While I don't want to give lots of background about my life, some is necessary to understand my story.
I was born Kate Colleen O'Keenan, the second daughter in a family of eight Irish Catholics. My older (by 14 months) sister Bridget was/is a haughty entitled bitch (since this is my story you have to accept my characterization -- you can contact her if you want another point of view). Growing up we were always competitive, especially in looks and boys. I couldn't compete with her intellectually, although I was much wilier, and she couldn't compete with me athletically no matter what the sport or activity.
As far as looks are concerned, you can tell that we are sisters, including the classic Irish red hair and green eyes, and basic facial features. However, our "real assets" are quite different. If you value facial beauty and big tits over everything else, Bridget is your girl. If you value a nice round arse and killer thighs, you'd take me every time. We're both 1.7 meters tall, she weighs 58 kilos, me 62, the difference mostly due to my muscular arms, arse, and thighs.
When I was 18 (wink, wink) my parents took Bridget and I from our Dublin home on a summer holiday to Inchydoney Island Lodge & Spa, a four star resort on the southern coast of Ireland. The trip was a reward for our success at school and life the previous year, Bridget for her perfect grades, me for my good grades and gold medals in three different sports. My father Bariie was a successful businessman who could easily afford the fare, especially since we left my four annoying little brothers at home in Dublin with my fraternal grandparents.
My parents had one room -- hopefully they weren't going to be making any more kids, six was enough -- and Bridget and I shared a room far from theirs. Of course Bridget's two suitcases were jammers with all sorts of makeup and fancy clothes, while my small knapsack contained only the essentials -- bikini, athletic clothing, one dress, one lipstick, and some sunscreen.
There were a number of summer hunks working at the resort, which of course led to an unspoken competition between Brat-jet (my favorite nickname for sis, which drove her nuts) and me to see who could draw the most male attention. Brat-jet was a more blatant flirt than I was so she seemed to be winning. However, then we ran into Mr. Sean O'Sullivan, a fine thing if there ever was one.
My parents and another family of four hired Sean -- the expert summer-time sailor at the resort -- to take us out on a sail. Sean was a hunk and a half. He had to be almost two meters tall, and was 100 kilograms of muscle, with a ruggedly handsome face, a shock of hair with a blondish color that almost any woman would kill to have, and the most intense blue eyes and brilliant smile you could ever imagine. On the cruise he also displayed a marvelous sense of humor and an impish personality.
Of course Brat-jet spent most of the cruise trying to cozy up to Sean, but much to her dismay even when he had sunglasses on both she and I could tell that Sean was enamored with my arse and thighs, not with her big tits. I flirted in a much different way than Brat-jet did; I was coy, but dished out sly smiles where appropriate, and while still laughing made mildly denigrating comments about his jokes.
When we got back to the resort I could tell that Brat-jet was quite disappointed that Sean didn't swoon over her. When I shook his hand goodbye, however, I stroked his palm with my index finger nail and he gave me the most brilliant smile of the trip.
While Brat-jet was showering to get ready for dinner I tracked Sean down. There was no time for subtlety. He was happy to see me as I sauntered up to him in my bikini. I was beyond brazen and employed my best slang from Dublin and from American TV shows (I loved crime shows with female cops the best).
"So Mr. Sean O'Sullivan, I'd like to know why you were so delira and excira about my arse on our little sail," I said as I removed my sunglasses and stared up into his eyes. [If you don't know Irish slang, look it up -- I'm not a travel guide.]
"You know I'm not supposed to fraternize with the guests more than a wee bit, dontca; I'm just a poor university student trying to get by and I can't be acting the maggot with the sexy female guests," he grinned.
"So the guest's always right then, is she?" I grinned back.
"'Cept when it comes to a sail," he snickered.
"So I'm kinda like the admiral and you're kinda like a lowly seaman then, I suppose," I snickered right back.
"You might say that -- if you was delusional," he laughed.
"Well as the admiral I'm asking you to speak your piece seaman; nothing you say will be repeated to anyone else, unless of course you think that my sister Brat-jet is sexier than myself, in which case I'll tell all sorts of lies about you," I chuckled.
"All right," he guffawed.
After a pause I repeated "so why were you so delira and excira about my arse and thighs on our little sail?"
"'Cause they're the finest that I've ever seen, that's why, Ms. Admiral Kate O'Keenan."
"Right answer Mr. O'Sullivan; you'll go far in this world and with the ladies. So again, speaking freely seaman, what do you plan to do about it?"
"Well if I could be sure I'd not get into a haymes, or look like an eejit I'd ask if you'd like to meet me tonight on the beach to drink some black stuff -- Admiral O'Keenan."
"That's the spirit seaman; exactly when and where would you like to meet?"
"At the slip we sailed from this morning, say half-past midnight."
"I'll see you at half past one -- or earlier if I'm sure sister Brat-jet is asleep," I replied in the most sultry tone that I could conjure. I then stroked my index finger over his chest and sashayed away swinging my goods to most effect.
Before I go on I should tell you that unlike most good little Catholic girls that I knew, I was on birth control courtesy of a friendly gynie, and unknown to my devout mother Fiona (she truly is a Holy Joe). While I was no virgin I wasn't all that experienced sexually but only because I hadn't come across a fine specimen like Mr. Sean O'Sullivan before. Everything about him had me all horned up.
*************
Once I was sure that Brat-jet was asleep, with just athletic shorts and a tank top on I snuck out of the room about quarter to one. Sean was at the slip holding a thick blanket and a six pack of Guinness. His smile lit up the night when he saw me.
"I thought that we'd have a walk along the beach and tip some of the black stuff," he chuckled as I returned his smile.
"How lovely," I replied.
"Shall I call you Ms. O'Keenan, Admiral, or something else?" he chuckled as we walked off the dock toward the far corners of the beach.
"Kate will do just fine, Sean," I replied, batting my eyelashes.
We engaged in small talk as we disappeared from the view of the resort, at which point Sean laid out the blanket on the sand and we opened two bottles. It was clear to us where this was headed, and either of us would have been disappointed with any other result.
Sean and I didn't really find out much about each other -- except for how compatible our male and female parts were. We were action people, not Chatty Cathy types.
Suffice it to say that Mr. O'Sullivan gave as fine an account of himself as any man I was ever with before or since, both with his talented tongue and his unusually large and stiff shillelagh; plus his mammoth set of plums was fun to fondle and suck. By the time that five a. m. rolled around I was wiped out, sweaty, and thought that I better get back before Brat-jet woke up, I had ridden Sean like the consummate stud that he was, he had doggy-fucked me while stroking and squeezing my arse the entire time, he had licked my thighs raw, and in total he had made three sperm deposits in my anxious gee, causing cum to leak out in rivulets.
When as we parted Mr. Sean O'Sullivan earnestly said "You're the highlight of my life, Kate O'Keenan," I non-verbally responded in kind by trying to reach his tonsils with my tongue as I passionately kissed him. We made plans to meet again the next night.
When I snuck back into my resort room about 5:30, even though I had to walk bowlegged it was the best that I had ever felt in my life; that is until I saw that the evil sister had arisen.
"Where were you? Out being a slapper?" she asked with her arms crossed like a disappointed school teacher.
"I couldn't sleep so I went for a walk on the beach, if it's any of your business Brat-jet," I lamely replied -- even I wouldn't have believed that.
I discarded my shorts and top on the floor, went into the bathroom, and took a quick soak in the tub, careful to remove as much cream from my gee as I could. When I returned to the main part of the room, Brat-jet was gone -- along with my delightfully cum-stained shorts. "Fuck," I snorted aloud, "would the bitch actually wake up our parents to snitch on me?"
I got the answer soon enough. My parents bolted through the door a few minutes later with my snarky sister smiling behind them. My father took it well -- he was always the calm one in the family and way more tolerant than my mother -- but Fiona was apoplectic, telling me that I was going to hell, and asking who was going to take care of the bastard child, etc. Of course I never revealed that I was on birth control, nor did I finger Sean -- I told them some guy that I met at the resort bar (where summer employees were forbidden) was the one to soil my shorts.
My father was willing to let things ride, but my mother demanded that I be driven to the nearest bus stop to make my way back to Dublin. Fortunately I was able to get a note to Sean to tell him to deny everything and that I hadn't fingered him, and regretting that further contact would not be possible -- before I was unceremoniously expelled by the maternal parent. Thankfully Bairre, not Fiona, was the one to drive me to the bus stop, and he was -- as the Yanks say -- "chill" about the whole thing, especially after I admitted to him that I was on birth control (after extracting from him the promise never to tell my Holy Joe mother).
That episode destroyed any semblance of sisterly love -- or even tolerance -- that I previously had toward Brat-jet, and to this day we only speak when in the presence of our parents.
Despite my all-time encounter with Sean I didn't think it worthwhile to try and contact him -- like I said I knew almost nothing about him, not even what University he attended and there must be a gazillion Sean O'Sullivans in Ireland. Also, I was afraid that despite his parting words he'd just consider me a Sally, good for fucking but not worth having a relationship with. Even though I never made any real effort to find him I thought about him at least once every fortnight, the thought always evincing a smile on my soul if not my face.
**************
As my story starts I was 34 years old and had already had great professional success; a degree in criminology from The University College of Dublin; a position as a lead homicide detective in the National Bureau of Criminal Investigation of An Garda SÃochána, the Irish National Police Force, based in Dublin; a record of being primarily responsible for the capture or death of three serial killers; and a black belt in Brazilian jujitsu.
My personal life was not successful. I had been divorced for three years (courtesy of the passage of the Divorce Referendum in 1996), and went back to using my maiden name after the divorce was final. The only time that I had been pregnant I caught my husband Conor cheating; I blame the stress and angst of that time for my miscarriage. I was thankful that the Review Board took pity on my situation and I was only suspended for a month after I kicked the blarney out of Conor's plums, and slapped his mistress.
Enough background!
***************
When I sauntered into the station early on a Monday morning I was surprised to see the Detective Chief Superintendent already there. "Don't get comfortable O'Keenan; there's been an incident in Dún Laoghaire that I want you and Malley to investigate."
That was another surprise -- Dún Laoghaire is a high end area of Dublin where I couldn't remember a homicide occurring since I became a detective. I was pleased that Ailbe Malley would be my partner for this assignment. He had three qualities that I admired -- he was loyal to a fault; he had no qualms about getting his hands dirty and never complained about even the most heinous assignment; and he was the toughest guy that I had ever been associated with, 120 kilograms of pure muscle. The only three criminals stupid enough to fuck with Ailbe were rendered unconscious or immobile with one clatter from him.
"What's the address?" I asked.
"10 Grangewood Court, the O'Sullivan residence; I sent directions to your mobile," the Superintendent replied.
"What are the particulars?"
