Amish Honeymoon Cruise

He had wanted to go back to his cabin briefly before she had brought him here. Perhaps she should have let him. Perhaps he had pills that would have made him a stallion, if only long enough to satisfy her.

Such a handsome, well-built man—for his age. But nothing so far. She was hoping that if she let him sleep the drinks off, he could do something later. She was a little miffed they were in her junior suite. He's looked so Palm Beach, so much of the suite class. She should have known when he asked if they could go to her cabin because his was an interior on the third deck. Cheapskate. She couldn't even be sure whose sea pass card had been charged for the drinks tonight. Maybe he was lying about the cabin, though. Maybe his wife was in their cabin.

Well, fuck that. Mona didn't care about that. That no longer would bother her. She had taken married men from their wives without remorse and relinquished her husbands to younger models of herself without bitterness—as long as the experience came with a hefty bankable check. A married man was just fine with her. If he could perform. But it didn't look like this one could. She looked over at her clock. 4:00 a.m. The thumping on the wall behind the bed had started again. Someone, at least, was having a good time, Mona thought. And not just once. Throughout the night. It had started even before she'd left for dinner.

Why couldn't she be in that cabin?

Frank snorted and began to stir, his lips went down to one of Mona's nipples. Her tits were some of her better assets. Was that a stirring she felt in her cunt? She couldn't be sure. Ever the optimist, she reached down and palmed his buttocks in her hands and squeezed.

* * * *

The second day exclusively at sea and boredom was setting in with Mona. She'd dumped Frank after that first night. He was a case of great packaging with little inside. And he wasn't what she was targeting on this cruise anyway. He was at least her age. She was determined that on this cruise she was going to get laid by a young stud, one with terrific stamina.

Where, she thought, should she best shop for one today?

It didn't take her long to decide to go to the pool deck and stretch out on a strategically placed lounger decked out in her little black bikini. She knew men considered her voluptuous, that they couldn't get enough of ogling her tits. She knew she looked good in the bikini—and behind sun glasses.

It didn't take her long, though, to realize how few young, fit guys took cruises like this. The best possibility she'd seen go by was a lean blond hunk in a Speedo, and with just the shadow of a beard that made her think of Abercrombie & Fitch models. Fresh and rough all at the same time. But he was pulling along a knockout blonde behind him, and Mona decided immediately she couldn't compete. How surprised she would have been to recognize them as the Amish couple she'd seen on the eighth deck landing the first day of the cruise.

She was about to give it up after a couple of hours alternating between frying from the sun and shivering from the breeze flowing across the deck from the moving ship. Two hours and the best thing she'd seen other than the blond hunk was the swarthy and somewhat mysterious Turkish drinks steward, who had approached her regularly and had replenished four, maybe five, Blue Hawaiians. And who had given her "that special" smile.

To her, he seemed a bit tall—and, well, bulky—to be moving drinks in glasses around an outdoor pool, but he did it well. She thought of him as a big bear, dark, hairy, and massive.

When he'd gotten across to her that he was on offer, and she'd engaged his services, even after she'd been deflated to find that it would be for cash and couldn't even be charged to her sea pass card, and he'd come to her cabin with her, Mona's characterization of him as a bear settled in.

He was an animal with her, showing no emotion, just the need to fuck her long enough to make his money and get out of there fast. She'd walked into the cabin and over toward the sliding glass doors, unclasped her top, and untied the bikini bottoms at the side, and he was behind her, bending her over the back of one of the club chairs in the cabin.

He didn't even undress, but just lowered his zipper, extracted his cock, sheathed it, and pulled on it while he crowded her from behind and squeezed her tits with the other hand—he'd at least complimented her on her tits. And then he was inside her, fucking her hard and fast and focused, without emotion, like this was just something to be ticked off a "to do" list and he had an ongoing appointment he was late for. He was young and had a strong stroke. She'd had an orgasm, she gave him that, but her idea of what to do was to have a playmate, not just a bear huffing and fucking her hard with a thick cock and zipping up and walking off in almost the same motion as ejaculating.

He left her bent over the chair, looking down at the spent condom he'd just tossed on the floor beside her in leaving. She'd paid him before they came to the cabin, so there was nothing for him to stay around for. If he'd shown any interest, she might have asked him what his afternoon rates were so that she could play a bit with him, see him undressed, and maybe get more out of a second fuck. But he didn't offer. He said he was still on duty and had to be back at the pool. He told her it was good for her, she had nice big tits, and she was a good fuck for her age—that her cunt wasn't dry like some older women he had to fuck.

Thanks, Mona thought. She now knew they didn't train their young bears the art of finesse in Turkey. Yes, it had been good for her. For the ten minutes he was nailing her. Her luck was that she was so keyed up she was close to orgasm when he had thrust inside her. His cock was beefy and hit all the right spots—otherwise she wouldn't have exploded herself. He just not cruise-expense good enough. She wanted an hour of loving, not a quick-disappearing jack rabbit. At least he was young and drove well.

She went for a spa treatment and a massage. The all-business Norwegian woman with the strong fingers who massaged her was even looking good to Mona now. If there'd been even a hint of a possibility, Mona would have been game to try out a woman. As it was, picking now to think back to the Amish couple and their first fuck, Mona had an orgasm as the woman worked her with magic fingers. If she noticed, the masseuse didn't skip a beat. Mona moved from the Amish couple in her imagination to a fantasy of the masseuse moving the fingers of one hand into her folds and the other massaging her nipples, and she almost had a second orgasm. She was keyed up just about as high as she could go. She needed a real man between her thighs.

* * * *

Mona's first clue that the Amish couple not only had become the best-looking normally (which meant minimally) dressed young couple on the ship but also the bed rockers in the cabin next to her unfolded on the evening the ship departed Nassau, headed for the cruise line's private island at Coco Cay before starting the two days at sea in return to Baltimore. Bored out of her gourd and despairing of getting properly laid, Mona decided to take in the 8:45 p.m. floor show in the ship's theater. She went early, taking a book with her to read, so she could get a good seat overlooking the main floor of the theater below. Every once in a while she lifted her head out of her book to scan the building audience, looking for a man—a real man.

She saw him, the perfect man for what she wanted. She realized almost immediately that it was the same young, fuzzy-chinned blond she'd seen pulling a woman along the deck of the pool a couple of days previously. There was more growth of the beard; it made him look slightly older, but still young enough for Mona's fantasy. He was drinking beer; his companion was sitting, looking pensive. Perhaps they'd had a spat, Mona thought, so she gave him a more pointed look. He looked up and their eyes connected. She smiled without giving it a thought and, shyly, he smiled back. His eyes dipped to her cleavage, where it lingered a moment, and then he looked into Mona's eyes again. A smile of a much different, more lustful kind.

It never fails, Mona thought, with a sigh. It was a "thank God" sigh, though.

That's when, shocked, Mona realized that this was the Amish couple she'd seen that first day. That first smile of his just now. That shy, not fully confident smile, that he'd given the young woman that day. Mona almost laughed. His smile broadened but he looked away, embarrassed at having been caught looking at her. The different, unexpected clothes, the drink, the start of a beard. No wonder she hadn't recognized him. She had thought of the Amish couple in an entirely different context.

Mona searched her mind. She had heard about an Amish custom with a strange name she couldn't remember—giving young people the time, if they wished, to go out into the world for a period to sow their oats and get it out of their systems before coming back to the fold. The thought amused her. But did they allow couples to do that together? She rather thought not. But there they both were, beautiful young people, no more modestly dressed than any of the other young people on the cruise. And going to floor shows and drinking. At least he was drinking. The young woman didn't appear to have a drink, and she still seemed nearly as shy as the first day Mona had seen her. The young man didn't, though. He looked more self-confident now, more assured of himself.

This didn't surprise Mona. She'd often observed honeymooners and often, at first, the groom gained the aspect of self-confidence, sometimes even cockiness, faster than the bride did. Mona was worldly enough to rack that up to the groom being more satisfied with the sex, quicker than the bride was, if they were both inexperienced but the groom had a normally functioning cock and sex drive. There usually wasn't the pain or the fear or the feelings of guilt for the uninitiated man that there was for the woman.

She was happy with the thought that this young man had discovered he had a functioning cock and sex drive. To Mona, he looked gorgeous. Still those big, strong hands and feet, the latter in flip-flops now. Large, big plump toes. His torso streaming down from his pecs on the thin side, almost no hips to speak of. But his upper torso well developed, his biceps and shoulder muscle bulging. Does farming do that to a man? she wondered. And on him the stubble of a beard looked good; it took some of the "oh my gosh" innocence from him and made him look more worldly.

Mona shivered and tried to concentrate on the show once the lights went down to dim. But she found herself stealing glances at him. And she was pleased to see that he was watching her too. Mostly he was looking at her tits, though, she thought, and she pushed her chest out to give him something really spectacular to look at, if that's what he wanted to do.

Too bad he was a fundamentalist, though. She needed someone more jaded. She'd steal almost any man from almost anything. But a young Amish man from his conservative life? She'd have to think hard about that. She probably couldn't even do it; the thought of that, of failure, was more compelling to her than anything else. At her time of life, failure in allure was the enemy. She would have to cool down her thoughts of him. The challenge was just too great.

After the show, she quickly stood up and left. She'd sat in the sixth-floor balcony, where the crowd was more sparse, so she could check out the men on the main floor below and so she only had to climb two flights of stairs to reach her eighth-deck junior suite. She sensed someone was behind her, and at the corner of the stairs between the seventh and eighth decks, she took a peek. It was the Amish couple.

On the eighth deck, they were still following her. She couldn't imagine why they were following her. Could they be so jaded, under all of that religious conservatism, that they might be interested in a threesome? And if so, would she? If he was included, Mona thought, she certainly could be interested. No, you're running away with your imagination, your fantasies, Mona admonished herself.

She paused at her door, acting like her sea pass card wasn't working right, convinced now that they—maybe he—would say something to her. But then they were passing her by. They stopped at the cabin next to hers, and Mona exhaled, realizing that she had been holding her breath ever since she'd reached the eighth deck. She pushed her sea pass card in the slot and the door opened. The young man was starting to do the same. But Mona and he looked at each other just before they were going to enter their separate cabins and a smile zapped between them that Mona thought would be impossible for either one of them to misinterpret—and his gaze dropped to her breasts.

The Amish couple's cabin door opened before the young man could get the sea pass card in the slot. The handsome young room steward who Mona had subsequently learned was Brazilian but who was nothing but perfectly proper to her no matter what hints she had laid, was in the neighboring cabin door, explaining that he had just made up the cabin for Mr. and Mrs. Graber and would there be anything else they might need for the night? He was addressing this to the young woman, though, who, true to form, was shyly looking down at the corridor carpet. Mona entered her cabin and shut the door behind her.

Alone in her cabin, not even having turned on the lights, Mona sat on the bed, hugging herself and trembling. The young man was exactly what she wanted. And she was sure he had looked at her with interest. But the room steward had referred to them as Mr. and Mrs., so that fact was pinned down. They seemed distant toward each other at the show that evening, though. And now that Mona thought about it, the bed bumping against the wall had decreased over the days. She still heard it at least once in the night, but not constantly.

And Mona didn't mistake the looks the young man had given her, she was sure—and had lavished on her breasts. She had made the right choice tonight, the scooped neckline of the shell she'd worn, the one made of material thin enough to show her dime-sized areoles.

She laughed. The tapering off in sex on the honeymoon wasn't strange. That was exactly what happened with her and her second husband. Before the honeymoon was over, the bed bumping had ceased altogether. Of course he had turned out to be gay—and a closet gay—and was a major contributing source now to her being able to live the very nice lifestyle she enjoyed. And as often as the wall had rocked on that first night of the cruise, Mona couldn't imagine the young Amish stud being able to keep up that pace.

This young Amish farmer certainly didn't look gay—but then, neither had Norman.

Antsy and perplexed, Mona left the cabin again and went to the Schooner Bar on the sixth deck, where a piano player and a hunky and dangerous-looking saxophonist were playing soft jazz. She started drinking martinis, and the saxophonist, Buzz, and she began to connect with their eyes. He was a good bit younger than she was but still in his forties, not exactly what she was pining for. But maybe after he finished the set . . . He certainly seemed to be signaling interest, and if he could make love to her like he made it to his saxophone . . .

Another man sat down beside her at the bar. A dapper dresser, but short, thin, wiry. Her vision was a little blurred now from the parade of martinis, but he didn't look so bad. And he offered to pay for her next martini. He had an interesting English-sort of accent, and he talked to her of the good cruises he'd had on this cruise line.

He had opened the door to his eighth-deck suite and had a hand on the small of her back, urging her to enter, when she realized one thing and saw another. This was that Randy man she'd been accosted by that first day on the stairs of the eighth-deck landing, while she was waiting to get into her cabin. He had just cleaned up well. And what she saw, velvet-lined handcuffs and a hand whip laid out on the bed of the suite, were enough for her to sober up, back up, beg off, and make a beeline for her own cabin. What was she thinking? She knew better than this—to drink heavily and cruise indiscriminately at the same time.

Mona woke up to the knocking on her door. It was close to 11:00 in the morning and, although she didn't have a full-out headache, she still felt a little buzzed. When she got to the door, though, she realized the knocking wasn't on her door, but the one for the cabin next to hers. She'd barely gotten the door cracked open when she heard the smooth, accented voice of the Brazilian room steward.

"I'm sorry to bother you, Mrs. Graber, but it's Carlos, the room steward. I was checking on whether anyone was in the cabin, so that I could clean it. I can come back."

"No, no," Mona heard a soft woman's voice say. "Now is fine. I'll sit on the balcony. My husband isn't here. But now is fine."

Mona knew that her cabin would be the next Carlos would want to clean—and she really needed a bit of the hair of the dog to wipe away the cobwebs from the previous night's martini binge—so she dressed and left the cabin just as Carlos, indeed, was about to knock on her door.

She went down to the Schooner bar again and settled in with a White Russian cocktail as the piano player and saxophonist started up their prelunch set.

She wasn't sitting there long, though, when she noticed that the young Amish man was slumped over the bar, drinking beer. When she'd walked into the bar, she'd only had eyes for the saxophonist, setting his saxophone up, so she hadn't noticed the young man sitting at the bar. When she did see him, he was looking directly at her. They exchanged smiles and both looked away. Then they were establishing eye contact again, and smiling again.

His eyes went down to her cleavage, and he pushed off from the bar.

"Hi," he said, standing next to where she was sitting. "I'm Jeremiah."

"Hello," she answered. "I'm Mona."

* * * *

He fucked her missionary style on her bed, a pillow under the small of her back, her legs spread wide, knees bent, feet flat on the surface of the bed. Jeremiah hovering over her, kneeling between her legs, holding her wrists up and out from her body and flat on the bed with his fists. His eyes were glued to hers, enjoying the flash in them and the way her mouth flinched and shot open so she could gasp at each deep thrust of his throbbing, thick, long, cock into her cunt.

"Fuck me, baby. Yes, yes, ram it up there, you luscious stud," she cried out, inflaming him. "Faster harder," became her mantra as he worked hard to comply.

Beautiful, young, virile, fit, a real stud. This was exactly what she'd come on the cruise to get. She was in heaven, floating on the clouds. She . . . was . . . seeing fireworks. Exploding. Shuddering, trembling, writhing under him, trying to free her hands so that she could dig her nails into his buttocks and hold him deep inside him for his own explosion. And she was wild enough to break his grip, digging into his butt cheeks, and hold him as he now went up on his knees, cried out to the ceiling, and, with a jerk, ejaculated once, twice, three times, bathing her insides, deep inside her.

He moved his big, farmer's hands to her pendulous breasts and squeezed them and worked the nipples roughly with his thumbs and index fingers, obviously fascinated with them, as he looked down into her face with a look of wonder.

"That . . . was . . . terrific," he said. "You kept with the rhythm, and whatever you were doing with your channel walls . . . internally . . . that was . . . so hot."

"It's called experience, baby. It's why young studs like you go with older women like me. I can teach you so much. If you'll let me."