Jessica and the Portadown Rangers

'Thwap, thwap, thwap.' The familiar sound (to some) of lips against cock didn't really carry that far, which might be all the better as far as these two were concerned. The lucky recipient was nothing special to look at, but his partner certainly was: perhaps 5'4 and slender, with striking red hair, green eyes, surprisingly fair skin free of freckles, well endowed - maybe 36D? - pulling off a (very expensive, to the knowing eye) little black dress that would've looked more at home at a black tie than behind some old bleachers bordering a nondescript football pitch at early evening. Even without seeing her face, this description alone was likely enough to inform just about anyone in Northern Ireland as to the identity of the woman on her knees: Jess, or as she was often dubbed by the media, Jess the Heiress.

Jessica Ciara Coyle was blessed with a priviledged upbringing; no doubt about that. The only daughter of Ciaran Coyle, head of the Coyle conglomerate, and having been preceded by three sons, Jessica had never been expected to anything except whatever made her happy. The Coyle group was conservatively estimated to run about half of Northern Ireland. Founded by Ciaran in 1979 as a trading concern in industrial supplies and expanding rapidly following the resolution of The Troubles in the 1990s, he rapidly moved into other ventures as opportunities arose. Thirty years of unrelenting hard work later, the Coyles were conservatively valued at several billion euros.

In the face of such wealth and no expectations, Jessica did what many young people did - have a good time. Never sticking with one interest for long, as a youth she flirted with horseback riding, sailing, golf and even rock climbing. Sports and the outdoors soon gave way to expensive whiskey and fast cars, culminating in a DUI a week before her fifteenth birthday. Her father's influence got her out of that jam, but not even he could save her when six weeks later a second DUI resulting in the destruction of Jessica's (unknowingly borrowed from the family garage) Porsche caused a local magistrate to send her off to a youth correctional center for 18 months. A light sentence for most, but harsh for a billionaire heiress.

Collingwood Correctional Center marked a profound shift in Jessica's life. Collingwood was not the greatest place for anyone, even by the standards of co-ed youth detention centers. Run on a shoestring budget, crumbling and understaffed, the teachers and wardens had once ceded an inch of control and the inmates had taken a country mile. Further, being a known face - stories about Jessica continually graced tabloid covers throughout the country - she undoubtedly had the roughest tenure of anyone there. It took only eleven days before she was raped for the first time.

Jessica might've been a bit more prepared for this rough lifestyle than some in her position. She'd never used her father's money to hide from the world - nobody learns to party by themselves. Her desire to have a good time, liberally aided by drugs and alcohol, had already exposed her to sex and the darker side of society. That being said, nobody wants to get raped at 15, either. There was crying, thoughts of suicide, but before the first month was out, she was already on a dedicated campaign to improve her situation. And here her fame and fortune could help.

Within two months, Jess had a steady stream of contraband flooding the gates of Collingwood. Converting that flow of merchandise into power wasn't that easy: a few of the older guys attempted to bully her into handing everything over, but Jessica managed to bribe enough classmates into helping out to keep control of what her contacts outside were providing. After that, life became much more comfortable.

That didn't mean there was a lot doing. Jess had no intention of applying herself to classes she didn't care about taught by teachers who didn't give a damn. There was a lot of sitting around, a lot of sleeping, a lot of television, and a fair bit of football - a football being the sole complement to the rocky yard enclosed by the barbed wire surrounding the institution. Sure, a lot of these kids were doing time here for serious charges, but they were still kids, and scrap games were a fairly common scene.

Fairly vicious games, characterized by sideline betting and the legality of any tactic that didn't draw blood or leave marks, often lasting for hours; lopsided numbers, no nets, underinflated balls, random footwear, and if shin guards ever made it into the compound they would've been laughed at. Football never really completely let one escape from the constant background of bullying and fear that pervaded Collingwood, but it was sometimes enough to make someone temporarily forget about it. Jessica was an occasional participant, but as the bookie she often found it much more profitable to spectate. Not that she needed the cash or contraband, but the challenge of accumulating it was appealing.

Overall, Jess the Heiress had a pretty decent stay after her rough start, at least by Collingwood standards. It was a certainly not paradise, and she certainly wasn't queen, but she had a relatively comfortable niche carved out by the time her term expired, just before she was due to turn 17.

Jess' 17th birthday party was legendary by any definition. Her father had to imagine that a year and a half in a rough-and-tumble facility after growing up in total luxury would've put some common sense into her, and maybe it did. And he certainly wanted to see his daughter have a good time in celebration, so money wasn't an issue in her organizing. Maybe she had picked up a few more street smarts, but they might've been the wrong kind. At 17, Jess was cold, cynical and calculating -and still always on the lookout for a good time, more of a party animal than ever. Places like Collingwood teach you to be concerned about the here and now. You can't afford to think about the distant future during the midst of a continual ruthless playground power struggle where the loser might lose a finger or get gangraped. So party now.

The whole truth about what happened at Belfast's most happening nightclub that night - reserved exclusively for partygoers - may never fully be known by anyone. Overcrowded with a free open bar and heavily laced with drugs and hookups, the arrival of four squad cars just after midnight only made things worse, sparking violence. It took fully fifty officers making liberal use of chemical weapons to disperse the party. Seized by police in the aftermath was over a half-million dollars in drugs and alcohol, including a $3,000 bottle of '58 Glen Garioch which had been prepared for use as a molotov. Eighteen were hospitalized with assorted injuries, including bullet holes, stab wounds, broken bones and allergic reactions to CS gas.

Thankfully for her, Jess was not found during the bust. Some swore she'd been the life of the party, others said she hadn't shown up. Either way, there was no evidence of her attendance, even though it was unquestionable she'd been the organizer.

This did not satisfy her father, of course. She wasn't in trouble with the law at this point, and probably too old for a return to Collingwood anyway, but one does not amass several billion euros by being meek. It wasn't long before she was leaving Ireland to attend an elite rehab facility in England - and Jess may have stayed there much longer had her mother not decided to visit unannounced and found her missing, having paid the necessary bribes to slip out and enjoy the weekend in her usual style.

Jess might've been a visitor to several more rehab facilities had Ciaran not suddenly collapsed only days after her return to the family mansion following the abortion of her English rehab. A diagnosis did not take long, despite his lack of medical history: he wa never a man to take a yearly medical. Acute myeloid leukemia, subtype 3q. Treatment outlook: poor. Expected survival: less than 12 months. Only five percent lasted more than a year.

Ciaran Coyle was not a man that had any intention to let his hard-won fortune be squandered by the next generation, and with two of his three sons turning out well, Jess could've been looking at nothing. That said, he wasn't without love, either. She was his only daughter. In his life of business, Ciaran had only known once vice: football. He'd been betting on that since he was a boy, and did it well. Jess wasn't really a football fan, but her experiences at Collingwood made it the closest thing the pair had in common. And so a deal was struck. Jess would manage the local Portadown Rangers, without the support of family money. If she showed a sufficient degree of responsibility, she was back in the will.

Which brings the story back to the strange sounds coming from behind the stands surrounding a beaten-up football pitch where the Portadown Rangers could often be found. Finishing her duty, Jessica had no problem swallowing the quickly spurted load. "That's just a downpayment. I expect a win tomorrow." The man nodded, turning and quickly disappearing into the late evening darkness. The Portadown Rangers number 9 should have all the motivation he needed for the league opener tomorrow. Jessica was on her way to hundreds of millions.