My Big Mouth Ch. 01

Me and my big mouth. I always thought the whole taboo about nudity was silly, and I didn't mind saying so. When I take a shower, I walk back to the bedroom wearing a towel around my hair and nothing else. If my roommates see me, so what? And if they've got guests, no big deal. At least, that was the theory, but I guess I never really put it to the test until all this happened.

One Friday night last summer we were all at the local watering hole after work. Kathy said a big shot in her company was looking for a cocktail waitress who would work at his party the next weekend. The only thing unusual about that was, he wanted her to serve his guests in the nude.

I'd had two quick gin and tonics on an empty stomach (the perpetual diet), and my mouth was running a little ahead of my brain. "What's the big deal," I said. "It's just a different uniform. After 10 minutes, who will even notice?"

Kathy winked at the others. "Yeah, but who'd have the guts to walk into a roomful of strangers stark naked and start taking orders for drinks? I don't think he's going to find anyone."

They had all heard me spout off on the subject of nudity. I had to challenge Kathy on that. "I don't see why not. There must be plenty of girls that would do it for the right money."

"Well, if you're so open-minded, why don't you give him a call and volunteer?" Kathy suggested, and she gave me a slip of paper with a name and number on it.

"Maybe I will," I said, rising to her obvious challenge. But I was already looking for a way to back down. My brain was starting to catch up. The thought of such public exposure was starting to sober me up, but it was a little late.

"We dare you," the other girls said, almost in unison. They all laughed, thinking they had made me choke on all my big talk.

Well, the only thing bigger than my mouth is my pride. I heard their laughter and I saw their victory smirks, and I saw red. I was so angry I said, "Alright, I'll do it."

I took the slip of paper and punched the numbers into my cell phone. Before I could think about it, someone answered, "Hello."

I was so flustered, it took me a moment to remember who I was talking to. I looked at the slip of paper. "Hello, Mr. Edmunds?"

"Yes?"

I could hang up and listen to my roommates' laughter, or I could tell him I would do it and make the first commitment. I couldn't do either, so I tried to stall. "I'm a friend of Kathy Poole. She mentioned that you were looking for a waitress for a private party next week." Maybe he would make the first proposition.

"That's right," he said calmly. "Are you interested?"

"Could you describe my duties a little more," I asked politely.

"Sure. I need a young woman to serve drinks in the nude from 6:30 Friday night till around 2:00 the next morning. It would be both bartending and cocktail waitress work."

"That's a long shift," I said. "What does it pay?"

"What would you ask?" He put it back to me.

I tried to come up with something that would be just beyond what he'd be willing to pay. "Two thousand dollars," I blurted. It seemed like a lot, since it was more than I took home in 3 weeks at the boutique. Then I remembered taxes. "In cash, under the table. Right?"

"Of course. But let me suggest a different way to pay you. If you'll take $1,000 straight pay - under the table cash, I'll make it clear to my guests that generous tipping is expected. There will be 30 to 40 guests, all with substantial incomes and many with significant wealth. I will guarantee that you will get more than $2,000 in tips alone - all, of course, under the table cash. What do you say?"

I froze. I didn't know what to say. I couldn't back down. For one thing, the money was almost unbelievable, and with the tips it looked like a springboard to the heavens. The idea was so arousing I felt a flush creeping over my breasts and wetness gathering in my panties. On the other hand, could I really do it? Would I have the nerve?

I stalled one last time. "What do you mean 'guarantee'? Do you mean that if my tips don't come to $2,000, you will make up the difference?"

"That's what I mean," he agreed.

"Alright," I said, breathlessly. "I'll do it."

It wasn't quite that easy. He wanted to see me, first. He called it an interview, and set it for 2:00 the next day. If he liked what he saw, we would have a deal, and I would be a cocktail hostess in the raw the next Friday night.

When I hung up, the girls couldn't believe it. They were sure I wouldn't go through with it. But eventually, Kathy shook her head in disbelief. "You're crazy, Kim. You just might do it."

It felt good to make them eat their words, but the hard part was still ahead. Butterflies were swarming in my stomach the next day when I drove over to Mr. Edmunds' place out by the lake. The whole way I was debating with myself: should I do it or shouldn't I. I hadn't decided anything when I got there, but the Edmunds estate kind of gave me a nudge.

You couldn't even see the house from the road. It was at the end of a long drive, sitting on a hillside with a spectacular view of the lake. The house was huge, three floors around three sides of a courtyard terrace with a large swimming pool, all of it looking out to the picturesque lake. I was quite intimidated when I parked on the circular drive, walked up to the massive front door, and rang the bell. But I have to admit I was also thinking greedily of getting my hands on just a tiny piece of all the wealth that would be assembled at Mr. Edmunds' party.

A uniformed butler took me through the house and out to the terrace by the pool. Everything about the house was grand, with 12-foot ceilings and a lot of expensive-looking antiques everywhere I looked. The terrace was wide enough to include a 50-foot pool, a bunch of tables, chairs and lounges, and still room for a couple dozen people to dance. Mr. Edmunds was sitting beside one of the tables, reading the Wall Street Journal. He put the paper down and smiled at me when the butler announced me.

"Thank you, Arthur. Won't you sit down, Miss Johnson," he said.

He was probably in his fifties, not fat, not bald, and not bad looking for his age. He wore khaki pants and a polo shirt. He seemed relaxed and confident, which helped a little to steady my nerves.

"Well, you're very attractive," he said, getting right down to business. "That's important. How old are you?"

"I'm twenty-three?" I was embarrassed that my voice was so weak and quavery.

"Really," he said. "You don't look it. I wonder if I could see your driver's license. Unfortunately, your age is rather important, too."

I showed him my license, and he seemed satisfied.

"Now, what kind of experience do you have for this sort of work?" he asked.

"I, uh ... I was in a sexy bikini contest once," I offered.

"Oh. No, what I meant was, what kind of experience with serving drinks."

"Oh, that. Well, I did cocktail waitressing for three summers while I was in college."

"Wonderful. Then that part of the job should not be a problem. What about mixing drinks. Any experience with bartending?"

"No. Not really."

"That's alright. I'll hire a bartender. Now, to get back to the nudity - your only experience was this sexy bikini contest?"

"Um, yes."

"How do you feel about spending an entire evening naked in front of my guests?"

"Um, well, fairly nervous, actually."

"I see. But you think you can do it?"

"Yes," I choked. "Yes, I think I can."

"Maybe we should make a little trial run." He pushed a button on something that looked like a pager. "I'll have Arthur show you a room where you can leave your things. When you are naked come out here and show me how comfortable you are with it. Okay?"

I wasn't sure I could walk, but I said, "Okay," and somehow went with Arthur back up to the house. He showed me into a small room just inside the sliding glass doors. There were showers against one wall, and lockers along the other. When Arthur shut the door, I collapsed on a bench and held my head in my hands.

What was I thinking? How could I take off all my clothes and walk out there in the mid-day sunshine stark naked for Mr. Edmunds and Arthur and anyone else who happened to be in the house? And then do it again on Friday for 30 or 40 people?

I took a deep breath and lifted my head. Everywhere I looked, there was a reminder of the wealth that surrounded me. The shower was lined with beautiful pink-grained marble. The faucets and fixtures were gold. I remembered the crummy bathroom I shared with the other girls at our apartment. There were thousands of reasons for me to take off my clothes and walk out there. And then, there were the girls back at the apartment, just waiting to laugh at me when I chickened out and had to swallow my own big talk.

I stood up and started unbuttoning my blouse with fingers that shook so much I could hardly get it done. I did, though. Then I took off my skirt. I looked at myself in the mirror in just my panties and bra. All my nervousness had brought a flush to my cheeks and a shine to my eyes. I looked pretty good, if I did say so myself. I finished undressing and tried to smile at my nude image in the mirror. The smile was a little weak, but I took another deep breath and opened the door.

There was no one around. It felt funny - no terrifying - to walk out into this strange house stark naked, not knowing who I might meet. I slid the glass door open as quietly as I could and walked down a brick walk to the terrace by the pool.

Mr. Edmunds put down his paper when he saw me coming. It felt like he watched every square inch of my body through a telescope, and every movement in slow motion. I had to concentrate very hard to keep my walk natural. Whatever I did, it was good enough to please Mr. Edmunds. He smiled broadly.

"Very nice Miss Johnson. How does it feel?"

"Okay," I gulped. "Pretty good. I'm a little nervous, but I'm doing it. That feels pretty good."

"You're an example to us all. Would you walk over to the pool and back?"

It was about ten steps, but it seemed like a long strange trip with his eyes locked on my backside. I turned and came back, and found myself walking like a fashion model on the runway. I quickly tried to tone it down, but whatever I did seemed to work.

Mr. Edmunds had made up his mind. "Excellent, Miss Johnson. Please sit down. Would you like something to drink? I'll ask Arthur to get us drinks and bring you your money."

I didn't want to sit. I didn't want a drink. I wanted to get dressed and get out of there, but I wanted my money more. I sat across a marble-top table from him. I thought I might get some measure of cover from the table, but the damn chair put me in a very compromising half-reclining posture.

"Arthur," he called, as I was arranging my knees in a vain attempt at dignity. Arthur came right over. "Arthur, would you bring drinks and Miss Johnson's pay envelope."

"Certainly, sir," the butler said formally. "Miss Johnson, what can I get you?"

I had to say, "I'll have a gin and tonic," because I couldn't think of any decent excuse not to have a drink with my new boss. Arthur was good. His manner, and his eyes, never really acknowledged my nudity. But it didn't help. I was so self-conscious, parading around nude in front of these two very polite older men. And then, there were the eyes I couldn't see. The house seemed to surround us as we sat in the courtyard. It seemed like hundreds of windows looked down on my naked body. I didn't know who was behind them, who else I might have to face in all my naked glory.

Mr. Edmunds didn't keep me in suspense for long on that. Looking past me, he waved. "Here's some people I'd like you to meet. They'll be at the party, too."

I turned, half-panicked. Three people had just emerged from the house. They were walking toward us, staring at me. I wanted to crawl under the table, but I took a deep breath and stood to greet them, attempting a polite smile.

A tall and handsome young man, just a couple years older than me, was in the lead. He was smiling, too - staring, but smiling. Next, an attractive woman, who looked to be about 40, was making a careful study of my body and face. For the moment she seemed undecided, neither approval nor disapproval in her expression. An elderly man hobbled along behind them. He looked at me with a big leering grin.

"This is my family, Miss Johnson," Mr. Edmunds said, as they came up to us. "My son, Jack."

The handsome young guy put out his hand. He had dark wavy hair, sparkling blue eyes and a lean, muscular body. "Pleased to meet you, Miss Johnson."

"My pleasure," I mumbled, absurdly.

I had been in a state of arousal for quite a while, and my body has a very inconvenient manner of showing it. My pussy lips become very red and engorged, very prominent. I was certain that was their state at the moment. My body has another bad habit of suddenly and unexpectedly releasing a gush of moisture into my vagina. It picked that particular moment to do so and it was only my desperate effort to clamp down on my pelvic muscles that kept the gush from escaping and running down my leg. No more than a drop or two seeped out to moisten my inflamed and swollen lower lips. I was mortified, but there was nothing I could do. I prayed that if I managed my legs carefully no one would notice.

"And my wife, Helen," Mr. Edmunds said.

"You're beautiful, my dear," she nodded, having made up her mind. "Charles did well to find you."

With a closer look, I could see she was past 40, but very well preserved. She was a little under medium height and thin, deeply tanned, with startling blue eyes and dark hair. Her breasts were large on a narrow frame, showing cleavage in the open neck of her blouse. She had an aggressive confident manner, an attitude that said: "Here I am. Love it or shove it."

The older man was Helen's father, Mr. Edmunds' father-in-law. Mr. Edmunds introduced him as 'Sir Harry'. He was old, with white hair and a face that was wrinkled and saggy. The way he walked, it looked like he might have a bad hip, but he hobbled right up to me, openly looking up and down every inch of my body. He took my hand and held my arm out to the side, inspecting me.

"Oh, god," he moaned comically, "if only I was 20 years younger ... Thank you for coming out here, Miss Johnson. You've certainly brightened our day."

Arthur took the drink orders and retreated to the house. We stood around making chit-chat about anything but the subject that was right in front of us - my nudity. It was hard. I had to smile for so long, my face began to ache. At the same time, I was painfully conscious of their eyes, and it put me in a state of constant humiliation and sexual arousal. At any moment I expected one of them to become aware of my body's betrayal, and call me on it. When they did, I knew I would shrivel into the ground.

Arthur brought drinks, and I was happy to see mine. I hoped the alcohol would settle my snapping nerves. I silently thanked Arthur when I tasted it. He'd gone light on the tonic. I had a forlorn hope there might be enough gin in that glass to do the job. I took a large swallow and enjoyed the sting as it went down.

They all seemed to be aware of the job I was auditioning for, and they all seemed to approve - of both the job and me. I couldn't quite picture what kind of party would be served by a naked cocktail waitress, but I got some hints from their comments.

"You know," Sir Harry said, "you'll scare the bejesus out of them."

"What do you mean? I'm going to be the one that's scared. I'll be jumping out of my skin."

He wagged a finger at me. "Yes, but don't try to kid me. You like it. That's why you took the job, isn't it?"

Sir Harry, apparently based on his age, seemed to have complete freedom of expression. He said whatever came into his head, without worrying about how it would be taken. The rest of them treated him like a combination oracle and fool.

"Maybe, partly," I responded. "And partly, I need the money."

The envelope was lying on the table beside my drink. I had no pocket to carry it in, but I didn't think I would forget it.

Mr. Edmunds smiled at the mention of money. "At the beginning of the evening, I'm going to announce that Miss Johnson will be accepting tips. I think she will be surprised at the generosity of our guests."

Sir Harry saw the fly in the ointment. "Oh sure," he said, "but aren't some of them going to want something in return?"

"I'll try to make it clear that she is here to take their drink orders only." Mr. Edmunds was serious. "Of course, you will need to set the tone, too, Miss Johnson. But, from what I see of your bearing, I think it will be difficult for them to treat you crudely."

"You let me know if anyone gets fresh, dear," Helen said aggressively. "I'll talk to them once. The second time, they're out of here." She made a whisking motion with her left hand that almost spilled the drink in her right.

I was thinking this wasn't the first drink of the day, for some of the Edmunds' clan. Then I noticed that my gin and tonic had evaporated. I was a little startled to find I had consumed all that gin, but quickly rationalized that if my hosts were into their second or third, I was just catching up. In any case, I couldn't humiliate myself any more than I already had, standing there nude, making chit-chat with three generations of clothed Edmundses. I was even more surprised when Arthur magically replaced my empty glass with a fresh one. I thought for a moment of going slow, but I was so nervous, I soon picked up the cool, sweating glass and took a sip. It was stronger than the first and tasted even better.

There was nothing I could do. I couldn't go until they released me. I saw that this little impromptu cocktail party was part of my "try-out." I needed to somehow show that I could carry on a coherent conversation while standing in front of them nude. It felt like a molten river of shame, fear and excitement was flowing through me, but I somehow did it.

The Edmunds tried to be polite, but in the happy confidence of their voices and their side glances and smirks, there was a faint streak of the master's delight in his power over his slave. At least they had the good grace to be faintly ashamed and to try to cover it up. All of them except Sir Harry. He tried to rattle me with his directness.

"You have a very nice body," he said, running his eyes over it. "But you're afraid to let it be seen. You've got to be more sure of yourself. You're beautiful. Be proud of it. If you go out there nervous and embarrassed like this, they'll eat you alive."

"Harry, I disagree," Mr. Edmunds cut in smoothly. Turning to me, he smiled. "Don't listen to him, Miss Johnson. Don't try to act a part. Be as polite and friendly as you can be. And expect all of our guests to be friendly and polite back to you. You'll do fine."

Harry shrugged. "Yeah, I guess," he said.

"Well, what kind of a party is it?" I asked. "I mean, what's the occasion?"

"Charles, didn't you tell her?" Helen said, and turned to me, laughing, "It's my birthday."

"Oh."

"Don't you want to know which one?"

"Which one what?"

"Which birthday."

"Oh, sure," I said gamely. "Which one?"

"In truth, 51, but celebrating 39, and doing everything I can to look the part. It was my idea to have a nude cocktail waitress - take some of the spotlight off my wrinkled ass." She raised her glass. "And still celebrate youth and beauty, which you do, dear."

I had a glimmer of hope. "Yes, but you should join me and wear something sexy, too." I tried to sound light and encouraging, but some of my desperation was showing.

"Oh, I'll do my best," she sighed, "but contrary to popular belief, the years do matter."

"Helen," Mr. Edmunds smiled, shaking his head, "that's baloney. Except for Miss Johnson, you'll be the sexiest woman at this party."