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Gaelic Lusts


If it could talk, Gaelan House would never condemn its inhabitants for their casual copulations, their periods of intense love making, or even their orgies reeking of hot, primitive lust, for those inhabitants were descendants of the House's builder -- a man to whom lust and sexual gratification was not only a way of life but almost a religion.


And if sex was a religion for Rory, he worshipped at its shrine daily.

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Gaelic Lusts
This page copyright © 2007 Olympia Press. http://www.olympiapress.com
RORY GAELEAN SLIGHTLY stiffened his naked body, holding his cock to the hilt in the belly of the equally naked, squirming young woman beneath him, knowing he had just got, and to a measure was still getting, the best fuck of his entire life. The full force of his sexual climax had passed, but the young woman, whom he knew only as Etna, was yet in the midst of hers and he lay atop her, listening with pleasure to her whine and sob, feeling her belly muscles knot and twitch against his and feeling, also, the gentle spasmings of her inner-cunt muscles as they munched deliciously on his buried cock. At long last she sighed tremulously, opened her eye s and regarded him in the nickering light of the candles with an expression of worshipful awe. “Now I know what my sister Rosie meant by you being something extra special in bed,” she murmured. “Rose is your sister?” He was mildly surprised. He had not known the proprietress of the Wild Boar, which he had been visiting for over a year and which self-sanctified, pig-minded, god-infested bigots in Galway referred to as a house of ill repute, had a sister. “Aye. 'Tis true. Since I was wed my home has been n orth of here, near Slingo, but these two years past my Arnie was killed in the mines and I finally decided to take Rose's invitation to live with her, so—” She stopped, placed her hands on his hip bones, lifted her legs wide and free, and worked her straddle against him several times, massaging the hot flesh of her upper cleft and clitoris against his impaling stake. A whimpering moan fluttered from her lips, she grimaced delicately in gathering passion. “Ahhh, but that feels good,” she said softly. “Two years of doing without can be a lifetime for any healthy lass of twenty-three.” “You mean—” Her quick nod interrupted him. “Only my husband till his death,” she breathed against his lips. “And now you. Nor do I intend to be one o f Rose's girls. I've nothing against the practice, but I don't think I could sell my body. Yet my sister seen I was feverish for a man and—well—” A warm grin wreathed her face. “She recommended you.”
Etna made as if to restrain him when he tightened his muscles in preparation to sever the coupling. “Huh-uh,” he chuckled. “'Tis better you take care, else the pretty young widow from Slingo could soon be pushing a big belly before her .” He drew his prick out of her cunt slowly, savoring the slight grip of her passage and the clutch of her vulval sphincter at his glans. As he stretched his long frame out on the be d she swung her feet to the floor and disappeared quickly into an adjoining room. Rory stretched luxuriously, contemplating the sensual delights to come, recalling with relish her quivering eagerness when he had ensconced his gaff between her thighs for the first time less than half an hour ago. Her sister was right. She did need male attention, and he meant to see that she got it tonight—all she wanted. Wavering flames of the candles caused light and shadow to do wonderful things to her naked body when she returned to the bedroom several minutes later. “'Tis a wee strange to again be naked before a man,” she said with a half-embarrassed laugh. Then she was beside him again, working her body close, wriggling the soft heat of her thighs and pelvic area against his firm and throbbi ng cock, thrusting her taught breasts, ripe and plump with wanting as dew-kissed melons, i nto his chest. He slipped an arm under her head for a pillow and they lay on their sides, facing each other, delighting in the tender after-kisses and knowing before long their h ot bodies would once more be struggling in sexual conflict. “Rose told me you go to the University,” she whispered after a while. Rory nodded. “I graduate this year.” He was glad she had started a conversation for he wanted to prolong their time together. Normally he returned to the Flemming's from a visit to the Wild Boar around midnight, but tonight was d ifferent. Etna was something special and he had no reason to hurry. “You have been widowed for two years?” he asked to keep the conversation going, though suddenly realizing it was not going very far. Now it was her turn to nod. “Arnie was caught in a cave-in with eleven others.” “Rebecca Daugherty, a distant kinswoman of mine, ha s also been a widow for two years. Her husband was lost at sea—on the Scotia.” “I remember that. 'Twas on a voyage to the New World, I believe.” “Aye. Probably a storm at sea.” They lay in silence for a time, then she lifted one of her legs across his and put her hand down between them, grasped his prick and maneuvered her straddle against it until the bald knob separated the top of her cleft. Her breathing became audible when the knob pressed against the firm little nub of her clitoris and Rory knew there would be very little more talking between them, if any. “Ayeee,” she breathed softly. “'Tis a marvel you are, Rory Gaelean.” Rory did not answer. Instead, he pushed her gently to her back and mounted into the saddle formed by her raised, separated thighs. “This time let me,” she said, and he felt both her hands take his prick this time, pulling him toward her and guiding him, not removing her ha nds until his glans popped inside. She gave a soundless scream at this. A tremor shook her while he gyrated his hips in small circles and applied pressure, his penis borin g through her greedy cunt into the hot moistness of her sex-hungry body. “Oh my god!” she sobbed desperately and Rory, his head buried against her shoulder, smiled to himself. What a night this would be to remember.
The game, not surprisingly, was called hoop and ball. Or simply hoop. The ball, carved from a gnarled joint of slowly seasoned oak, was of a size that fit comfortably in the palm of a large man's hand. The wooden hoop, balanced on edge on the greensward, was one foot in diameter. The object of the game was to thr ow the ball through the hoop from a distance of forty paces without upsetting the balance. Rory Gaelean measured the distance between him and the hoop with a practiced eye as he hefted the ball absently, then his arm swung to the rear, whipped forward and the oaken ball made a dull brown streak under the Irish sun. An envious sigh went up from those back of him, a sigh followed promptly with so unds of honest admiration that were punctuated by the solid thwack of the ball smacking the earthen backstop after centering the loop. “You're a natural, Rory,” William Leeds, his best friend, said quietly. “A natural if ever I've seen one. There's no other in Ireland to equal you.” “Nay, lads,” Rory smiled, collecting the small bets. “'Tis my lucky day. A hundred years and I couldn't repeat it.” “Nonetheless, you're fast teaching the lot of us to keep our wagers small.” “Aye, but yon Rory Gaelean is a one,” Amy Leeds sig hed wistfully to Mary Flemming from the edge of the greensward. “'Tis lucky you are to have such a kinsman.” “Nay,” Mary said roguishly. “'Tis no luck, that. 'Tis luck he is a very distant kinsman, far beyond fourth cousin. Were he closer you'd be mooning about our house like an ailing calf while I, saints forbid, would be wearing a broken heart.” “Were I you I'd bed him and strengthen the tie,” Am y said, turning sideways so the boys with Rory and her brother couldn't see and scratched her pussy. “Have you?” “How can you ask it?” Mary demanded hotly. But there was no anger in her eyes. An impish smile bowed her lips. “Rory has never touched me that way.” She faced the center of the green. “Rory,” she called. “The sun goes soon. Rebecca will be waiting supper.” “On my way, lass,” he called over his shoulder as he finished collecting his winnings. “I'd still bed him,” Amy whispered feverishly and m eaning every word of it, knowing if she ever got half a chance to be alone with Rory Gaelean she'd lose her virginity forthwith. “Oh, by all the saints, how I would bed him had I your chance.” “Amy, please,” Mary said with quiet vehemence. “Speak not thus of my intended. We're to be wed when I'm fifteen and Rory finishes at the University.” Rory strode across the grass and took Mary by the arm. “Evening all,” he said loudly and led her toward th e foot path cutting across the field and through the wood beyond. “Rory,” Mary said when they reached the thick forest on the other side of the field some minutes later. “Will you kiss me, Rory?” He bent quickly and gave her a brotherly peck on the cheek. “Fie!” she said. “What ails you, Sir Rory Sean Gaelean. If 'tis another maid I'll scratch her eyes out.” “Nay, mavourneen,” he said flatly. “'Tis no other maid. Only you gives me a problem.” Mary stopped, a hand on his arm. “I, Rory?” “Aye, Mary mine. You.” “Can you speak of it?” She studied his face, her he artbeat speeding as she recalled Amy's comment about going to bed with this handsome kinsman. “I can, but I won't. 'Tis no fit subject between us till we're wed. I've no right to share the burden with—” “With your—goodwife, Rory?” she interrupted.
He stared at her. “You're no yet my wife, Mary mine.” “But I will be soon, and I'll come to our marriage bed ignorant as a newborn babe unless I'm taught between now and then.” Mischief sparkled in Rory's gray eyes. “And what wo uld you have me to teach you, goodwife-to-be?” Mary stamped a tiny foot impatiently. “How to kiss, you ninny!” “Aye,” he grinned. “'Twould be a mortal sin to spoi l one's wedding night through ignorance. Come here, goodwife.” He pulled her to him and lowered his lips to hers, felt a trembling course through her small frame at their contact. Then he began kissing her the way a lusty man knows a willing maid should be kiss ed; slowly, thoroughly, probing between her innocent lips with his tongue in search of hers, their bodies-tightly pressed and enveloped in an invisible cocoon of increasing animal heat. Her lips were honey-sweet, heaven-spiced, and he drank from them thirst ily until her knees slowly began to sag. “Heaven protect us, Rory,” she whispered weakly. “If thoughts condemn, your goodwife is a hussy.” “Nay lass,” he rumbled in a voice which was already a deep base. “'Tis no wrong to have such thoughts of him you love.” He released her, swept her into his arms and stepped off the trail, walking through the underbrush to a fallen tree twenty yards distance. Already the question was in her eyes when he took a seat on the trunk, slid the sheathed dagger in his belt around behind to prevent its interfering, then sat there a moment, her cradled across his lap, looking at her. She gave an involuntary start at his next move. “Ro-Rory!” she gasped, round-eyed. “What is it you do?” “Think you knowledge of a kiss is sufficient for a wedding night?” he chuckled. She tried to squirm free of the arm circling her waist. “Rory, put my petticoats down.” “Be still, lass.” Under her numerous petticoats his hand was going down behind the supporting band of her pantaloons, his fingers walk ing down over the soft flesh of her tummy to the downy triangle below. She started again but unconsciously spread her legs apart to make way for his inquisitive finger. “We cannot, Rory!” she whispered fiercely against h is lips. “We must not!” Her arms were hard about his neck now, her eyes closed. “Rory, move your hand, I say!” “Have no fear, lass. We won't. Not in the way you're thinking, though I'll curse myself for a thousand fools later. 'Tis neither the time nor place, yet I care little if we're wed when you come to me. No ceremony in a church or words of a bible-pounder ever married a man and woman. You're already mine, but I'll not tu mble you here in the woods like a tavern wench. 'Tis only a bit of play we do—that a man should teach his mate. Relax against me, lass.” Slowly at first, then with a gusty sigh of cautious anxiety, she did as he asked. His finger against her cleft began its exploration, searching amongst the shielding fleece until it entered the little crevice. Mary sh ivered like one freezing when the finger began a gentle stroking. Again she spread her legs, but promptly scissored them as if to imprison his hand. Quick, strange sounds purred from her lips, varying in tone a bit as he kept at his task, then grew in volume when he speed ed his finger's action. He was only permitted to continue this for a couple of minutes before she began to twist and jerk, before his hand was suddenly hotly sticky and he fe lt the sharp, biting pain of her small teeth on the side of his neck. He held her firmly against him until the seizure passed and her squirming ceased, held her close and loving her but knowing this night he must ride to the Wild Boar on the
outskirts of Galway and see Etna. “Oh Rory,” Mary whispered, opening her eyes. “Oh my darling Rory.” “'Twas but play, lass.” He smiled at the love light glowing in her eyes. “The real thing is a thousand times more wonderful—so I'm told.” She buried her face against his neck. “Is there not something I must do for you?” He pushed her erect, surprised at such a question from Mary Flemming, then burst into hearty, rake-hellish laughter at the flaming red of her cheeks. She tried to hide against his neck once more, but he restrained her. “Well,” she pouted prettily after a moment. “Girls talk among themselves too, just as men do.” Her arms still around his neck, she shook him gently. “Why must we wait till we're wed, Rory? Our love is true.” “Waiting is said to be best, lass, though I suspect it only-Papist dogma.” His hawk-like face, with it's hooked nose and its wide mouth suddenly went bleak and cold. “Oh Rory!” Mary wailed in fear. “Don't look that wa y. Some day you'll manage to take back your lands in the north.” She scooted off his lap and stood before him. “Perhaps, but will that put back the breath of life in my murdered parents?” “But Rory, we Protestants have done no better. As a child, before you came to live with us, I remember seeing poor Papists being hanged on the very green where you were playing hoop and ball but shortly past.” He held up his palms, wanting to change the subject and getting to his feet, the bitterness leaving his face. “We were on a much more interesting topic than differences of religious doctrine, Mary. 'Tis better we return to it, I think.” She stopped, mouth open in the act of saying something, and a warm smile came over her face. She was only too glad to speak of anythin g except religion with her Rory, for in her secret heart she suspected he believed in no religion and no god, though he attended church regularly with her and her brother and siste r. That he might be a non-believer chilled her to the bone. “And what subject was that, my Rory?” she asked coquettishly. “Did you like what I did to you?” “Aye, Rory Sean Gaelean,” she said solemnly. “I liked it muchly, and if the real thing is a thousand times more wonderful I suspect I shall join the angels or go screaming daft on our wedding night.” “We'd best go, mavourneen. Sir Godfrey returns from Limerick this night and he'll want us present.” He took her by the arm and they turned toward the footpath. “Aye, but I doubt he'll arrive till late, the coaches are so slow. Do you like my brother, Rory?” “I love Sir Godfrey Flemming, lass. You know that. Why do you ask?” Then he chuckled, squeezing her elbow. “Could it be that my hand under your petticoats has you already a little daft?” “Humph,” she scoffed, and then deigning to notice it for the first time, she cut her eyes to the great, elongated bulge angling from his crotch down one leg of his tight trousers. “'Tis obvious,” she said with much gravity, “your playing between my legs did not effect you mentally, though it does seem to have deformed you in some strange way.” At this she jerked free midst a gale of girlish giggles and raced along the path. Rory let her go, glad she had not asked how he liked her twenty-five year old widowed sister, Rebecca. A lie would have been necessary. How could he explain to little Mary the lush charms of her sister had sent him galloping in to Galway on many a night, and on others had kept him tossing and turning until the w ee hours? Certainly he had no
compunctions about a lusty romp between the sheets with his prospective sister-in-law. Hungered for it in fact, but she had given not one single indication he might be successful in such an attempt, though his nose had told him on many occasion Rebecca was sexually aroused to a point most women would find unbearable. The time, for instance, she had accidentally entere d his room and found him naked, standing up in the tub taking a bath. For the tiniest part of a second her eyes had centered on his dangling masculinity before she pulled shut the door without uttering a sound. When he came down the stairs an hour later the maddening scent of female in fierce heat was strong about the place, but Rebecca's composure was that of complete serenity. She had never mentioned the incident and neither had he . Many times he wished something had come of it, but it hadn't, and his position as a penniless relative in the Flemming household forbade his making the first move where s he was concerned. Then too, there was always Mary. He thought of her for a moment before his thoughts drifted briefly into the past and the circumstances which had caused him to be in the Flemming home. Ten years ago, when the Papists, under that Hanover tyrant, confiscated the Gaelean estates and put his parents to death, an elderly re tainer had smuggled him south to the Flemmings outside Galway. Since then he had been a member of the family, though the actual blood ties were very thin. The kindly Godfre y had had him educated by private tutors, which included fencing, dancing and the two foremost foreign languages of the day, French and Spanish, then sent him to the University at Galway where he was now in his final year. In truth, Sir Godfrey treated him far m ore like a son than he did a distant kinsman. Rory sighed heavily and brought his thoughts back to the present, imagining Rebecca's slim nakedness writhing in the throes of orgiastic upheaval between him and the bed. Then he saw Mary standing just inside the woods and at the foot of the knoll whereon sat the huge stone structure of the Flemming manor. Wha t a lovely lass she was, though he was of a mind to tease her for her remark about his hard on if she gave him the opportunity. She did. When she first spoke. “You didn't chase me,” she said with pretended peev ishness. “Me thinks there is another woman in your life, Rory Gaelean.” “Aye,” he said gravely, inwardly laughing. “And 'tis a matter I've longed to discuss with you, Mary mine, but I know not how to tell it.” As he drew close she stared at him in dumbfounded s ilence, the color gone from her face and no longer pretending. She didn't stop to c onsider that he might be playing with her, but in a flash of ghastly truth which smote her she simply knew there was another in his heart. For half a minute her eyes held his before that violent, demonstrative temper for which the Irish were later to become famous flared and she gritted her teeth with such fury the sound could be heard yards away. “Some trollop in Galway, I wot!” she cried. “Some slut whose body has a price. Think you not I know why you gallop abroad these nights?” She flew at him as one demon possessed, small fists upraised, face now crimson w ith rage. “I'll kill her, Rory Gaelean! And you too!” In helpless anger she pounded his chest which, because of their difference in height, she was forced to stand on her toes to do. “Nay, lassie mine,” he said, grasping her wrists, delighted by her sudden fit of jealousy and continuing to tease, “'Tis no strumpet who shares my heart with you.” And in the long years to come, when memory of this lovely creature before him was dimmed by time, his next words were to be a puzzlement to him. “'Tis Rebecca, lass. Your sister Rebecca.” “Rebecca?” Mary sagged against him, looked vaguely up into his face in effort to comprehend, and her anger fled with the speed of it s arrival, for then she knew he was
teasing. “Oh, Rory, my own darling. What a turn you gave me.” Though not apparent, Rory's surprise at his words was no less than hers—but this was not to be his only surprise of the hour. Some minutes later, as they walked hand in hand up the long slope toward the Flemming home, Mary broke their silence. “Rory?” she said tenderly. “Aye lass?” “Twould not be hard to endure, knowing you bedded Rebecca. She fierce needs a man and Jarl has been lost at sea these two years. 'Tis said a man must have a woman, marriage or now, and she could serve your relief better than any Galway tart.” “Why not you, lass?” Rory gulped, shaken to the core by her...


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