Like Warm Sun on Nekkid Bottoms - Charles Austen [36]
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