Like Warm Sun on Nekkid Bottoms - Charles Austen [33]
“I’m sorry, Ms. Nuckeby, but I’m really not up for something like this right now.”
She grabbed hold of the thing that proved me a liar.
“Liar,” she said.
“Whoa,” I said, swallowing something and hoping it wasn’t my tongue. “Really. I have a heart condition. Or am considering getting one. I’m just not cut out for this kind of daring.”
“I think you need a little daring in your life, Mister Wopplesdown. A little spontaneity! A little fun!” She laughed, attempting to encourage what just wasn’t there. “You’re too damned repressed for someone so young, and so cute.” Then she squeezed me in a way that would have made any man spontaneous, and daring, and fun. Like a Wright Brother, Jon Stewart, and Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer all rolled into one. I’m cuuuuuuuuuuude!
“Life is hard enough,” she said, laughing, “not to take advantage of a little harmless joy when it comes your way.”
Then, horrifyingly on cue, the door opened, and I had to use Santa to obscure my Christmas present for Ms. Nuckeby. She turned away and smiled at Woodruff.
“Could you give us a moment, Woodruff?” she asked. “We were just about to have sex.”
I nearly passed out.
“Very good, madam,” Woodruff said and began closing the door. I stabbed a hand out and pulled him into my small, dark, sex chamber from hell, accidentally knocking the coats from his grip as I shut him in with us. He stood immobile beside me, arms at his sides, and though it was hard to tell in the darkness, he seemed not the least bit concerned that I was naked and shaking various body parts dangerously close to him in such a confined space.
“Why didn’t you send them away?” I asked him.
“Would you like me to, sir?”
“Yes!”
Ms. Nuckeby rubbed a hand up the back of my thigh and I jumped. “We both would,” she said.
“No,” I corrected, my mind racing around its brain track, and narrowly avoiding mental oil slicks. “Take your pants off.”
“Okay,” Ms. Nuckeby said, instantly unzipping her tight-fitting jeans, and hula dancing out of them.
“Not you!” I said.
“Ah,” Woodruff said. “Me, then? Assuming we three are the only ones in here.”
“Of course we are.”
“Very good, sir,” he said and began unzipping.
“Leave your pants on, please, Ms. Nuckeby.”
“Too late,” she said, and I felt her bend over, and push them down to her ankles. Dear God. Bend over? Push them down to her ankles? “Why should you two have all the fun?” she asked, straightening up and stepping completely out of her Levis.
“It’s not fun!” I whisper-shrieked. “It’s funless! There’s no fun to be had here! I simply want to get into Woodruff’s pants!”
I could feel her studying me. “Are you sure you’re not gay?”
“It’s a question I’d like answered as well, sir,” Woodruff said, “before I continue.”
“Continue,” I said. “I am not gay.”
“Then wouldn’t you rather get into my pants?” Ms. Nuckeby purred, holding them out to me. “It would be easier. They’re already off.”
I began to have difficulty thinking. The image of Ms. Nuckeby standing beside me—pantsless—possibly not even wearing—Dear God—not even wearing—there had been no visible panty line…
“Are you…wearing underwear, Ms. Nuckeby?” I asked, the words vibrating, frog-like.
“Just a thong,” she said, and I knew she was smiling. “But you can have that too if you want.”
“Does this mean you won’t be needing my pants, sir?”
Things had gotten terribly out of hand here.
“Please put your pants back on,” I said.
Woodruff began refastening his.
“No, not you! Off! OFF!” I said.
“Very good, sir.”
“Ms. Nuckeby, please…”
“You should know,” she purred, “being in the clothes biz Mister Wopplesdown: It draws unflattering attention to oneself being the only person overdressed at a party,” she laughed. “And the last thing I want is to draw attention to myself.” She had become entirely too giddy. Maybe the air was getting thin in here.
“Ms. Nuckeby…”
“So here,” she said, “let me even things between us.”
She tweaked my member. It was amazing how she could hone