Mitt sat by the pond in his most breathable suit.  He stared into the distance, absentmindedly chewing on a gold ingot to strengthen his notable teeth.  “Skip me another stone, Fennimore.”  Fennimore, his favorite butler, (indicated with a colorful armband,) nodded and skipped another stone, which skipped very far out onto the lake.  “I’m getting very good at that,” Mitt said, smiling. “Yes, sir, very much so, sir,” replied Fennimore.

From the horse pastures, Ann approached the pond.  She snuck up and placed her hand tenderly on the shoulder Mitt had approved her to touch (the right.)  “Ann!” he exclaimed.  “You snuck up on me!  I thought you were a deer, or a Jewish!”  “Just me, dear.”  Mitt emulated what the audio tapes had taught him was “laughter.”  “What did you need, my wife?” “Well, Mitt, I’ve just cleaned and placed the boys into their individual sleeping sacs, and I thought… we could have some alone time.”  “Good gosh, Ann!  Wait until Fennimore is gone to use that sort of language!” “I apologize, Mittens.”  Mitt’s eyes glinted, and he dismissed Fennimore with a wave of his hand and a hearty slap.  “Now Ann, you know nothing gets me more sexualized than a woman apologizing to me…”  Ann replied coyly, “I guess I did…  I thought we could go for a dip in the pond?” Mitt smiled, “Oh yes, is that so?  Well… let me just put on my swimming tie.”  From behind her back Ann withdrew the large neoprene sphere with a hole for her head, hands, and feet, that was her most revealing swimwear.  She sensually zipped herself in and rolled into the water.

As Ann struggled to orient her head above water, Mitt slowly unknotted his silk Repp tie and retrieved his swimming tie, one in a more water-friendly cotton, with dolphins embroidered throughout.  Feeling dangerous, he tied it with a casual, rakish four-in-hand knot, instead of the Double Windsor that his father had taught him when he was three years old.  After fastening his swimming tie, Mitt shivered.  “I’m at the mercy of the elements, Ann!  I feel like an ancient warrior!”  Ann released bubbles from beneath the surface of the pond before Mitt jumped in and rotated her head above water.  “My knight in shining armor,” she coughed.  “My damsel in distress, “ Mitt replied, as the water beaded and streamed off his waterproof skin.  “Place those almost non-existent lips on me, my husband!” Ann scream-whispered.  Mitt replied, “Ann, that’s the sort of activity that should be kept inside our lovecube (a very warm, pitch black, cubic room, paneled entirely in solid mahogany.)”  “Please, Mittens, no one’s out here, no one can see!”  “Well Ann, normally this would be a solid no, but I watched a PG-13 animated movie earlier and I’m feeling very impulsive… so I guess you’re in luck.”  They locked eyes, staring so deeply they saw BEYOND simply each other’s eyes, but all the way inside, to their retinal walls.  Mitt folded his face into the kiss formation, and advanced slowly, so slowly, like a rising tide or perhaps a snail with mononucleosis.  Ann crossed her eyes in preparation of the ecstacy.  Until, SUDDENLY!  Contact.  Mitt’s sharp and pointy lips pressed themselves square in the middle of Ann’s forehead, drawing a small trickle of blood.

They both fell back into the shallows, exhausted.   “I think that’s the best we’ve ever done it, wife,” gasped Mitt.  “I feel like I can’t move, this extremely restrictive neoprene swimsphere notwithstanding.” Ann oozed back.  Mitt, staring up into the sky, quietly said,  “I’m so glad you were assigned to be my wife.”  “I’m glad as well, my dear Mittens.”  Mitt, regaining bodily control, rolled over to Ann’s side.  He whispered to Ann, “Now let’s go burn these clothes and cleanse ourselves in scalding oil.”  They both smiled.