Like Warm Sun on Nekkid Bottoms (10 page)

“I hadn’t thought about it.”

“I just did. It’s a lot of luggage, sir. So—you’ll be needing that first thing in the morning then?”

“If I plan to take it with me, yes. That’s the idea. Is there a problem?”

He stared blankly again; he seemed right on the verge of saying something else, but finally changed his mind. “No, sir. No problem.”

He stared a moment longer. Then, as though he saw death about to overtake him with its swinging scythe of…em…death, the old man shuffled off in the direction of the stairs. There are a lot of them. Stairs. And within minutes that seemed like hours, I heard the methodical THUMP.

Pause.

THUMP.

Pause.

THUMP.

Of the ancient Woodruff ascending. I took a sip of my organic grape-apple-cranberry juice blend and smacked in deep satisfaction.

“Oh, and Woodruff. I think I’d like to take a swim this evening.”

The thumping on the stairs stopped. There was a longer pause.

“Will you be bathing anytime
soon
, sir?”

“Now, I think,” I said and heard him sigh heavily. I took another sip and considered. “Yes. Definitely now. I need the relief after the day I’ve had.”

He sighed again.

Another lengthy pause.

Nothing.

Then finally, “Very good, sir.”

THUMP.

Pause.

THUMP.

Pause.

THUMP.

Woodruff descended. After a number of thumps equal to the ones for the
a
scending, Woodruff turned the corner once more, looking for all the world as if he might at any moment suffer a welcome coronary. Apparently exhausted, he leaned against the doorjamb and breathed heavily.

“Indoors…or outdoors… sir?”

“The pool? Outdoors. It’s summer, Woodruff.”

“It all…blends together…sir. Will you…require…a bathing suit?”

“No. No, tonight will be au naturel, Woodruff. Just a towel for me, thank you.”

“But…the neighbor…sir…Mister…Weebimix…”

“To hell with Weebimix, Woodruff. Let him take in the glory that is me this evening. A bracing dip in the altogether is just what the doctor ordered.”

“Your doctor, perhaps, sir. Not mine.”

“Oh, and can you put this in the freezer, please?”

I tossed him a bag containing the recently purchased ice packs. He looked inside then glanced up at me, curious.

“Injured, sir?”

“A little swelling. Nothing to be concerned about.”

“I wasn’t concerned, sir.”

And with that, Woodruff departed like molasses over sandpaper, oozing down a corridor that led to the outside pool.

There’s nothing like the gentle sensation of cool water flowing freely over one’s testicles. Take it from someone who has them.

I had just enjoyed my third or fourth lap in the pool, much to the immense irritation of the man Grandfather makes me let live in my guesthouse, Bailey Weebimix, whose upstairs office window afforded him a full-frontal view of my swimming. This was my little method of payback for his dog’s endless incontinent episodes on my various lawns. Or perhaps
that
was
his
payback for
my
endless late evening skinny-dips. Once in full motion, it was often difficult to tell where the cycle of life began.

To be honest, though, my thorough enjoyment of this evening’s naked float had less to do with annoying Weebimix than it had to do with reminiscing about Wisper Nuckeby. There was something so captivating about her, so utterly enchanting, so blazingly sexual, that in spite of (or perhaps in conjunction with) the terror of potential loss of home, possessions, and livelihood, mere moments into reimagining her in my mind’s eye I was forced to turn over and swim face down so as not to expose more than even
I
was comfortable revealing to old-man Weebimix. Let’s just say the human rudder began to put up some rather fierce drag.

Fortunately, that drag had a rather sensual quality, not unlike the actual ‘act’ itself, and before long I was frog-kicking my way toward ecstasy, praising the name of Ms. Nuckeby very loudly in silent prayer, for the first time actually
thanking
whatever perverted gods might have caused her to arrive half-naked before me earlier that day.

Rather quickly, illicit thoughts of her combined with the flow of water to become a rather potent combination. So much so in fact that I felt the need to finish out the obvious, and had concluded that swimming alone might not be sufficiently stimulating.

As I passed the filter pump, noisily floofing theoretically cleaned water back out into my pool, a brilliant idea flowed over me like warm honey. Or perhaps not so brilliant. But when the human male is nearing climax, sticking his most precious body part into a machine whose primary function is to remove foreign objects from the water surrounding them will oddly
seem
somehow brilliant. It’s only
after
the paramedics have been called that the truth becomes rather obvious.

Consequently, I swum my way over to the wall where the jets were blowing warm, frothy liquid in a steady stream so that I might engage in what was now, in my altered state of consciousness, how the original designers had always intended their jets to be used. I rested my arms on the brick ledge, positioned myself appropriately, and leaned back to let Ms Nuckeby do the things to me in my mind that even Grandfather would have had to admit clearly made me a heterosexual.

The experience was intense. Glorious. Amazing. The most fantastic sexual experience I’ve had since—well—since actual sex I suppose. What made it so magnificent, though, I knew, was the mental image of the elegant, sensual, and willing Ms. Nuckeby. As I was nearing culmination, I realized the only thing that could make this experience any better was the
actual
Ms. Nuckeby.

Which is just about when she showed up.

“Mister Wopplesdown?” Ms. Nuckeby asked quietly. “Yes, Ms. Nuckeby?” I purred sensually.

Then, deftly realizing that her voice was coming from
out
side my head rather than
in
side it, my eyes shot open and there she was, just as she had been mere moments ago in my mind’s eye. Except not naked or straddling me.

I jerked so hard, I convulsively drove my ‘thingsis’ deep into the jet tube, far beyond the manufacturer’s recommended limit (I’m sure there is one), and for the second time that day found myself stuck in something I really shouldn’t.

“Ms. Nuckeby!”
I repeated with more awareness. “What…? Who…? How…?”

She held out her hands to calm me and the bouncing of the braless breasts under her shirt did just the opposite. She was wearing far more than she had this afternoon—jeans, top, shoes, jewelry—and yet she was sexier than ever. I felt additional swelling below the surface and realized I might be stuck there for several days.

“I’m sorry, Mister Wopplesdown. I didn’t mean to intrude. Your butler said it would be all right.”

“Oh,
did
he? Well, he’s going to get the surprise of his life the next time
he’s
naked in the…” I paused, realizing she might not as yet be aware of the fact that I was, in every way, naked.
Or
—that I had my wanker shoved someplace that was likely to void my pool service contract for life.

“…tub.” I finished, correcting myself, barely in time.

Unfortunately, as you can probably figure out for yourself, the ‘correction’ created a whole new set of problems.

My ill-conceived choice of word, together with the lobotomized look on Ms. Nuckeby’s face, struggled valiantly through the waxy build-up that protects my brain from the avoidable twin traumas of understanding and reason, and kicked in the door marked ‘No solicitors, no peddlers, no intellejent thots. Deliveries in rear.’ Having stormed the Castle of Debatable Intellect, my words and her expression together knocked down my mind, tied it up, waterboarded it, and forced it against its will to sign a confession stating that it was, indeed, stupid.

Unable to face the truth, my brain fainted.

“In…in…in the…uh…the tub,” I said, foolishly continuing as if more brainless words were either needed or helpful.

I tried desperately to kick my mental engine back to life, but only managed to get my foot caught in the gears. “Because…that’s when I…or rather when
he
…would be…uh…you know…naked. As opposed to in an…uh…outdoor pool, where one should always…and by that I mean
always
…wear clothes,” I said. “Always.”

“Really?” she said, genuinely surprised. “I never do.”

Bloop.

Without a doubt, I would die, stuck here.

“And anyway,” she continued, “why would you want to give him the surprise of his life in the tub—and when he’s naked?”

“Because he never uses the pool.”

I could see by her lost expression that the best method of clarifying this line of thought might be to stop talking entirely. “What can I do for you, Ms. Nuckeby?”

“Well, I apologize for coming by unannounced, but I really felt the need to explain my behavior this afternoon during the garment viewing.”

“Oh, really, Ms. Nuckeby. That’s not necessary. Your behavior was
entirely
appropriate.
My
behavior, on the other hand…”

Slowly, horribly, a groaning noise had begun to build from some machinery behind the shrubs that did pool-related things. Never having seen, let alone touched, any of them in my life, I only vaguely knew where they were, and what their true purpose was. But even my limited experience told me they were, at this very moment, having difficulty overcoming some obstruction in the pipes.

“My behavior, on the other hand,”
I continued, speaking more loudly and pretending the noise and whatever was causing it did not exist in my world,
“is what requires an apology. You see…”

Behind the bushes something began to grind, and was apparently making serious inroads toward blowing up. A furious amount of bubbles began to rise up all around me as if I were having the indigestion episode of a lifetime. Ms. Nuckeby was beginning to show the strain of splitting her attention between me and the nowdeafening noise that
I
—apparently—could not hear.