100th Post

What does one do to celebrate his 100th post? Simple. Amish Erotica--or as I like to say "Amirotica." I wrote this over six years ago after having a conversation at work about what would be considered "sexy" to the Amish, which was only stirred up because I was explaing how I had once seen a hot Amish girl at a lawnmower store in Ohio. So here it is.

Book Section from Samuel Will Butter Your Bread by Amos Stoltzfus

From Chapter 1: "Churning"

… The sun came up over the Fisher’s barn sending a long shaft of bright daylight through the hay loft and penetrated the cracks onto the earthen floor where Rebecca was in the midst of clutching and tugging at Besse, a mature Hertfordshire, for the morning milk and daily cream. It was a hot day in June. It was even hotter beneath the heavy layers of denim that had heretofore been strong enough to keep young Miss Fischer’s desires under wraps and well with in the bounds of proper Christian behavior.

Rebecca had been at the butter churn for over an hour when Daniel walked in with the young calf over his shoulder.

“Miss Beiler? Do you mind if I rest a moment inside your barn. I reckon this here calf is about to die of a heat stroke, and I myself could sure use a break,” said Samuel, and he squatted down on a stool resting the young calf between his thighs and tugging slightly at his neck.

“Sure, come in out of that heat. You look parched, Mr. Fischer can I get you anything?”

Their eyes met only briefly before Samuel wiped the sweat off his brow; he knew exactly what he wanted, and it was buried beneath layers of Puritan doctrine and cotton for one man, but not enough to keep the devil out. Rebecca feeling a bit embarrassed by the silence and her own thoughts turned her attention and frustration once again to the butter churn and polite conversation.
“I missed you at services last week, Samuel.”

“Daniel King had a problem with his hog sluice that demanded immediate attention. I didn’t right feel like I’d be servin God if anything happen to those poor creatures…but it was kind of nice.”

“Nice? What was nice?”

“Not havin to listen to that old man at the pulpit, he can just be so dry sometimes. And for hours.”

Daniel was right, Reverend Lapp was dry, but just hearing Daniel talk so uninhibitedly sparked something within Rebecca; she had never heard anyone speak with such sin on his lips as she had just now heard. She had hoped to have the butter churned before noon, and it looked like it would be closer to a quarter till at her new pace. Yes, Reverend Lapp was dry, but Rebecca was not.

At that moment, the calf squeezed between Samuel’s knees, let out a bellow as if something had prodded it into a sudden frenzy, and as Samuel tried to restrain the wild animal in his loins; Rebecca churned the butter as if spurned by some deep dedication to dairy. Samuel wrestled with the taught, strained, lunging, young bull chafing against his denim. Rebecca, knowing he would not have the strength to fight it himself, rushed to his assistance, and in the clutch and tussle of the barnyard frenzy, she lost her balance. Holding on to the wriggling, slithering mammal with one hand, Samuel reached out and caught her by the bare wrist…

From Chapter 2: "Guess Whose Coming to Dinner"

…Rebecca knew that “Amish” was derived from the name of its distinguished founder Jacob Amman, but this evening, to Rebecca, Amish seemed more as if it had come from the Roman god of love, Amor. She had once caught a glimpse of a pagan book one of the city children had torn a page from and showed her at the heritage festival where her family sold dairy and candles. The picture was of a plump fleshy human creature with wings and a bow and arrow that filled people with love, but to Rebecca the thought of being hit by an arrow, even if only figuratively, did not conjure up the proper Mennonite emotions she had always be taught to restrain. The thought of her flesh being pierced by a heart-shaped arrow called up a russet shadow to her wan complexion, and she thought back on the morning in the barn with Samuel.

Samuel. Rebecca had forgotten that the Fischers were coming for dinner in just under an hour. She immediately pulled her sleeve back over her wrist and scuttled between the kitchen and dining room setting the table. She was hurried. Her parents would return from town at any minute. She struggled to keep the thoughts of Samuel in the back of her mind, but it was difficult; if an Amish woman had ever needed an air conditioner, it was now. Samuel had become an entity that ebbed and swelled in Rebecca’s consciousness lapping against the dry, sandy shores of proper conduct and puritan restraint. Rebecca felt like the rough craggy rock just out of reach of the cool undulating froth and spray, but after years baking in the sun, the tide was moving in. The Fischers would arrive within the hour.

At dinner, Rebecca’s father Amos sat at the head of the table, and the rest of the family and company were seated along the sides; however, the placement was not as random as it seemed. While Rebecca’s family was on either side of her, Samuel had made it a point to sit directly across from Rebecca. For the restless couple, dinner was swirling mix of reverent nods, talk of crops, and thanks to God, punctuated by a few stolen glances at forbidden extremities as the other offered seconds or passed the butter. It was an evening of nervous out-of-place questions and awkward, over-thought responses.

“Do you need…. I mean…would you like some more butter for your corn on the cob, Samuel?”

“I buttered…It’s good butter…I mean sure.”

“I churned it myself” replied Rebecca. She flashed a glance at Samuel and dropper her eyes into her lap, smoothing her napkin and breathing her heart back to a steady rhythm. Just as she had regained her composure and her cheeks returned to their appropriate pasty complexion, she had a thought. A wicked thought.

Weeks before, she had been walking alone in the woods, which was inappropriate enough, but the thrill kept driving her forward. Her feet were tired, and the Johnson’s pond was cool and green; the creek dribbled and rippled into the pond, and the smell of water lilies tempted her ever closer to the edge. Being completely alone she sat down on a large slab, pulled her knees to her chest, slid off her boots and stockings, and ever so gently slipped her long tendril legs up to her calves into the pond. It was peaceful, but not just a quiet peaceful, a serenity that came with being free from all the rules and customs that can wear out nature’s children. For a moment she had even thought about swimming, but what if somebody saw her?

Just as she had completely shut out the rest of the world, she heard a crack in the path behind her. She jumped to her feet, but in her panic scraped her toe on the rough granite bed. A sting of heat jolted up her thigh and she collapsed. When she looked up, Samuel Fisher stood over her with his Winchester resting on his right shoulder and a half-smile slung over his left cheek. Leaning on one arm, and holding her foot in the other, she let go only long enough to cover herself with her skirt. Samuel was like Paul Bunyan standing over her; she never knew one frame could hold so much man.

“Can I help you up, Rebecca?” Samuel reached for her hand, but she could only look into his big Dutch eyes. It was all she could do hold herself up. Between the pain in her foot and something she couldn’t understand, she felt as if she were hiding some precious secret underneath her dress. A secret she dare not tell. Samuel kneeled on the giant rock leaning on his gun, and with the opposite hand gesturing to the bottom of her dress asked, “May I?”

Rebecca slid the edge of her dress just over the front of her foot. A light gloss of sweat broke on Samuel’s forehead, but he took a breath and took her toes in his hand; with his thumb and forefingers he spread them as gently as if her were admiring the first flowers of spring. Rebecca shrieked. Whether it was from pain or not, she could not tell, but she was blinded and confused by the flash of lightning that coursed through her. Rebecca reached to brace herself on the butt of his rifle, Samuel tensed. Rebecca held tight, and with the slightest slip of her hand, discharged a round into the air--and with every lightning flash, a crack of thunder.

Then it was quiet. With all the delicacy of a petal on a pond, she slid into unconsciousness, and floated home in a world of dreams—in Samuel’s arms.

When she came to, she was sitting across from Samuel at the dinner table, and everyone was staring austerly at her.

“Would you like some more turkey, Rebecca?”