When I was eighteen, I attended every SCA event I could. The SCA - or more fully, "The Society for Creative Anachronisms' ', was a medieval re-creationist group. Events were held monthly, and although I had a duffle bag with a decent five-man tent, and a weekends' worth of garb (Medieval clothing and accessories). All of it fit in a wicker basket, and that plus my tent meant that, food aside, I was set for the weekend.
Food was problematic; there was usually a tavern selling limited food and drink, but if not, that is what households were for - mutual assistance, combined resources, and the like. And when one is eighteen and without a car, transport to and from the event.
The event site for this weekend was atop Mount Hamilton, in a fallow field. The autocrat of the event had mown the grass to a reasonable mid-calf height, and there were a series of PortaPotties; some medieval customs, like raw open sewage, disease, etc., pretty much everyone agreed to leave behind. The road up the mountainside was narrow, and the drop off the mountain edge side was formidable. Safe enough, if the driver focused..
The truck in which I rode was a large Ford with a covered shell; the driver, a fellow named Darryl, and his wife, Siobhan were members of the SCA household I had joined. Daryl was perhaps in his mid-thirties, and his wife was somewhat younger. She had shoulder-length dark hair and an hourglass figure, with firm C-cup breasts, a generous curvy ass, and a smile that would give a clergyman a hard-on.
The last time we had met at an event, she had taken me by the hand and taken me for a walk in the woods; I had laid our cloaks on the grass and spent some time necking. Her lips and teeth were everywhere, and my cock had pressed into her sexy backside as we spooned together. I was very nervous, and knowing she was married, I kept my hands in a relatively innocent position.
Siobhan sat on the bench seat between her husband and me. When we stopped for gas, she re-introduced me to her hungry mouth, and the taste of her tongue.
The sun was heading to the horizon as we began our ascent up Mount Hamilton. Siobhan was leaning over, crowding her husband a bit. Her SCA persona was a gypsy fortune teller, and she wore a gypsy skirt and black blouse whose lines threatened to expose her lacy black bra. As the road went around the curves, Siobhan would shift position, leaning against her husband and back again. She had her cloak pulled over her like a blanket, snugged to her neck.
