It's Monday, September eighth, and time for your daily fuck. The laundromat smells a bleaching ozone, a sterile scent that feels at odds with the grime in the corners. It's almost two in the morning. The only sounds are the low hum of the fluorescent mites and the heavy rhythmic thump, thump, dump of my sheets tumbling in an industrial sized tryer. I'm the only one here. Almost across the room, under the flickering lights, a man sits slouched in one of
the hard plastic chairs. He's rugged, with a thick beard and arms covered in that tapestry with intricate faded tattoos. He hasn't moved in an hour, just turns the page of a warm paperback book every few minutes. But I feel his eyes on me every time I get up. I feel his gaze on my body when I look over. He's always back to his book, but the air's thick with the attention he's pretending not to pay. The dryer buzz is a harsh sound that signals the end of
the cycle. The thumping stops, and the silence that falls feels heavy with opportunity. This is it. I could fold my laundry and leave, or I look down at my own thin floral sundress. It's probably clean enough, but an idea sharp and wicked, sparks in my mind. For the last hour, every move I've made has been for him. I decide this next one will be two. I stand up and make a show of stretching my arms, reaching for the ceiling, my back arched. I feel his gaze
like a physical touch. Then I'd hook my thumbs into the straps of my sundress and in one smooth motion, pull it over my head. I stand there for a moment in the harsh light, wearing nothing but a simple black brath and matching panties. I don't look at him, but I can feel the weight of his stare, the sudden stillness from his corner of the room. I walk to an empty washing machine. The cool andoleum flora shocked my bare feet. I tossed my dress inside, had splash
a detergent, and then turn to the controls. I glance over my shoulder. He puts his book down. His full attention is on me now, his expression unreadable but intense. I stop a few feet away, leaning against the machine next to his chair. Excuse me, I can never figure these things out. Which do you think is better A gentle tumble or something a little bit more agitated. His eyes travel from my face, down my body, and back up again. A slow, knowing smirk is his only answer.
Because I take a step closer. I have a feeling I might be the dirtiest thing in this laundromat tonight, and I don't think a regular wash is going to give me clean That's what a take. He stands up, slowly, unfolding to his full height. He's taller than I thought. He doesn't say a word, just closes the distance between us. He stops right in front of me, his heat and his scent, soap and something musky, entirely male enveloping me.
He reaches out, not to grab me, but to gently trace the outline of the swallow tattoo on my shoulder with a calloused finger. The touch is electric. Then his hand slides to the back of my neck and he pulls me into a kiss. It's rough, hungry, tasting of coffee, and pure dominance. It's everything I hoped it would be. He breaks the kiss and spins me around, pushing my hands flat against the top of a washing machine that has just entered its spin cycle. The deep, powerful vibration
buzzes through the metal and straight into my palms. Bend over. It's the first words he's spoken. I don't hesitate. I bend forward, resting my forms on the vibrating machine. The position pushes my ass up into the air. He yanks my pennies down my legs and they fall to the grimy floor. I feel a cool air on my exposed, wet skin, and then I feel him. He's huge, the head of his cart pressing against me, parting my slick folds. He doesn't wait, he just shoves himself inside me. A
sharp gasp escapes my lips. He feels me completely, a single dominant thrust that steals my breath. The vibration from the washing machine radiates through my body, meeting in my pelvis whereas cock is pounding into me. It's an electrifying symphony of sensation. He grips my hips, his fingers digging into my skin, using him as handles to slam himself into me, over and over. The rhythmic thump, thump, thump of his body against mine joins the chorus of the laundromat.
My own hand snakes down between my legs, my finger's easily finding my clit, and a slick mess he's made of me. The vibrations from the machine, the friction of his deep thrusts in, the frantic circling of my own fingers are creating a perfect storm inside me. I'm close, so close, the raw, gritty reality of always the most powerful aphrodisiac I've ever known. I press my face against my arm, the muffled at scream building in my throat.
My orgasm hits me like a freight train, a violent shuddering wave that makes the vibrations from the machine feel like a gentle tremor. My whole body clenches around him as I come, my inner muscle spasming uncontrollably. My comax pushes him over his own edge with a final roar, This lost in the noise of the dryers. He empties himself deep inside me, his hot colm a shocking, welcome flood. He pulls out his breathing, harsh I lean against the machine.
My legs tremble him too much to stand. He doesn't say a word. He just zips up his fly gives me a single dark look, grabs a bass at a folded baundry, and walks out of the laundromat, the bell over the door chiming his exit. I'm left alone in the buzzing silence, leaning against a now still machine, a complete and glorious mess. My laundry is clean, but I've never felt so absolutely, wonderfully dirty in my life