Amish Honeymoon Cruise

Mona slumped to the carpeted stairs leading from the eighth deck up to the ninth of the

Glory of the Seas

, still winded. "Shit. And just how was I supposed to have known the cabins wouldn't be ready until 1:30?" she muttered—under her breath, she thought, but apparently not nearly enough under her breath.

"It was in the fine print on the sea pass documents," a cheery, somewhat squeaky voice said. She turned to see that a short, thin little man maybe fifteen years older than her, which would make him older than dirt, was standing at her elbow on the next half flight up to the ninth deck and was staring down into her cleavage. "And I saw it on a chart on the fourth deck when we came in."

Why you randy little turd, Mona thought. She didn't do anything to cover her cleavage, but, rather, straightened her back and leaned back a bit more on the steps rising behind him. Her breasts were her pride and glory; they've always served her well. Might as well get a good look, little man, she thought. It's all you're going to get. He looked like a scarecrow and was wearing just a navy blue T-shirt and short shorts. Some sort of black sneakers on his feet, but no socks. What was the accent? Probably Australian.

"It was a rhetorical question," she murmured, this time sure he hadn't heard it. He was already skipping on in his conversation.

"My Name is Randy." To which she quickly thought, I'll just bet it is. "Randy McLean. Brisbane. You cruise with this line often? This is my sixth."

She noticed that he was talking to her breasts.

"I took it to Bermuda last year," she said warily. "Six cruises for you all told?"

"Six this year. Oh, maybe fifty altogether. Fifty-two actually. The Bahamas run is a good one. Several days at sea with not much to do."

Was he leering at her now? She thought he actually was leering at her. Looking at her tits and then into her face and leering.

"We've got another half hour before we can get into the cabins. There's a bar up a level on the pool deck. Shall we—?"

"I really need to get to my cabin and unwind before I can do another thing," Mona said. "It was grueling to get here. Who knew it would be snowing in Baltimore in late March?"

A blonde a bit younger than she was—and not nearly as curvy—was walking up the stairs past her, and Randy McLean's radar switched immediately. After muttering something in parting, he was continuing on up the stairs in the wake of the blonde.

Mona felt a bit insulted. She wouldn't have the little bastard on a popsicle stick, but she had come on the cruise to, like, cruise, and she'd spent a fortune to tune herself up as much as she could. The blonde wasn't all that hot. Not even any tits to speak of; had probably been one of those pencil-thin models until she'd just let herself go. Mona had always been told that men would much rather bed a short, curvy brunette like her. One with big bazooms they could get lost in. Although she had to admit she'd never heard any age ranges given with that.

A distinguished gray-haired man more of her age, trim, and what she called Palm Beach dressed walked slowly up the stairs beside her. He looked down into her cleavage as he past just as Randy Randy had done, and gave her tits a smile, thus restoring her spirits.

Nice, she thought. Suave. She was really looking for some young, virile cock on this cruise, but as a contingency . . .

And then she saw him—or rather them. It was really the young woman who caught her eye first before her attention slid off onto the young man who obviously was with her. They had had just appeared on the eighth-deck landing—Mona had no idea whether they'd come up the stairs or had managed to wedge into one of the few elevators left in use by the passengers—and walked directly to the closed pocket doors to one of the cabin corridors, coming up abruptly as if surprised the doors didn't magically slide open for them.

The couple was noticeable not only because of their age—this was the suite-level deck, and they were quite young to be well-heeled—but glaringly because of what they were wearing and their manner. Mona immediately thought, Amish on their honeymoon. Free, if only temporarily, in the big bad world. And ducks out of water and quite self-conscious about it, if looks could be believed. Or, if on their honeymoon, as she had surmised, perhaps innocent to what would happen when they finally got to their cabin and full of anxiety about the first coupling.

Mona's imagination—she recognized she had quite an imagination and reveled in that—went to the luscious dichotomy of two young, conservatively and reserved-customed, naked bodies locked in the rocking embrace of their first fuck. She shook her head to snap out of the reverie, but it made her smile. She was aching to be fucked herself. Really on edge to the point of suffering the jitters. She wasn't finished with that image; she'd tuck it into the back of her mind for later. She was too irritated at her present circumstance to give it full justice.

They were both beautiful blond kids. She thought of them as kids, but that was mostly in relationship to her own age. On second look, the woman was maybe twenty and the man a couple of years old than that. They were decked out—burdened is the way Mona thought of it—in Amish attire. The young woman, a bit hunched over and withdrawn into herself, both shy and a little frightened at the same time, was wearing a light blue baggy dress that went almost down to her ankles and that was probably meant to hide her figure—but not fooling Mona, with a bit of envy, concerning the glowing, unwrinkled skin and the terrific, young, small-but-pointed breasted, thin-waisted, flared-hipped body in there. The blue sack was covered by a white apron, and there was a white peak cap on her head. Mona doubted that the young woman had seen anything but the ship's lush carpeting and her own black boots since she'd gotten on the ship.

These impressions came to Mona in no more than a matter of seconds, because, other than the surprise of seeing a young Amish couple on a cruise like this, she didn't want to steal any ogling time from the young man at the girl's side. He too was blond, and handsome in a wholesome, well-scrubbed, innocent way. His hair was as straw blond as the girl's was, with a large lock that fell into an "oh gosh" hank down over one of his eyebrows.

He was dressed just as Mona would suppose an Amish man to be dressed. Stark white billowy cotton shirt and black shapeless trousers, held up by black suspenders. His large black boots are what Mona would think of as shit kickers, and they looked gigantic on him. In fact, his hands looked gigantic and strong too. Mona thought of a puppy dog not yet fully grown into his paws. She felt a warmth go through her body and center high between her thighs. She was thinking of the old adage about men's equipment, as gauged by the size of their feet and hands, and her imagination went to those big hands on that young, handsome, corn-fed-looking youth gripping her waist as his thick, long cock plumbed her depths. All the more arousing because his coupling with an "outsider" and her suborning a man of fundamental faith would be forbidden. At least such coupling with him would be forbidden for her, if not for the virginal young thing demurely standing beside and blushing. Blushing in anticipation?

His thin, hard buttocks cheeks contracting and releasing as, big hands gripping the knees of her sleek legs, he pressed his pelvis as much as he could between her thighs, the gigantic cock straining to move in and out of her virginal bud of a cunt, to achieve that first seeding, as she clutched the bedspread with her white-knuckled fists and sobbed and moaned.

Mona shook her head again and sighed. She really

must

save that image for later. But she didn't look away. Farmer's hands, she thought. From a totally different world from her. Nothing for her, of course, she reasoned, trying to cool down. He would be too dull, she was sure, and wouldn't have the foggiest notion what to do. But it was such a pleasant thought.

Elevator doors were opening on the other side of the landing wall—elevators that had been denied to the passengers because the ship's crew was bringing the luggage up from the pier. Mona had been outraged by this bit of organization when she hadn't been able to get an elevator on the fourth deck to come up to the eighth. After climbing the steps up here, dragging along her too-heavy carryon, she, of course, had learned the passengers weren't supposed to go their cabins yet. But then it was too late; she wasn't going to budge now until after she'd gotten into her cabin. She was still a bit chagrinned, impatient, and antsy.

She eyed the suitcases being moved from the elevators to the landing to be sorted and distributed to the cabins. She didn't see hers yet.

The young Amish man apparently did see his, though. He shuffled over to a porter lugging in three bags on a dolly and pointed to the saddest-looking one.

"That's ours," he said. His voice was deep, melodic, and Mona felt something stirring inside her again. "May I go ahead and take it?" Again the dichotomy. The texture of the voice was dominating, the tone was diffident. The mystery of the Amish, Mona thought. What is it they really do behind that thick simplistic shell of theirs?

The porter seemed delighted to reduce what he had to sort and deliver, so the young man took the suitcase and carrying it back over to the side of the young woman. They stood there for a few more moments, looking like fish who couldn't remember where their bowl was, and then Mona saw him take a deep breath and rap on the pocket door to one of the cabin corridors.

That's not the way it works, little boy, Mona thought, feeling embarrassed for the young man for not having a clue what to do here. To her surprise, though, the pocket door slid open. A young man, darkly handsome, probably South American, Mona thought, stood on the other side of the door. He was in a uniform that Mona later identified as those of the room stewards—and he filled his uniform very, very nicely, Mona thought. Her internal warmth returned. She might have thought it was a hot flash, but, thank God, she was past all that. She also thanked God that she wasn't at all past other sensations that could make her feel hot and bothered.

The two men conversed briefly, and Mona was surprised that the steward, giving the young woman a warm smile and receiving a shy one in return, pushed the door open and let the couple through. Mona was about to stand, taking this as a signal that the cabins were ready, only to see the steward slide the door shut again after the couple had passed through it. Mona sat back down on the carpeted stair tread hard, in a pout.

She couldn't keep the pout, though, as the distinguished-looking older Palm Beach man who had smiled to her on the way up the stairs was coming back down from the pool deck. He was carrying two tall glasses with tropical drink colors sloshing in them.

He smiled at her. "I thought you might like to have something refreshing to drink while you waited for the cabins to be available."

* * * *

"Jeremiah, it's still light out and shouldn't we at least go to the dinner first?"

He was standing at a side of the bed in the cabin, the suitcase open in front of him; had pulled out a long, white cotton nightgown; and was holding it up for Rachel to see—and to understand his intent. He was smiling at her, but there was more than that in the look in his eye.

She had stopped at seeing him close the suitcase but still holding the nightgown, but then she spoke again. "It was a long journey here in the snow and the ceremony was so early. Shouldn't we just wait until . . .?"

"They serve dinner until 9:00 p.m. It is not yet half past 1:00 now, and we have recently eaten what your mother prepared for us," he answered, a trace of steel in his voice. "You are my wife now."

Rachel lowered her eyes, fully knowing what being an Amish wife entailed.

The two indeed were on their honeymoon and had gotten here in a rush. Everything had been in a rush. The cruise had been booked at the last minute. They would have been in something other than a junior suite if a lesser-cost cabin had been available at the last minute. But as late as it was booked, the cabin was discounted, so everything evened out. They had been married in a quick, private ceremony in Lancaster before the sun had come up and been bundled off to the train station in Philadelphia in a black Amish carriage, where Rachel had gotten her first train ride between Philadelphia and Baltimore.

Jeremiah was two years older than Rachel and already had been out on his own for a Rumspringa year—the time a young Amish person can go into the world to experience it before returning to Amish society—before he had recently come back to the farm outside of Lancaster and resumed courting Rachel.

These were their first moments alone as a married couple.

"You may change in the bathroom if modesty requires and I will close the curtains. It will be night for us here then."

"Yes, Mr. Graber," Rachel whispered, looking shyly at the carpet under foot. At least he had accorded her that regard.

When she came out of the bathroom, her eyes went immediately to the carpet again and she crossed her arms over her small breasts.

It was darker in the room with the curtains shut, but not completely dark. Jeremiah was sitting on the end of the bed, the suitcase now gone, and leaning back on his elbows, watching the alcove where the bathroom door, entry door, and closet were located. He was naked and in full erection, looking gigantic as he was posed, clearly wanting her to see him thus when she reentered the room.

His body was lean, hard, and well-muscled. Like all of the Amish, he had left school after the eighth grade to work the farm and, in his case, to learn to be a blacksmith. There wasn't an ounce of fat on him, even though he was more wiry of build than bulky. Of attributes that would be claimed to be outsized were the aforementioned feet and hands; the anvil-driven bulging bicep, shoulder, and chest muscles; and, Mona's speculation would be vindicated, the largeness of the balls and thickness and length of the cock.

He stood and walked into the entry alcove, brushing past Rachel and positioning himself directly behind her. His beefy hands went to the waist of the nightgown. He bunched the material up, pulling the hem ever closer to her hips and then, when the nightgown was gathered around her waist, he lifted it off over her head and laid it aside at the foot of the closet, barely worn despite the hours her mother and she had put into embroidering it. Not to be needed for the rest of the night, or, indeed, for the remainder of the cruise.

Jeremiah encircled Rachel's lush body with his arms, laid one hand over a pert breast and squeezed, buried his lips in the side of her neck, and cupped her triangle with the other hand, searching between her folds for her treasure with his index finger.

Rachel was moaning and whimpering, begging him to go slowly, to be good to her.

Laying in the middle of the bed on her back, a pillow under the small of her back, her legs spread wide and feet flat on the surface of the bed, her arms raised and at her sides, her wrists held to the sheets by Jeremiah's strong fists, Rachel arched her head back and cried out in passion, ecstasy, fear, pain . . . surrender, as, crouched between her thighs, his torso hovering over his, his eyes searching hers for a reflection of his power, need, determination, Jeremiah fucked her hard, deep, and fast.

He felt her explosion and then he too, ejaculated—once, twice, three times. Young, virile, fit.

"Oh, oh, she cried out. It is so . . . so . . ."

"It is better without the need for condoms," said, his voice wavering but strong. "I did not know how much better."

He came down on top of her, but he didn't rest his full weight on her, hovering over her torso on his elbows and knees. He brought his lips to hers and they kissed. He continued moving slowly inside her.

"You . . . you are so big . . . and so forceful," she whispered when the kiss was completed and she'd turned her head to the side.

"As opposed to what—to who. To how many?" he asked, a hardness in his voice.

"Jeremiah . . . please."

"Am I too rough with you, do you believe? You do not enjoy my fucking?"

"Jeremiah, no, please. It's just . . ."

"Just what?"

"It's just . . . the baby. I mean if. I don't know yet, it's too soon, but if . . .don't you think . . .?"

"What care I of Paul's baby. If he has his inside you and I replace it with one of my own, why should I care? And if his seed didn't take . . . we will be expected to come home with the reason for news. This, this what I am doing, is what is expected of us."

"Jeremiah, please. You wanted me in spite of it. I said I would do anything . . . I could have been shunned. Paul would have been shunned. Paul, your own brother. Surely you would not have wanted that. Or you, if they believed . . . And we were—"

"I wore condoms. When I came back from the Rumspringa year, you wanted to know all of what I learned in the outside world. Maybe I should have told you why I wore condoms. Maybe you would have made Paul use them too. And who else?"

"Jeremiah. Don't . . ."

"And I have married you. I have saved you," he hissed. "I want you to have my babies. What should sadden me if they are all mine?"

She tried to turn away from him, assuming it was over, although not being displeased at all with the fucking. It indeed was better than Paul's. And . . . she wouldn't thinking of that more. More weary of his attitude, his possessiveness borne of the secret he held. But as she tried to move her hands, he tightened his grip, and it was then that she realized that he wasn't going flaccid inside her. He was hard again—still—and thick, and long, and throbbing.

Young, virile, fit, Jeremiah began to stroke inside her again. Rachel arched her back and moaned, resigned. If this was her lot, she would get all of the enjoyment out of it that she could. She began to move her hips, searching for and finding the rhythm of the fuck. Laughing, Jeremiah fucked harder, deeper, faster, pulling her passions with him, making her adjust, making her acknowledge through her responses that it was what she wanted.

She arched her back and cried out her surrender as he coated her center with cum again.

And still he was hard.

They went to the evening buffet at the Windjammer café at the top of the ship, dressed this time like any other young couple on the cruise—T-shirts and shorts. Now they blended in—almost, except for the natural shyness. They blended in so well that Mona and Frank, the distinguished gray-haired gentlemen, who passed them on the stairs as an unsteady Mona was being escorted up to the Viking Bar over the ship's bridge, didn't recognize who they were. This though Mona had described the disconcerting presence of them to Frank earlier in the evening.

Rachel got little sleep for the rest of the night. There would be snatches of dozing, but the pillow remained under the small of her back and her legs remained spread and bent, her feet flat on the sheets, as periodically Jeremiah moved his body over hers and fucked her missionary style. Always missionary style. Always filling her with hot, determined cum. If her first baby wasn't going to be his, it wasn't from a lack of trying—or of the proper husband's seed.

In the cabin next door, Mona's cabin, Mona was on her back on the bed, trying to breath, trying not to wake the snoring Frank too soon. He was laying on top of her. If he still had his cock inside her, she couldn't attest to it. She hardly had felt it when he was hard, and he didn't stay hard long. Maybe she shouldn't have sucked it—at all. But she'd been hoping she could make it larger. Three shuddering thrusts and she'd felt something moist inside her, but she couldn't even be sure he'd come. She certainly hadn't.