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Strange things happen when the storm of the century approaches the Irish coast.
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WARNING! All of my writing is intended for adults over the age of 18 ONLY. Stories may contain strong or even extreme sexual content. All people and events depicted are fictional and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. Actions, situations, and responses are fictional ONLY and should not be attempted in real life.
If you are under the age or 18 or do not understand the difference between fantasy and reality or if you reside in any state, province, nation, or tribal territory that prohibits the reading of acts depicted in these stories, please stop reading immediately and move to somewhere that exists in the twenty-first century.
Archiving and reposting of this story is permitted, but only if acknowledgment of copyright and statement of limitation of use is included with the article. This story is copyright (c) 2014 by The Technician ( Technician666@Gmail.Com. )
Individual readers may archive and/or print single copies of this story for personal, non-commercial use. Production of multiple copies of this story on paper, disk, or other fixed format is expressly forbidden.
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The waves crashed against the boulders at the edge of the cliff throwing the spray of the sea upward with such force that the winds carried much of the moisture over the top of the cliff onto the grassy plateau where Devon hung suspended between two gnarled and twisted trees. The trees had been bent and twisted and bowed by the constant sea breeze which blew across them, but they were still very strong and held her tightly in place. Two ropes were tied to each tree. One, which was tied high in the tree, led from a leather restraint on her wrists and another, tied near the base of the tree, led from a similar leather cuff on her ankles.
Devon was naked and facing the sea. Her wet, red hair hung down her neck in a sodden mass. Her body was covered in moisture. Most of that moisture was her own sweat, but mixed in with the sweat was the salt spray which stung fiercely as it ran in rivulets across the welts which the twelve strands of the eleven floggers had striped across her back as the eleven naked women had each lashed her twelve times.
The coven continued to stand behind her in a semicircle which reached from edge of cliff to edge of cliff around her. Twelve voices chanted loudly in ancient Gaelic, but even together their singing could barely be heard above the roar of the sea. The gigantic windstorm would soon crash ashore in all its fury. In the pacific they would have called it a cyclone, in the Americas, a hurricane, but here it was called a windstorm.
The weather forecasters had named this particular windstorm Frea, with no concept at all of how they had given strength to this storm by bestowing upon it the power of the name of the wife of Odin. At least they had not used her true name and called the storm Frigg. Had they done that and called forth the full fury of the queen of the gods, there would have been no hope. But because they had not used the true and powerful name of the goddess, perhaps-just perhaps, there was something the coven could do to save Ireland.
The coven understood exactly what the weather people had stupidly done. The coven knew well the old gods and goddesses and their ways. And they knew that calling forth Frea from the mists of the ancient past would mean death and destruction for much of their beloved island. And so, to defend that which was rightfully theirs, the coven had risen and gathered together and brought forth their own power. To work their magic, they needed to call forth a poetess of weather to sing ballads of pain and passion into the wind and appease the mighty queen and perhaps divert her fury. And so they had chosen Devon and brought her here to the cliffs above the sea to meet the oncoming storm.
Devon’s screams could now be clearly heard over both the keen of the chanting and the roar of the sea as the twelfth naked witch took her place behind her and began to swing her twelve stranded whip against Devon’s back. The chanting matched her screams and grew louder and louder with each stroke until suddenly with the twelfth stroke of the twelfth whip, everything fell silent except the wind. Even Devon hung silent as she gasped to pull breath into her bruised and beaten body.
There was nothing to be heard now except the roar of the sea... and a distant soft buzzing sound that was growing louder and louder and louder.
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Devin Donnelley slammed his hand down on the alarm on his bedside table. He groaned as he forced himself to get out of his bed. God, he hurt. Every joint in his body felt like it had been stretched and pulled. His back felt like he had been sleeping on a bed of nails. “I must be coming down with something,” he said aloud. “I hope it’s not the flu,” he added. “I can’t miss any work this week. We’ve got the storm of the century bearing down on us and I’ve got to be on the air when the storm makes landfall.”
Devin was the Jim Cantore of British weather television. If there was an unusual snowstorm in the north of England, there would be live shots of him standing waist deep in the snow. When unexplained torrential rains hit the Scottish highlands, he was standing, barely visible through the torrential downpour, giving the details on the intensity and path of the storm. Now, it appeared that one of the most severe windstorms in centuries was about to strike the Emerald Isle, and he might be too sick to be there.
“That is not going to happen,” he said loudly as he stumbled into the bathroom and into a hot shower. Feeling somewhat better, he called his producers to check on the progress of the storm. It had slowed slightly, but was still bearing down directly on the Irish coast.
“Book me a room near the coast,” he instructed, “and I will wait for it there. I’m not going to be able to do much as things approach because I am sicker than a broke-dick dog. But if I can be on my feet at all, I will be standing there at the edge of the sea when Frea comes over land.”
“Everything’s already in place and transportation has been arranged,” came the reply.
Two and a half hours later, the helicopter set down in Balina. A car was waiting to take him to tourist lodgings near Ceide Fields on the coast in County Mayo. The ancient ruins would make a good background for his reports and the visitors center would provide shelter for the broadcast equipment and technicians.
As Devin’s driver dropped him off at his lodgings, he told to him, “Everything is already set up at the archeological site. They are damn particular about where we stick anything into the ground, but we have anchors placed at all the proper spots so we can tie down the tripods and stay shooting even if the winds go off scale.” Devin nodded in response and the driver finished with, “You’re booked into hut number 7. You look like shit. Go get some sleep and I will phone you when it is getting close to time to do some live shots.”
Devin merely grunted and took the key from the driver. He stumbled down the path to the small cabin and fell onto the bed almost immediately as he entered the room. He was soon fast asleep.
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Devon was no longer stretched upright between the tree. She was now lying flat on the ground with her arms and legs stretched wide apart, held in place by the same ropes that were now tied to stakes driven firmly into the ground. They were slightly farther from the cliff’s edge and the coven now completely surrounded her. Their keening, wailing chant fought to be heard above the sea which was roaring with greater and greater fury.
Two of the naked witches knelt by her prone body gently massaging a thick, pungent ointment into her skin. It felt cool as it touched her, but soon a warmth began to radiate from everyplace on which the ointment had been smeared. It was not a burning heat on the surface, but rather a deep warmth that seemed to penetrate her entire body. The heat flowed through her insides and moved slowly toward her breasts which began to swell and tingle. Her nipples stood tall and upright. And then suddenly she was on fire between her legs.
The two naked women who had been applying the ointment stepped back into the circle of the coven and for several moments they allowed Devon’s cries of passion and need to sing a counter-part to their own strange song. Then the four youngest of the witches stepped into the center of the circle.
Two of them knelt on either side of Devon and lowered their mouths until their lips began to softly kiss her throbbing nipples. She gasped and panted and screamed as they licked and sucked and teased her with their mouths and tongues. Then the third witch knelt between her legs.
She too lowered her mouth, but it was not to Devon’s breasts. The third witch’s mouth and tongue went directly to Devon’s clit, which also stood tall and throbbing. Devon’s cries now raised in intensity to match the storm which was screaming out its fury just off the coast. She bucked and thrashed and tossed her body to and fro in her frenzy of passion.
The fourth witch lowered her body. She did not bend to bring her mouth down to Devon’s cunt or nipples. Instead, she brought her cunt to Devon’s mouth. Driven by passion, lust, and need Devon sucked greedily at the witches cunt and nibbled ferociously at her sex. Soon all five of the women on the ground were calling out in the throes of passion.
Devon suddenly screamed an intense scream and thrashed and quivered in tremendous orgasm. As she did so, the four naked witches who had been tormenting her rose as one and melded back into the chanting circle of the coven.
As Devon lay panting on the ground, the only sounds which could be heard were the roar of the wind and the crash of the waves..., and a flute loudly playing the Battle of Aughrim.
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Devin reached for his phone and answered with a curt, “Yeah! I’m here.”
“Took you long enough to answer,” came the voice from the other end. “Do you think you are up to coming out to the shore and doing a couple of ‘This is where we expect the storm to hit’ shots? We can bring you back to your lodgings until later, but that will give the networks and the world-wide feeds something to air until the storm actually comes ashore.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Devin answered. “Just give me a moment to clean up a little.”
A half-hour later, Devin Donnelley was standing before the cameras at the edge of the cliffs explaining what a windstorm was and giving estimates of expected damage when Frea finally came across the United Kingdom.
After the director had yelled cut, Devin said to the cameraman, “Are you sure we haven’t done shots from here before? This place just seems so familiar to me. It’s like I’ve been here before..., maybe a long, long time ago.”
The cameraman answered with a laugh, “Maybe your family comes from this area way back. People have been living here for over 5000 years. They were supposed to have had some mighty powerful witches in these villages back then. Maybe you are one of their descendants.”
“Or maybe my mind is so fogged by this flu or whatever that I can’t think straight.” he replied. “And on top of that, I’ve been having some really strange dreams every time I try to get some sleep.”
“I’ll drive you back to your diggings,” said the cameraman. “And you can rest up for a couple of hours. I’ll come back and get you in time for the money shots.”
This time Devin at least removed his clothing before crawling into the bed and again falling fast asleep.
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Devon was once again tied between the trees. Once again she was facing the roaring sea and once again the coven was in a semicircle around her that reached from cliff edge to cliff edge. As the storm howled and shrieked in even greater intensity, two of the women came forward from the circle. They were naked except for strange masks upon their faces. One carried what looked like a huge hammer. The other carried a long crooked lance that vaguely resembled a cartoon lightning bolt.
A third witch approached Devon from behind. She too was naked except for a strange shaped mask..., and a huge phallus which was strapped to her groin. She stepped behind Devon and reached around her to tweak her turgid nipples. Devon responded with a gasp and a moan.
The woman with the lightning bolt held it close to Devon’s body and sparks began to jump from the metal to her flesh. A hiss and crackle accompanied the tiny blue sparks as the witch ran the metal staff up and down Devon’s body. Devon moaned and shrieked as the sparks passed over her nipples and then her cunt. She was not sure whether she was feeling pain or pleasure, but in either case, her passion began to rise again within her.
For what seemed like hours, the witch with the lightning staff tormented Devon while the witch behind her pushed herself snugly into her body from the back. The huge phallus was nestled tightly between the cheeks of Devon’s ass. She could feel it move against her as she writhed in passionate torment under the sparks.
Then suddenly Devon’s passion peaked. The orgasm took her by surprise. There was no lead up to the climax. It was just suddenly there like a flash of lightning in a dark sky, and she screamed out as the pleasure washed over her body. As soon as her cry faded into the sound of the wind, the witch turned away from her and spinning her body cast the iron lightning bolt as far out into the sea as her strength would allow.
Then the witch with the hammer stood before her. Devon could now see that there was something above the huge head of the hammer. It was as if the handle of the hammer went through the heavy steel of the massive head, except whatever it was that protruded from the top of the hammer was larger than the handle beneath. And it was not shaped like a handle. It was shaped like a penis.
The witch knelt before her and slowly thrust the hammer upward so that the wooden penis entered Devon’s cunt. After the ministrations of the lightning shaft, she was more than adequately lubricated for it to slide easily into her body. She expected the wood to be cold, but it was warm, and it seemed to throb within her.
She gasped and took a deep intake of breath as the kneeling witch began to pump the hammer in and out of her cunt. As the wooden penis bottomed out within her, the massive hammer head would press against the outside of her cunt. Soon the witch was pumping furiously and the steel head was pounding against Devon’s clit as the wooden phallus pumped into the depths of her womb.
This time she could feel the orgasm slowly rising within her. She could feel its power and knew that it was more than she could stand, but she also knew that there was no way she would be able to hold it off. Giving in to her passion, she slammed her body down to meet the rising hammer and her mind exploded. The shriek of the storm and the keening of the witches and the wail of her passion all seemed to merge together in a giant cacophony of sound and fury.
Still gasping and shaking, Devon watched as the second witch spun her body and threw the mighty hammer far out into the sea.
Then Devon felt the phallus began to move against her buttocks. The witch behind her was reaching under her arms and cupping her breasts. Her fingers trapped Devon’s nipples between them and squeezed them tightly as she pulled back on Devon’s breasts.
The witch rocked her hips so that the phallus pulled clear of Devon’s body and hung from her front as would a man’s penis. She then pushed forward and centered the phallus between Devon’s asscheeks.
Devon could feel the phallus pressing against her rear opening. For some reason, she knew that she had to push back against it and bring it into her body. Feeling the size of the invader, she expected to feel pain, but instead felt intense pleasure as it entered her. The witch began singing an ancient chant that somehow felt familiar and yet was totally foreign to Devon.
Soon Devon was singing a chant of her own, a chant known by all women of all times. It was the chant of unbridled passion. The witches hands tweaked and massaged and pulled and kneaded Devon’s breasts and nipples as she continued to thrust in and out of her from behind. Devon was soon bucking and thrashing and approaching an orgasm which she knew would be greater than the previous two which she had just experienced.
Another witch, this one with no mask, now knelt between Devon’s legs. She was holding a strange shaped clay bowl. It was long an thin and narrower on one end as if it had been formed to fit exactly between Devon’s legs. The witch held it in place with one hand and with the other reached up to stroke Devon’s aching clit. Just moments after the witch’s hand touched her, Devon once again exploded in orgasm. She could feel herself squirted out her juices into the waiting container. When her body finally stopped tossing and thrashing, the witch rose from her kneeling position, and using the same twisting motion as had the other two witches, threw the container far out into the sea.
The witch stood facing out into the blackness for a few moments and then slowly faded from sight. Devon looked around her as the rest of the naked coven gradually disappeared into the wind and the mist from the roaring sea. Suddenly once again the flutes were playing the Battle of Aughrim.
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“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Devin answered. “I can be ready in just a few moments.”
“Well, your mind better be really sharp,” came the reply, “because you are going to have to come up with something that makes this trip worthwhile. The damn storm isn’t even going to come inland.”
Devin hurriedly got dressed. He noted with pleasure that his flu symptoms seemed to have left him. A screech of tires told him his driver had arrived and a few moments later, he was standing on the cliffs of Ceide Fields overlooking the sea. The heavy anchors which the crew had screwed into the ground were not needed. The wind, if anything, was little more than an average breeze off the sea.
“What the hell are you going to say?” asked his producer.
“I’ll think of something,” he replied as a voice from behind the producer said, “Live in three, two, one...”
Devin looked at the cameras and then at the crowd of locals who were standing just behind the crew. One group of older women standing to one side looked somehow vaguely familiar to him, but he could not place any of them. It was as if he had perhaps, at one time, met their daughters, or granddaughters.
“I am supposed to explain,” he began, “what happened to windstorm Frea which was expected to come crashing ashore at this very spot and wreak havoc and fury across the British Isles.” He pointed out to the tossing, but relatively calm, seas and the clearing skies. “But neither I, nor any other weather person in the world can explain how or why this storm suddenly dissipated just off the coast of Ireland. There is no meteorological explanation for what has occurred.”
He looked over at the crowd of women and then back at the camera. “Perhaps it has something to do with the ancient magic of this area. Perhaps the ancient ones rose up and in some way placated the goddess Frea so that she changed her mind about her path of destruction.” Looking directly into the camera, he continued, “I know that sounds outrageous and unbelievable to you. It sounds outrageous and unbelievable even to me, but it is as good an explanation as any that you are going to hear from any expert meteorologist over the next several days as to why the storm of the century just...” he made a flicking motion with his hands “... went away.”
Turning again fully to the camera, he finished with his trademark, “For BBC Weather, this is Devin Donnelley saying ‘Stay tuned, stay dry, and stay safe.’”
The director yelled, “Cut.”
When Devin looked back over to where the twelve women had been standing, they were gone.