Angie Ch. 05

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The Ulleann Pipes are real and the music that comes from these simple reeds and covered or uncovered finger-holes is haunting. Some of the pieces still claw at my soul. Here are YouTube titles, for those that want to hear such music for yourselves:

Davy Spillane – Caoineadh Cu Chulainn Uilleann Pipes.flv

I am asleep (Air) & The Clumsy Lover (Reel) Uilleann pipes Chris McMullan”The Gael” Uilleann Pipes Caleb Cox

Uilleann pipes – Chris McMullan – Sliabh Na Mban & The Bunch of Keys

Braveheart Theme by Eric Rigler

Uilleann Bagpipers (Gay McKeon, Emmett Gill, Amy Campbell) | LIVE at The Kennedy Center

Must see!! Best Off Uilleann-Pipes – Celtic Duelling

Titanic – Hymn to the sea Uilleann Pipes remember [Andzull]

“Pipes Solo – Lark in the Morning”, Cillian Vallely & Alan Murray

Davy Spillane – Boolavogue (Buaile Mhaodhog)

Port na bPúcaí – Slow air on Fiddle and Uilleann Pipes

A Gift of a Thistle (Braveheart)

Outlawed Pipes

Uilleann piping

Uilleann Pipes and Bodhrán

Uilleann Pipes (Jigs) When sick is it tea you want & Paidin O’Raifeartaigh chris mcmullan

The boat referred to is a 39 foot outboard powered Sharpie houseboat – see Mark V Designs.

This is a sex story. There’s a lot of it here. For those who still want wall-to-wall ultra-graphic sex on every page, I ask that you get a life. For those who are easily offended because I didn’t write exactly what you wanted to read, I’ll say the same thing.

Plus, for those of you who will say this work is just a ‘stroke’ story (yes I know who you are, Anonymous and others), about all I can reply is that you have never had a long-term, married relationship with a ‘darksome wench’. What I have written here is mild compared to the reality.

ANGIE 5

By TheKeith

We weren’t adverse to some bad weather, as we were a tightly-corked bottle with all the hatches and ports closed. Rain sluiced itself off the cabin top, down over the windows and the over the sides. The cockpit was self-draining, sending the excess water over the stern (end) and into the water past the outboard motor.

I could capture rain water coming off the cabin-top and after a couple minutes to allow the surface to clean itself, we could re-bottle pure rainwater for our needs. All we had to do was get naked and be wet all over, which was fun, especially t night, when Angie’s body was momentarily illuminated by lightning flashes in various poses, filling her bottles.

I, on the other hand, always worried a little, because I usually sported a strong erection watching her. What if lightning struck my erected ‘rod’? Would I be left holding the bag?

It was casino siteleri the night of the hurricane that things got more than a little weird. Working through the inland waterway in Western Florida, the weather forecast said high winds, driving rain and storm surge, so I motored up a bayou I knew, thinking to tie up to the boles of mangrove trees firmly anchored in the bottom muck.

But no such luck. The sides of the creek were lined solid with big plastic bathtubs of yachts and there was no space I could find, even with my shallow draft. With time and options running out, I finally managed to tie up to a sandy hummock in the middle of the water, roped to a couple of thick posts seemingly buried deep in the sand. There was about 2′ of water there, but I knew that the tide was in and that my boat would be firmly aground until the storm surge hit. I also set out both of my anchors, with lots of chain.

So, picture us, in a small boat—small in relation to the 50′, 60′ and over floating fiberglass palaces completely enclosing us—and waiting helplessly for the storm to hit like a water-and-wind sledgehammer. We tied down everything that we could and then retreated into the cabin for drinks and food.

First the wind blew up from the south and pummeled us with water and wave, but we floated above it. When the surge hit, Angie and I loosened the ties that held us to to the posts, while the anchors just took up the strain. The ‘eye’ went over us and then the wind did its expected about-face and came at out stern (back) end, blasting waves at the exposed motor.

Suddenly, the wave action decreased, as the tide fell, our flat-bottom took the ground of the sandy hummock and there we stayed.

But little rain or wave came aboard or inside the cabin, as we held each other in terror. The sound outside was indescribable, as a wail of wind impacting the relatively straight sides of our cabin, rat-tat-tat-rat-a-tat.

We heard banging and crashing, as the huge yachts surrounding us pulled on their moorings, with some stretching, allowing bows to crash into sterns. In a couple of cases, two big yachts broke their cables and were blown around the embayment, crashing into other craft, along with much screaming and cursing.

The wind and rain lasted from one afternoon and into another, gradually tapering off toward sunset of the second day. The sun was a big, red ball when we emerged. We both looked at the floating wrecks that surrounded up, as we were feeling a little fey, having survived where the others fared much worse.

It was pre-evening sunset. The light was odd. I got out my pipes. Angie stripped down to dark skin alone. I grinned at her and said, “Nude. Dance!” I started on canlı casino one of my ‘introductory’ slow jigs. Angie went into her stretching routine, but made it slow and sensuous, all the time casting me a ‘evil’ slutty grin. Lights came on the yachts surrounding us, and some camera flashed went off.

She began her ‘Sun Salute’ yoga routine, but very done very slow, almost Tai Chi speed, with emphasis on the play of the fading sunlight on her ebony skin. Hands up and over her head, arching back and displaying her bare, glass-smooth pussy opening and long, muscular legs. Down to a crouch, but emphasizing her magnificent ass, momentarily spread wide with questing hands.

This, I morphed my music into ‘Lark in the Morning’ and then into ‘Boolavogue (Buaile Mhaodhog)’. The notes soared as her body reached peaks of stretching and pose. The flashes form the surrounding boats were near continuous.

My dancing woman ascended the cabin-top, there to writhe and pose for searchlights that sought out her every motion. She alternately hid and then revealed her perfect dark-skinned breasts, capped by quivering thick nipples nearly an inch long. I launched back into my compositions: ‘Arc of the Sun’. ‘The Inter Galaxic Laxative’. ‘My Darksome Wench’. ‘Dark Breasts in the Deep Night.’ Plus other traditional compositions by others.

Angie played out the boom that usually lifted the dinghy on and off the cabin-top and played out some line. Then she slid down that line, to dangle herself off the side of the boat, but well off the now-bare patch of wet sand.

I played ‘Port na bPúcaí,’ a slow air on Uilleann Pipes. I played ‘The Gael’ and ‘Braveheart’ themes. I played ‘I Am Asleep’ and then played ‘The Clumsy Lover.’

Again, how to describe music in words? An image formed, that of Vlad’s new wife, receiving a forged letter from the enemy Turk, telling of her husbands death in battle. Her climb up to the highest tower of the castle. Her standing, arms out and face racked with tears, facing the setting sun, as she then flung herself from the battlements, whirling down to the rocks and the weedy water of the lake below. One last scene, of her now serene face above her broken body, floating in the water-grass below the castle of her home, with Vlad.

All this, while my acrobatic woman, now covered with a sheen of sweat and oiled skin, twisted and posed, working that length of rope like the body of a lover. Laying spread out, hanging in space and rotating, so the hidden audience could see all parts of her magnificent body, gleaming in the last red rays of the setting sun.

Then, suddenly, in abrupt full dark, my slutty woman grabbed up 4 marine distress flares and planted two on the stern kaçak casino of the boat, holding on to the other two in her hands. All 4 were lit, as she then posed further, legs up and body open to searchlights and flashes from the surrounding watercraft. Body shame had no place on my boat, as she lay upon the cabin-top in her now-classic Slut’s Morning Greeting, legs spread, as illuminated by bright red flares held in hand by thumb alone, as she pulled and stretched her cuntal opening wide, reveling the sheen of light on her most private parts.

I finished with another rendition of ‘Caoineadh Cu Chulainn’ for the Uilleann Pipes. I evoked the same imagery as before, as I did 4 repetitions of the basic lament, but each different and of increasing difficulty. I doubt I will ever again play as well, my eyes rolled up in their sockets and myself entranced, the tears streaming down my face.

My Goddess of the Dance knelt on the cockpit floor in supplication and lament, legs spread open, holding her breasts out for my touch, her eyes also rolled up in her sockets as her tears fell off her cheeks, down onto her breasts and then to fall on the cabin deck, to mix with mine.

The flares guttered out, one by one.

Then my sex-goddess woman grasped me by my cock, suddenly out and exposed, and dragged me into the cabin, which had all its windows propped open. There, I was stripped and there assaulted by Goddess woman-flesh, who demanded to be penetrated and used. To be pounded. To be taken. To be owned, body and soul. To be made into a screaming, shrieking mass of pulsating female desire and lust.

My ears were partly deafened by the volume of Angie’s sex cries and vocal talents. I heard the term SLUT used in many variations, some of which I’d never heard of and a few physically impossible for a man and woman to perform without incurring permanent mutilation and even death. She demanded I penetrate her body with my cock so deeply that I would have injured her for life. I was grasped by arms and legs and then bounced all over the couch, by body contractions alone.

Angie orgasmed continuously, going into Status Orgasmicus (where the end of one orgasm triggered the onset of the next). She forgot to breathe sometimes. I shouted, moaned and thrust, somehow lasting minutes beyond my usual limits, but finally unloading what felt like a half-pint of cunt-yogurt into her oh-so-willing body.

I don’t remember passing out. I don’t remember the other boats and yachts leaving, one by one. I didn’t remember the sunrise or the tide coming back in and re-floating my boat’s home. Nor do I remember Angie milking the piss out of my 95% comatose body in the morning. I only woke in around mid-afternoon, feeling that my testicular sack had been emptied. My balls had been near pulled out, everted and my cock retreated to within 1″ of my body wall.

“Oh, Gawd, I’ll never fuck again,” I gasped out.

END of PART 5

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