Like Warm Sun on Nekkid Bottoms - Charles Austen [4]
Ms. Nuckeby seemed, surprisingly, to approve.
“Nice save,” she said.
“Yes…wuh…well,” I stammered efficiently, dropping my voice an octave in an effort to sound more in control of the situation than a man with a sopping wet erection stuck in a water cooler bottle could ever possibly sound. “I’ve been practicing.”
“Really?” she asked, seeming genuinely surprised.
“Um…no. I’m kidding.”
“I knew that. I was also kidding.”
“Oh.” She was good. “Well, I knew that.”
We both chuckled slightly at one another and the loveliness of her smile helped tighten the fit of my newly acquired codpiece. I looked at my lap and considered removing the blue plastic container from my whatsit. But the image of said whatsit exposed to the air—soaked, bolt-upright, clingy, silken Natazzi slacks revealing its every swell and curve as they gripped the thing more tightly than a sailor’s wife greeting a husband who’s returned home on leave—possibly her own—froze me into immobility. After assessing various rapidly considered options, I simply laid my arms across the bottle as if I’d planned for the thing to end up there all along and smiled at the seminude Ms. Nuckeby.
“Well,” I said finally. “Shall we get started?”
“Get…what? You want to…?” she asked, amazed, as I struggled desperately to make it seem as though every high-powered executive must, from time to time, conduct business with a water cooler bottle clamped tightly to his mighty manhood. “Get what started?”
“The posing. The modeling.”
“Oh!”
“Showing us your…what is that you’re wearing?” I said, trying to sound nothing-more-than-curious while crossing my legs, leaning on the water bottle, and rubbing my chin with my best author’s-photoon-dust-jacket contemplative expression.
A rather large bubble ‘blooped’ up around my ‘cork’.
Ms. Nuckeby, her lovely mouth hanging open, watched the bubble in stunned amazement, and only after considerable effort managed to shake her brain and loosen its stranglehold of horrified interest on my nether regions.
“You want me to continue posing?” she asked incredulously.
“These designs are behind schedule, and the fashion show won’t wait I’m afraid.” I smiled, attempting to be firm. Mentally that is. “Time is short.”
“That’s about all that is.”
The red of my cheeks flushed even redder, and I moved the clipboard to block her view. She continued to look there as if she could still see it anyway. Perhaps she was yet another of the many sole survivors from the planet Krypton.
“Um…sir?” she asked. “Are you sure you don’t want to…”
“Nope.”
“Maybe just take a minute to…”
“No. Thank you.”
“But there’s a bathroom right out…”
“No time, Ms. Nuckeby.”
And besides that, little Corky would…
Hah! I just got that. Little ‘Corky’. Kind of a pun, if you…
Never mind.
Ms. Nuckeby paused and stared at me as if my head were three sizes too big, and not because it had extra brains. Mrs. Abrososa did the same.
“Well, all right,” said Ms. Nuckeby finally. “As long as you’re comfortable.”
“I’m good.”
“I’m sure the water bottle thinks so too.”
I flushed again.
“What is it you’re modeling for us, today?” I asked, gesturing toward the fluff that dangled before her fertile crescent.
“This?” she asked, surprised, while turning her magnificent hazel eyes downward to examine her own—in my obvious opinion— flawless womanhood. It clearly did not have the same debilitating effect on her that it had upon me. “I don’t know. This is just what they gave me.” She turned to look at it from all her many fabulous sides and another bubble blooped.
Truly, the wisp of a nothing she had entered wearing was barely cloth. The design was little more than a red, translucent, heart-shaped panty-like thing adorned with a few feathers and a bit of a fringe. The feathers were—presumably—for creating the illusion of potential flight, while the fringe was intended to obscure the view of her…em…
I made a note to have the fringe removed from the design immediately.
Three thin strands of alleged