Like Warm Sun on Nekkid Bottoms

by Chuck Austen

  “Ms. Nuckeby…”

  “So here,” she said, “let me even things between us.”

  She tweaked my member. It was amazing how she could hone in on that thing in near total darkness. “There’s no reason you should be the only one naked in here.”

  “NO!”

  She made quick work of her underwear. They didn’t come off so much as evaporate, and then with a sensual twist-lift-pull, she stripped her shirt to complete the Adam and Eve ensemble, holding the discarded garments out to me. “If you really feel the necessity to be dressed now, you can have my clothes. I won’t be needing them anymore. Of course, as you wander about the house inside them, feeling the warmth that was me, just remember that I’ll still be here— inside your closet—completely naked.”

  She paused, presumably to allow me a moment to take a breath and compose myself.

  I obliged.

  “Completely…naked,” she continued. “Of course, you’ve never seen me completely naked. Fortunately it’s dark in here, and there are no water bottles. But take my word for it. If we had light, you’d be able to see everything from the tip of my nipples to the crack of my ass, because I am completely naked.” She paused again for maximum effect. I got the feeling she was trying to get a rise out of me. “To the skin,” she finished in a sensual whisper. “Here. Feel.” And with that, took my hand and guided it to something soft and warm, and pliant. I nearly fainted as blood surged everywhere but my brain.

  “I’m sorry,” Woodruff said. “I didn’t get that last part. Would you mind repeating it, please?”

  She gently pushed her clothes against me and let them go. Struck dumb and immobile, I failed to take hold and the loose fabric fell somewhere near my feet. As I struggled, briefly, to remember what one does in a situation like that (to this day, I have no idea, so if anyone knows, please send a letter care of the publisher) she kicked the stuff that used to make her not naked somewhere away from me and into a darkened corner of the closet.

  “Oops,” she said, not really at all upset. “Whatever will we do, now, Mister Wopplesdown? Now neither of us has any clothes.”

  “Dear God,” I wheezed.

  After a moment of mouth-hanging-open silence, I shook my head to defog it.

  “Ms. Nuckeby. This is highly inappropriate…”

  “I know. That’s what makes it fun.”

  “There are people out there…”

  “And won’t they wish they’d been in here when they hear about what a great time we had?”

  She trailed a finger down my chest, heading right for the gold. I jumped and turned around, which didn’t please Woodruff, who had his pants down to his thighs by now. Another two to three years and they’d be off entirely. When the man undressed for the night, he must have finished around dawn. No wonder he was always so tired.

  “That’s a side of you I hoped never to see, sir,” he said.

  “Makes two of us.”

  “This may be beyond the realm of my job description.”

  “It’s not for you, Woodruff. This is the only safe place to put it at the moment.”

  “Says you,” Ms. Nuckeby trilled, and reached around me, taking a firm grip on things.

  “Oh!” I said.

  “Oh!” she mocked, using my designer’s handle to pull herself closer, pressing her bare breasts against my back.

  “Oops,” she said. “I fell.”

  “You did not.”

  She laughed, breasts jiggling against me, and I felt everything going dark. And it was already dark enough.

  “The pants, Woodruff,” I wheezed weakly, my voice growing faint. “Give me the pants.”

  “If I must, sir.”

  “I’m trying to show you,” Ms. Nuckeby purred, and squeezed, “that there’s an easier solution, here, than all this ridiculous clothes swapping.”

  “There is?” I asked.

  “There is,” she said. “Have Woodruff tell everyone you’ve unexpectedly left the building, Elvis-like, and he doesn’t expect you back. Then just stay in here with me.” Leaning close, Wisper whispered the rest of her idea into my ear. “And fuck me till I walk funny.”

  “Oh, dear God,” I said.

  “I know, sir,” Woodruff said, sadly. “The lady’s brazenness is taking its toll on me as well.”

  “Oh, dear, GOD!” I said, realizing he had removed his underwear and only appeared to have three legs. The middle one looked as though it should be climbing trees in the Amazon and swallowing monkeys whole.

  “I get it from my father’s side,” he said, sadly. “It’s why I’m an only child and unmarried.”

  Unbidden and unwanted, I briefly flashed on Woodruff’s potential wedding night. He’d need to rent two honeymoon suites. He’d be in one, while his penis was having sex with his new bride in the other.

  “Wow,” said Ms. Nuckeby. “That would hurt.”

  “As I’ve heard many times, madam. Yes.”

  Many times?

  “Woodruff?” I asked. “Why have you removed your underwear?”

  “When it gets like this,” he groaned, “it’s far more comfortable if things are unencumbered.”

  “Far more comfortable for whom?”

  “You can have the underwear along with the pants if it pleases you, sir. It will be some time before I can fit them back on anyway.”

  “Thank you, no, Woodruff. I won’t be needing the underwear,” I said.

  “No,” Ms Nuckeby said, squeezing, “you certainly won’t.”

  Whereupon my voice hit a register only dogs can hear. “Never mind. I’ll take it all,” I said, bending and reaching for his trousers, feeling Ms. Nuckeby’s breasts slide down my back.

  I paused and lost track of what I was doing. Why was I trying to get out of here, again?

  Then I heard Grandfather’s voice.

  Ah, yes. That’s why.

  “Where the hell is Woodruff?” he bellowed, coming closer. Of course coming closer. There were six million square feet in this house. Why should he be using any of it but the four square feet I happened to occupy?

  “And where’s Corky?”

  Mindie’s voice. Undoubtedly also heading right for this closet. Life was just a vicious bitch with rabies and huge teeth. “I can’t wait!” she squealed. “I want to tell him our surprise!”

  The doorbell rang.

  “That must be the others.”

  Dear God, there were still others? A door opened with a chorus of voices “ . . . hello . . . lovely to see you . . . how have you been . . . are you sure you want to do this . . . what’s that smoky smell?” And then the sentence from hell . . .

  “What are our coats doing on the floor?”

  Perceiving the obvious, even Ms. Nuckeby gasped and her libido seemed—at long last—to subside. She panicked right along with me and immediately began scrambling for her clothes. But amidst the boxes, objects, and clutter, all we found was the thong. Not really much help unless I wanted to floss my teeth, which I didn’t.

  Woodruff—either because he didn’t feel the need, couldn’t fit them back on, or simply because he was Woodruff—took his time pulling on his boxers while we continued to search frantically. When the closet door finally began to crack open—as we all knew it had to— I stopped my search and tried desperately to pull it shut. But whoever was on the other side fought viciously and with the strength of ten men.

  “It seems to be hung on something,” Mindie said.

  Mindie? Mindie was the one pulling?

  She’d been working out. Or I hadn’t.

  As the door popped open with brief flashes of light, and views of the foyer from Mindie’s incessant yanking, it became abundantly clear I couldn’t hold the knob (the one on the door) forever. So, in what I imagine was an effort to help, Ms. Nuckeby began throwing stray bits of ribbon and Christmas decoration over me in an apparent effort—I supposed—to disguise me once the door ultimately slipped free of my hands.

  “Never mind that,” I whispered.
“Just help me hold this damn thing shut.”

  She did, wrapping her hands over mine and pressing her breasts into my face—unintentionally I’m sure. But before long it had become a parlor game for those on the other side, and we were, without a doubt, about to be on the losing end of things. Judging by the amount of effort it took to hold the door closed, hundreds of people must have been in the foyer, all laughing and jerking us from our hiding place.

  Creeeeak, SLAM, creeeeak, SLAM, creeeeak, SLAM.

  After what seemed like hours of wrestling fun for the whole family, the handle at long last slipped from Ms. Nuckeby’s and my sweating fingertips and the closet door exploded open—flying nearly off its hinges—exposing us for the entire world to see.

  Or, at least, for all those in the foyer to see. Which certainly seemed to us at the time like the entire world. Mimsi, Morgan, Daniel, Mindie, Grandfather, and standing in the now open doorway some new arrivals: my aunt and uncle (the Struts of Wopplesdown Struts), my father, his new wife, and stepdaughter, my older brothers, and— of all people—the leader of the family church I never attended, Pastor Berthram Winterly, were all there, and alternately amused, stunned, or deeply horrified.

  The sight that greeted what amounted to my entire family, and then some, was a naked Ms. Nuckeby, who had managed to find an old package of Christmas bows, and was holding a few over one or two of her unmentionables. A naked me, holding a small cardboard Santa face over my crotch with a word-balloon saying ‘Presents Inside!’ as well as a few ribbons and garlands thrown gaily over my shoulders, and Woodruff in his boxers—pants still around his ankles—standing stiffly and waiting to serve.

  “I’ve found Mister Wopplesdown,” he announced helpfully.

  As you can imagine, reactions were somewhat mixed.

  Morgan and most of the males stared in awe at Ms. Nuckeby. My sister snorted a laugh. My little brother, Daniel, goggled with wide eyes, and open-mouthed at everything. My Aunt Helena stood to one side, alone, watching and smiling, seemingly amused by the whole thing. Her husband, Pjuter, had—likely to avoid being caught by his wife ogling Ms. Nuckeby—disappeared somewhere, possibly to the same darkened corner Mindie had vanished into when she had— inexplicably—run crying from the room.

  Grandfather was the first to speak.

  “Jesus Christ on a fucking BIKE!”

  An excellent way to get the conversation going I thought.

  As everyone stood in a circle around us, apparently too stunned by the events to bother getting us some clothes, I decided now was a good time for a vacation.

  Ms. Nuckeby, though nervous, was obviously far more comfortable being naked to the world than I. She stood rather calmly beside me, hands at her sides, gift bows still adhering to various parts of her body through no effort on her part, while I still held the cardboard Santa as if my life depended on it. Woodruff had returned his trousers to their rightful position and slunk away someplace, undoubtedly to laugh his ass off.

  On the plus side, I was no longer fighting an erection.

  Morgan sucked on a lollipop as he stared at Ms. Nuckeby like a partially opened Christmas present he longed to finish unwrapping. He was drooling puddles of colored spit onto my inlaid, Italian marble floor and making odd, moaning sounds as if his engines were overheating—which I suppose they were.

  Eventually, Grandfather stopped pacing and screaming, screaming and pacing, and stared me right in the eyes.

  “Apparently you’re not even a homosexual.”

  For the life of me, he sounded disappointed.

  “There’s a simple explanation… ” I began.

  “The explanation is rather clear,” he snarled, glancing over at Ms. Nuckeby’s exposed everything.

  “He didn’t do anything wrong,” she said, wading into the deep end of the shark infested waters.

  “Excuse me?” Grandfather goggled, apparently startled that she could do more than just stand there and be naked.

  “I said: ‘he didn’t do anything wrong.’ It was all a crazy misunderstanding, and the more we tried to fix it…”

  “Are you aware that just by being here, let alone in your obvious situation, you are in violation of your contract with us, and the morals clause your agency has you sign before…”

  “The situation may be obvious to you, but in reality…”

  “Madam—you are naked. He is naked. I can’t believe you’re still talking.” He glared her to silence, then turned to me. “And you…”

  “He didn’t do anything wrong,” she interrupted again, utterly unfazed by Grandfather’s anger or strength of will. She certainly had one up on me.

  And then, in what could have been a magnificent act of heartfelt defiance, she did something so small, so very simple, and so beautifully touching; she reached out to take my hand.

  And in an act equally small, massively cowardly, and stupendously insensitive, I did something I would regret until my dying day.

  I pulled my hand away.

  The act shook her, and she glanced up at me with hurt and surprise. Then, without ever looking at her, I felt her expression change and was immediately chilled as the room temperature dropped at least a hundred and thirty-two degrees.

  She took her hand back and folded her arms across her stomach, lowering her head to hide her embarrassment. The silence that suddenly filled the room was deafening.

  “I’m sorry, Grandfather,” I said, completing the defeat.

  He stared at me intently, then glanced briefly at Ms. Nuckeby, who kept her eyes on her painted toenails—and had, to his personal amusement—lost her edge.

  My dear Aunt Helena stepped forward with Ms. Nuckeby’s clothes and kindly handed them to her.

  “Here you go, dear,” my aunt said, putting a gentle arm around Wisper’s shoulders.

  Ms. Nuckeby took the clothes wordlessly and held them to her chest. Aunt Helena handed me a pair of trousers, then guided the silent Ms. Nuckeby away, head still down and silent as a tomb, into an adjoining room and away from prying eyes.

  I didn’t even turn to watch her go.

  Sitting shirtless on a footstool in the study with Grandfather as he continued pacing and repeating himself for the ten thousandth time, or more, I stared at the carpet and wondered who was the first person to think, ‘Hey. If I take this stuff that grows on the backs of a sheep and twist it for hours on end, I’ll bet I can make a neat floor covering.’

  No one ever accused me of having too much depth.

  I suppose most of you would expect I’d be thinking about my horrible showing with Ms. Nuckeby, and that did flit through the old cranium from time to time. But the mind wanders, and who did first look at a sheep and think—‘Clothes!’

  “…exposed the company…failed at your job description…horse’s ass…” were a few of the repeated phrases that leaked through my woolen thinking now and again.

  Mercifully, Aunt Helena walked in and cut him off.

  “Oh, for God’s sake, leave the poor boy alone, Cecil! He’s a young man, and young men do stupid things. Would you like me to run a litany of the stupid things you’ve done in your lifetime?”

  Grandfather gruffed, mumbling something about ‘dredging up the past’ but wound up cutting short the lecture anyway.

  Helena smiled at me. “Sooo…your Ms. Nuckeby was planning to visit her parents this weekend?”

  I looked at her blankly. Apparently she thought I should know this. But she could tell instantly, just by my expression, that it was news to me Ms. Nuckeby even had parents and quickly plunged on to help me avoid further embarrassment.

  “Well, now—because your grandfather is so damn longwinded—the trains have stopped running, and she’s been stranded. But you needn’t worry about her. I’ve asked Biddleby to take her home, the poor thing.” Biddleby was her driver.

  “Poor thing. HA! Exactly!” Grandfather laughed.

  “What does that mean?” I asked.

  “It’s always the poor who try this kind of stunt. Fo
rtunately, she won’t have an inkling how much it’s worth. We’ll give her a small settlement of some kind, and that’ll be the end of it.”

  “Maybe she won’t want a settlement. She seemed to genuinely like me.”

  “They all seem to genuinely like you. Then the subpoenas arrive.”

  I sneered at him. He could see I was unconvinced.

  “She’s a model! They’re teenagers! The only thing more selfabsorbed than a teenager, or a model, is an actress! Each is as incapable as the other of loving anyone but themselves.”

  Helena chuckled. “Don’t project your lack of appeal for women onto Corky. I’m certain any woman who’s ever had sex with you would naturally feel afterward that she was owed something more. But Corky’s different. She wasn’t exactly leaving here happily, you know.”

  “She wasn’t?” I asked, with an odd mixture of pleasure and guilt.

  “Because her little mission had failed, that’s why!” Grandfather snorted. “Give her a few days to mull it over—suss out how ‘psychologically damaged’ she was by this experience, and mark my words… ”

  “Oh, let it go, you old poop,” Helena snapped. “It’s not all about money you know.”

  “Says the poorer side of the family. Everything is always about money.”

  Helena, Grandfather’s sister, had married Pjuter Struts, one of our tailors, and ‘poorer’ is clearly a relative term. She still owned just under half the company, plus the added value Pjuter had brought to it by expanding the line to include lingerie, outerwear, and edible jockstraps.

  “You don’t know she’s a gold-digger,” I said. “You’re judging her on no evidence…”

  “More evidence than you have that she’s NOT a gold-digger!” Grandfather snapped.

  “I talked to her at least. On a more non-threatening level than you apparently did…”

  “You’re in no position to comment rationally,” Grandfather interrupted. “You had already surrendered to the reptilian brain. A hot dick looking for a hotter hole. Mark my words, that woman is in it for the money.”