A leisurely ride on the back our bike was an idyllic way to spend our Saturday on the Memorial Day long weekend. With my hubby, Bryan at the helm, I was able to enjoy the beauty of the Maryland countryside as we rode to the marina where our boat was moored in the southern part of the state. Like riding snowmobiles, a long ride was mood setting to me due to the constant vibrations between my legs.
The blacktop took us through, among other things, a daughter community of the Pennsylvanian Amish, St. Mary’s County. Mechanicsville is the definition of a quaint town, and as we slowed with respect to pass by the grey, horse drawn buggies lining the street, we decided to stop for a rest. Under the extraordinary heat of day, and my husband’s alertness compromised by a long, hard day on a job site from the pervious day, I suggested Bryan take a little break before we continued on to our boat’s slip.
This was no Witness movie set starring Harrison Ford and Kelly McGillis. Nor was this an episode of Banshee or Breaking Amish, or a Weird Al Yankovic music video with him singing, Amish Paradise. This was a step back into time for some, but twenty-first century reality for all those Amish. It was always a highlight for us to admire when we passed through the town or stopped in.
We sought shade and quiet, and found both next to a building at the end of the street. It was sheltered by tall, leafy trees whose branches canopied to the building. As Bryan pulled off the street and along side of the building, I watched for witnesses. None were present. Bryan eased behind a buggy that appeared to have been abandoned there for later use.
I suggested Bryan rest his eyes while I did a little window shopping, and I promised to return with a cold beverage. Instead of sitting on the ground and leaning against the building, Bryan decided to crawl into the open buggy. I assumed it was for summer use given its cantilevered roof, and lack of doors and windows. His snoring disappeared as soon as I turned the corner onto the wooden walkways lining the open air store fronts.
It was muggy and my jeans were sticking to me for more than one reason, and in more than one place. I did not want to scare the locals on the walkways to see me pulling my soaked panties out of my hungry crotch. Instead, I entered The Candle Shoppe, found a secluded corner, and did what I needed to do to walk properly again. There was no fear of security cameras so I adjusted myself from the inside.
I pretended to admire the various styles and sizes of these wax masterpieces when the thought of a penis shaped candle crossed my mind. A wicked, wax dildo was lacking from my collection. I am always on the look out for something new. My fingers, for a brief moment, got lost with that distraction, and I had to remove them before they went too far. We exchanged smiles as the classically dressed Amish lady bid me farewell. I then got an idea, a very, very naughty idea.
Across the street from our bike was a family leaving in their horse-drawn buggy. Next to their home was a close line draped with various garments. Once they disappeared around the corner, and while again checking for witnesses, I quickly borrowed an item that was inspired by the lady from the store. I then returned to a soundly sleeping husband.
His first groggy response was that of someone woken by a loud noise.
