It did not take long before she was groaning and moaning and pushing her mound into my face. I intensified my tongue work and she came in quick time.�...�Oh, yes!” were the only understandable words, though the other guttural and squeaky sounds she emitted expressed her pleasure eloquently enough for me.We filled two glasses with milk and retired to bed. She made a comment about the colour of milk and semen. She thought milk tasted better but wondered about the relative protein content. I couldn’t. From the beginning. ********************************* Bridget O’Brien was sitting in a bar in Arlington, Virginia. The calendar on the wall said 1989 – no one had bothered to change it for five years, then. There was a man singing on the small stage, his voice wizened beyond his years by whiskey and cigarettes. He was singing the cheesier of the Irish ballads, Americans would rather hear of Molly Malone and her cockles and mussels than Pádraic Pearse and his butchered schoolboys. They would. More

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