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Sliding a finger into my pussy, I imagined sucking him hard until Gavin unloaded all his cum into my mouth. I would swallow it all down after taking a moment just to savour its thick sweetness.
Slipping in another finger, I imagined turning around and getting on all fours, giving my pussy and ass up to him, not caring which one he decided to use, the very fact of his entering me being a blessing. To make sure I was ready, Gavin would bury his face in my pussy and lick masterfully until I literally screamed with orgasm.
I imagined myself collapsing, panting on the ground, doing some pretty hard panting in real life as well. Taking me gently by the hips, Gavin would lift me back into doggy position and stroke the warm head of his cock against my pussy.
I automatically took a deep breath in and let it slowly out as I pictured him easing the bulk of his gorgeous cock deep into my pussy and fucking me like our lives depended on it.
I slipped another finger in and pounded both into myself as I imagined Gavin pounding his cock in, bringing myself to orgasm on the bed as I imagined reaching orgasm on the floor, Gavin’s precious nectar filling my most delicate spot.
It felt so good I wanted it to come true.
I was determined to see Gavin again and let him make sweet Irish love to me, if it was the last thing I ever did.
Chapter Seven
Gavin
Reality could be a funny old place sometimes. I had the fortune of learning that young and was adjusting to it fairly well, making it my default position. As such, it really did take quite a lot to truly surprise me these days, not in the least because of the absurdity I grew up in during the tale end of The Troubles.
When the fish market up the street had a roughly forty percent chance of being bombed on any given Friday (known as “Fish Friday” among Catholics), by people who were meant to be on “your side,” no less, you got used to absurdity pretty damn quick. The worst my younger bothers – or at least, the ones who were old enough to even have been alive or out and about at that time – had to worry about was getting jumped by low-level thugs and drug dealers with makeshift weapons. Like I said. Weird.
I was just getting happy here in the States, too. America hadn’t quite had the streets paved with gold like I had been led to believe. More like sidewalks scattered with people. Then again, maybe that was just Los Angeles.
I had heard enough jokes about “Hell-A” not to judge the entire country, or even the entire state, by one example. I certainly knew what it was like to be stereotyped. Besides, there were lots of good things, too. Such as the fact that L.A. was where Maggie lived.
This was admittedly a new addition to the positive column on my list of good points but was also a very big one. I couldn’t get the girl out of my mind. She was so perfect for me, it seemed – almost like a dream. The somewhat absurd circumstances of our meeting didn’t help to ground it in reality.
I might have actually thought it was a dream were it not for the quite physical evidence of the piece of paper with her name and phone number burning a hole in my pocket. I wanted to call her so bad I could taste it, but I didn’t want to come across as desperate. I was desperate, of course, not only to get into her panties and feel her sweet little pussy, but also to talk and laugh with her again, but there was no reason that she needed to know that.
Pulling myself back the the cruel, mad world in which I found myself living, I checked my phone messages. Once again I was smacked across the face by the vengeful hand of fate.
The first message was from my agent.
“I inform you with great regret that you didn’t get the role you recently tried out for,” he said. “I’ll break the bad news to you gently and let you know for learning purposes why you were turned down. Despite your recent impressive resume, you were too tall, apparently, and your accent was too hard for them to understand.”
Too hard for them to understand? The part was for an Irish gangster from Dublin. It wasn’t as if I was trying out for the role of some regular American dude.
I suddenly had a much better idea how Spalding Gray must have felt when a snooty reviewer criticized the Rhode Island native’s “unconvincing” New England accent in an infamous stage production of Our Town.
Deleting the message, I went on to the next one. It was from Eoin. It was only in text, but I could almost hear him sobbing, the little mite. Our dad had OD’d again and was in the hospital.
