Grafton Street Late Joys (Revised for extra sauciness)

The bar just off Grafton Street was pretty full. I glanced at the fat old tart sitting next to me. Jesus, what a bag. We started chatting. She was fun. She had a great sense of humour. I laughed like a drain as she told me filthy joke after filthy joke. I wondered what she'd look like spread-eagled (face down preferably)naked on my bed. I nearly pissed myself with laughter at the thought. Did I say "nearly"? I meant literally (as I found out when I noticed the stains).1

Kicking out time arrived and we were standing on the street. "Where to now, Bertie," she enquired, swaying drunkenly in the night, and clutching onto my arm gracefully. "I could manage another Jameson's or two. Me oul' man won't be expecting me home for another hour."2

So I invited her back to my flat. It was only five minutes away. She plumped herself down on the sofa and I went to get us a couple of glasses of the golden nectar. When I returned, she had taken off her cardigan and undone her blouse. Her ample, mottled mammaries were bursting out of her bra. It was one of those old-fashioned nursing bras and she unhooked the clasp in the middle, the bra separated and her huge pendulous breasts flopped out, like two enormous ripe aubergines. Jesus Mary mother of God, you could have tied a reef knot in them, and still had enough left over to wipe your nose on. 3

She patted the seat next to her; I sat down and she knocked back her whiskey in one shot. I stared in fascination at her. Her ugliness was exquisite, a joy to behold. I gulped down my own drink and fetched another couple of stiff ones. I had a premonition I might need another drink for I could see the lovelight shining in her elderly eyes.4

She reached over, undid my belt without a word, unzipped me and carefully took out my semi-erect cock. She leant over, examined my penis, pulled back the foreskin carefully and took me in her mouth. In between sucks, she told me to fondle her tits. "Squeeze them nipples hard, Bertie my love, squeeze them and I'll come for you, like an express fockin' train. But don't shove yer hand up me fockin' skirt unless it's a fistful of raspberry jam you'd be after."5

After a few minutes' deliriously skilful sucking (aided by the absence of any choppers), I came into her mouth and she gobbled my semen down hungrily. She lifted up her head and I watched in fascination as her face contorted in pleasure at her mighty nipple-induced orgasm, The bestial expression on her lined face when she climaxed was the most loathsome sight of my entire life to date. 6

I could barely believe it when she let out the most enormous wet fart I had ever heard in my entire existence (to date). Need I add that the stench was indescribable and I feared for my fucking sanity?7

"Oh sweet Jasus," she exclaimed, "but I do think I have crapped meself again, and all." And her hand dipped down into her panties only to emerge with severely stained and odourous fingers, dripping prolific and pungent anal oozings.8

After wiping most of the shit off onto the Axminster carpet, she reached out and finished my glass of whiskey with a resigned yet satisfied gulp. "As me mother said, there's no taste better on God's green earth than a mixture of good honest spunk and Irish whiskey," she declared before dressing herself and asking me to call her a taxi. I noted she did not wash her turdy paws, but at least she didn't suggest we shake hands on parting.9

I never saw her again, thank blessed Christ. But I reflect on the fact that the best blow-job of my life was delivered by the ugliest and most repellent, toothless old bag in all of holy Mother Ireland.10