Free Like Warm Sun on Nekkid Bottoms by Chuck Austen

third or fourth lap in the pool, much to the immense irritation of the man Grandfather makes me let live in my guesthouse, Bailey Weebimix, whose upstairs office window afforded him a full-frontal view of my swimming. This was my little method of payback for his dog’s endless incontinent episodes on my various lawns. Or perhaps that was his payback for my endless late evening skinny-dips. Once in full motion, it was often difficult to tell where the cycle of life began.
    To be honest, though, my thorough enjoyment of this evening’s naked float had less to do with annoying Weebimix than it had to do with reminiscing about Wisper Nuckeby. There was something so captivating about her, so utterly enchanting, so blazingly sexual, that in spite of (or perhaps in conjunction with) the terror of potential loss of home, possessions, and livelihood, mere moments into reimagining her in my mind’s eye I was forced to turn over and swim face down so as not to expose more than even I was comfortable revealing to old-man Weebimix. Let’s just say the human rudder began to put up some rather fierce drag.
    Fortunately, that drag had a rather sensual quality, not unlike the actual ‘act’ itself, and before long I was frog-kicking my way toward ecstasy, praising the name of Ms. Nuckeby very loudly in silent prayer, for the first time actually thanking whatever perverted gods might have caused her to arrive half-naked before me earlier that day.
    Rather quickly, illicit thoughts of her combined with the flow of water to become a rather potent combination. So much so in fact that I felt the need to finish out the obvious, and had concluded that swimming alone might not be sufficiently stimulating.
    As I passed the filter pump, noisily floofing theoretically cleaned water back out into my pool, a brilliant idea flowed over me like warm honey. Or perhaps not so brilliant. But when the human male is nearing climax, sticking his most precious body part into a machine whose primary function is to remove foreign objects from the water surrounding them will oddly seem somehow brilliant. It’s only after the paramedics have been called that the truth becomes rather obvious.
    Consequently, I swum my way over to the wall where the jets were blowing warm, frothy liquid in a steady stream so that I might engage in what was now, in my altered state of consciousness, how the original designers had always intended their jets to be used. I rested my arms on the brick ledge, positioned myself appropriately, and leaned back to let Ms Nuckeby do the things to me in my mind that even Grandfather would have had to admit clearly made me a heterosexual.
    The experience was intense. Glorious. Amazing. The most fantastic sexual experience I’ve had since—well—since actual sex I suppose. What made it so magnificent, though, I knew, was the mental image of the elegant, sensual, and willing Ms. Nuckeby. As I was nearing culmination, I realized the only thing that could make this experience any better was the actual Ms. Nuckeby.
    Which is just about when she showed up.
    “Mister Wopplesdown?” Ms. Nuckeby asked quietly. “Yes, Ms. Nuckeby?” I purred sensually.
    Then, deftly realizing that her voice was coming from out side my head rather than in side it, my eyes shot open and there she was, just as she had been mere moments ago in my mind’s eye. Except not naked or straddling me.
    I jerked so hard, I convulsively drove my ‘thingsis’ deep into the jet tube, far beyond the manufacturer’s recommended limit (I’m sure there is one), and for the second time that day found myself stuck in something I really shouldn’t.

    “Ms. Nuckeby!” I repeated with more awareness. “What…? Who…? How…?”
    She held out her hands to calm me and the bouncing of the braless breasts under her shirt did just the opposite. She was wearing far more than she had this afternoon—jeans, top, shoes, jewelry—and yet she was sexier than ever. I felt additional