Part three in a series about two fictional lovers, Sean O'Leary and James Gordon. All of the Sean and Jamie stories are about men loving men. Many of them include scenes of sexual gratification. Unless this is legal in your jurisdiction, you must leave now. To my knowledge, Sean and Jamie bear no actual resemblance to any other fictional characters.
Part Three - 1955
By M.C.Gordon
The story:
Jamie Gordon put his foot on the shovel and pushed down hard.
"More rocks," he said to himself as he leaned over. He picked up several of the offending objects and added them to the growing pile by the back of the house. "There are more rocks in Ireland than ever I saw in Scotland!"
He moved the shovel a few centimeters, positioned it, and rammed it into the ground. "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!" he exclaimed as the shovel brought up more rocks.
Sean glanced out the window of the second story room that he used when he was writing. He decided that it was much more interesting to watch his lover wrestle with the forces of the land than it was to write a dry article for the newspaper about Ian Fahy's latest run in with the local constabulary for drunk and disorderly conduct.
Sean sipped at the cup of tea that had grown cold as he stood observing the struggle of man against nature.
Jamie threw the shovel against the stone wall that enclosed the small yard behind their home. Sean watched as Jamie paced around the yard, his hands waving through the air as his gestures punctuated words that Sean couldn't hear.
He watched as Jamie picked up the shovel again and continued trying to dig a hole in the yard. Opening the window a little, he sat back down in his chair and listened to his frustrated lover.
"A few roses! Is that too much to ask of your Lordship?! I only want to plant a few roses! Do ye think ye could find it in ye'r heart to let me plant a few roses?!" he shouted as he shook one fist toward heaven. Exasperated but determined, Jamie picked up the shovel and tried one more time.
Sean chuckled to himself as he saw the shovel take flight, followed by a sweaty shirt. Jamie retrieved the shovel and tried again. Sean watched Jamie's muscles ripple and play across his back and arms as he fought the rocky ground of Ireland. And he had an idea.
Jamie was hot, tired, and sweaty. His temper had grown short and he knew that he was losing a battle that many before him had fought with the tough, rocky soil of his adopted land. Frustration worked with fatigue and he was ready to give up on ever having the roses that he so loved and wanted. Hearing Sean call him from the house, he turned to see what he wanted.
"It's time for lunch," Sean called out, and Jamie stood staring at his lover. Sean stood inside the open back door stark naked.
The roses were forgotten.
The next day Sean stood in front of Michael Flynn arguing his decision to do a small article about the difference between whisky brewed in Scotland and Ireland.
"Who cares?" was Flynn's immediate response. "Whisky is whisky."
"And that it is not! I take it you're not a drinking man, and you an Irishman!" Sean shouted. "I'll match Tullamore Dew against Glenlevit or Blairmorh any day! And that's God's truth!"
"Ah, go on with ye then. Do your damn story." The editor reached into his desk drawer. "Here's all the money I'll give you for this folly."
Sean shook his head in disbelief as he looked at the meager pounds that his editor handed him. He would have to dip into his and Jamie's savings to pay his passage.
"I won't be gone long," Sean said to Jamie two days later as he packed a small bag with clean clothes to last for a week. "I promise," he said, taking Jamie's face in his hands and looking deeply into the blue eyes that he loved. "It's just a quick trip to the Isle of Skye."
"Can't I go with you?" Jamie asked.
"No, love. You'd be that bored. I've to do a quick bit for Flynn that he wants for the newspaper on a distillery there that makes Scotch. There's an Englishman now at the paper who told Flynn that Scotch whisky is better than Ireland's own brew, the bastard.
I'll be done and back in no time."
Sean held his lover close and kissed his brow tenderly. "I'll not cheat on you this time, Jamie Love, you have my solemn word. Now, let me go and do my job so that we'll be able to have tea and porridge every morn. I love you, lad."
Sean watched Jamie's downcast face peering at him through the lace curtains of the window as he headed down the street toward downtown Dublin and the train station. Jamie's birthday was coming soon and Sean had just the perfect gift in mind. And in his heart he was determined to stay faithful to his lover this time.
He'd already stopped by O'Hara's Pub and made arrangements for a bottle or two of Tullamore Dew to be put aside for his return. Sean had a fine taste for a nip now and then of good Irish whisky.
Jamie wasn't much of a drinking man, but when he took a sip of whisky he wanted that of his own homeland, his Scotland.
Aboard the train, Sean listened to the turning of the wheels and they seemed to sing to him as the train swayed back and forth in a gentle rhythm. The windows were slightly open and Sean could smell the burning coal that worked to create the steam that ran the train. The hiss of steam was released in an almost melodious beat and Sean was soon asleep.
An insistent hand on his shoulder shook him awake.
"Here we are, Sorr. It's your stop."
Sean blinked himself awake and looked up at the boy who woke him. He was a lovely boy of perhaps eighteen or nineteen with a wild mop of auburn hair and deep blue eyes. A quick shot of desire ran through Sean's veins until he remembered his promise to Jamie. 'Not this time, Seaneen,' he told himself. 'No matter how beautiful or promising.'
He gave the lad tuppence for his trouble. The boy gave him a hopeful look and Sean said, "Perhaps another time, boy-o." Sean reluctantly gave him a quick kiss on the brow, caught at the single piece of luggage he carried with him, and slowly stepped down the steps that led to the wooden platform of the train station.
The train was characteristically late and the last ferry of the day to the Isle of Skye was already gone.
Having no money to spare, Sean went back into the station and settled himself down on one of the wooden benches. The bench was uncomfortable and it was difficult to sleep so Sean let his mind stray to thoughts of his lover, sighed with content, and eventually drifted off.
He was on the first ferry early the next morning. The salt air was cold and he drew his jacket closer to fend off the dampness. He leaned against the railing of the ferry and let the cold, crisp air clear his mind of all thoughts but one. He was on a quest to find a birthday present for Jamie.
When the ferry landed, Sean stepped down onto the rocky shore of the Isle of Skye. There were few places along the shore suited to the ferry travel that was the only way of reaching the small island. The landing was more of a small cove than an actual harbor. To the left and right of where he stood Sean could see small waterfalls flowing off of the high cliffs down into the ocean.
Hiring a bicycle, Sean set off for the distillery. Flynn hadn't given him enough money to cover the expense of hiring an automobile, and Sean rather enjoyed cycling.
The distillery was north of the ferry landing and Sean passed through rocky landscape filled with heather and Scotch thistle, the front tire of the bicycle occasionally running across stones in the road that made it difficult for him to maintain his balance. In the recesses of his mind he thought, 'Jamie should see this. And the lad thinks there are rocks in Ireland.'
There were no trees to speak of in what was a beautiful but desolate world.
It was nearly dark, in this northern part of the British Empire, when Sean finally stopped for the night. A small inn beckoned and he was tired and hungry.
The innkeeper's wife soon had him seated at a small table and placed a generous plate of haggis in front of him. Haggis wasn't Sean's food of choice, but he hadn't eaten since the night before and managed to do the dish justice.
The room the innkeeper led him to was small, with barely room for the narrow bed and side table. The dour innkeeper, who said only that his name was Connery, directed Sean to the convenience and wished him a good night.
Sean felt himself fortunate. The accommodations, while sparse, were comfortable. It wasn't the tourist season and he'd managed to get a reasonable price for this night and the next two.
Removing his clothes, smoothing them and putting them across the end of the bed, Sean lay down. The night was cold, but the rough woolen blanket on the bed kept him warm and he was soon asleep.
He awoke cold the next morning, having kicked his blanket off during the night. Donning his slacks and pulling clean underwear from his bag, he headed for the lavatory located at the end of the hall.
Turning on the hot water faucet, he relieved himself as he waited for the tub to fill. When the water in the tub reached the level he wanted Sean reached up and pulled the chain on the commode. The cold morning air made his nipples hard and raised gooseflesh on his naked skin as he stripped. His muscles involuntarily tightened against the cold. He walked the short distance to the bathtub, the muscles in his buttocks flexing and relaxing with each step. He eased himself into the water and, fully emersed, leaned his head against the back of the tub. The warmth of the water took away his chill. Lathering a small washcloth, he scrubbed himself vigorously. When he thought he was clean enough, he rinsed and pulled the plug. As the water drained, Sean stood and drew a towel around himself. His warmth quickly dissipated in the chill morning air and Sean felt his nipples harden again.
Dressing quickly, he headed down the narrow steps from the second floor of the inn. Mrs. Connery led him to the small dining room and placed a large bowl of hot porridge before him on the table. Sean ate with gusto, being very fond of good porridge when topped with a healthy amount of pure cream.
Breakfast behind him, Sean once again mounted his rented bicycle and headed off to the distillery.
He was escorted to the office of the master brewer straight away, having telegraphed ahead from Dublin with his odd request. The master was pleased to have Sean and more than happy to talk about distilling, in what was his opinion, the finest Scotch whisky to be found in the civilized world.
He was an odd sort of fellow for a Scot, being descended from one of the Spaniards of Rome's ancient armies that had played so great a part in the history of the British Isles. He was shorter than Sean, muscular but lean and compact. His skin had a slight olive tone that gave him an exotic appearance. An unruly shock of raven hair fell across his forehead and he kept pushing it back, but it refused to behave and constantly fell across eyebrows which arched like wings above amber eyes. Sean judged him to be around thirty years of age.
One look into those eyes and Sean knew that here was a kindred spirit. The master, whose name was Ewan MacGregor, looked Sean in the eye and the message was unmistakable. He was available and willing.
Sean, always ready to find sexual pleasure when and where it was offered, wanted to draw MacGregor to himself and feel another male body in close contact with his own. He imagined the Scot on his knees paying homage to his maleness and drew in a deep breath. Then he stepped back. Not this time. He had promised Jamie and he intended to keep his promise.
Ewan understood the gesture and turned his eyes away, sorry for the loss of what might have been an entertaining encounter. "Ye wired that ye wanted some of our Glenmorangie, Mr. O'Leary?"
"Aye, a case if that's possible."
"Could be. Are ye in the business yersel'?"
"No. I've a friend who's that partial to it. As I said in my wire, I'm a reporter for the 'Dublin Voice', here to do an article on Scotch whisky and I thought I'd take some back to the lad."
"An article is it? Can ye be fair, being an Irishman and all?"
"Aye, that I can. I'm always fair in what I write."
"Good. Then would ye be wantin' a tour of the distillery?"
"If you've no objection."
Ewan MacGregor spent the next four hours doing what he loved, showing the inner workings of the distillery.
"You sound as though this place is your life," Sean finally said.
"Aye, and that it is. Me Da and his Da before him were masters here. 'Tis all I've known my whole life.
So, Paddy, did ye learn what ye need?" A mischievous smile flashed white teeth in contrast to olive skin and Sean knew that no insult had been intended.
"Aye, and thanks to you Ewan MacGregor. I'll do a fair article." Sean chuckled. "I might even try your Scotch myself. And the question of the barrels?"
"Ah, the barrels. Ye wanted three from yer wire."
"Aye, I need them for someone who wants to grow roses."
"We can't let go of any but the new ones that just came in, the ones not yet primed. They'll cost a bit, I'm afraid. They're made of good solid oak." The Scot hesitated before asking, "Are ye sure that ye won't ...?"
"I promised someone."
"Would that be the someone who gets the Glenmorangie and the barrels for roses?"
"Aye," was Sean's reply. " 'Tis my own sweet love."
"I wish ye luck then. I would we could have spent this time together another way. 'Tis alone I am, here. There are no others like myself on the Isle."
Sean was taken aback. "Then have ye never ...?"
"Oh, I have," was the reply. "I go to Glasgow or Edinburgh now and again. There was a lovely boy in Edinburgh I used to visit, but he moved on. His name was Jamie and he was that delightful."
Sean stiffened at the mention of the name, but let it pass, for Jamie was a common name in Scotland and he didn't want to hear that this man might have been with his love. He knew that Jamie had had lovers before they met, but didn't want to think that Ewan was one of them. He didn't relish the idea of knowing any of Jamie's former lovers.
After a little haggling the two decided on a price for the whisky and the barrels that gave the distillery a small profit and left Sean pleased with himself.
"I'll have the case of Glenmorangie delivered to the inn and the barrels to the ferry station day after tomorrow."
Sean and Ewan shook hands to seal their deal. "Will ye be coming back?" Ewan asked.
"I might," Sean replied, "when I've made no promises."
His meal that evening at the inn was more to his liking, a healthy plate of lamb stew and home-baked bread. When he told Mr. Connery that he was expecting a case of Glenmorangie, the innkeeper relaxed and became more inclined to talk. The two sat in front of the fireplace and discussed the merits of Glenmorangie, Blairmohr, Lagavulin, Glenlivet, and Glenfiddich. Sean enjoyed the old man's company so didn't bring any of the Irish brews into the conversation. The distillery was the main source of revenue for the area and the innkeeper spoke of it as if it were heaven and the master brewer was God.
When the fire had slowly burned down, Sean rose and bid good evening to the Connery's. In the small room, he again removed and smoothed his clothing and settled under the woolen blanket to sleep.
The next morning, over another breakfast of hot porridge, Mr. Connery told Sean of an old ruined castle not far away. "Ye can use me dray if ye might have interest in such," he offered. "Sire Rob can do with a bit of exercise as it is."
"Sire Rob?"
"Aye, laddie."
Sean was more than interested and accepted the offer. Mrs. Connery packed him a small lunch of bread and cheese while her husband hitched the pony and put a bag of oats in the cart. Sean was a bit amused to learn that Sire Rob was the name old Connery had given the unremarkable and very shaggy pony. Making sure that he had his small notepad and a couple of pencils, Sean climbed onto the cart and headed the pony in the direction the innkeeper pointed him.
The ride was pleasant, but very cool. As the shaggy pony ambled his way down the old pathway toward their destination, Sean observed the landscape around him once more.
This was a bleak land, craggy with rolling hills. It seemed the only thing that would grow was heather and thistle. There was an occasional stunted tree that might have had a chance, had the climate been more hospitable. Sean jotted down notes, hoping to be able to describe the place to Jamie later.
After two hours down overgrown paths Sean finally came to the old ruin. It was more of a fortress than a castle and had probably been built in the 13th century. It might have stood once on the edge of a cliff. But the land had been rising through the centuries and it was more inland now. Sean walked to the edge of a crag and looked down to see waves breaking against rocks and boulders below with a great crashing sound.
He spent the next three hours exploring the ruins and was delighted to find what had most likely been an old dungeon. He would have to bring Jamie here one day for ancient ruins had a special meaning between them.
A fine mist settled in and Sean sought refuge under a small section of the fortress that remained intact. He put some of the oats into the feedbag from the cart and placed it over the pony's muzzle, anchoring it securely behind the wee beastie's ears.
"Enjoy, Milord," he said, and gave the pony an affectionate pat on the rump.
Opening his lunch, he leaned back against an outcropping of rocks and took out his notepad again. As he munched on the bread and cheese he started to put together his article on the distillery.
Ewan MacGregor delivered the case of Glenmorangie to Sean at the inn the next morning. Sean was about to protest, thinking he had made himself clear the day before, but Ewan quite rightly remarked, "Ye'll never get the case safely to the ferry on a bicycle. I'd hate to see all that good whisky in broken bottles on the side of the road. I've got the barrels in the back of the truck. It's just as easy to drive you in as well."
Sean had to admit that Ewan was right and accepted the offer of a ride. It was misting again and he had little enough desire to be drenched on the ferry, much less getting there. He bid goodbye to the Connerys, thanking them for their hospitality, and gave the old man a bottle of the Glenmorangie.
"Come back any time, lad," the old man remarked, hugging the treasured bottle close. "Yer not a bad sort, for all that yer queer."
Sean was speechless. Nothing about his appearance or actions spoke of his preference except to other homosexuals.
Mrs. Connery tried to rescue the moment by handing him a small bundle of bread and cheese and whispering in his ear, "It's the way Mr. MacGregor looks at you. 'Tis common knowledge that the lad's a bit daft."
Sean didn't want to offend the elderly couple, for they had been gracious to him during his stay with them. But neither could he stand quietly and see himself, or anyone else, insulted. Drawing himself to his full height, he said, "He's not daft. He's queer; and so am I."
The drive to the ferry was quiet. Upon their arrival Ewan oversaw the transfer of the three heavy oak barrels from the back of the truck. When he was satisfied that they were well secured he turned to Sean.
"It's been a pleasure to meet you, Irish. Yer welcome to return, when ye've made no promises."
Sean smiled. "Perhaps I will, Scot, perhaps I will."
The two shook hands cordially and Sean filed the invitation away. He was seldom attracted to older men, but Ewan was definitely interesting and worth future consideration.
It was late by the time Sean finally arrived home. The house was dark with the exception of one small candle burning in a second story bedroom window. He removed his coat and shoes and tiptoed quietly up the stairs. Sean could see Jamie with the help of the soft light from the candle.
Jamie was lying on his right side, sleeping calmly, and hugging Sean's pillow against himself. Sean smiled at the sight of his lover and sat gently on the edge of the bed.
Jamie rolled to his back and slowly opened his eyes at the feeling of an insistent hand gently shaking his shoulder. Still half asleep he asked, "Sean? Is that you?"
"Aye, love. Who else would it be?" Sean leaned over to give Jamie a kiss and marveled, as always, at the soft feel of Jamie's lips against his own.
Jamie yawned and said, "I expected you tomorrow."
"I finished a day early." Sean undressed and slid into his customary spot on their bed. It was still cold so he pulled the wool blankets over himself quickly.
"Jamie Love, could I have my pillow?" he asked since Jamie was still clinging to it.
Jamie relinquished the pillow and Sean settled comfortably on his back, happy to be home and with his love again. Jamie snuggled against him, his head resting on Sean's shoulder, and the two slept.
Sean woke to find Jamie sitting on the side of the bed looking at him. "What time is it?"
"Ha' past ten." He flashed Sean a brilliant smile and asked, "Would ye care for a cup of tea?"
Sean sat up and gladly accepted the steaming cup. "Ye should have waked me sooner, Jamie."
Jamie smiled again. "And miss watching ye sleep? I dinna think so."
Sean sipped carefully at the hot tea as he watched Jamie move about the room unpacking his bag and putting everything in its place.
The tea finished, Sean placed the cup in its saucer and sat both on the side table. "Come here, Jamie," he said.
Jamie looked at his lover for a brief second before whisking off his dressing gown and standing naked near the foot of the bed. He knew what Sean wanted, what he himself needed.
In a rare instance of playfulness, the usually somber Scot teased his way toward the bed - advancing and then retreating. A devilish smile crossed his face as Sean reached the end of his patience and grabbed him by one wrist.
They wrestled momentarily and Jamie feigned to give in. Sean brought him crashing to the mattress and Jamie asked, "What will ye do with me?"
"Take us to heights unknown by common men, Jamie Love."
"Not if I don't let you!" And Jamie scrambled away laughing.
Sean was perplexed. This wasn't the quiet lad he knew and loved so well. He scratched the back of his head and asked, "What's got into you?"
"Ah, Sean. It's not what's got into me, it's more what you've not got into."
"What? Make sense, laddie."
"Don't ye see, Sean? For the first time ye kept a promise."
"And how do ye ken that?"
"Because we slept the night through and never once did I hear another man's name cross your lips."
Before Sean could say another word, Jamie was upon him. The quiet, shy, ultra receptive male was, at least momentarily, the more aggressive of the two. Sean marveled at what was happening and let Jamie have his way.
Jamie quickly ran his hands across Sean's naked body. His touch was gentle, provocative, and sensuous. Sean trembled at the feel of those slender fingers caressing and teasing his skin and closed his eyes.
Jamie eased himself down his lover's body and took Sean's manhood between his lips. Sean reacted exactly the way Jamie expected and his mouth was soon filled with a throbbing, pulsing organ. His tongue worked its way around the flared head and tasted the first bitter-sweet droplets that formed.
Sean arched his hips upward, lost in the passion his lover was creating and felt a momentary loss as Jamie pulled away. Opening his eyes he found Jamie leaning over him, a joyous smile on his face. Before he could say anything Jamie's mouth descended on his own and he was assailed with deep, breath-stealing kisses.
Jamie straddled his body and Sean knew what his lad was going to do. He lay completely still as Jamie positioned and then lowered himself. Sean hissed a deep breath as he felt himself slowly buried deep in his lover.
Jamie let go a cry of intense pleasure as Sean's penis grazed across his prostate. He was momentarily unable to move, so intense it was. Regaining control of his senses, Jamie began a gentle rhythm which Sean soon met and returned.
Sean lifted his knees slightly so that Jamie's lower back had some support as the tempo increased and the pleasure grew.
Jamie gazed into his lover's eyes and watched the passion play out across Sean's face. When he judged the time was right, he leaned over and kissed Sean again. The angle of their joining changed and Sean was able to thrust deeper and harder.
They both cried out as their climaxes overtook them. Jamie collapsed on top of Sean, his body glistening with sweat. For several moments neither could move and then Jamie rolled off of Sean and onto his back. His breathing slowly returned to normal. When he had the strength to move again he smacked Sean on one thigh and said, "Bath, love. We both stink of sweat."
As Jamie headed down the stairs to prepare Sean's bathwater, Sean glanced out through their bedroom window. The truck from the train station was entering the end of their street. Sean turned and quickly followed Jamie down the stairs.
Sean was easing himself into the tub of hot water when Jamie noticed a commotion outside. "I wonder who's making so much noise," Jamie remarked.
Sean knew full well what caused the noise and didn't want Jamie to spoil the surprise he had planned so well for the past week. Trying to think of a way distract Jamie's attention he said, "It's most likely the neighbors, Love. Mr. O'Hara asked if he could have all those lovely rocks you conveniently discovered for a small rock wall his bride wants."
Jamie looked at his lover and smiled affectionately, for Mr. and Mrs. O'Hara were an elderly couple and had been married over forty years. Sean had known them his entire life and delighted in referring to Mrs. O'Hara as a blushing young bride.
The lady would usually respond by saying, "Get on with ye then, Seaneen," and kept them supplied with bread and pies from her own kitchen. She and her husband were fully aware of the nature of the relationship between the two young men who lived next door to them.
But the boys were a quiet couple and often ran errands for the aging pair. They never spoke aloud what they both knew and, if it wasn't said then it wasn't happening.
Jamie headed toward the door saying, "I'll get dressed and go see if himself needs help while you bathe."
Sean bolted from the tub, caught Jamie by the waist, and unceremoniously dumped him in the water before Jamie knew what had happened.
Jamie sputtered and spit bathwater from his mouth. "Sean? What ...?"
Sean quickly stripped Jamie's robe away, pinned him in the tub, and made love to him again.
When it became quiet again, Sean pulled his exhausted lover from the tub and quickly dried him. He wrapped towels around them both and led Jamie into the house and upstairs.
"Get dressed now, laddie," he said and Jamie obeyed, slipping into clean slacks and shirt.
When they were both dressed Sean turned to Jamie and said, "Let's go see if the O'Hara's could use a bit of help now."
Sean opened the front door of their home and stood aside for Jamie to walk outside. He was thrilled at the look of surprise that crossed Jamie's face when he saw the whisky barrels, sacks loaded with peat, top-soil, and manure.
"And what's this for?" Jamie asked.
"For yer roses, love."
So overcome was he that Jamie threw himself into Sean's arms and cried.
Sean patted his back and whispered, "Happy birthday, Jamie."
Jamie spent the rest of the day happily filling the whisky barrels, preparing them for the rosebushes that Mrs. O'Hara conveniently provided.
"So," he said to her, 'ye were in on this, were ye?"
"Of course, Jamie, from the time Sean asked if there was a way you could have yer roses. And it's been a grand secret to keep."
That evening, after a quiet supper, Sean put the final touch on his surprise while Jamie dried the dishes and put them away. Going to the small china cabinet in the parlor, he removed two of his late mother's finest glasses, took a bottle of the Glenmorangie from the hiding place, and sat in his chair in front of the fireplace. Carefully opening the bottle, he poured a shot for Jamie and one for himself.
"Come, Jamie Love," he called. "The dishes can wait. I've one more small gift for ye."
Jamie entered the parlor and stood looking at Sean. "What more could there be?" he asked. And his eyes lit up as Sean handed him a glass of his favorite whisky.
"Where did ye get this?" he asked. "Ye usually bring Irish whisky into the house."
"I picked it up on the Isle of Skye, love, as well as the barrels that gave ye so much pleasure today."
Jamie downed his drink and held his hand out to Sean. The mischievous look returned and he said, "I'd like to show proper thanks for this fine birthday ye gave me, Sean." Turning sharply on his heel he headed for the stairs that led to their bedroom.
Sean quickly finished his own glass, surprisingly pleased with the quality of something other than Irish whisky, and hastened to follow his love.
Written in 2000.
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