Magically Delicious

I stood before the sign, but it was only when the flashlight function on my iPhone illuminated it that I saw the words and the wildly inappropriate image of the LEERING LEPRECHAUN. At first glance it appeared that the leprechaun on the sign was pushing aside some curtains as he looked down at a pot of gold. When in fact, on closer examination the leprechaun was spreading apart a pair of legs encased in stocking and garters (or suspenders for those on the near side of the pond.) The leprechaun was leering down at her golden crotch. Charmingly arousing imagery, to say the least.

I opened the door, bent to enter, then stood once past the threshold. This place was just plain ancient. It was everything I'd been looking for. Awesome.

The wall opposite the entrance hosted a huge fireplace where a large pile of glowing embers, remnants from what must have been a roaring fire many hours ago, radiated heat throughout the room. Along one side were windows that likely looked out over the River. Mismatched tables and chairs were scattered about the room, half of them occupied.

Speaking of mismatched, it looked like the survivors of a wild costume party filled half the seats. From them I noticed many a glance in my direction, and an less-than-welcoming glare or three. Fortunately, there was a contingent of drinkers who looked up, smiled, and while they did not wave me to join them, they didn't turn their backs to me either.

The bar, appeared to be a split level creation whose sole purpose was to support a large oaken cask tipped on its side. The cask sat in a cradle-like contraption and had been rotated so the tap was just above the lowest point. Burned into the cask was a carved relief replication of the drawing from the sign outside the entrance. The detail was such that the snaps on the garters were clearly discernible. Knocked into the bunghole was the tap, an ancient brass valve of unique design. And the point of the "V" - the twin spread legs - ended right at the tap. Gotta hand it to the Irish.

The presentation of the whiskey was in a manner I'd never seen before. Sparkling crystal decanters were filled directly from the cask. If you were drinking, you were presented with a freshly filled decanter and as many glasses as you or your group requested at which point you paid for the full decanter - period. If you left the establishment before empting the decanter, the remainder was poured into an appropriately-sized bottle, that was corked, sealed with wax, and stamped.

Most surprising of all was the small scale with lead weights, beneath the cask, next to a placard, with an extensive listing of this very days exchange rates. The placard stated that The Leering Leprechaun preferred gold as payment, although cash was accepted. The exchange rate for a gram of gold was listed in euros, dollars, pounds, yen, and rupees. So a decanter of Leering Leprechaun whiskey, a full pour being 750 ml, went for 8 grams of gold or $464 US dollars!

I thought of Barks as I paid for a decanter and one glass. I walked toward the almost welcoming group and asked if I might join them and top off their glasses if that was agreeable to them.

It was. That first decanter was soon empty, so I decided on a second. Thank you Barks. During the pour and the payment, I struck up a conversation with the proprietor about whiskey.

"When I arrived in Ireland, I went and paid homage to Old Bushmill's, reportedly the worlds oldest licensed (in 1608) distillery. My departed friend Barks has me traveling on his idea of a Irish Whiskey Trail tour; with a listing of distillers, brewers, and pubs to enjoy, accompanied by the ever-Barksian encouragement of 'trust random, random can be a very good time.'

"So while in Galway and the general County Clare area I visited Micil Distillery, toured the ruins of the distillery on Nun's Island, and enjoyed the samplings of many a fine pub. Though I must confess that I have never tasted anything so divinely sublime as the offerings of the LEERING LEPRECHAUN."

The proprietor smiled and nodded, "Aye, you were right to visit Dublin, however, in truth, we are actually older than Old Bushmill's and our license is more of a nod and a wink than an official piece of paper.

"Our whiskey is from a single pot still, with some of the copper older than me. Once it's been properly distilled, it is aged 9 years in casks made from the charred oak planks of ships that sailed with the Spanish Armada. My ancestors lured those ships onto the rocks. There were so many ships it took months, in some cases years, to recover the wreckage.

"After 9 years of being left alone, the whiskey is transferred to casks that once held a well known, locally brewed stout beer - and aged another 7 years. Finally the whiskey is transferred to our own Leering Leprechaun virgin Irish oak casks - and finished, a final 5 years.

"And that, my well-heeled friend from the golden state is the whiskey in front of you, Leering Leprechaun branded 21 year old whiskey.

"Further, any casks not opened in their 21st year; them's the ones we bottle. We have bottles hundreds of years old, and no, you can't buy one.

"This here establishment," he waved his arm about, "the Leering Leprechaun is the only place it's served direct from the cask. And, it's the only place we bottle and stamp direct from the 21's."

I nodded in understanding. "So if I wanted to return home with a case of the greatest whiskey in Ireland..."

"Greatest whiskey in the world, greatest in the world. We have Japanese tours come through here, ya know, and those people know their whiskey. We have even exchanged bottles with a sake brewery that's been producing premium sake for near 500 years. Now those folks know how to make a right fine spirit."

'So a case of..."

"You're not going to let it go are you, yank. Fine, I'll sell you a case of 21 year whiskey. It'll run you close to $5000 golden, when you factor in the safe shipping and proper handling. Payment in advance, and when I say 'golden', if you haven't the gold, it'll be $6,000 US dollars."

It came to my mind that Barks himself might have paused at that number. I declined the transaction.

The whiskey was sublime, my drinking companions superb, and my time spent at the Leering Leprechaun was truly a once in a lifetime experience.

As I left, I patted the sign and accepted that I was fantastically inebriated. All men were my brothers, all women worthy of worship, and I found myself trying to organize a workable plan to have an entire cask of the LEERING LEPRECHAUN's finest shipped back to California.

I have no idea how long I was at the Leprechaun. I do know I was not carrying a corked and stamped bottle, that much I knew to be true. It was dark when I left, but whether it was the dark of Bark's day, or the early morning of the next or had an entire day passed in the Leprechaun and it was now the day after and well past sundown - I truly did not know.

It was while thinking these deep thoughts and congratulating myself on my good fortune that I arrived again at that ancient stone bridge. I spread my arms wide and shouted, "I am William McCarthy, and I am in Ireland, walking the Whiskey Trail (okay, one of the many possible Whiskey Trails) and Life Is Good."

My first step was sure, as were all that followed taking me to the crest of the arch. I paused, listening to the raucous river below me. Never let anyone tell you that cobblestones don't have their own inherent treacherous slipperiness. Then again, perhaps I'd chosen an inopportune time to look up at the star-filled night. Suddenly the stars began to spin, and I experienced a sense of falling. Once I came to the surface I realized my predicament was all kinds of perilous.

The river, especially at the end of winter was cold, fast flowing and potentially lethal. That I had a skinful of 'uisce beatha', the water of life, was almost humorous as I realized these living waters might actually claim my own. I had a glimpse of headlines, "Drunken Yank Pollutes River By Drowning."

There was the possibility of a more appropriate epitaph, "He died swimming in the waters of life." All in all, not the worst way to go. Except I wasn't ready to leave this life, not even close to ready.

Okay, so I fell off the stone bridge. I wasn't taking a stupid selfie, nor was I overly depressed. A gorgeous star-filled sky, stumbling feet, and water soaked clothing resulted in my attempting a strength sapping, flailing freestyle. The water was cold enough and the current just fast enough that my self-rescue attempts were insufficient. So there I was watching the stone bridge disappear as I was swept round a bend.

When my kids were younger they had participated in scouts and other youth activities, which had included many white water rafting trips. One of the primary rules of white water rafting is that if you go overboard, roll onto your back and get your feet pointing downstream. The number one rule was trust your life preserver but I left that out as in my current predicament, I was preserver-less.

I quickly tired, my hope (my prayer) was to get pushed to a place where I could get out. Unfortunately the moonless night was working against me. I was chilled, shivering, and beginning to realize I was in serious trouble. My attention began to fade, everything was becoming fuzzy and indistinct. I was swept over a hidden rock and I was just too tired to keep my head lifted. The impact knocked me senseless.

-=-=-=-=-

A Goddess Has Got To Do What A Goddess Has Got To Do

"Look Frida, the sirens, or the selkees, and/or the merfolk, one of them, maybe all of them screwed up. This man was nearly drowned and had washed all the way to the estuary. He was brought to me as a "great Irish Poet who had praised Brigid's name." So, I'm thinking I can help out my cousin and prep him for the journey."

"As his life ebbed, I needed to keep him alive long enough to get him to Tír na nÓg. So I did the only thing I could think of - I shared the Living Water by sitting on his mouth and grinding my clit on his chin. That his hard cock was waving about in the air right in front of me was unfortunate - I recall thinking how much harm could a little bit of cock sucking cum to. Only I got drunk on the physical contact with him. So not only did I gift him too much pussy juice, but the bastard cums in my mouth, and I was so surprised I swallowed it.

"Frida, it was only when I swallowed his spend that I realized that he didn't have a drop of Irish blood in him — he's one of yours. After my experience with the Einherjar - believe you me - I know the taste of a true Norseman. He's some kind of Scandinavian-mutt. Free, I'm telling you he is not Irish at all."

Frida smiled, holding back a hearty guffaw, although she did say, "Oh Bree, pull the other one."

The Epic Saga, currently titled "The True Account of Brianna's Trans-Pantheon Valhalla Celebrity Longship Cruise." Or as it could be more clearly subtitled, "How long does it take 40 Einherjar to 'row-row-row' Brianna back to Ireland. When a five day journey takes a fortnight, whatever was it that so commanded the crew's attention."

At Brianna's Bon Voyage party, Loki plied Brianna with copious amounts of an Aquavit infused mead that was said to have the power to cheerfully spread the legs, open the mouth, and unpucker the ass of any unprepared woman. Brianna didn't stand a chance, but then neither did the Einherjar crew, as the meads affect upon them was more akin to being put on a hourly microdose of Viagra. If they had to write a sentence for every orgasm experienced during the voyage, the Einherjar who were in a near constant state of sexual berserker-ness taking advantage of Brianna's's mouth, pussy, and ass. They would be writing for a long, long time. The shorter subtitle might be, "Air-Tight Times Forty — Day After Day After Day, And All The Nights Too."

Brianna knew exactly what Free was smiling about. "Frida, get your icicle dildo loving pussy over here asap and claim this guy. Got it!"

"Look, Bree, I'd love to help you, but I can't drop this guy off at Valhalla, or Folkander, not even Hel. Isn't there some way you can throw him back?" Frida erased her smile and glared seriously at her friend.

"How Frida? I can't drop him off in Purgatory, I can't go there without jumping through all kinds of ecclesiastical hoops. The only thing that might work is to fuck him to near death, and stopping just short of dead. Then when he's sleeping his 'little death' we drop him off back in the earthly plane, and that's that." Bree was pleading now. "C'mon Frida, help me out here."

"Fine. I'll pop in and check his blood. But I don't what you there to influence him. Keep him asleep, I'll give him a quick blowjob, and then if he is as you say, we'll give him a near death fuck, then send him back. Okay?"

"Yes, I agree. There. I've tossed a glimmer on him, he'll continue to sleep as long as I am not in the room, and he'll have no memories of you popping in and checking him out."

Brianna walked back and forth, waiting for Frida to finish her examination. Finally, the door opened and Frida walked out.

"Finally, how long does it take...you...to...OHMYFUCKINGPANTHEONOFPERVERSION, you fucked him! His stuff is everywhere on you; it's, it's dripping down your thighs, and it's all over your tits, fuck! It's even in your hair! Frida?"

Frida leered a sexually satisfied smile at her friend. "What did you think would happen once I had his cock in my mouth. That man might forget I was here, he might forget everything we just did, but he sure as hell did not forget how to please a woman."

"And don't worry, I cleaned him completely. No physical evidence, no memories of our playtime, so no worries. He's all yours Bree." Frida walked gingerly away, "Oh, and considering the amount of energy expended, and the abundant fluid loss, you better feed that boy."

"Free, stop alright. I figured it out. It was a gang of rouge Pucas. A bunch of them were at the Leering Leprechaun when Will was there. They heard his California accent and hated it's flatness. Then they saw the triskelion on his chest, and considered him a poser. And when he joined a group of St. Patrick partiers and became a little irrational. They tripped him on the bridge, and kept the river current from moving him to shore. And they are the ones who convinced the nymphs to bring him to me.

"Bottom line, we have to send him back. And we have to send him back with no memories of what happened."

"What? No Bree, we can't wipe his memories, he'll be left a fool. There has to be a better way. There has to be..."

"Hey, what if we do the opposite. What is we do memory saturation. We both know how rare is it to have a living man in the Astral plane. If we let some of the other pantheons know - just the women - and we bring them through here on a cross-pantheon exchange program or something and we left them go a round or two with Will. He'll be healthy as a horse, we drop him back in the matter plane and our tracks are covered. No one can trace him back to us...done deal. What do you think?"

"I think it's brilliant. We'll need a two-part glimmer, one for the beginning and one for the ending. And we ask each pantheon to do a clear, not a wipe."

"Yes!"

-=-=-=-=-=-

A Hard Man Is A Marvelous Find

I cracked open my eyes, and saw a vision of loveliness standing with a plate and bowl in her hands. The light from the fire illuminated the translucent qualities of her attire, which was more akin to a diaphanous toga than anything else.

"Eat, it'll warm you. And you can dismiss any of yer wicked manly ideas of sticking tha' cock of yours into any part of me - got it?" The plate and bowl were thrust at me. I received them and dug in, tearing off chunks of bread, and dipping it into the soup.

The woman returned with a large glass of water, "No more whiskey for you! And just how did that design (she pointed at the triskelion) end up on your skin? There'll be someone answering for that."

I shrugged as I ate. Strange thing about that, with every bite I felt warmer and stronger. Harder too, the warm food and my nakedness had my cock throbbing to the beat of my increasing horniness. And curiously, it didn't just feel bigger and harder, it looked it.

I had finished my food and took my dishes to her kitchen, placing them on the counter.

"What the fuck are ya doing walking around in yer skin waving that root of yours back an' forth? Get back under that blanket ya sex-crazed male. Mothers in Heaven the last thing I need is that thing going off and spewing your manly essence all about. That's it, I'm not waiting any longer, I'm calling on Frida, your rightly her problem. You don't belong here. We need to send you back."

The woman left the room again and returned moments later with a large round silver tray. Which she set on a tripod, then filled with water until the water bulged above the rim, but not a drop spilled over the edge. Then the water-filled silver tray spun three times (without being touched!) and that brought me to my feet, the blanket felling away, and I couldn't control myself, as I hyperventilated a shocked, "How the fuck did that do that, turning around? Who the fuck are you? Where the fuck am I? What the fuck am I doing here?"

The woman pursed her lips and made me feel like I was five.

"The Scryeing Mirror turned because it had to, I am your rescuer Brianna, you are in my home, and I am trying to decide what to do with you." There was no warmth in her tone.

I watched Brianna circle her hand above the reflecting water which caused concentric ripples to move out from the center though not a drop was spilled. Suddenly there was an image beneath the ripples. As the ripples calmed a stunningly beautiful woman gazed out, seeing Brianna first, then my cock, then me.

She smiled a wickedly lustful grin, "Hey Bree, it that's for me, priority ship it overnight - stat!."

"Sorry Frida, but you'll have no chance to collect this. I'm afraid this situation requires the Strict Protocols of Tír na nÓg." Brianna struggled to remain calm, this plan of Frida's had better work.

"Strict Protocols - what? Wait, is the man you have still alive, he isn't dead?"

"What?! No, I'm not dead. I'm standing right here, I'm talking. I've got a fricken hardon like I haven't had...since...for...ever. Fuck, my dick has never been this big. Or this hard, I can't be dead, can I?"

Bree looked at me with actual sympathy, "You're mostly dead. All of this is taking place between the slowing beats of a drowning man's heart. Not that it makes any of this easier."

"You're serious aren't you? But what about Maggie, Rob, and Roisin, they..."

"They'll be fine Will."

"How do you know my name?"

"And might I add those are fine Irish names for your children, it puzzles me then as to just why I'm needed?" Frida cast a lingering glance at Will's cock.

"And therein lies our problem. You, William Craven McCarthy were adopted by Bruce and Fiona McCarthy. They were Irish, you are not. Now if my sister in spirit will come look at your blood we can resolve this.

"Frida you'll find that Will here is a Scandinavian mutt. A bit of this, a bit of that, but no bits Irish. The nymphs should have let him go. Instead someone convinced them to bring him to me, moments from death, I reacted spontaneously, looking into his heart, and seeing a fine Irish lad. It was only later that I looked into his soul, but by then..."

"Whoa, wait, how do you know all that? My name, my parents, my kids, why am I here?"

"Do you remember falling from the bridge?"

"Yes, but..."

"That's how we know. Now quiet. Please."

"But what can I do Bree, you have him one foot in Tír na nÓg. I can't carry him off to Valhalla, and I doubt he has any recognizable relations in Fólkvangr, although maybe I can work something out in Hel."