Chuck Tingle
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Pounded By This Handsome Sentient Four-Leaf Clover On St. Patrick’s Day
🕑 Added 2024-03-17 13:56:43 +0000 UTC
Mark doesn’t think much about the "Twenty-Two and You" kit that he sent off a few weeks ago. He know that he comes from a long line of Buckarooians. When the results arrive, however, Mark is shocked to discover that he’s actually an Irish American.
Struggling to find his place within this new identity, Mark goes all out for St. Patrick’s Day, but after the dyed food makes everyone sick, and the seventy-five renditions of Danny Boy start getting on everyone’s nerves, the party ends in disaster.
Mark is lost, until a chance encounter with a handsome four leaf clover, who explains it’s perfectly okay to express your Irish heritage in a way that works for you. Soon enough, these two lucky lovers are embarking on a hardcore gay celebration that just might amount to Mark’s best St. Patrick’s Day ever.
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POUNDED BY THIS HANDSOME SENTIENT FOUR-LEAF CLOVER ON ST. PATRICK’S DAY
By Chuck Tingle
I’d completely forgotten the letter was coming, this little detour in my life’s daily events just drifting along in the background until, suddenly, it wasn’t. Suddenly, it was more than just a detour, it was a whole new journey.
Maybe it’s because I have plenty of other stuff going on, stealing away the focus of my brain, or maybe it’s the fact that I hadn’t been all that excited to use twenty-two and you in the first place. I already knew what the answers were going to be, so I didn’t care.
Despite the fact that I was adopted and never met my biological mother and father, my heritage has always been fairly obvious. I’m clearly a descendant of the Buckaroonian people, a group hailing for a small island in the middle of the ice frozen lake just north of Billings, Montana. Despite the lack of any concrete evidence or a direct physical connection, there’s never been a doubt in my mind.
Like all Buckaroonians, I’m a huge fan of chocolate milk and spaghetti, which most would call the traditional meal of my people. Sure, it’s a bit of a stereotype at this point, but I can’t help what I like. I also love Bruce Hornsby and the Range, a pop rock group who are responsible for the national anthem of Burkaroonia.
It’s all an important part of who I am.
Because of this, I never would’ve gone seeking out twenty-two and you on my own. It’s fifty dollars to run the test, and that’s a chunk of change I’d much rather put towards something else. When a friend gave me the test for my birthday, however, I figured I might as well give it a shot and see what all the fuss was about. There’s a few other features that I’m actually kind of interested in, like knowing whether or not I might be susceptible to various medical conditions.
I took the test on a whim, spitting into a tube and then sending it off and completely forgetting about it. Until today.
The bell rings and I climb to my feet, strolling through my living room and approaching the front door with curiosity. I can’t remember ordering any packages.
When I open up I find a small rectangular box sitting on the porch, waiting quietly for my attention. I reach down and pick the package up, curiously turning it over in my hands until I finally notice the Twenty-Two and You logo. It’s only then that everything comes rushing back, and admittedly, a sliver of curiosity along with it.
Just a few days ago I’d heard some friends discussing the accuracy of these tests, amazed at just how pinpoint their results were. Sure, I expected to confirm myself as a full-blooded Buckaroonian, but apparently I’d be able to see which parts of the island my ancestors hailed from.
I bring the package inside and set it on the kitchen counter, grabbing and knife and then carefully cutting down the side of this box. I open it and let the contents slip out, an enormous stack of booklets and certificates to sort through. At the very top of the stack is a single page in brilliant green, the word congratulations written across the front in bold, sparkling letters.
I pick this up and look it over, reading aloud. “Congratulations on your successful Twenty-Two and You report, we have determined, with one hundred percent accuracy, that you are…”
I pause awkwardly, fumbling my words as this sentence reaches and unexpected conclusion. Flipping the page over, I scan the back for some hint that this is only an example sheet, a preview of what to expect when I finally get my own results.
My name is printed on the back, along with my address and a few additional notes. These are, in fact, my results.
I turn the page back over and read it again, as if this time the words might somehow magically rearrange themselves and exhibit some brand new conclusion. Maybe I was emphasizing the parts of this sentence all wrong, and the big reveal will be that this is all some kind of sarcastic joke.
“We have determined, with one hundred percent accuracy, that you are an Irish American,” I read aloud.
I set the paper down and stare at it for a moment, not entirely sure how to proceed. Opening the rest of the booklets, I find all kinds of information that confirms the initial page. It tells me exactly where my family hails from, all the way down to the county, and reveals that my DNA is almost entirely Irish going back several generations.
Not knowing what else to do, I pull out my phone and call my friend Grindo. He’s the one who was talking so excitedly about the accuracy of his report, so maybe he can help me figure out what’s going on with this one.
Grindo answers quickly. “Hey Mark, what’s going on buddy?” he asks with jovial excitement.
“Well, that Twenty-Two and You test was a bust,” I exclaim, leaning back in my chair and chuckling to myself. “You’ll never believe what it said.”
“Oh yeah?” my friend replies. “What’s the word?”
“Well, we all know that I’m Buckaroonian, but this thing thinks I’m Irish,” I exclaim.
There’s a long pause, silence filling the line for so long I’m forced to jump in with a follow up.
“Grindo? You there?” I ask, wondering if I’ve lost him.
“I’m here,” my friend says, clearing his throat. “Have you considered the fact that you might actually be Irish?”
I laugh even harder now. “What? Of course I’m not. I’m Buckaroonian!”
Grindo pauses again, this time the break a little shorter as he gathers his bearings. “Yeah, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that… I don’t think that’s really a thing.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, for starters, there’s no island in the middle of The Frozen Lake,” Grindo bluntly states. “You can see all the way across, from one side to the other. Even if there was, it certainly wouldn’t be enough to support a whole group of people.”
“Yeah, but…” I trail off, struggling to push back against his assertions and finding myself distressingly unable to do so. There’s something terrible looming in the back of my mind, a realization that’s always been there but has finally started to step out of the darkness like a giant, horrible beast.
I want to turn away from this forbidden knowledge, to deny its existence as it stands over me and breathes its hot, sticky breath, but I can’t. Not anymore.
I let out a long sigh. “Fuck,” is all I can manage to say.
“It’s okay, man!” Grindo chimes in encouragingly. “I know you really identified with being a Buckaroonian, but look on the bright side, you’re Irish! That’s rad!”
I nod to myself, considering this. “Yeah, that is pretty cool.”
“I’m Irish,” Grindo adds. “I mean, only a quarter, but still. Plus, we’ve got St. Patrick’s Day coming up this weekend. That’s great timing for you to explore your heritage a bit!”
His words strike me like a brilliant shaft of light erupting through the dark abyss, a sparkling, radiant path into this new future. As difficult as it is to learn a part of myself is not exactly what I thought it was, there’s still something very exciting going on here.
“You’re right,” I exclaim, my eyes widening with excitement. “I’m gonna throw the greatest St. Patrick’s Day party this town has ever seen!”
“Top o’ the mornin’ to ya!” I exclaim, opening the door to greet my friend.
Grindo stands awkwardly before me, his reaction slightly less muted than the previous arrivals but operating on a similar wavelength.
“Oh, hey!” he says. “Really going all out for this St. Patrick’s Day party, huh?”
I nod.
My friend points to my forehead, prompting me to reach up and wipe away a streak of red that’s running down my skin in a long, liquid trail. “Did you dye your hair?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I reply. “It hurts like hell. My natural color was so dark they had to use a ton of bleach to lighten it up. It’s actually falling out in chunks.”
“That’s not good, man,” Grindo replies. “You know there’s plenty of Irish people with dark hair.”
I roll my eyes.
“This is the new me,” I reply, throwing my hands up with bemused irreverence. “Get used to it!”
I step aside and make way for my friend to enter.
A stereo is blasting some Boston punk rock band at an ear-splitting volume, bathing the scene with a wild, party atmosphere. I’ve hung green streamers and balloons everywhere, and even gone so far as to dye all of the food with this festive emerald hue. Corned beef hash and potatoes the color of limes line a buffet that I’ve set up, but nobody seems to be eating.
A few friends push past us, headed out.
“You’re already leaving?” I question.
“Yeah,” my pal Mary offers apologetically. “It’s just a little loud in here, you know?”
As she says this I notice that her teeth are stained green, an unfortunate side effect of this evening’s menu.
“Oh!” I blurt. “How many potatoes did you have?”
“Just one,” she informs me. “It made me feel really sick.”
“I’m so sorry,” I offer, watching as Mary and her friends leave.
A few others start to filter out after them, declining to stick around any longer than the bare minimum that’s expected from a friend. Not everyone is fully transparent about their exit, not wanting to hurt my feelings, but I already know the truth: they’re just not having a good time.
Soon enough, Grindo and me are the only ones left.
“Can I turn this music down?” my friend questions, motioning towards the stereo. “You’ve had the same three songs on loop for a while now and I’m not sure I can take another round of Danny Boy.”
I nod, taking a seat at my dining room table as Grindo brings the music to a more manageable volume. My friend sits down across from me.
“How you feeling?” he asks.
“Not great,” I admit. “I wanted to throw the best St. Patrick’s Day party of all time, but this whole thing was a fucking disaster. The music was too loud and nobody wanted to watch Conner McGrongle on TV and the food made everyone sick. I’m terrible at being Irish.”
“I mean, you’re not terrible at it,” he counters. “Your family line is literally Irish. Just being yourself is enough. If you want to do all this stuff then that’s great, but you don’t have to force it.”
I let out a long sigh. His words make sense to me, but for some reason I can’t quite internalize them, can’t accept the lesson he’s hoping to impart.
“I’m a little tired,” I finally say. “I was up late memorizing every U4 lyric and they’ve been around for decades. I think you should go.”
Grindo stands again, patting my shoulder with a silent, comforting gesture. He hesitates for a moment and then turns and walks on, making his way back through my home and out the front door.
I turn off the stereo, plunging the house into complete silence. I sit like this for a moment, surrounded by these festival emerald decorations that seem much less fun and exciting now that I’m the only one here to enjoy them.
Finally, I stand up and get to work, tearing down the streamers and packing up the food. This party was a bust.
Eventually, I’ve boxed up enough trash to make a trip out to the garbage can on the side of the house. I head through the back door with a giant box in my arms, the sky blooming in brilliants shades of purple and orange above.
Strolling through the yard and around the house, I finally reach my destination and give this box of bright green party paraphilia a mighty heave. The party supplies make a hollow clatter as they land in the trash bin, my experiment in exploring this heritage landing with a dull thud rather than a moment of celebration and triumph.
As I turn back around to head inside, however, something stops me in my tracks.
A patch of clover has slowly been creeping its way into the lawn, a little spot in the corner of the yard where the green gets just the slightest bit darker. I now see that one of these clovers has grown unusually large, standing about as tall as I am and towering over the rest of its cluster.
It’s not just the incredible size of this clover that makes him special, however. He’s also sporting four leaves.
“Oh!” I erupt. “I didn’t see you there.”
“Sorry to startle you,” the clover says in return. “I’m Togan.”
“Mark,” I reply.
“I was gonna come in and introduce myself but I didn’t know anyone at the party.”
His words sting a bit. I glance back over my shoulder at the empty, quiet house. “Not much of a party anymore,” I observe.
Togan furrows his brow, confused. “What happened?”
“I don’t know,” I say, although this response reveals itself to be a lie when I feel a slight pang in my heart. “I just wanted to have a great St. Patrick’s Day. I just learned that I’m Irish, so I went all out.”
“All out, huh?” the four leaf clover questions, a faint hit of concern creeping into his expression. “How do you mean?”
“My heritage!” I exclaim. “You know, corned beef hash dyed green, potatoes, a playlist of U4 and seventy five covers of Danny Boy and some Jogging Molly song over and over again. Conner McGrongle highlights on loop. I even made my hair red!”
The clover chuckles. “Listen, you can express yourself however you want, but none of those things are what makes you Irish. In fact, every single one of those things at once sound like a pretty overwhelming scene, I saw someone throwing up green dye in the garden over there. I think you put too much in the food."
I let out a long sigh. “A friend told me something similar.”
“You get to choose how to express your Irish heritage. Your parents came from somewhere else, and before you were born you really had no say in the matter,” the sentient clover opines. “Who you really are is not gonna change no matter how many times you listen to Danny Boy.”
I nod. “Thank you. That means a lot.”
“Of course, it’s wonderful that you want to explore your culture, but you don’t have to do that at the expense of yourself. Find the things about your family tree that you like. Celebrate how youwanna celebrate.”
“I liked the potatoes, but they would’ve been a lot better if they didn’t soak up all that dye,” I admit.
“There you go.”
“And I don’t really care for U4,” I continue.
The clover flinches slightly. “I wouldn’t go that far,” he says, laughing. “You don’t have to throw everythingout, but at the end of the day this is about who you are, not me.”
There’s something about this moment that registers deep within me, a tension in my soul finally releasing its grip. I’ve been so caught up in connecting to some external identity, that I’ve forgotten to connect with myself.
I’m an Irish American, and that can be expressed in any way I choose.
“Welp, I better get back inside and keep cleaning,” I finally announce.
I turn to go but Togan stops me in my tracks. “How do you feel about four leaf clovers?” he asks.
I consider this, taking note of a vague hidden meaning that lurks just behind his tone. “I like them,” I finally reply. “I’ve only met one, but he seems really great.”
“Great?” he repeats back to me.
At this point there’s no denying the tension that’s blossoming between us.
“You said I should celebrate in a way that works for me, right?” I ask.
Togan nods.
My heart is slamming within my chest now, watching as the edge of this cliff comes hurtling towards me but not quite sure if I can bring myself to make the leap. Everything that’s happened over the last few days has eroded away at my confidence, made me feel as though I was being myself all wrong.
Now, however, I’m ready to be the real me. I’m ready to celebrate in a way that feels good and honest and true.
“How about this?” I continue, moving towards the handsome four leaf clover in a singular, swift movement.
I wrap my arms around Togan and kiss him deeply on the mouth, all of that pent up erotic energy finally releasing in a mighty, crashing wave. Togan kisses me back, the two of us giving into this moment completely as our hands begin exploring with frantic enthusiasm.
I let my fingers slip across his clublike frame, starting at the first petal and then working my way along his rounded edges until I’ve appreciated each and every one. The sentient plant caresses me in turn, taking his time as he strips away the clothing from my body.
I let out a soft whimper as my skin is exposed to the evening air, pleased by the tingling sensation. He pulls my shirt off over my head and tosses it to the side, then helps me undo my belt. Piece by piece the fabric is stripped away until, eventually, I’m standing completely naked before him.
As this process continues I bear witness to the enormous cock the slowly blooms from somewhere within the front of his clover form. Soon enough, Togan’s massive dick is sticking out at me in all of its green glory, a physical representation of his arousal.
I trace my fingers back and forth across the sentient plant’s waistline for a bit, teasing him with the prospect of something more and then finally having mercy as I reach down and wrap my hand around his rod.
“Oh fuck,” the four leaf clover sighs, pushing his hips against me as his body reacts to the touch of my warm hand.
We somehow move even closer to one another, our bodies grinding as I slowly begin to pump my digits up and down across his length. I take note of the way he moves against me, falling into the rhythm of his body as we gradually escalate the pace.
Eventually, however, just amping up our speed is not enough. I want more.
I release Togan’s rod and drop down into the grass before him, gazing up at the handsome clover with cock hungry eyes. I take a moment to tease him, playfully licking his shaft from the base to the tip, then kissing the head of his cock. With that, I open wide and begin to pump my face across his member, immediately falling into my previous pace.
Togan lets out a long, satisfied groan, closing his eyes and leaning his head back as I work my magic. With one hand I reach up and cradle his hanging balls, adding to the pleasure with this brand new stimulation.
After a while I pull back, erupting away from the clover’s swollen rod and taking a moment to collect myself. I wipe away the saliva that hangs from my lips, then head back in for another oral maneuver.
This time, my technique has evolved. Instead of bobbing across Togan’s dick I consume him in a graceful, singular movement, swallowing his cock all the way down into my neck. Deeper and deeper his green rod plunges, somehow slipping past the expected limits of my gag reflex until eventually coming to rest at the absolute depths of my throat.
I hold like this for as long as I can possibly manage, showing off my oral acrobatics as the sentient clover savors this moment of domination. He reaches down and places his hands on the back of my head, staying like this until I’m finally forced to pull back in a sputtering gasp for air.
“Fuck me,” I snarl.
I turn around and fall into the yard, popping my ass out towards the living plant. From here I crawl forward a bit, swaying my hips from side to side with erotic exaggeration as I allow him a good look at what I’m working with. I reach back and give my ass a playful slap, encouraging him to heed my words.
“What are you waiting for?” I demand to know.
Togan doesn’t answer verbally, but the spell is broken. The handsome living four leaf clover takes his position behind me, wielding his slobbery cock and testing the limits of my anal seal. He pushes against me, building the pressure and then pulling back before he has the chance to fully slip inside.
“Do it!” I command.
Finally, the sentient plant thrusts deep with a singular, powerful movement, driving into my ass and filling me up with his giant green cock.
For all the begging I’d done, you might think I’d be more prepared for his size. This is not the case, however, and as Togan plunges into me a startled yelp escapes my throat. My fingers grip tight into the grass, bracing myself against the weight of my lover and the depth of his mighty penetration.
I’m stretched to my absolute limits, but fortunately Togan is patient. He holds deep, refusing to move until my body relaxes around his incredible girth.
Gradually, I can feel the muscles within me starting to release. The tension at the pit of my stomach begins to melt away, replaced instead by a potent warmth that slowly begins to work its way down my arms and legs, filling me up.
Soon enough, the two of us have fallen into a steady pace together, our bodies grinding as the pleasure starts to build.
“Just like that, just like that,” I begin to mumble, the words spilling out of my mouth in a blissful mantra the grows louder and louder with every passing round. Eventually, I’m crying out as loud as I can, filling the evening air with my carnal eruptions. “Just like that! Just like that!”
I’m not kidding, either. Togan is a skillful lover, knowing exactly how to hit me from within. Harder and harder he thrusts, now slamming away at me with everything he’s got.
I reach down between my legs and grab ahold of my hanging cock, beating myself off in time with the pulse of the living clover’s hips. This new source of stimulation mixes with the one that came before it, swirling together and building something even more glorious than the sum of its parts. I begin to tremble and quake with anticipation, quickly realizing there’s no more room for these sensations within my physical form.
The pressure builds and builds, an enormous wave threatening to crest as it looms above me and then finally, at long last, the whole thing comes crashing down in a beautiful eruption. I throw my head back and let out a wild, unbridled scream as every nerve sizzles within me. My muscles clench and release in a frantic dance, struggling to understand what all of these feelings could mean but unable to parse them fully. Instead of trying to solve this carnal equation I finally just let go and allow the moment to sweep me away, fully consumed by pleasure.
My orgasm goes on and on for what seems like forever, Togan carrying me through the whole thing from beginning to end. He hammers away at my ass with everything he’s got, and when my climax finally reaches its conclusion he pushes deep and erupts with a potent orgasm of his own.
The handsome four leaf clover spills into me, his cum pumping forth and filling me up. It’s not long before his spunk comes squirting out from the tightly packed rim of my butt, running down the back of my legs in long green streaks.
When the living plant finishes the two of us collapse into the grass together, exhausted and satisfied. The sunset has faded away, replaced instead by a glorious blanket of stars that spills across the endless black above, twinkling with cosmic radiance.
“Great way to celebrate,” I announce, more to myself than anyone else.
The clover sits up and nods towards the house. There are still plenty of streamers hanging around, remnants of my previous failed attempt at a party.
“That’s a fine way of celebrating St. Patrick’s Day, too,” Togan reminds me. “You’re expressing a part of your history in a way that feels natural to you. If that means dying all of your food green and your hair red, then so be it.”
“Ugh,” I blurt. “I’m not dying my hair again. It still stings.”
“Maybe go to a professional next time,” the handsome four leaf clover suggests.
I put my arm around him and pull him close. “I can’t deny it… there’s a little St. Patrick’s Day magic in the air. I feel very lucky that I met you tonight.”
“Maybe there is something to the whole Irish luck thing,” he replies playfully, then kisses me deeply on the lips.
Comments
DOGA
"Who you really are is not gonna change no matter how many times you listen to Danny Boy.” So so true.
Splendid Geryon
LUCK IS REAL!
