Like Warm Sun on Nekkid Bottoms - Charles Austen [24]
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 outside my head rather than inside 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.