Angie Ch. 01

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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

I met my leased-wife-to-be while I was cleaning out my mom’s apartment. It was 2010, just after the start of the Great Recession. The tasks of dealing with Mom had fallen to me, as I’d come out of a ‘scorched-earth’ divorce 2 years before and my two children—daughter, age 25 and son, age 29—were completely alienated from me.

Mom had died—not easily, nor quietly—about four weeks ago, having come back to her luxury apartment just outside Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, from her last hospital stay. She came near to eviction, after loudly screaming peevish stuff in a Neo-Victorian way, all day and much of the night, but suffered a massive stroke in mid-shriek and just passed. She was dead by the time the emergency folks got there.

Cremation, funeral and official paperwork took up the time.

So—not having the help of my children—I was left to clean out her apartment, filled to the brim with the junk of the last 20 years of living, after my Dad died. I had bric-a-brac, china, glass stuff, pictures … all the detritus of an increasingly demented viewpoint.

Plus, Mom had been ‘squirreling-away’ food, shrieking, “The next Great Depression is right around the corner, we must save and save”. I unearthed rotting lunch-meat slices from between dresses and clean linens and found half-cooked chicken drumsticks shoved into shoes. Cookies were stuffed into closets. Moldy bread slices lay under the bed and in drawers.

The place stank of rotting food.

There were prescription drugs—including powerful prescription pain-killers—all mixed in with the rotting food.

Mom, being increasingly terrified of ‘burglars’ and ‘rapists,’ had refused to make herself vulnerable by bathing. So she stunk of un-washed woman, as she huddled under a single 40-watt lightbulb and so did the whole apartment.

Sigh! It took about a week to air the apartment out, plus a professional cleaning team, lots of cleaning fluids and baking soda.

Day by day, I waded through clothes and stuff, plus trying to make sense of Mom’s papers, where the important documents were intermixed with old envelopes and advertisements for ‘live-longer through Ginko Root extract’ flyers. Every single item had to be looked at, and even pried apart, to make sure she hadn’t stuffed a spare $100 bill or a critical invoice between a picture and backing or into a ‘treasured magazine’—”Just in case of another market crash.”

By the way, I’m F. Scott McBlair, and I’m not going to tell you what the ‘F’ stands for. People name their kids all sorts of dumb, nasty things, thinking it’s cute or funny. I remember a family near Galveston, Texas, name of Lear, who named their only daughter Crystal Shanda (Crystal Chandelier).

I heard of the two musicians, with the family name of Major, who named their son Caleb Sharp (C-Sharp Major).

How about the guy who’s family name was Mann; they named him Alphonse Gurley Mann (spoken as ‘A. Girly Man’).

What about the adopted Chinese girl named Ho Ling; her adoptive parents named her Ima (Ima Ho).

I don’t even want to think about the girl I dated in high school, with a family name of Goode, whose parents named her Charlotte Fuchs (all through school and college, until she got her casino şirketleri name changed, she had to hear about Charlotte [the-Harlot] Fucks Good).

I’m now 42, about 6′ tall, not athletic but not a couch potato, either. I’ve got sandy brown hair, and I have to wear glasses for reading. I’m a master SAS programmer, working free-lance for medical business and hospital folks. I live aboard my own boat.

I also play the Uilleann pipes (Irish bagpipes) as a hobby.

Wait a minute. What kind of pipes? OK, for starters, listen to the background music to ‘Braveheart,’ where Mel Gibson decided he preferred the sound of the Ulleann Pipes better than the usual Great Highland pipes.

You need four hands to play one. Two for the fingering, of course, but another to pump the bellows (to keep the bag full of air) and a 4th hand, to play the ‘registers’ of the ‘drone pipes.’

Humans, having only two hands and arms, thus have to pump the bellows with the shoulder and elbow and also activate the ‘registers’ with the side of the lower hand that is still fingering. The term ‘ulleann’ refers to ‘elbow’ in Irish. The instrument is a monument to the adaptability of the human mind and manual coordination.

What kind of music? Jigs. Reels. Slow pieces. Laments. Haunting music that claws at your soul. My favorite: ‘Caoineadh Cu Chulainn’, a lament that invariably fills my eyes with tears, no matter how often I play the tune.

I’m also 8½ of thick cock inches! I know this, because one long boring day, a few years ago, I measured it, in the computer lab where I was working, and thinking about the boss I was working for … the redhead one with the little perky tits, who kept wearing the French-cut silk blouses under her white lab coat. She caught me measuring my erect cock. We had sex in her office inside of five minutes after that, and then in her car, in her apartment, and then … you get the idea.

We even had sex while running a SAS program on a mini-computer, after hours … on the computer’s humming cabinet.

While Mom was alive, I was, of course, slowly being driven mad, since I was the only child of only children: there were no other relatives, even if I could have counted my divorce-and-custody-alienated children.

Thus, I had to be both the ‘good boy’ and the ‘bad boy,’ all at once … the smart one and the dumb one … the practical guy and the dreamer … the independently-wealthy self-made man and the completely dependent Momma’s boy … never knowing from moment to moment what my role was supposed to be.

Never ever being good enough … never being right or correct … always a ‘great disappointment’ to the family expectations.

I’d fought a bitter, decades-long battle to maintain my independence against my mother. In her last couple of years, Mom, in her semi-demented style, wanted to make me back into her life as her Oochumms-Smoochums Witto Baby-Boy, who needed his MuhDu to make all his decisions for him, and even to hold his witto pee-pee for him. This was because I was, to her aged and demented mind, only five years old, still wearing a diaper, short pants, Buster Brown shoes and a little sailor suit!


One of the ways I fought back was by activating my Scots heritage, and wearing the kilt, which Mom thought was scandalous and immoral.

She screamed, “It made you look like a filthy old faggot-queer.”

By the time she passed, I was in the habit of wearing it. I even had a ready answer to the obvious question, ‘What’s worn under the kilt?’

The proper answer is, “Nothing worn, ma’am … everything in perfect working order.”

The other thing you learn to say is, “It’s not a skirt, it’s a kilt … if you keep calling it a skirt, you get kilt!”

The weather forecaster for Philadelphia had predicted rainstorms that evening and night, and, for once, they were right, because when I went down to the lobby in the elevator, it was raining. No, it was pouring, with lightning and thunder. The kind of rain that, if you looked up and opened your mouth, you’d drown.

As I stood in the lobby, about to turn to the car garage, I bumped into a red-clad female figure—a tall, darksome wench named Angie—who was muttering, “Damn, damn, damn.”

I’d met Angie before, as she was being a practical nurse to another semi-demented resident of the apartment complex, an old Jewish woman who screamed out ethnic slurs in a piercing, nasal voice: spik, wop, hunky, chink, jap, slant, kike, dot, porch-monkey, nigger, towel-head, dot, sand-bandit, etc., plus accusing everyone else of being thieves, murderers, terrorists and thugs.

Apparently, African-American, tall, mature and big-boobed Angie was the only person who could tolerate the old harridan, in a nursing-companion capacity. Angie lived in the old woman’s spare bedroom, as a combination nurse, companion and housekeeper, being paid to be ‘on-duty’ most of the day and night.

Even so, everyone within 2 floors could hear the old woman shouting and screaming, plus accusing Angie of being a ‘thief’ casino firmaları or a ‘big-tit nigger whore,’ or shrieking about her being a ‘two-bit monkey slut.’ We’d met in the elevator a few times and I’d introduced myself before.

Of course, my ‘damsel-in-distress’ training snapped into place, and I said, “Uh, can I help, Angie?”

She said, ruefully, “Scotty, I gotta walk over to the bus stop and wait for a half hour for the bus, and I didn’t bring an umbrella.”

“No problem,” I replied, and gestured toward the bottom floor garage door. “I have Mom’s car in her space, and I can drive you where you want to go. That is, if you’ll trust me to drive you, alone.”

She looked at me, and kind of cocked her head over, then grinned and said, “Sure, why not?”

As we walked through the door and down the length of the garage, she said, “I’d planned to get some shopping done at the store, ’cause I don’t have anything to eat at my space. I try to stay out of the old lady’s sight as much of the time as I can, working when she’s napping or going on by herself, in the other room.”

We walked up to my old car, and, as I opened the door for her, I asked, “Uh, Angie, I still have Mom’s kitchen operating, and there’s food up there. I, uh, well, uh, would you, uh …”

Oh, I was so smooth, so suave.

She finished for me, “You’d like to have me up to the apartment for dinner, until the storm lets up, and then walk me back to my job, right?”

She surged up out of the car’s seat, and jammed me into the opened door with her generous ‘breastworks’ pressing at my chest. She said, “The answer is YES.”

Then I got kissed, which I didn’t expect at all. Since, as I said, even though tall, she was mostly breast from the waist up, even a light, passing kiss was a boob-pressing event.

I re-locked the car, and we walked up the length of the garage, and then out into the lobby, and, after a short wait, into the elevator to the 5th floor. Exiting the elevator, she and I walked down the corridor to Mom’s apartment, with her gait swinging her hips against me, and bouncing her boobs all over the place.

Since Angie was wearing dark red scrubs, which may be a very practical set of garments, but don’t do a damn thing for the female figure, I got very little looks at her ‘assets,’ though I tried.

She jiggled along, telling me quick, one-liner quips about her client-patient up on the 7th floor. She had an easy grin, and I liked her chatter. At the door, though, I tried to be oh-so-proper, saying, “Angie, I don’t want you to think that I, uh, well, this is just dinner, you know, and uh, there aren’t any ‘strings’ or, you know, uh, and you’re safe, and, uh …”

Just too smooth, I was.

She looked up from her height of about 5′ 11″, giggled again, and said, “Scotty, I’m just as safe as I want to be.” Then she pulled my head down and gave me another gift from her lips, with full body contact and lots of sloppy tongue. Given the size of her breasts, this was a lot of contact, and I was glad for the leather sporran (pouch) I wore in front of the kilt.

I keyed open the door and she was the first one in. I suppose all the apartments had the same basic layout, because she headed for the nearest of the two bathrooms, off to the left. I went into the kitchen alcove, and started to pull out the makings for Irish Potato Soup, which would go well with the loaf of bread I’d just baked.

I pulled off the sporran and laid it to one side, as it got in the way for my cooking. By the time she came out, I was peeling and dicing potatoes, and chopping up onions. I had the milk, cream and butter out, and the bacon was sizzling in the bottom of the pressure cooker.

I could have sworn that she’d put on another set of scrubs, because these hugged her body much more closely. I could see her waist, and that she had what could be politely called ‘a few extra pounds.’ But I could also see a massive set of boobs, clearly outlined by the coarse red cloth, tipped by the outline for large nipples. I could also see quite a bit of bare midriff, and I knew that this wasn’t on her when we walked up from the garage, and down the hall.

When she half-turned, I saw the gathers in the material and thanked the Powers-That-Be for the invention of the Safety Pin.

She plopped herself into one of the two chairs at the small dining table. I said, “Angie, there are a lot more comfortable seats at the other end of the room.”

She laughed, and said, “Yeah, but I wanna sit here, where I can watch you move around. Besides, maybe I can figure out what guys wear under their kilts.”

I’ve already said what the proper answer is. The improper answer, that you give drunks at a party, is, ‘lipstick.’ For the really obnoxious drunks, I could say, ‘yer mother’s lipstick,’ while preparing to run.

But for Angie, with her smile, and because my back was to her as I dumped the potatoes in the drained bacon, and added the onions and peas, I just flipped up the heavy, pleated back of the kilt. Since I was going ‘commando’ güvenilir casino (no underwear) she saw—just for an instant—a lot more of the Scottish Highlands than she’d bargained for.

I heard a shriek, followed by gales of giggles and outright laughter, as I poured in the chicken stock, added a little water, and attached the lid to the pressure cooker. She was still laughing on-and-off when I broke the seal 10 minutes later, and added a quart of cream, plus salt and pepper to taste. In another 10 minutes, I had the steaming, hearty soup on, the bread torn up, plus a plate of butter and a handful of salad greens in a vinaigrette dressing on the table.

The girl could eat. She went through her first bowl, then got up and got herself a second helping, and went through several pieces of bread, and had a couple glasses of the boxed wine I laid out.

My shock came, when she put the first bowl of soup down. With absolutely no announcement, or self-consciousness, she reached down and flipped off the top of her scrubs, and flung the material off into a corner. Then, sitting there across from me, she ate her soup and bread, and drank her wine, with her large breasts straining and overflowing against her white bra.

I stared, and nearly choked, and then again, when she said, “No, don’t look away. I took off my top ’cause I wanted you to see me bare. I want you to look at my boobs. I like you. Very much. When we’re done, we can go over to the couch, and then I’ll take off the bra and then, all the rest, too. So please look, all you want.”

Resisting the impulse to gulp down the rest of my soup, I did just that, asking, oh so smoothly, “Angie, uh, well, how big, I mean, uh…”

She looked up, and laughed again, pulling back her shoulders and sitting bolt upright, which served to push them out even further. She said, “either 40 DD or even E, and the nips are sensitive as hell. I can get off just having them touched or kissed. Eat the rest of your soup, lover. Then you can go over to the couch and you can touch your tall black slut all over. You can lick my titties and suck on my nipples, and I can show you how a slutty woman cums with just her titties felt out.

I got soup up my nose, and sputtered, as I wiped at the mess, “Angie, I didn’t mean to say anything like ‘slut’ or …”

She shushed me, and said, “You didn’t say, but I did. I want to be a slut. Your slut! I know what being a slut means, too. It means I give away sex, with the guy I like. No money, no gifts, no strings, no drama. No kiss-and-tell. No getting pregnant, either.”

“I wanna be your slut, at least tonight. Loud, dirty and sexy as hell. Maybe even longer, if we both like it. I want to be your hot-pussy lover tonight, and then I wanna wake up tomorrow, and still be a slut in the morning. I’ll only stop being a slut when I gotta leave here and go see my patient, at 10 AM.”

“So there.”

A minute later, she said, “I’m done. I can’t eat another bite. Let’s go over to the couch.” She added, taking me by surprise again, and said, “you’re hard, aren’t you?”

I nodded, the evidence plain to see with my tented material of the mid-weight kilt, not even a sporran to hide the bulge.

“Get out of that kilt and take off the rest of your things. That way, I can see your big, hard cock bouncing and waving as we walk across the room.”

“Here, let’s give you something to get really hard about.” With that, she reached behind and did that un-hook thing that all women seem to know. Her bra literally popped off her shoulders and fell to the floor, where she kicked it away.

Her breasts were large and since she was about forty years old or so, so her breasts did sag. Gravity does that to women. But her boobs were really wide at the base, and so there wasn’t all that much sag. I stared, hard. First, because she asked me to, but second, because her nipples were very dark brown and engorged, erect, and protruded about half an inch.

She kicked off her shoes and pushed down her scrubs pants, to reveal only a cheap set of cover-up panties. These, she rolled down, until the initial half-inch of her woman’s cleft appeared, and she was all but naked. Then she stared at my erection, as we took the few steps to the couch, and sat down.

At least, I sat down. She stood over me, and dangled her large breasts at my face, so that I mostly saw her face and the two globes. Her nipples were dark and I’d swear she was flushed, although it’s hard to tell with a dark-skinned women. She swung her shoulders, so the two globes gently smacked at my face.

She said, “OK, now pull down my panties, so I can show you my slutty body, and then we can start to play around, south of the border.”

Her panties were pulled off to order, and I wadded them up and pitched them into the living room floor space. She was nude, dark chocolate brown, and, I suppose, a little chubby. So what? She was also naked, shaved smooth, and looking intently at my rock-hard erection, which was waving in her face.

Flipping around, she settled into the crook of my arm and elbow, and then guided my hand up and under her right breast. Just as casually, she draped her hand over my cock, and then made the ‘OK’ sign, wrapping her fingers around the shaft and starting a lazy up-and-down motion.

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