Like Warm Sun on Nekkid Bottoms - Charles Austen [5]
Gloop, bloop.
“Yes. Of course,” I said, ignoring the rising bubble, then creating another when I turned my attentions to the faint indications of neatly trimmed pubic hair through the shear weave of fabric. I turned away, flushing, and scribbled more notes on my clipboard, supposedly in English, but I’m not entirely sure.
“Of course,” I repeated, my voice cracking like a tree frog being devoured by a python, and subtly adjusted my clipboard in another pathetic attempt to cover my ten-gallon fish tank and it’s lone swimmer. I looked toward the ceiling and did my best to appear disinterested. “But isn’t there supposed to be…oh, I don’t know…a top of some kind?”
Ms. Nuckeby, now suddenly concerned, looked down at her clearly well maintained breasts and scowled a bit. She absently reached up and cupped them as if she needed to feel that there was, indeed, truly-and-honestly, nothing between them and me. Multiple bubbles gurgled, and more water splished to the floor. Finally she turned her large, liquid, doe-like eyes to mine, smiled, and shrugged, which did delightful things to the aforementioned boobs.
Bloop.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. This is all they gave me,” she said.
I turned—reluctantly I admit—away from Ms. Nuckeby and consulted my clipboard through the blue of the water bottle. “According to my notes, and the original drawing, this version of Satin-Lace-Babydoll # 43 is supposed to have a top. Corkscrew patterns with little hearts in the center to match the…uh…your…uh… ” Glurgle. “…the panties.” Creak, ribbet, gulp.
“This is all they gave me,” she repeated nervously, shrugging again as if that settled the matter. The shrugging made her now obviously natural and unaugmented breasts bobble yet again, and that settled the matter for me.
She smiled apprehensively and waited. I smiled stupidly and waited. What were we waiting for?
After an uncomfortable pause I realized my gaze had drifted down and I was staring, again, at Ms. Nuckeby where one should never stare at a woman one doesn’t know—semi-clothed or otherwise—especially when smiling, silent, and erect. Instantly embarrassed, I jerked my attention upwards back to her face and smiled even bigger and more pleasantly, as if reassuring her that this certainly could never be her fault. She wasn’t responsible for the missing bit of non-clothing. I wasn’t staring at her crotch. I was ‘working’. ‘Assessing the product’. ‘Contemplating the viability of sales’. And the conclusion I had reached was that if our customers looked half as good in this as Ms. Nuckeby did at that particular moment, we could cut our fabric costs in half and exceed every stock estimate for the next ten years.
“Manschingloss?” I called out, suddenly enough that both Mrs. Abrososa and Ms. Nuckeby jumped a bit. I made a considered effort not to glance over to see how the abrupt movement had affected Ms. Nuckeby’s chest—but failed miserably.
Bloop.
After sufficient time, during which the room could preload Manschingloss’ silent irritation, the large, bear-shaped man strode into the room wearing lipstick, a floppy pink hat, a rainbow-colored scarf, and the kindly smile of an ogre whose every fiber screamed, ‘anything you might think, say, or do from this point forward can only aggravate me’.
“Manschingloss,” I asked. “Is there some reason Ms. Nuckeby here wasn’t given the top to her…em…ensemble?”
“Is there some reason you’re having sex with a Sparkletts bottle?” I blinked.
I saw his point. What was I thinking? Was I thinking? I believe the answer to that is patently obvious; so patently obvious that it cannot be tautologically over-expressed.
I stood, intending to exit, and in so doing proved my penis to be not only robust, but also filled with determination and resolve. The bottle remained suspended before me.
“We’ll postpone the viewing until the