Like Warm Sun on Nekkid Bottoms (18 page)

“I hope you understand, I won’t be staying tonight. I figure you should at least take a
shower
after rutting around with that little hooker in the broom closet.”

It was like she’d backhanded me in the forehead. I said nothing. But my teeth still felt loose.

“And I’ll expect an AIDS test of course. And a venereal screening. And even then, we’ll only do it with a condom for the first two or three years, if at all. Children will just have to wait. They would have had to anyway, I want to travel, but after your little lapse…”

Lapse? Apparently since she had accepted a proposal I didn’t know I’d offered, I’d nearly shattered our commitment. My mouth opened to say something, but for the life of me I can’t imagine what.

“And during sex?” she said, and adjusted my hair the other way, until—still not liking it—she sighed heavily and gave up. “And during sex?” she repeated, taking hold of her breasts, one in each hand and hefting them toward me. They took some hefting. She was quite well endowed. “Off limits. At least until you’ve shown me you can behave. That’ll be your punishment.”

She continued staring directly into my eyes, thinking—I imagine—how divinely they would taste with butter if I expressed any upset over her pronouncement. Following a tense moment where I considered screaming and running away, she continued.

“These could have been yours, tonight. To suck on, you know. With your mouth.” As opposed to…? “To rub, or lick, or—you know—whatever. I know men like that sort of thing. And I’ve never shared them with anyone before, ever, other than Poopkiss.” Her
dog
? “But this evening,” she said with significance, “I was
ready
.” She moved them up and down independently of one another a few times, as if priming them to fire. “Think about
that
as you lie up there
alone
, tonight.” She nodded toward what she must have thought was my bedroom, but was actually the upstairs laundry closet.

Then she stared deeply into my eyes again with that same, dark, hungry, unsatisfied smile. After more up and down joggling, apparently to show me what other tricks her breasts could do when she was alone with Poopkiss, she finally released both Pride and Joy, letting them fall to their natural position somewhere down about her waistline. Slowly, the darkness in her faded—or rather moved into the background where it probably lived most of the time—and a kind of brightness returned.

“Say goodbye to the three of us,” she said.

There was an awkward pause, and for a moment I was unsure what to do. Lacking conversational skills and intelligent ideas, I leaned in to kiss her, but she jerked back, alarmed, and I froze midpucker. Slowly, her scary smile returned.

“I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow morning,” she said, blowing me a kiss from several inches away. “Don’t oversleep. I hate it when you’re not on time.” Then very brightly, as if bidding farewell to a game show contestant who had picked the wrong curtain and lost everything, she said cheerily, “Bye, now!”

Apparently satisfied on some level, Mindie quickly turned and walked out the entryway onto the porch and headed toward Grandfather’s car. Aunt Helena and her husband Pjuter were nowhere to be seen, and I wondered what had happened to them. Had they left with Biddleby as he went on his mission to drop Ms. Nuckeby wherever it was she lived?

Ms. Nuckeby.

As I watched Mindie climb into the car, being a man, I stared at her ass. More ample and less shapely than Ms. Nuckeby’s, it did nothing to arouse my libido, and I sensed a certain irony in that, but I wasn’t sure since I really don’t know what irony means. Something to do with needing spoons, I think, based on a song I’d heard somewhere once.

Finally, as Grandfather’s driver slipped behind the wheel and drove the last of my visitors away, Mindie turned to me, waved, and smiled as cheerily as if she had never seen me in any closets having anything at all like sex with anything even remotely resembling a woman.

The difficulty she must have endured forcing such false sincerity for my benefit really touched me.

I closed the front door and locked it behind me, muttering to myself, then turned and headed slowly up the stairs while mentally swimming back through the day’s events. I was engaged to a publicly lovely woman, taking a week or more off, and everyone now knew for certain that I was not a homosexual. Life might be as good as it was ever likely to get.

In truth, I now saw that Mindie was as good as it could
possibly
get for someone like me. I didn’t deserve a woman as magnificent as Ms. Nuckeby. Or, rather, a woman as magnificent as Ms. Nuckeby
would
be if she weren’t a gold-digger out for my money and was instead an actual, nice person who could see me for what I was, and still want to have sex with me. My ‘loser-ishness’ made it obvious to anyone with sense organs that the woman
had
to be in it for the money. I had nothing else to offer.

I was simply not worthy.

Oddly (or, perhaps ironically? I really should look up more than just ‘Pshaw’ in the dictionary now and then), had I not encountered Ms. Nuckeby that afternoon, and subsequently been in close, naked proximity with her, this moment would have been as close to perfect as I could ever have imagined happening in my life. Which is a sad commentary, I know, but nonetheless there you have it. Mindie was mine after a lifetime of longing, and in a few years I would be having chaste sex with her on an occasional basis while studiously avoiding contact with her breasts.

Unfortunately, gold-digger or not, ‘The Thrill of Ms. Nuckeby’ was taking its time abating. In fact, it had actually begun struggling its way to the forefront, charging out ahead of ‘The Modest Joy of Mindie’ like some exciting, long shot race where you’ve bet on the wrong horse.

Stopping short on the stairs for a moment, I wondered if maybe it was really such a bad thing to have a woman who wants you for your money if she let you squeeze her breasts a lot—and without reservation.

Ms. Nuckeby. Soft and pliant.

Gloop.

I sighed and shook my head like a spider had landed on it. No. Mindie
fit
. Ms. Nuckeby was a
disruption
—and besides, I

really didn’t know a thing about her. She could, in reality, be an evil harpy who, once she had my money, never went near my penis again. Perhaps even ridiculed it. Poked it with sharp objects while I slept. Who knew? I had to keep reminding myself that I had absolutely nothing to go on where her intellect, perversions, and mental state were concerned. ‘Semen interfering with brain activity’ indeed.

I could see this called for drastic measures. I’d have to masturbate—repeatedly if necessary—to remove her forcibly from my head. It had worked, eventually, for Mindie all those years ago. It would work again tonight for Ms. Nuckeby, and the lingering sensation of her gripping fingers.

Bloop.

After a good hour or so of rigorous clearing of the plumbing— she’d be forgotten.

Ms. Nuckeby, that is, not…em…

Mindie. That’s it. Mindie.

Or maybe it would work by tomorrow
morning
, before Mindie arrived.

I lay in bed spent and exhausted, having done my level best to expel Ms. Nuckeby from my mind, and various other body parts. But after repeated attempts—more than I’d ever managed before—she still hovered before my mind’s eye. Smiling. Tanned. Naked.

Well, naked except for the gold high heels.

Perhaps it would just be best to make peace with it. There was no rush after all. Mindie wasn’t here, and wouldn’t return until morning. She would never know.
I
would certainly never tell her, and Ms. Nuckeby wasn’t talking. At least not to anyone outside my head.

But definitely by tomorrow. Thoughts of Ms. Nuckeby
had
to be gone by the next morning before Mindie arrived. In the meantime, I would let my model—and what remained of Satin-Lace-Babydoll # 43—cuddle up beside me in my mental bed.

Somewhat relieved—as if accepting her continued presence had somehow purged the demoness—I rolled over, drained and exhausted, and fell instantly asleep.