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From: The Technician <Technician666@HotMail.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Storm of the Century     Fantasy, BDSM, Transgender?, Flogging, Female-Female, Forced Orgasm, Wiccan Magic
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Date: Thu, 30 Jan 2014 08:10:02 -0500
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Storm of the Century
By The Technician

Fantasy, BDSM, Transgender?, Flogging, Female-Female, Forced Orgasm, Wiccan
Magic

 = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =
Strange things happen when the storm of the century approaches the Irish coast.
 = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =

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.
 = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =
 * * * * * * * * * * * * 

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.

 = = || = =

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.

 = = || = =

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.

 = = || = =

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.

 = = || = =

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.

 = = || = =

"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.

 = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = 
END OF STORY
 = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = 

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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