Unintentional Nudist
Author's notes: Warning there is a bit of nonconsensual groping. I hope you enjoy the story.
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In the crowd my wife and I associated with, there were what we called three generations. The first was ours, those that were or nearing retirement. We were the fewest with only two couples, and Sally, my wife, and I were the oldest. In some ways, our group was tolerated, almost on a charity level.
The next group was those at the peak of their, lacking a better term, productivity. They were in their forties and fifties. Some were middle managers at the apex of their careers. This was the most numerous of the groups having around five couples.
The final group was what Sally and I called the youngsters. They were the twenty and thirty-somethings. All just starting with kids and all of that. A far more mobile group than any of the others, their numbers varied as they moved around in their career infancy. They usually ranged from two to four couples.
Life or fate or whatever you want to call it can be a hateful, crafty bitch. Like a routine doctor visit that discovers a small, insignificant lump in a breast. This leads to two years of surgeries, chemo, and radiation treatments. You watch the trauma of the surgeries tear her body apart. Then the chemo treatments and try to cheer her as you shop for wigs. You watch the love of your life, the most active dynamic woman you have ever known and loved, wither away before your eyes.
Finally, you hold her hand in hospice as the inevitable comes to a close. It doesn't matter how hard you both worked or the careful plans you made for retirement. Children, grandchildren, fairness, and money none counted in the equation as the grim reaper stalked. As with everyone, none of that applied to Sally and me.
Or you can find yourself preparing to go out on a date with your husband on your birthday. Married just a couple of years, dressed to the nines, but he's a little late. Not to worry, he often needs to work late. But the nagging tick says, "But he always calls." Then as the doorbell rings, you race to the door expecting to scold him playfully for making you run to the door. But two cops tell you of a bad accident and where the ambulance has taken him.
There you find him in a coma, tubes everywhere. Even the maddeningly steady clicking of a ventilator goes unnoticed as the doctors show you pictures. They are ugly black-and-white pictures of your husband's badly damaged brain. The damage is so extensive he can't live without all the tubes and clicking ventilators. So, fate kicks you hard in the stomach, because it forces you to decide to take him off the ventilator. This was Jane's fate. One of the young couples.
The group tried to rally around us, and even though we were now the odd man out, they tried hard to include us, the widower and the widow. Oh, both of us would have given almost anything to be rid of those titles.
As weeks rolled into months and then to years, the group subjected Jane and me constantly to their attempts to keep us happy and included. They invited us to all of the group's activities, but they were all couples activities, and the idea of Jane and I being a couple was patently ridiculous.
I was retired with white hair and had the usual paunch, although, with Sally gone, I had dropped a lot of weight. My gym membership is what I credited with my success. In actuality, it was probably, because I didn't always eat right.
Jane, on the other hand, was beautiful. She had long red hair, a very ample bosom, a flat belly, long legs, and the cutest button nose. Indeed if I had been forty years younger, I might have taken a shot at her. Now that was beyond ridiculous. Yet, at all the events, the couples would dutifully push their spouses to dance with us. Occasionally, as silly as it looked, I would wander over to ask Jane to dance, and at other times she would meander to me. I would shyly hold her at a distance, and she never made eye contact, but it made the others happy.
After a couple of years, I came out of my grand funk. I decided it was time to stop being the receiver of all the attention, and I threw a big backyard BBQ. I invited all the couples and personally hand-delivered Jane's invitation, although she wasn't home at the time.
On that Saturday, the sun shone, with no sign of rain. Unluckily it was the middle of the summer, and the day was to be one of the hottest ever recorded. My backyard has some shade in the afternoon but not enough to cover it all, and my guests sweltered. So to survive, they took turns streaming into the house to cool off and coming out to be social.
I was busy cooking and entertaining my guests but noticed Jane had come. So, I broke off and went over to welcome her and shake her hand. Everyone was sweating, and I felt the slick sweat of her very petite hand. She wore a short hip hugger skirt, slung low, very tight on the hips that ended about mid-thigh. Her white tank top appeared large and too loose for her small frame. It almost looked like a man's. Her arm holes were quite large, and I got a peak of her braless side boob. The fabric was thin, and the tips of her erect nipples were quite noticeable. Sweat glistened on her chest, arms and face and was beginning to wet through the material, moving it from opaque towards translucency. It was tantalizing. I blushed and scolded myself mentally for enjoying it too much.
Well, you can imagine that my first attempt to be the host was a dramatic failure. The men tried gallantly to help their wives by sweltering outside so their wives could enjoy the air conditioning in the house because my house was too small for the entire crowd at once. It was so bad a couple of the guys had to sit in the shade and drink water. The women, bathed in sweat, attempted to escape the heat and froze in the air conditioning in the house.
Once I put out the food, it was so hot most people had lost their appetite. So, they nibbled fast, thanked me for the "great time," and ran like hell. I couldn't blame them. Well, all ran except Jane.
"Looks like you could use a hand cleaning up," she said in her wonderfully sensual voice.
"Thanks," I said because it halved the trips I needed to make to the house.
Like most women, she was very efficient. Within a few minutes, everything was in the house. The perishables that needed to be refrigerated were, and all those things that could wait, neatly placed on the kitchen island.
Once completed, I thanked her profusely and asked her, "Would you like a drink?"
"Sure, a nice cold beer sounds good," she replied cheerfully, more cheerfully than I remember her being in many months. I handed her the beer, and she asked, "Can we sit out back?"
Scowling, I said, "It's hot as blazes out there. Are you sure you want to sit out there?"
"I'm so sweaty that in the air conditioning, I'm cold. I am used to it and enjoy the heat. If it's too much for you, we can stay in if you like," Jane said.
Maybe it was machismo, male pride, toxic masculinity, or whatever you want to call it, but I wasn't going to let this little slip of a girl get away with that. So, I agreed, and we went out into the sweltering bake oven of my backyard. To my surprise, she pulled up two chairs and placed them facing each other in the sun.
