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From: "OddManOut Anywhere" <oddman0ut@hotmail.com>
Subject: REJECTED BY PENTHOUSE FORUM:  Forced to Fuck the Irish 1/2(M+f,intr,humil,silly)
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DISCLAIMER:  The following story contains certain racial stereotypes 
that may offend some readers.  On the other hand, the very existence of 
the previous sentence already makes this story more less offensive than 
about 20% of the stories that appear on this newsgroup.  If you are 
turned off by ethnic stereotypes or explicit descriptions of forced sex, 
then go dig up some old Dulcinea or Sisters Ng stories.  If you are too 
young to know who Dulcinea or the Sisters Ng are, don’t read this.

This story also contains the application of beer in a manner not 
intended by most brewers.  Do not try this at home.

                     OddManOut presents,

               REJECTED BY PENTHOUSE FORUM #5:

                 FORCED TO FUCK THE IRISH

Dear Sirs,

I am writing this story to you as the come from my last orgasm dries its 
way onto the keyboard.  I never thought anything so hot could ever 
happen to me in real life, but the following experience proves me wrong 
beyond a shadow of a doubt!

I am a lawyer for a successful Boston law firm, and have been married to 
my wonderful wife Susan for 5 years.  She came from a very strict and 
sheltered background, and was only sent to the most exclusive private 
schools and colleges.  The result of this was that she emerged a very 
prim, proper, and loving woman, but also a very innocent one.  I don’t 
think Susan had ever had a prolonged conversation with anyone who wasn’t 
white before she met me.  A lot of my firm’s clients come from very 
diverse backgrounds, from German to British to Italian.  We even have 
Irish clients, on occasion.  Susan would accompany me to dinner with 
these men, but during the course of the meal, she would show visible 
discomfort at being amongst people of a different race.

About six months ago, I lost a major case for one of our clients, a 
factory owner who happened to be Irish.  It caused a lot of trouble for 
our firm, because we didn’t want to lose his business, but he appeared 
to shrug it off, and even went so far as to invite me and Susan to 
dinner.  Knowing Susan’s discomfort around people of different races, I 
initially declined, but when my boss warned me that my refusal could 
cost us the clients’ business, I reluctantly accepted.

When I told Susan about our dinner plans, she reacted just as I thought 
she would.  "Oh honey," she begged, "please don’t make me go to dinner 
with Irish people.  They’re all so big, and they’ve got that really red 
hair, you know it makes me scared when they start to talk in that 
strange Irish street-talk."  I was touched by her pleas, but I reminded 
her that Mr. O’Murphy had made it a point to invite both of us, and 
disappointing him tonight might cost me my job.  At that, my lovely wife 
got ahold of herself, and reluctantly went into the bedroom to change.

When she appeared at the top of the stairs, I thought another woman had 
sneaked into my house, cold-cocked my wife, and stolen her clothes!  
Instead of the prim and proper Susan I had normally known, there 
appeared before me a vision in white.  Susan was wearing a white silk 
evening gown that rested on her shoulders before plunging deeply around 
her very firm 39D breasts.  In addition, it was slit up the side, 
showing a full 3 and a half feet of my wife’s creamy white leg.  Her 
bright red stiletto heels added a full four inches to her height.  
Susan’s normally straight hair had been teased and curled until it 
reminded me of one of the platinum blonde tresses you’d see on a classic 
movie actress—and I don’t mean Seka, either!  To top it off, she wore on 
her lips a lipstick so red it would give a hummingbird a brain 
hemorrhage.  The total package made her look like a young Lana Turner, 
but infinitely more fuckable.

When I asked my luscious wife what had made her decide to dress up, 
Susan replied that she had been giving the evening some thought, and 
decided that keeping my job was more important then whatever discomfort 
she might have among the Irish.  "After all," she said, "they might even 
act like normal people."

Seeing my lovely wife transformed into a plug-and-play sex machine 
piqued my interest, but before I could act, we were interrupted by a 
loud honk from outside.  Opening the door, I saw a long, dark green 
stretch limousine idling at the curb.  Before our widening eyes, the 
chauffeur opened the rear door, and we saw Mr. O’Murphy emerge from the 
back.  A short, stocky man with a closely-trimmed beard, he kept a 
corncob pipe clenched between his teeth as he strode towards us.  He was 
dressed from head to toe in a bright green three-piece suit ensemble, 
and I noticed a gold watch chain emerging from a pocked in his vest.  As 
he came towards us at his frantic pace, I could feel Susan’s hand grow 
tense in mine, and I wondered if she would actually chicken out now, at 
the beginning of our night.

Mr. O’Murphy thrust out his hand sharply, and I heard Susan gasp as if 
she was attacked.  I saw him scowl, then break into a wide grin as he 
took a closer look at my wife.  "Why, you must be the lovely Susan!"  He 
crowed, quickly extending his hand to hers.  She timidly put her hand in 
his, and before she could pull away, he put it to his lips and gave her 
hand a kiss!

"Begorrah!!"  Mr. O’Murphy burst out, "by the Blessed Virgin, Ron, you 
never told me what a bonnie lass your Susan was!"  Susan was speechless, 
and I was afraid she was going to embarrass me before we had even gotten 
to the car.  Instead, she forced her lips into a polite smile and said 
"Why thank you, Mr. O’Murphy.  You are a true… gentleman."  My client 
beamed when he heard this, and I could see my wife relax visibly.  Mr. 
O’Murphy quickly ushered us to the car, and soon we were packed into the 
back of the limousine and off to the restaurant.

"Where are we going?"  Susan asked as she warily checked out the plush 
interior of the car.  Mr O’Murphy chortled at the question, and replied 
"To a bar, lassie, a mighty fine Irish pub I know of."  At this, I saw 
my wife flush a deep shade of red.  Susan and I had expected to attend a 
fancy restaurant with our host.  At a bar, we would definitely stand out 
as the most overdressed people there, and the fact that it was an Irish 
bar only compounded the problem.  Once more, I wondered if my wife would 
back out, but once more I saw her straighten her spine, and resolve not 
to screw up the night.  Looking over at Mr. O’Murphy, I saw that he was 
ogling Susan’s cleavage like he was looking over a two-leaf clover.  I 
felt a surge of jealousy run through me, but I remembered that my job 
was at stake, and I kept it to myself.

We arrived at the bar, and were guided inside by our eager host.  As 
soon as we were inside, I felt like I wanted to run myself.  No less 
than twenty tough-looking Irish men were packed inside the bar, and all 
were looking at me like a pack of rats eyeing a big juicy bag of Rat 
Chow.  Before I could say anything, Mr. O’Murphy strode past me to a 
booth in a corner, and the patrons returned to their regular 
patronizing.

"Aye, Ron, this bar I built meself for me fact’ry workers,"  Mr. 
O’Murphy explained to me as we waited for our waitress.  "I find a pint 
o’Guiness helps solve any workplace grievances they might have, if ye 
get me drift."

"Why Mr. O’Murphy, that’s very sweet of you."  Susan said.  She was 
sitting between me and the wall in our booth, and she seemed to have 
loosened up as she realized that no one would give us any guff around 
their boss.  The businessman beamed at her words, and tipped his pipe 
back to my wife.

"Thank ye, missy, the smile of a pretty lady is the only reward I need."  
When he saw my wife blush, he laughed again at his own joke.

Steaming plates of corned beef and cabbage were placed in front of us, 
and Mr. O’Murphy motioned for us to eat excitedly.  Susan took a small 
taste of the exotic dish, then began to take larger bites as the menage 
of foreign flavors washed over her tongue.  To wash it down, three tall 
black-and-tans were placed before us.

Normally, my wife is a very light drinker, and can only have a couple of 
drinks before she begins  to lose her inhibitions.  In my experience, 
after about three beers, Susan is ready for a full night of wrestling 
Yul Brynner.  As I watched her down the tall glass of ale, I hoped she 
would be able to keep from embarrassing me tonight.  Mr. O’Murphy smiled 
when he saw her finish the glass, then immediately clapped his hands for 
another drink to be brought.

"Why thank you, kind sir," my wife said to my Celtic client as she 
started to sip her second two-toned tonic, "I never realized what fun it 
was to drink with Irish people."

"Susan!"  I scolded, trying to keep from offending our host, "You 
shouldn’t say such things.  You know that Irish people are just like you 
and me.  They just look different, that’s all."  But Mr. O’Murphy just 
laughed at my stammering, and said "Now, Ron, that fiesty little filly 
of yours has a point.  Irish people are diffr’nt than the rest, but you 
canna’ tell it from looking at our faces, oh no.  You can see it in the 
size of our big Irish dicks!"

I was sure, then, that Susan would get up and walk out of the bar.  At 
home, she won’t even let me talk about sex unless it’s somehow related 
to making babies.  But this swarthy Irishman had cast a spell on her, 
and she only laughed brightly, touching my foot under the table with her 
own.  I laughed along with her and my client, but I was very nervous 
about what he had said.  Why had he invited us out to dinner after I 
lost his case, anyway?

"Aye, laddie, I ken from the look in yer eye that yer wondrin’ why I 
invited ye out to dinner after ye lost me case, eh?"

Caught, it was now my turn to blush.  "Well, Mr. O’Murphy, it did seem a 
little strange.  Most of our clients wouldn’t be so…cordial after 
something like that."  Mr. O’Murphy had no grounds to be friendly.  A 
group of white female factory workers had sued, claiming that the 
management’s continued references to them as ‘lasses’ constituted sexual 
harassment.  I had tried to defend the plant, but had lost, and now Mr. 
O’Murphy was facing a multi-million dollar settlement, a large pot of 
gold indeed.  But he just gave me a big grin, and shoveled another 
steamed cabbage leaf into his mouth.

"Well, Ron, I must admit, when I first heard ye lost the case, I was fit 
to blow me gaskets, I was.  I was gonna get on the phone with yer boss 
and give him some red ears from all the yellin’ I was about to do.  In 
fact, I just about did it, before I realized that it really wasn’t yer 
fault.  I mean, the law’s the law, and ignorance of the law is no 
excuse, no, and even having ignorant lawyers doesn’t mean that ye were 
justified in the first place, does it?"

"Well, no…"  His strange accent was lulling me into a stupor, and I 
wondered what he was trying to get at with his circuitous soliloquy.

"No, no, not at all.  So then, I was just about to let it slide.  I was 
just gonna pay ye yer money and get me a new firm next time, yes I was.  
But then, I thought of all the other lawyers at yer firm.  All the 
bonnie contract lawyers that drew up me fine deals with the suppliers, 
and all the poor tax lawyers that did a perfectly good job keeping me 
money in me bank account, instead of sending it off to me uncle, if ye 
know what I mean?"

"Well, yes, our firm does supply good tax advice—"

"So why should I throw out the whole barrel over one bad potato?  That’s 
what I asked meself.  Then… I came upon a brilliant idea."  He leaned 
over his stein of beer at us as he continued.  "It dinna seem right to 
have ye fired, but ye also needed to be brought to task over all the 
money ye cost me, so I figgered it would be best to just take ye down a 
peg or two, ye know what I’m saying?"

Susan looked over at me with a worried look.  "Ron, what is he talking 
about?  I’m getting nervous."  I was also apprehensive, but I didn’t 
want to show it, as the rough Irishman might have taken it as a sign of 
weakness.  I decided to be rational about it.  What could he legally get 
away with doing to us?  I figured all he’d do was chew me out in front 
of his subordinates, maybe dunk a beer in my lap, and sent us back with 
only some ruined clothes to show for my costly mistake.  I took a deep 
breath and prepared to face the music.  "Well, Mr. O’Murphy, what did 
you have in mind?"  I queried.

The little man broke into another one of his wide grins.  "Why Ron, I’m 
so happy ye asked that question!  I figured, since you humiliated me by 
losing me money, I could humiliate ye right back by giving your sweet 
woman a little taste of me Irish cream fer her coffee-pot!"

I was shocked into silence, and I could see that Susan’s mouth had 
dropped open like she was catching flies.  "Mr. O’Murphy, you can’t do 
that!"  I sputtered.

The smile disappeared, and he thumped his cane hard on the table, 
causing both me and Susan to jump.  "Cain’t?  You cain’t lose me money, 
but you’ve bloody well gone and done that, ye have!  I’ve been patient 
with ye and yer boss long enough, but if she don’t put out, I don’t put 
up!"  He thumped the table again for emphasis.  I looked around the bar 
for help, but all I saw were the merciless eyes of Mr. O’Murphy’s Irish 
workers.  Some of the men closer to us were even laughing as they heard 
my ultimatum.

"I can’t do this.  You can try and have me fired, but I know my boss 
will keep me on.  I’m too valuable."

My adversary cackled with glee as he heard me try to argue my way out.  
"Ye _were_ valuable, methinks.  Once you lost me case, methinks you’re 
damaged goods in this town."  I was about to express my outrage when 
Susan suddenly spoke.

"It’s okay, Ron," she said in a small voice, "if it will help you save 
your job, I’ll… I’ll do this for you."  I could hardly believe my ears.  
Could my proper, innocent wife actually be volunteering to fornicate 
with these uncivilized louts?

"Susan," I begged, "you don’t know what you’re saying.  You don’t have 
to do this at all…"

"No, Ron.  If this is the only way to get us out of this mess, and I am 
the only person who can help you, then having sex with an.. an… 
Irishman… is what I have to do."  My lovely wife choked back a tear as 
she looked at Mr. O’Murphy.  "Okay," she said, "do what you have to do, 
as long as it means that my husband will get to keep his job.  Let’s 
go."

As soon as the words left her mouth, the whole bar began laughing 
wildly.  Mr. O’Murphy looked Susan in the eye and said "Go?  My wee 
missie, we won’t be going anywhere.  I intend to have me prize right 
here in this bar, I do.  After all, what’s a good mating without yer 
mates around?"

Susan turned a deep shade of red, and I grabbed her arm to lead her out.  
This time she surprised me as she tore her arm away.

"Let me be, Ron.  I’m going to fix your mistake once and for all, and if 
you don’t like it, you can go home right now!"  I was shocked by the 
violence of her words, and I almost did leave the bar, then thought 
better of it as I imagined how my poor wife might be treated in my 
absence by the Gaelic grunts now gathered around us.

"Aye, give it to her!"  One called out, "put that pink pigpusher up her 
steamy sty!"  They all laughed, and I limply let go of my wife’s arm, 
resigning myself to my fate.  Susan kneeled in front of Mr. O’Murphy, 
and averted her gaze from his.  "What is it you want me to do?"  she 
asked quietly, and a little cautiously.

"Well, lassie, since yer already down on yer knees fer me, why don’t ye 
have a taste some of me good old Irish stout, eh?"  She nodded and began 
to undo the zipper on his jeans.

"You don’t have to do this, Susan!"  I cried.

"Shut up, Ron."  She didn’t even look at me.  "I’m working here."  
Suddenly, my arms were grabbed by a couple of the patrons of the bar.  I 
was pulled back, but Mr. O’Murphy spoke up.

"Oh no, don’t let him leave.  Methinks my good friend Ron would like to 
stay and watch the bonnie show his wife will be putting on, don’t you 
think?"  The two big men laughed, and sat me down in a chair.  Then, 
before I could even struggle, one held my arms behind my back, and the 
other one tied me to the chair.  "That’s so you don’t get any funny 
ideas while our boss fucks your bitch."  One said, and they went back to 
watch the action.

Susan carefully unzipped Mr. O’Murphy’s fly, and both our jaws dropped 
open.  Nestled in the factory owner’s pants was an 8-inch long, flaccid, 
Irish blackjack.  Mr. O’Murphy reached inside and hauled it out, letting 
it dangle in front of Susan’s face.  "Aye, it’s time to say hello to 
Shamus, it is," he rumbled in his manly brogue.  "Why don’t ye make some 
conversation now, eh?"

Some of the men laughed, but Susan was hypnotized by the slowly swaying 
penis in front of her, and barely noticed their reactions.  She reached 
out to touch it, as if to see that it was real, and stroked her hand 
over the dormant head.  The rod twitched slightly at her touch, and she 
drew her hand back quickly.

"Lassie, it ain’t gonna eat ye, yer goin’ to eat it!"  Mr. O’Murphy was 
beginning to lose his patience.  He reached out, grabbed my wife’s head, 
and forced it into his crotch.  "Now suck me down, before I lose me 
temper!"

Shocked out of her daze, Susan began to lick the top of Mr. O’Murphy’s 
cock quickly, dragging her tongue along its length.  When he began to 
stiffen, she lifted him up with one hand so that she could lick the 
underside as well.  She worked quickly, trying to get her humiliation 
over with as quickly as possible.  Personally, I felt sick at the sight 
of my beautiful wife being forced to serve so many men of a different 
race, but I was also strangely drawn in by the spectacle.

Mr. O’Murphy’s pole now stood at it’s rock-hard attention, and I dumbly 
noted that he was just over a foot in length, and 3 inches wide.  Susan 
had her mouth stretched open as far as it would go, and she was able to 
shove only the first six inches into her mouth without beginning to gag.  
I knew that she would never take his full length in, as she could only 
get the first four inches of my own more modest member down her throat 
before she started choking.

Mr. O’Murphy laid back with a big smile on his face, and took a big swig 
of his beer.  "What’s the matter, honey, bit off more than ye could 
chew?"  He laughed at my wife.  "Here, pull off fer a second, and I’ll 
give ye something that’ll help ye when ye wrestle me snake!"  As Susan 
pulled her head away and gasped for air, I saw Mr. O’Murphy tip his 
glass and pour Guinness over his Celtic swizzle-stick.  When Susan 
resumed her ministrations, I was shocked to see her now take his entire 
length deep in her throat!

"Aye, that’s a touch better now, eh?"  Mr. O’Murphy wiggled with 
pleasure in his chair, causing my wife’s head to wobble around on his 
cock.  Instead of gagging, Susan looked totally relaxed as she massaged 
his beer-drenched baton in her slick throat.  Evidently, she was having 
a powerful effect on her tormenter, for Mr. O’Murphy soon stiffened, 
then squealed with glee as he filled my wife’s stomach with his pale 
ale.  Susan, trapped against his crotch, could only swallow as he shot 
jet after get of his potent Irish sperm into her mouth.

When he finally tapered off, my wife managed to pull her head from his 
lap and look him in the eye.  "Are you happy now?  Let me and my husband 
go."  Mr. O’Murphy, weakened as he was from his intense climax, still 
managed to give her a wicked grin.  "Oh no, lassie, I ain’t quite 
through with ye yet.  Ye see, when Ron let me down, he didn’t just let 
me down.  Oh, no.  He let the whole _fact’ry_ down, yes he did.  And his 
debt is to every man in this bar, so it is."

Susan lost her composure.  "But….but I already did it with you.  We had 
a deal…"

"We did indeed have a deal, and it was that I use you to let yer husband 
off the hook.  I just haven’t said how long I was going to use ye, you 
see."  He cackled at his cunning.  "And now, I’ve decided to use ye fer 
the pleasure of me valued employees, yes I have."  He spread his arm in 
a sweeping gesture, taking in the whole room of Irishmen who were 
crowded around our table.  I knew Susan was afraid now.  Before she 
could even speak, a burly steelworker came up behind her and mashed his 
hands into her tits.  She screamed, but the man quickly cupped a hand 
over her mouth, silencing her cries.

"Well now," he cried, "you must not get so hoity toity when ye’re about 
to learn new meaning fer the phrase ‘3 hole punch’, now, are ye?"  The 
other men laughed as they saw my wife go limp in the man’s hands.  While 
I wondered what a 3 hole punch was, the pert proletarian rudely mashed 
my wife’s beautiful breasts while his friends grabbed her legs.  Susan 
was carried to a dingy table and laid down on her back.  The grungy 
laborer spoke again.

"Now there’s two ways ye can do this, sweetie, an’ that’s the easy way 
an’ the hard way.  I prefer the easy way, seein’ as we won’t have to go 
find any rope an’ all, but if ye want to do it the hard way, well, some 
of us prefer that way too."  A few men laughed, and I could see that 
they were half-hoping Susan would give them an excuse to force 
themselves on her.  I shuddered to think what all those impoverished, 
illiterate Irish men might do with the chance to get even with a 
stuck-up rich white woman.

Fortunately, I didn’t have to find out.  Susan nodded her head and said 
in a quiet voice.  "I’ll do whatever you say.  Just get it over with."

"That’s the spirit!"  The leader said, and the bar erupted into 
laughter.  He dropped his pants then, and pulled out the biggest penis I 
had ever seen on a human.  "I think we’d better stop the chatter then, 
and get down to playing a good old fashioned game of ‘lube the 14 inch 
long dipstick in the wet velvet coinpurse!’  The bar cheered, and the 
fesceninne foreman dropped his pants.  There, dangling dangerously in 
front of my helpless wife, was the largest penis I had ever seen on a 
human.  It was at least fourteen inches, like he said, and as big around 
as my wrist.

Susan gave out a yelp of fright when she saw the Irish monster, and 
began to struggle.  When she saw how eagerly the men at the bar came to 
restrain her, she instantly thought better of herself, and resigned 
herself to her fate.  The thug hefted his meat, and unceremoniously 
slapped it down on Susan’s belly.  "Aye, ye’ll be feeling this in the 
morning, missy, and every mornin’ after as well, heh."

"Please,"  Susan begged once more, "I’ve never had one that big before.  
Please be gentle."

The Irishman softened slightly.  "Aye, I’ll be gentle all right.  But 
mark me words, soon ye’ll be screamin for me full foot and a fourth of 
flesh before me ridin’s through."  He backed away, and placed the head 
of his massive moray at the entrance to her cozy cleft.  I knew he would 
have a tough time going, for Susan’s pussy is as tight as a velvet vise.  
Indeed, I saw him strain as he pushed into her.  Susan was taking him 
in, but she seemed to be too tight to accommodate him.  Soon he pulled 
out in frustration, walked over to the bar, and poured himself a glass 
of Guiness,  I heaved a sigh of relief.

To my horror, instead of giving up, he walked back to Susan and 
overturned the glass onto her cleft.  My wife jumped a little as she 
felt the cold brew on her exposed iris.  The Irishman began to massage 
her mons, working the sultry stout into her skin with his big hands.  I 
remembered that Susan loved to have me give her a good digital daubing 
before we did the deed, and as I looked at my wife, I saw that now was 
no exception.  She was breathing deeply as the man thumbed her thatch, 
and I could see a glint on her quint that wasn’t from the beer.

The Celtic cuckold returned his one-eyed weasel to my wife’s newly-lubed 
tube, and gave it a persuasive push once more.  To my astonishment, his 
randy rebar now slid slickly up her slot, as Susan gasped at the 
intrusion.  I saw five, then eight, then ten inches of his mammoth 
man-meat disappear inside of her like so much blood sausage.  I couldn’t 
tell if Susan was in pain or ecstasy as he continued his bawdy burial 
into her deep valley.

Finally, he must of hit bottom, because with only 3 inches to spare, my 
wife’s tormentor retreated, pulling out slowly until only his muscular 
morel remained inside her.  He paused, primed to pump, and looked into 
Susan’s eyes.  "Are ye ready then, dearie?"  In an unexpected show of 
mercy, he waited until my wife composed herself and met his gaze with 
her own.

"I’m ready," she replied, "go ahead and drive that triple-trailer into 
my dusky dock."  A cheer rose up from the men, and the huge Irishman 
began to push his way forward into her cunt.  There was no gentle going 
this time, now he was pushing into her to satisfy himself, not to 
stretch her out.  He moved at what would have been a slow pace for other 
men, but his immense length and girth made every stroke of his Irish 
cock the equivalent of three normal white men.  Rather than writhing in 
pain, Susan was now squirming with pleasure with every pound of his 
piston.  Soon, to the glee of everyone but me, she clenched her legs and 
had a wild orgasm on the table.  Now, instead of keeping my wife from 
escaping, the men were holding her down to keep the table from falling 
over as she thrashed with pleasure!  I wondered if she would ever be 
able to take satisfaction again from my modest seven inches.

"Be ready, lassie, fer here comes me zesty Irish spring!"  He exclaimed, 
drilling his barbaric bit deeper into Susan’s motherlode.

"Give it to me."  Now oblivious to all but her pleasure, Susan gave her 
lover a smoldering gaze, begging him to deposit his ivory ichor into her 
eager scallop.  With a yell, he did just that, flooding her womb with 
his cream until it started to leak out around his johnson.  As a 
prurient postscript, he gave her an additional two thrusts to grow on, 
then pulled out from Susan’s flooded delta.  As he uncorked my wife, I 
saw his liquid appreciation run down my wife’s leg as her dilated 
daffodil eased closed.

No sooner had he pulled away than another burley worker took his place.  
I thought that Susan would object for sure, for she always wanted to go 
to sleep after I fucked her, but instead, she wrapped her legs around 
the lucky lad’s waist and said "Don’t waste any time, just do me hard."  
My mouth dropped open in shock as I heard her utter those words of 
encouragement, begging a man she didn’t even know to slam her like Omar 
Sharif at a bridge table!  Energized by Susan’s encouragement, he 
whipped out his weasel and thrust it between her thighs.  As soon as she 
felt his helmet in her hole, Susan oohed, and laid back on the table in 
a state of bliss.  Looking at the men gathered around her, she cried, 
"Well, what are you waiting for?  I’ve got a taste for some Irish 
knockwurst!"

They didn’t need to be told twice.  Four of the men dropped their 
trousers and stepped forward to receive my wife’s oral report.  
Surrounded by a bouquet of ruddy rods, Susan whipped herself into a 
fellating frenzy, sucking and nibbling on each log just long enough to 
make sure it would be hard while she worked the rest.  As my wife worked 
a round robin on the four factory workers, a line was forming at her 
wide-open wand tunnel.  The bar patrons weren’t looking for any 
affection, but instead slammed Susan’s hole until it was enough to make 
them come, then moved aside to let the next load be delivered.  Susan, 
who was lost in the four-play at her head, couldn’t care less.  She just 
let the men do whatever they wanted as she worked on keeping her 
slurpees slurped.  In almost no time at all, she brought each one to 
orgasm, locking her lips around the lucky man’s hose as she sucked down 
his halibut smoothie.

Even as I saw Susan used for the pleasure of a roomful of Irish people, 
I couldn’t help but become aroused as I witnessed her steady descent 
into depravity.  What was it about the animalistic nature of these base 
commoners that brought out the beast in her?  And why was my obelisk 
erecting at the sight of her being coerced into taking several yards of 
combined Mick dick?  These questions floated through my head as I 
watched Susan take yet another load of pale ale from a thick Irish cock.

Susan had finished off most of the men in the bar, but I don’t think the 
men were done with her, and I didn’t think Susan would even leave if 
they were!  After some hushed discussions, two more men approached her.  
Susan didn’t even stop to think, but spread her legs and said "Come on 
in, boys, it looks like you’re both big enough to go on this ride!"

One of the men uttered a short laugh at her lewd offer, and replied, 
"Maybe we are, but the ride we were thinking of might be a wee bit 
different than your usual, lassie!"

"What do you mean?"  Susan queried with a worried expression.

"What we mean, slag, is that I’m a devout Catholic, and he’s a proud 
Protestant, and if we have to take the same hole, there’s gonna be a 
riot here over which one of us gets sloppy seconds.  But we’ve got a 
solution, ye see."  His friend laid back on a table and unzipped his 
jeans.  "As a matter of a truce, we’re going to both fuck ye at once."

                      to be continued...

"It is only the great men who are truly obscene.  If they
 had not dared to be obscene, they could never have dared
 to be great."
-Havelock Ellis




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