Lucy sprawled restlessly across the rumpled sheets of the bed, the sheets thrown aside in the balmy still air of the summery July night. Beside her, her husband Ralph snored contently, occasional fumes of Guinness drifting towards her. She wrinkled her nose, disgusted, then tried to rearrange her naked limbs into a more comfortable sleeping position, to no avail.
This was the third night of their supposed romantic getaway week to Limerick Country, Ireland. She had been pleasantly surprised at Ralph's eager acceptance of the proposed holiday, to mark their 10th wedding anniversary. It was the first time they'd left their two children behind for more than a night, entrusting them to their much loved aunty, Ralph's younger sister. And Ralph had even shown interest in the brochures she'd brought home, enthusing over the photos of narrow cobbled streets, the stone-walled villages, the lush green hillsides. So plans had been made, and no, here they were.
They'd had a pleasant few days, touring in the rental car, visiting ancient churches and castles, strolling through the countryside. And the bed-and-breakfast they'd chosen was delightful, full of character , the room pleasant and comfortable. About all that Lucy had no complaints.
It was the nights that left much to be desired. Unfortunately for Lucy, a principal attraction of Ireland for Ralph was the beer. Dark, strong, heady- it seemed that each day, from early evening onwards, he had a single mission -- to drink as much Irish ale as he could find. Mr and Mrs O'Leary, the proprietor's of the bed-and-breakfast, did little to discourage him.
"Its grand to see a man who likes his pint," said Mrs O'Learly on the first evening, after Ralph had joined Mr O'Leary in knocking back several at the small cozy bar off the foyer. And from then on the two men spent their evenings drinking their way through as much of Ireland's breweries' output as they could manage. Lucy would have a glass of wine with them, before retreating to their room in solitude, only her book for company.
When Ralph stumbled into the room late in the night, and collapsed into bed (fully clothed, on the second evening), he showed very little inclination for more romantic pursuits, much to Lucy's disappointment and dismay.
That evening she had coaxed him up to the room a little earlier, gently suggesting that he might like to save some of his vigour for her, rather than the pint glasses.
Despite her seductive suggestions, he had kept Mr O'Leary company at the bar for a couple of hours, and although he wasn't quite as bleary-eyed as the previous nights, his performance had been less than optimal.
Lucy had waited patiently, dressed only in her sexiest, see-through-est negligee, and had reclined languidly on the bed when he came in.
"Hello sailor," she had murmured huskily, pushing her breasts together to maximize her cleavage for him.
"Hi," he muttered, not looking at her, but heading straight for the en-suite where he pissed long and noisily.
"Oh, I wish someone would at least notice my body," she had muttered to herself.
Nonetheless, he had returned to bed soon, and she soon went to work on him, kissing his neck, brushing her breasts against his chest. When she had reached down for his cock, it was hardish, and swelled more as she stroked it with her hand. She had slid down the bed, kissing his balls, licking up the shaft, taking the crimson bulb into her mouth. Soon he was fully erect, and had stroked her hair, making small moans of pleasure as she sucked.
She had straddled him, guiding his cock between her warm, moist lips, and had lowered herself onto him.
And then, just as she began riding his pole, he had gasped, his eyes had rolled back, and his mouth opened, and she had felt the warm flood of his semen inside her.
Soon he was snoring contently, and she lay, unfulfilled, unsatisfied, her libidinous expectations raised, then dashed, and left soggily oozing her husband's spent spunk on to the disheveled sheets.
"Oh, I wish I could have a decent screw, for once," she murmured to herself, and rolled onto her side to doze off.
***
Through the dreamy haze of sleep Lucy was aware of some movement, some small sounds, a high pitched stifled giggle. She opened her eyes, and blinked twice, not believing what she saw. In the low light of the room, to her amazement, was a tiny man, about three feet tall, with a long beard, wearing nothing but a green top-hat with a large gold buckle.
"Shhhh..." he whispered, winking and grinning.
Beside her Ralph snored on obliviously.
The little man was by no means tiny in all respects. His long pointy beard formed an arrow drawing her eye down his chest, to the disproportionately large organ rising from his groin. Indeed, his member would have been large on a full-sized man, and it was fully distended, jutting out at 45 degree angle to point up towards her.
He stepped towards her, and in broad brogue murmured, "You gotta be careful what you wish for here in Ireland, Lucy... it just might come true..."
"Are you a... a ... leprechaun?" she gasped.
The little naked man took a small sort of skipping bow, and nodded.
"Paddy Fitzgerald's the name," he announced, doffing his large green hat.
