I got a phone call from Kelly, asking me to come down to Boston and play a St. Paddy's Day gig with him at an Irish bar.
"I can hear all the drunken singing I want to up here," I told him. "Even a quiet Vermont college town has Irish pubs on St. Paddy's Day."
"But there's going to be a real Irish singer," Kelly said.
"She's a college friend of Catlin's (Kelly's daughter), and
she's from Ireland and has sung real Irish tunes all her
life. You and her can reminisce about Dublin."
"None of the Boston drunks are going to want to hear real Irish songs," I told him, "They're only going to want us to play The Unicorn Song fifty times."
But I went down to Boston anyway. The gig was even worse than I expected--the bar was even darker than a real Dublin pub.
But the Irish girl, Megan, she was hot! Like all good Irish lasses she showed miles of cleavage. Now that's a sight I really miss from Dublin: the cum-catching open blouse-fronts of good Irish girls.
After the gig, Kelly, the two girls, and I went back to
Kelly's house, to his basement, where at 1 o'clock in the
morning we started playing some of the true Irish songs.
Megan did have a good Irish voice.
Everybody was drunk except for Megan and me. I was sober because I don't drink, and Megan was sober because she was used to Irish beer, which is much stronger than American beer. Anyway, that's what she claimed. She complained about American beer being weak. I started getting her beers for her, and she stopped calling them weak. After drinking about six more beers in two hours she was good and plastered. Eventually she dropped off to sleep on the basement couch.
Catlin had gone upstairs to her bedroom at about 1:30 AM. At 3 AM Kelly decided to turn in. He stumbled up his basement stairs slowly, not even telling me where I was supposed to sleep.
And there was Megan, passed out on the couch in the basement, her cleavage an inviting pillow.
I sat quietly for half an hour, watching Megan's slow breathing and listening for the house to quiet down. I wanted to make sure everybody was soundly asleep. I'd been planning this ever since I put the first shot of Jack Daniels into Megan's beer.
It's tough being a college professor--all the hot young
pussy around campus, all desperately wanting to be seeded.
I should have stayed on the road, playing in touring bands,
fucking the easy sluts who spread their legs in every town.
But I'd decided upon an academic career and now those young
legs were closed to me.
But Megan was a college girl, and not from my college--so there'd be no conflict about this.
I put my two hands on her breasts, right at the open part of her blouse. Oh that felt good! I squeezed them. They were very full, and not too firm. I like breasts that have a "sloppy" feel. When the bra comes off I like them to sag. When a girl lies down I like it if her breasts fall in separate directions. Megan's would be like that, I thought.
I reached inside her bra, feeling downward with my
fingertips until I touched her nipples. Oh, yeah! Plenty
of give. Big breasts in big cups, but with room for
groping. Oh the darling--her areolas were different sizes.
I could feel that. The right one was bigger than the left.
God that's gorgeous! I wanted to see them. I rolled her
over on the couch.
She rolled heavily, dead drunk. Her blouse unbuttoned down
the back, and soon I laid her back bare and unhooked her
bra. Nice, white, Irish skin. She was passed out so drunk
that I felt like an undertaker stripping a dead body as I
pealed her blouse and bra the rest of the way off. Soon I
had her lying on her back again, bare-topped, snoring heavily.
Man what a sight!
She was plump, which I liked very much. Her breasts did just as I wanted, they flopped and sagged and filled my hands and filled my mouth. My boner was so hard it hurt within my pants, so I had to strip my pants off, and then for ten nice minutes I tit-humped her lovely, jiggly, college-girl breasts. I almost came, but I was painfully saving that.
Taking off her sneakers, jeans and panties took quite a while. Early morning daylight was peeking through the basement window by the time I put one of her feet on the floor and draped her other leg on the back of the couch.
I licked my fingers and began frigging her pussy. No reaction. It was closed like a clam shell, and she was drunk beyond feeling. I rubbed harder and faster.
"You've got a pussy like leather, girl, if you're not feeling this," I said. "I'll bet you masturbate for hours." I was giving her a vigorous pussy rubbing, and she was just snoring heavily.
I frigged right on her clit, spreading her pussy lips open with my other hand to get through her meatiness and rub right on her sensitive Irish girlhood. Eventually she started showing wet, and then she really started to juice. I put two, then three fingers into her pussy and finger-fucked her like mad. She was gasp-snoring in her sleep now, having one hell of a wet dream.
"Who are you dreaming of fucking?" I asked her sleeping smile, "Maybe one of your nice college professors?" I was twisting my fingers in her pussy. She was hard to make cum; I was beginning to think I'd have to fist her. When she finally came, she gushed like a fountain, grunting a little sex moan that was half like a snore.
"That's a good Irish girl," I said, very pleased that I'd finally gotten a climax from her. Her whole breathing changed, and I could tell that in her drunken sleep she was very happy.
Now I got my cock into her easily; fucking this little Irish college bitch was pure pleasure. She didn't fuck back, but I enjoyed her thoroughly just the same. I came a huge amount inside her, and she took it all without leaking. She was a girl made for carrying cum. After I came, I stayed lying on top of her for a while just because I wanted to feel her nice breasts against my chest. I was very tired by this time, and nearly fell asleep in that position.
Now, how to get her dressed again? It was getting toward 6 AM.
Her panties would go on easily, but there was no way I could get
her jeans back on her. I was just going to have to bluff this
one out. I climbed onto the couch beside her, pulling her body
around mine as if we'd made consensual love.
We both awoke about the same time later that afternoon.
She looked at me very bleary-eyed; she was still half
drunk.
"Fuck!" she said, her speech was slurred and slow.
"Good morning to you, too, sunshine," I answered as casually as I could.
"My boyfriend's gonna fuckin' kill me," she said.
I helped myself to a playful squeeze of one of her breasts, teasing at her nipple, and then comparing her areola sizes between my thumbs and forefingers. "I don't hear anybody else up yet," I said, "your boyfriend doesn't have to know."
We said few other words to one another during the rest of the day, and soon afterward I packed up my stuff and drove back to Vermont.
"Catlin said that you made a big hit with that Irish singer," Kelly wrote me in an email later. "She said she came downstairs in the morning and you and the singer were sleeping off a real good time together."
"Yeah, well, I guess she just liked me," I wrote back.
