Date: Fri, 28 Dec 2012 23:25:53 +0100
From: MICHAEL SOROS <bursa1994@gmx.com>
Subject: Breda's Little Helper

Disclaimer: This story is the fruit of my imagination and none of the
characters who shall appear have ever existed to my knowledge. The shop
will be found on no map. If you find stories of a teenage boy's sexual
curiosity distasteful it is best you finish reading now and try something
to your taste.

This opening chapter sets the scene only. Each chapter should introduce a
new character and a new experience for our hero. To keep this website free
of annoying commercials please consider donating to Nifty no matter how
small.


Breda's Little Helper Part 1

Back in the 1970's it wasn't unusual to find a general grocery shop and
petrol pump in some of the most obscure places in the Irish countryside. To
the casual observer they would seem to make no sense at all as there were
no houses anyway near the place to supply customers. They were generally
situated at a crossroads of some sorts with two intersecting roads -
unsignposted- leading from nowhere to somewhere equally obscure. They were
rarely found on any map. Breda's place was one such commercial enterprise
having been founded by one of her relatives way back in the mists of
time. She had grown up, wise and venerable in the place and was now 70
years old that she would admit to. She had also spent the last 50 of those
years saving for her old age which - in her mind at least - was still many
years in the future. 'A penny tricked from a customer is a penny earned'
her beloved mother would say to the young girl while she was fixing the
counter on the petrol pump to give out less than a gallon while charging
for a gallon. As can be surmised from the few lines about the owner above,
morals sat loosely on Breda McGovern's conscience. She couldn't afford
morals. They cost either money or time, neither of which she had on her
side.

       The grocery store was small and doubled (or trebled really) as an
informal bar on the one side and a store selling the basics of life on the
other. Most of the money came from the petrol pump on the forecourt just
out of her sight on the right. She sold petrol, kerosene and diesel all at
next year's prices but she had a monopoly and supplied the farmers' needs
for 5 miles in any direction you cared to throw a stone. The interior was
dark and in the hands of a more liberally minded person would have had the
light on during the day but these were tough times for the tight fisted and
Breda didn't believe in wasting electricity. It also made checking your
change difficult and induced a nice warm atmosphere conducive to drinking
which filled up the till in the damp winter, spring, autumn and summer
months.

       Apart from location, a ready wit and the inability to stop selling
alcohol to the grossly inebriated, Breda had no other advantages that she
could exploit to boost her fund in old age. She had tried every scam in the
book but the takings were never much improved. Until that is - the
advantage came to her in the form of a 14 year old boy named Paddy McGinty
responding to a much used piece of old cardboard which made regular
appearances in Old Breda's shop window looking for 'a willing assistant' to
help out. It used to read 'willing boy' but they were few and far between
around here and they had all been warned off by anyone that knew the old
miser. She had once made 4 scouts shift a piano up a flight of stairs for
'a bob' or ten pence - between them. Boys were preferred to girls or women
as they were always looking for lifts home after 11 pm as the pitch dark
lanes were dangerous at night and a few had stumbled into ditches or been
terrified out of their wits by a lose cow walking behind them. No. Females
were just trouble and quick to complain about the cold and often lacked the
small talk necessary to separate a lonely bachelor farmer from his
cash. Boys were preferred for many reasons. They were small and didn't take
up much room. They didn't talk back, ate little and were glad of it and -
due to the large classroom sizes in the local town 5 miles away - found it
difficult to add up so they could never work out how much of a weekly wage
they were supposed to be bringing home. It was never in the boys favour
anyway.

	Breda needed someone for the weekends and two evenings a week. The
dumber the better as they wouldn't mind missing school if her rheumatism
was playing up and she needed someone to work the pumps for her. If - and
this was a large IF - the prospective employee seemed up to scratch in her
service he would have the use of a bicycle to get home. Not any old bicycle
but a battered old bicycle with a flat tyre she had inherited from her
mother. She wasn't in the taxiing business.

	One day, following one of her frequent postings for suitable help,
Paddy McGinty had appeared on the other side of her shop counter. She could
only see his head above the edge as he was quite short and he looked like
he was floating without a body. The head however wasn't without its
attractions. A beautiful mop of thick red hair, two red cheeks, a nice
dainty nose with a sprinkling of freckles all on top of two lips you could
have suck started a truck with.  That was quite a full mouth he was
carrying and the thought ran briefly across her mind that she should keep
track of the sweets when he was around as that mouth looked like it could
give a chipmunk a run for its money. From her position behind the counter
she couldn't make out the rest of him but he didn't look like he'd eat her
out of house and home by the slight frame on him. She always sent the fat
ones running home claiming she wasn't in the catering business
either. Paddy McGinty was looking promising.

"And who do you belong to then?" she queried Paddy.

He looked at her blankly. This was a point in his favour with Breda.

"Who are your parents boy?" she asked getting irritated a bit too
quickly. Breda was a great believer in seed, breed and generation and was
convinced the bloodline told you more about the person than anything they
would ever admit to.

"My father's a sailor sailing round the world and will be back sometime
soon and my mother is Magdalene McGinty of the Ballykillferrit McGintys"
the boy replied with pride. If he had known as much about the
Ballykellferrit McGintys as Breda did he would have kept his big round
mouth shut.

"So Maggie is back then?" she said out loudly to herself.

"Where are you living then? There's nowhere out round here."

"Mam has taken the old McMurrough's cottage about a mile up the road over
there" said the boy pointing to the lane across the road.

	Breda was a bit surprised that anyone would live in that battered
old cottage. Very small she heard. If you talked to yourself you'd have to
go outside to reply and you wouldn't put the key in too quickly in case you
smashed a window. However Breda remembered Maggie from well before this boy
was born. Not wishing to judge the boy's mother - she was a slut, the town
bicycle in her day but left under suspicious circumstances about 15 years
ago. The reason why would seem to be standing in front of her. Half the
town had red hair so that didn't narrow it down.  Obviously she was back in
business hence the cottage out of sight of the moral majority who believed
sex was for special occasions or at least had to be rationed out over the
course of the marriage. The sailor was still scrubbing decks somewhere in
the Pacific no doubt.

Breda decided immediately that she was going to take the boy on as she knew
his mother had the attention span of a goldfish and wouldn't annoy her with
wanting the boy back home for homework and the like, especially in the
evenings as she would be busy with her 'new friends'. She was considering
herself practically a charity - giving this poor unfortunate boy a bit of a
job in her old age even if it was for peanuts. If he was anything like his
mother he'd be willing alright. She could never say no either.

"Well stand back so I can see you son. I'm not taking on invalids. I'm not
a hospital. Walk over to the other side of the shop and stand at the bar".

And he did. She liked what she saw. Short but well enough proportioned.
He'd only be lifting the nozzle at the petrol pumps and the odd bucket to
wash the muck off the windows of the tractors. He looked nimble enough as
he'd have a lot of climbing about to do and his legs looked sturdy. She
could see they were completely smooth but showed that he played some sort
of sport. It had crossed her mind to ask why he was wearing football shorts
instead of trousers. He had a neat trim waist leading up to a narrow chest
covered by a thin tee shirt which had seen better days.  Apart from that he
didn't seem to have anything else on apart from a pair of dirty shoes.

"A bit chilly for just shorts and a top isn't it Paddy?" she enquired
leaning forward on the counter wondering what the reply would be.

"I'm very hot blooded Miss McGovern. Boil up in a minute if I have too many
clothes on me. Can't wear jackets or sweaters and trousers scratch my skin
something rotten. Like the air at my legs. Is that a problem Miss
McGovern?"

Like his mother so, she thought. She couldn't keep her clothes on either.

"Turn round and let me have a good look at you. The work here is very
physical and I don't want lads collapsing on me and me having to call out
doctors on my income."

       Paddy turned round and faced the bar and looked at all the bottles
on the shelves. He'd never seen so many bottles of alcohol in one place and
he didn't recognise any of them. He could hardly read any of the labels
anyway as schooling had never got in the way of a good game of football on
the street and his mother moved about a lot.  Breda's eyes found a nice
slim waist nestling above a very full pair of shorts. He had quite a nice
bottom she noticed.  Full and quite rounded. It reminded her of a plum
pudding - or rather two plum puddings. It didn't displease her. She had no
interest in the physical side of life herself having read an article about
sex in a woman's magazine at the doctors years ago and had been quite put
off deciding it was never going to happen to her. And it never did. She
never regretted it but found that this complete lack of interest in sex
could be used to her advantage as her customers in the evening were nearly
all men.

       Bachelor men. Crusty farmers who lived either on their own, with a
mother or a brother and could never find a wife willing to live in poverty
up to her armpits in cow shit. The poverty of the times meant that any
young marriageable girl got out of the country as soon as she had the boat
fare and never came back. Horny men were generous with their cash and a
little bit of dirty talk could get one of her farmers to linger perhaps for
an extra drink - thus boosting her profits. It had dawned on her that not
all of the men seemed distressed with not having a woman about and she
wondered if some of them weren't of the persuasion she read about in the
Sunday newspapers she sold. The scandals following a raid on a public
toilet in England where professional men were caught 'in shameful
positions' with other men. She had no idea what that meant but it did mean
there was another world out there from which she could derive a profit if
she could only figure out how to tap into it. Looking at Paddy McGinty's
full rounded bottom was beginning to put ideas into her miserly head. She
wondered...... exactly how many of her farmer friends would like her new
employee serving them petrol and alcohol?