Like Warm Sun on Nekkid Bottoms - Charles Austen [14]
I quivered a moment, then wilted more completely and slumped down into my high-backed office chair. I could feel the skin of my butt sticking fast to the pleather, my erection now dying rapidly on the vine. There were times, with Grandfather in particular, when you just had to roll up the carpets, put up the chairs and turn out the lights.
“I hear you.”
He stared at me with contempt and loathing.
“I am deadly serious, Corcharan. If I hear you went anywhere near that model,” he said with more calm, but greater threat, “I will end you. You understand?”
I nodded like a bobble-head doll in the back of a 4x4 racing insanely over ski moguls.
“You are not to see her for business,” he continued, “you are not to see her for pleasure. In this building, or out of it. Wearing clothes, or wearing air. Flaccid, erect, or…” he took one last look at my wriggling, shrinking erection and shuddered, “…or otherwise.”
“You don’t have to worry.”
“I’d better not.”
Finally, he took a deep breath, working hard not to glance down at ‘it’ again.
“You didn’t get that from my side of the family,” he spat.
Then the old man turned and headed for the door, opened it without another word and slammed the thing behind him. A picture fell. My coat dropped off its hanger. Someone in the outer office screamed.
Eventually the room settled into silence as the vibrations died down.
I slumped and stared for a moment at the wood-paneled exit, then slowly rotated my chair until it looked out the floor-to-ceiling picture window behind my desk, staring through it into the city beyond. A man in a building adjacent waved, then dropped his own pants and enthusiastically showed me his penis; clearly thinking he was returning some kind of favor. He then proceeded to get up on his desk and do a kind of perverse happy dance when a woman entered through the office door behind him and screamed. He promptly slipped on some papers and fell into a trashcan. I wondered absently if he could sue me for that, then turned my attention lethargically away from him and down toward the teeming streets below.
There, far beneath me (as my grandfather would prefer it), was Ms. Nuckeby stepping into a cab. After a moment of giving directions, telling the driver about her perverted boss and his water bottle lover, the cab slowly pulled away and drove her to that nude horseback riding lesson.
I could see her so clearly: naked, smiling, and galloping toward me in extreme slow motion.
Gloop.
I stared down sadly at my mindless renewing erection, and all other energy drained slowly from me as whatever ridiculous fantasy I might have harbored about Ms. Nuckeby bearing me twelve children after years of meaningful sex on horseback gradually faded away.
Lost in my own sad little world, I found myself saying her name out loud, and with longing.
“Wisper.”
What a delightful name.
The Nuckeby part I could do without.
It was an hour or so later when I finally left the building—pants dried and in their proper place, erectionless and anti-harassment tape in hand.
I felt defeated and lost. I didn’t want to spend a week, or more away from my job. That meant someone else would have to do it. Someone who might actually be qualified.
Worse still—I didn’t like the idea that I would never again see Ms. Nuckeby.
There had to be a way I could solve both problems by simply learning to remain unaroused in her presence. Was that so hard?
Ha! ‘Hard’. I’m pathetic.
But really, dogs could be taught to overcome their natural urge to drink from toilets. Was mind over member just too much to ask?
Apparently so.
Even now, as I exited the elevator muttering to myself, still trying to control the various lewd thoughts of Ms. Nuckeby swimming naked through my brain—doing primarily a form of the breaststroke—there was an increase in blood flow which I doubt Grandfather would