Storm of the Century
By The Technician
Fantasy, BDSM, Transgender?, Flogging, Female-Female, Forced Orgasm, Wiccan Magic
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Strange things happen when the storm of the century approaches the Irish coast.
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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 trees. 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."
