticism—is that what they teach you in America?”
“Is that the bog that lies due west of the village?” Seamus asked.
“Ah, now you’re getting into the spirit of it!” Patrick beamed with satisfaction. “Yes, it is. Just wander around and see if he comes up to you.”
Despite feeling he was on a fool’s errand, Seamus drove out to the bog. The bright full moon illuminated his way, and he walked around, softly calling, “Woody? Woody?” and expecting any minute to have a gaggle of townsfolk jumping out from some sort of concealment and laughing at him for falling for a fab
le.
But there were no townsfolk hiding in the bog—just one small, energetic leprechaun.
At first Seamus could hardly believe his eyes when he spotted the little fellow, dressed all in green and with a meerschaum pipe clenched between his teeth. The apparition—surely this couldn’t really be a leprechaun, he thought—was hopping and dancing about, apparently unable to hold still.
“And who be you?” the apparition asked, looking up from his diminished stature at Seamus, towering above him.
If it wasn’t an apparition, maybe it was a child, Seamus thought. But no—a pipe-smoking child? And surely no child had whiskers like this whatever-it-was did. Suddenly Seamus realized he had been asked a question. “I’m Seamus. And who are you?”
“Well, I understand most folks hereabouts call me Woody,” the small individual replied. He thrust out his hand, and Seamus took it. For a little fellow, Woody had a mighty strong grip. Whatever he was, he was clearly no apparition.
But was he really a leprechaun?
“If you’re a leprechaun, where’s your pot of gold?” Seamus challenged him.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Woody replied cagily, raising an eyebrow at Seamus.
“Well, if you won’t give me gold, what use are you?” Seamus said with a snort.
“I can grant you a wish. Any wish. Just one, though. And it can’t be for wealth or eternal life. After that, though, your options are pretty much open.”
“Any wish? Any wish?”
“Try me,” the leprechaun replied.
When Seamus told him what he wanted, the leprechaun hooted in astonishment. “Most men would want just the opposite,” Woody commented.
“Most men haven’t had the burden I have,” Seamus responded dourly.
“Okay,” Woody said.
“Okay what?” Seamus queried.
“Okay, you’ve got it,” Woody answered.
Seamus waited a beat, then querulously questioned, “Aren’t you going to wave a magic wand or say an incantation or something?”