Angie Ch. 04

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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.


By TheKeith

The next day, I paid off my marina fees, then disconnected the hose and electrical fittings. Angie did last-minute food shopping to my list (no frozen stuff or fresh food that required refrigeration beyond the low temperatures of an ice box). As the tide turned on the Delaware River, we threw off the lines holding the boat to the dock, powered over to the fuel area and topped off the fuel tanks. Then, on the falling tide, we left Philadelphia.

How do I explain a slow, uneventful 8-knot cruise down a calm river, even when in the company of an apparently inexhaustible slut like Angie. Nothing happened as the water, channel buoys and coastline slid past. Just the way I wanted it. No accidents, no drama. My attention had to be on the water and what was in front of us, to either side and to the rear. After all, we were only 39′ long, which is big for a motorboat but small for anything else commercial. I followed Hong Kong Harbor Rules: if it’s bigger than you, get out of its way.

Now, my tall, boob-thrusting, darksome ebony beauty didn’t help things much, when she appeared in a new-to-me skimpy boating outfit she’d improvised out of 3 scarves. Two scarves to hold her breasts, the outlines of which could be plainly seen through the sheer material, as could her big nipples. A third scarf around her waist, tied at the side, acting as an sort-of asymmetrical skirt … also sheer. No bra. No panties. Sensible boating shoes with socks, Isparta Escort so no stubbed toes.

However, my slutty girl immediately set up a rule that she wouldn’t try to caress or use my body for any kind of sex while I was piloting or setting things up for the night or to prepare the boat during a period of bad weather.

No touching when underway. Just luscious, early-middle-aged ebony flesh on display to my eyes as often as she thought needed. Which was a lot.

But, as soon as we were anchored or tied to a post, all bets were off and I was in ‘danger’ of being sexed to death by that selfsame darksome wench with the large, sensitive boobs.

For instance, Angie had said, in passing, that she’d hadn’t always been a geriatric nurse. When younger, she’d been a stripper and exotic pole-dancer, out West. That explained the first and second husbands.

So, every morning she could—after waking me with kisses and demands to be felt up and given oral loving—and after our morning piss, she started on a exercise routine which, she said, maintained her strength and flexibility.

Therefore, she would come out of the cabin, dressed in her exercise outfit … utterly naked, not a stitch and newly shaved. A set of stretching exercises followed, which I was required to watch, usually from underneath her. This would be followed by a yoga routine, frequently a ‘Sun Salute’. I watched as she ‘flowed’ from pose to pose, there in the cramped confines of the boat’s cockpit. She demanded that I feel up her tits and thighs during each ‘pose’, only have me pulling back during the ‘flow’ phase.

Of course, by then I was sporting a full erection—oh, did I mention that Angie insisted that I watch her and follow her demands, totally naked, no kilt?

Following the yoga poses, she performed several pull-ups and push-ups, supporting herself on a pole between the cockpit seat. Each arms-only pull being terminated by a light kiss or tongue-lick on my now-extended cock.

Up-lick-down. Repeat.

Then a change to some modern dance routines, involving moves terminated in statue-imitating erotic poses, some of which involved me at the end, before she moved to the next.

By this time, my cock was slick with pre-cum.

She climbed to the cabin top and ran the dinghy-lifting boom out to the side, where dangled a short length of limp rope. Held onto this by hands, feet, legs and body, my Angie writhed in 3-dimensional space, showing me her secret, between-legs body area, spread as widely as possible.

Then back to the cockpit for a final pose: the Slut’s Morning Greeting. Her body flat on the deck, on her back. Chest and torso arched up. Long arms along the side of her body, confining her breasts at the sides. Hands reaching under her thighs for her buttocks. Legs straight, spread out in a wide ‘V’. Calves tensed and feet pointed. Fingertips pulling at the flesh of her ‘taint’ area. Vaginal lips pulled wide open, the glistening flesh exposed to the rays of the morning sun … and my gasping, lusty gaze.

Every morning, except for heavy breathing, her only words to this point were, “Fuck me! Now!”

Which I did. Plunging into her exposed body, erection leading, I seldom managed to last more than a few minutes.

At Isparta Escort Bayan last, with her man (me) exhausted and limp, Ange would stand in the cabin door, holding herself on one leg, while holding the other in an arc behind above her, as the ooze of semen and womanly juices leaked from her ravaged pussy-lips and flowed down her inner thigh toward her knee. I had to salvage some warm water from the teakettle and wash this sexual display clean, so that we could both have a breakfast that—somehow—I managed to put together.

This was our morning routine, just about every damn day!

It just wasn’t possible for two people to make love all the time, ever for a sex-obsessed maniac (me) and a hot cum-slut (her). We settled into something of a sexual-fug routine within a week. Up in the morning, after exercises, with me cooking breakfast.

If anchored, we stayed there. ‘There’ being pretty much anywhere there was 12″ of water under our bottom. My boat ‘drew’ only 12″ when fully loaded, so we could (and did) anchor where other boats just could not go. If the water was ‘tidal’ (that is, if the tide came in and went out), the boat would settle on its flat bottom and Angie or I could put on knee-length rubber farm boots and literally walk ashore, to spend time in marsh, woods or a nearby green pasture area.

Or we could sail round in the small dinghy that rested on the cabin-top. I could put the little sail/row boat in the water and take her out, using the electric winch, mounted on the stubby mast and swing-out boom (the same one she exercised upon).

But, if we decided to move on, it was only a few minutes to up-anchor and head back out the way we came in (always adjusting for tide, of course). Then I would pilot along at about 9 mph (8 knots), while my black hottie rested at the dinette table, or on the couch or back in the cockpit.

We didn’t ‘hail’ (greet) other boats and didn’t have other boat folks over ‘for drinks’. At about a weekly interval, we could usually pull up to a dock or marina and get an overnight hookup of fuel, electricity and water. I could shovel out the head into a waste bin and dispose of the accumulated piss there. If not, well, over the side it went, at night, there to add to the compost at the bottom of a river, canal or bay. Refills came from the bale of peat moss I carried. I carried a couple of old, rusty-appearing bicycles, and we both used these, when and if. We could go to a movie, take in a show or have a dinner out, as we wanted. Long walks, holding hands, happened often.

If we were out in open water, I could head into the wind, put out a ‘sea anchor’ (to prevent wind-blown drift), and we could swim … with me attached to the boat with a line. Now think of a large, slow barge, being played with and circled by a stunning, nude personal watercraft. That tell you how well I swam?

We read, watched DVDs, or just drifted. I maintained the boat, teaching Angie how to do things as they came up. Unexpectedly, she became an excellent coastwise navigator, radar operator and and diesel mechanic.

A couple times a week, when at anchor, I’d get out my Ulleann Pipes and I would practice my music, which Angie always said that my choice of tunes gave her goosebumps. Escort Isparta OK, the instrument is unusual, and reputed to be difficult to play. But no more difficult than the violin, cello, piano or the Chapman Stick. Some curmudgeons insisted it took 21 years to learn it well, but this was utter nonsense. Otherwise, how to explain the various children and teens who played well. Did they start playing while still in their mother’s wombs or before conception?

Come on, people. I was in Bagdad while they were still in their Dad’s bag!

But some of the music was haunting. Take my favorite piece, ‘Caoineadh Cu Chulainn’. A lament for a mythical hero of Old Ireland. Soaring falsetto motes, descending into tenor low ones. A deep, soulful expression of sorrow. The music evokes the casting of a fantasy dream, wherein the hero lies in a mystic cave, waiting for the magic words to re-awaken him from his final sleep, to perform further heroic deeds. The cave echoed with the soulful notes, as each shivered upon the crystal hangings surrounding the hero’s place of rest.

From this I launched into tunes of my own devising: ‘The Arc of Dawning’. ‘Driftwood Ashore’. ‘Lament for a Lost Kitten’. Then closing with a couple of known selections, ‘The Bonnie Swans’ and ‘King of the Fairies’.

She had goosebumps by the end. As she usually did.

About half the time, after I played (with her), she cooked dinner, because I’d be too weak to stand. After dinner, we’d watch a DVD on the TV or read, play with each other, or watch a porn flick, to see if we could get any ideas on how to make more and better love. At about 11:00 PM, she’d take off her no-cover-up bra, I’d leer at her and play with her tits some more, while she writhed and came. We were in bed, asleep by 11:30 PM.

About every other night, I’d wake about 3:00 AM, to find my slutty fuck-buddy girlfriend slithering all over me, and jamming my suddenly hard cock back inside her, for more breast-dangling, grunting, gurgling, explicit sex-talking, orgiastic fucking.

She heaved and thrashed, screaming about sex and breast orgasms, and demanding to be fucked until she passed out.

So I obliged, and did my best to rape this woman. Of course, I failed, mostly because you can’t rape a willing woman.

We both had a lot of fun as I attempted the impossible, jamming my erection deeply into her and then withdrawing with a wet ‘plop,’ only to re-penetrate, over and over. There was only one way this could go, and I went there, dumping a load of jism into her sweat-slithery body, as I screamed and came.

I was under orders, though, if she passed out while sexing, to continue fucking her and to dump my load into her limp body. When she came to, she’d look down, see the jism oozing out of her cunt, and grin at me, calling me her perverted, passed-out, slut-girl fucker.

We usually managed to crawl back under the covers, and both slept until time for morning exercise.

I have never in my entire life shot so much pleasure-juice into a willing woman before. Angie loved the very idea of penetrative sex, and adored performing sex, when- and wherever she could.

Best of all, she seemed to get a real ‘charge’ out of watching my initial penetration of her slippery body, as well as my white cock-head and shaft plunging into and pulling out of her dark-skinned, almost blue-black body.

It seemed, the more jism I shot, the more there was; the more there was, the more she came; drooling out her cream-pies for my delighted eyes.


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