My Best Summer Mistake

She downed half her drink and smirked. "Is it dangerous to trim hedges nude? I wouldn't want anything getting snipped off by accident."

"If someone comes..."

"No one's coming. The gate's locked. The driveway alarm is back on, and all those 'Guard on duty, trespassers will be shot, survivors will be shot again' signs have always scared everyone away. So, unless it's for safety, you're staying naked. I wouldn't want you to miss any of that nudist experience you wanted."

~~~~

Trimming the hedges was easy with a gas trimmer I found in the shed, though it shook and clattered and spewed exhaust that hung like fog in the early evening air.

Before going outside, Hanna, still in her bathrobe, had done her best to dissuade me.

"I could come hold the ladder," she had said with a naughty look.

"I'll manage," I said. "Besides, without clothes that would put you eye-level with either my dick or my ass."

"Mmm. I could handle that." Hanna stepped close, ran a finger down my sternum and gazed up playfully. "But why don't you take the rest of the day off and play with me?"

Before I could reply, she opened her robe, put her arms around my neck and pressed against me. Our naked bodies together felt glorious. Hanna's breasts were firm and warm, and the top of her sparse pubic hair tickled the tip of my dick.

Of all my many bad decisions, fucking the beautiful but utterly pickled granddaughter of my employer was not going to be one of them.

"Hanna," I said, removing her arms from around my neck while pulling her robe closed, "I'm really flattered, but you're sloshed. And I have a ton of work to do before it gets dark."

"You really are no fun. Does that mean you'd say yes if I was sober?"

Even if she was sober and we kept it secret, I suspected that somehow her grandfather would take one look at me and know. I said something politely non-committal, then made Hanna promise to stay away from the lake and not fall down any stairs while I worked.

Trimming the hedges was easy but time consuming. When they were done and I was ready to move on to the stubby cedars that lined the drive, twigs and cedar clippings dotted my sweaty skin.

Silence rang when I shut off the trimmer. Brushing myself off, I remembered Hanna's soft body pressed to mine and her playful, hungry gaze. If she kept coming onto me, especially sober, I wondered how many days I could resist before accepting her offer. What would a spoiled rich girl like Hanna be like in bed? Probably lay back and demand to be catered to, I imagined.

As my ears adjusted from the racket of the trimmer, piano music drifted through an open window from inside the house, along with a woman's voice. Was Hanna playing more jazz on the patio speakers? No. From the broken cadence and many restarts, it was the baby grand in the living room, accompanied by Hanna's voice.

The song was some down tempo tune I didn't recognize, sung clear and pure and lilting. She fumbled many notes on the piano, but her voice, flawless and filled with emotion, cut through the cooling summer air in a flawless sweeping melody that made me shudder.

She should be studying voice, not commerce, I thought and closed my eyes as her voice embraced me. The song was heartbreaking in melody, and what snatches of lyric I could make out spoke of loss and yearning.

The song reached the end and moments later I heard footsteps approaching from inside. I turned away, pretending to fiddle with the trimmer. From the corner of my eye, I saw Hanna peering out a window, barely visible through the screen and the dark of the room. She held a fresh mixed drink.

How could she drink so much? Little wonder she had failed at college.

Firing up the trimmer again, I moved on to the stubby cedars, shaping each one while keeping half an eye on Hanna. She was leaning forward, one hand on the windowsill, the other lower doing—no! Was she watching and getting herself off?

She watched for several minutes then the next time I looked she was gone.

Each cedar only needed a little shaping, but there were many lining the drive. I finished just at dusk, relieved to shut off the clattering trimmer. As my ears adjusted to the quiet, faint strains of more singing drifted from inside.

I didn't want to miss it. Quickly, I hung the trimmer in the shed, sprayed myself off with the garden hose, then crept up the back patio steps. Gershwin's "Summertime" drifted from inside:

Summertime
And the livin' is easy
Fish are jumpin'
And the cotton is high
Oh, your daddy's rich
And your mama's good lookin'
So hush, little baby
Don't you cry

A fitting song for Hanna. In the musical, the song is an ironic lullaby, but Hanna sang it like a requiem—lilting, deeply emotional and heartbreaking. For a girl who laughed a lot, she seemed to like sad songs.

Drawn by her astonishing voice, I stepped into the living room to listen, leaning against the wall just inside the patio doors. Hanna sat hunched over the piano, still wearing her robe, head down as she sang, gliding her hands over the keys. An empty glass sat on the piano, bits of foam clinging to the sides.

What a voice! Clear, hitting every note and so richly emotional. How much better she must sing when she wasn't hammered, I thought.

Hanna gasped when she noticed me.

"Fuck! How long have you been there?" she said. "I do not like being listened to!"

She stood and, clutching her robe closed, stormed unsteadily past me out to the patio.

When I followed her, she was already filling a fresh glass with orange juice, a bottle of vodka sitting on the bar top beside it. I snatched the bottle.

"Hey! I need that," she slurred.

"It's the last thing you need. Look, I'm sorry I listened. I didn't know it would upset you. You have an incredible voice. And you play really well."

"I sing like a farting chipmunk and play like a double amputee. Now give me the fucking vodka."

She lunged for it but I lifted the bottle out of reach. Swearing and growling, she made a play for it, then another—hopping and reaching and nearly falling a few times. Her robe began working open, threatening to expose her jiggling boobs.

"Hanna, this is childish," I said. "I'm not giving you the vodka."

"Goddammit!" she screeched, "You work for grandfather. So you also work for me. Give me that bottle!"

"If you get alcohol poisoning, I won't be able to get you back to town in time."

Hanna stopped jumping, looking winded and queasy. She gripped the edge of the bar, eyes darting from side to side before they widened. She spasmed, leaned forward and barfed.

It was a spectacular power puke: sudden and abundant with impressive range. I sidestepped, but she still coated me down the side of one leg with the warm, sharp smelling vomit. Hanna then staggered back and spewed more puke down her front.

She lifted her head wearing an expression of horror.

"Oh god," she gulped, hand to her chest. "I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!"

She held the edge of the bar, head low and swallowing between quick breaths.

"That was probably for the best," I said, surveying the mess. "Is there any more? No? Then stand there for just a minute."

I ran to the hose coiled at the side of the house, sprayed off my leg, then tossed a length of it over the railing. Guiding Hanna to the center of the patio, I eased off her fouled robe.

She seemed barely aware she was naked but sprang awake when the water hit her.

"Oh, fuck! What are you... shit, that's cold!"

Hanna stood with fists balled under her chin as I hosed her from all angles. I was pleased to see she was a healthy weight and not the unnatural thinness of other women in her family I had seen, but it was no time to gawk.

The only towels nearby were little ones from under the bar, so I dried the shivering girl as best I could, then led her inside. She mumbled and stumbled, so I picked her up and carried her up the stairs. Her naked body was warm against my own and she clung with arms around my neck.

"I made a mess," she muttered in a mournful tone. "I need to clean up."

"I'll handle it," I said. After sitting her on her bed, I got a glass of water from the bathroom.

"Drink this. All of it."

She did, though complained when I made her drink a second glass. With that settled, Hanna got under the sheet and was asleep within moments. I left her in the 'puke position'—resting on her side, top arm extended, upper leg bent at the knee. Once sure she would stay that way, I went downstairs to mop up.

~~~~

While hosing off the patio, it occurred to me it was probably a bad idea to treat the pampered rich kid so roughly—she'd probably be pissed about being stripped, sprayed down like a farm animal then carried upstairs like luggage. Assuming she remembered any of it. If she didn't, she'd probably be even more pissed waking up to find herself naked with no memory of how she got that way.

As awful as Hanna had treated me, I couldn't help feeling bad for her. A friend I had known since grade school nearly killed himself with booze, driven to it by deep unhappiness. I couldn't imagine how a beautiful, talented, rich girl with every advantage could be unhappy, but some people found misery regardless of their reality.

Her singing still moved me. Warm and flowing, every note evoked deep emotions. How could she not like being listened to? In fact, why wasn't she touring and thrilling audiences worldwide? Maybe rich girls didn't do things like that.

If I had to deal with Hanna's antics and bossing me around every day, I'd never get my tasks done in time. I should have thought of taking pictures of her covered in barf to use as leverage, but suspected it wouldn't be the first time her family had seen her that way. I needed more.

That night, I contacted some friends.

~~~~

"Good morning, Hanna. It's nine o'clock and time to face your hangover."

Setting a breakfast tray on the dresser, I opened the curtains all the way. It felt good to be wearing work clothes again.

Hanna lay curled on her side, covered by a sheet. She grumbled and pulled it higher.

I crouched beside the bed. "Hey, Hanna!" I yelled.

Her bloodshot eyes creaked open long enough for the phone's face ID to unlock it as I held it in front of her.

"That's my phone. Give it back!"

She rolled onto her back and sat up, careful to keep the sheet over her chest as she groped for her phone. I quickly deleted all the pictures she took of me naked, then put the phone in my pocket.

"I don't know what your favorite hangover cure is," I said, setting the tray in front of her, "so I made you mine: scrambled eggs and dry toast. Maybe take those headache pills first. I looked it up and apparently Korean families have kimchi with every meal, so I put some on the side. Hope it's the right kind. That little fridge in the kitchen is full of different types. I think it's all types of kimchi, anyway."

"Every house has a kimchi fridge," she said, hoarse and queasy. She downed the painkillers. "I think I went a little overboard yesterday." Her eyes wandered as she remembered. "Oh, shit. Oh, no. More than a little. Listen, I—"

"Save it," I said. "I talked to some friends last night. One of them is a huge gossip—she knows every dirty detail of everything going on in town, especially with our wealthiest family. You're a real black sheep, aren't you, Hanna? Your brothers and cousin got degrees and are now successful in various parts of the family business, but I hear you've failed most of your college courses every year. And in April you were drunk and—do I have this right?—drove a campus security golf cart into a river?"

Hanna sighed. "It was an accident. And I was the passenger, not the driver. But I took the rap."

"Really? Why would you be so charitable?"

"Because the girl driving was my friend. And her family hadn't donated two million to the college over the years like mine had. She would have gotten a criminal record and probably been denied her degree."

"And with your family being rich..."

"I only got a fine. And my parents replaced the golf cart with a better one."

"Figures," I said. "Well, my friend says that since then, you've been banished. Cut off. Told to stay away from the town and your family until you learn to be responsible—or something like that. So, I'm guessing your parents and grandfather would be beyond pissed that you disobeyed and came here while they're traveling. Do I have that right?"

"Pretty much," Hanna said, sourly. "Old man Sorenson wouldn't have said a word." She looked up, anxious. "Will you?"

"No one needs to know you were here. As long as you do what I say."

She groaned. "Let me guess. To teach me a lesson, you'll make me do all your work for you. And do it naked, right?"

I smiled. "That would be poetic. And, to use your words, funny as hell. But I'm not that cruel. Find yourself some old clothes to work in. I'm sure you're useless, but even a spoiled princess can fetch stuff, stir paint, and assist while I do the real work. So, eat breakfast, get dressed and meet me downstairs. Our task today is priming the front hall so it can be repainted."

~~~~

Before I had woken Hanna, I had been up since dawn moving the hallway furniture away from the walls, laying drop sheets, taping off trim and doing other prep work. Primer, rollers and trays were all ready. The task was to cover the current scuffed and dingy powder blue of the walls with primer, then paint them over with a rich cream color—a good choice, I thought.

"Okay, I'm ready to help."

Turning, I found Hanna standing behind me. She looked miserably hung over. She was also completely naked, her golden skin pale in the stark overhead lights of the hall.

I looked away. "Hanna! I said you don't have to do that!"

"If you're going to punish someone, you should go all the way," she said.

"I'm not punishing you. I just need you to help me get caught up. Please get dressed."

When she didn't say anything more, I turned to see her standing bent slightly with head lowered, hands held against her lower belly.

"I apologize for treating you so horribly," she said. "I'm appalled at how I acted. And thank you for looking out for me. Mother would say I shamed myself and our family. She'd be right."

Having a beautiful naked woman apologize so formally left me flustered. And she was beautiful: her pampered skin was a warm beige with golden undertones. Light brown areolas topped high, round breasts that looked to be perfect handfuls. She had the sweetest little tummy. Captivating strands of wispy hairs hid her pussy.

"Well, at least you're a happy drunk," I said. "You sure were having a good time."

Hanna straightened and looked up, standing stiff and awkward.

She said, "The thing is, I hardly ever drink. But when I do... well, I tend to binge. Things have been so awful lately, and this is the first time I've ever been here in all my life with no family. I felt free. Then I saw you outside looking so naked and yummy and... uh... I guess I felt like being naughty." She looked down again. "I was a fucking horror. I'm so embarrassed. My family doesn't take advantage of people. Especially people working for us. And that was the first time I ever, ever barfed on someone."

"Then I should feel honored," I said. "Up to now, the only person who's barfed on me is me. Oh, and a dog once, but he wasn't drinking."

Hanna flashed a weak smile.

"Thank you, Hanna," I said. "I'm sorry you're going through some things. But I'm just working here. And I really need you to help me catch up. That would go better if you were comfortable, so please go put something on."

"I made you uncomfortable yesterday. I deserve this. Unless my flab disgusts you."

If Hanna had any extra weight, it only added to the allure of her modest curves. She looked fit, luscious and huggable.

"Does every woman have body image issues?" I said. "You look great, Hanna."

"Ha! Mother has been needling me to lose weight since I was fourteen. You have no idea the pressure to be perfect. To look like a K-pop idol."

"Is that how you want to look? To me, they look like plastic dolls. Like children." I looked her over again. I wasn't going to tell her she was sexy as hell. Her alluring face, her feminine figure, her smooth tawny skin—Hanna was breathtaking. She looked so vulnerable and ashamed standing there. I wanted to wrap her in my arms and tell her everything was all right.

I played it cool: "You're real," I said. "With a real woman's body. If you were thinner, it wouldn't look right at all. Now, will you put something on so we can get to work?"

Instead of answering, Hanna looked around at the hall and my preparations. "You've been busy. This shouldn't take long."

"That depends," I said. "Have you ever painted walls before?"

"You think I'm some spoiled rich kid? Catered to all my life—servants to wipe my ass?"

"Something like that," I said.

"You don't know our family. If this wasn't a travel year, we'd all be here doing this and all the other chores, especially now without Mr. Sorenson."

She walked to the row of paint cans on a covered table. Her thighs were thick and toned. Her firm ass was generous and curvy.

Popping open the lid of a can, she said, "When this place was built—oh, 10 or 11 years ago—every wall in the entire place was painted by the grandkids. My father and uncle shingled the roof. All of us have painted, mowed, raked, and lugged that floating dock in and out of the water more times than I can count. Coming here was never much of a vacation. Just like at home, when we weren't doing chores, we were cooking, cleaning, taking language lessons or practicing our instruments. Or studying."

"Studying? Even in the summer?"

Hanna mixed primer with a stir stick. "Especially in the summer. A few times, mother brought a tutor out here for me and my brother. Our grades were never good enough for her."

"Ever heard of a tiger mom?" she said, testing the bristles of a brush against her palm. "Mine is a panther: sleek, stealthy and relentless. I love her and I know she wants the best for me, but the pressure for grades, to be beautiful, to be perfect... it never stops."

We agreed we would start on the longest walls—Hanna working the left while I painted the right.

Hanna began brushing primer along the edges of her wall and I did the same to mine. I watched her only enough to see if she knew what she was doing, but her naked form reaching then bending to reload her brush was so delightful. She moved stiffly, clearly nervous about being naked, but obviously she had experience painting.

Many times I caught her glancing back at me, shoulders tight, eyes filled with shame. I didn't understand why Hanna felt the need to punish herself like that, and I couldn't stand it.

Quickly, I doffed my work clothes and set them aside. It almost felt good to be naked again.

"Hey, Hanna?"

She turned and gawked. "No! This is my punishment."

I shrugged. "I was getting sweaty. And yesterday I kind of got used to being naked. Hope you don't mind. I know I'm no K-pop idol."

Hanna frowned and exhaled in exasperation, but that faded as she swept her gaze over my naked body.

"I won't be able to concentrate," she said, eyes glued to my cock.

"Same for me, Hanna. I'll get dressed if you do."

She sighed and pursed her lips, then turned and resumed brushing primer on her wall.

We worked back-to-back, occasionally checking each other's progress—and bodies. Hanna caught me admiring her a few times, and I caught her. After a while she visibly relaxed, though, concentrating on her work and not her nudity.

For the rest of the morning, Hanna worked quietly except frequently asking if I needed help or wanted her to bring water, tea, or get her portable speaker to play music. I declined each offer, eager to catch up on my work.