The Sista in 3Jbyavasogently©
The front-loading washing machines in the dim, dank laundry room lurched and groaned their grievances over decades of neglect. But what could be worse than Val was missing her favorite prime-time soap, Edge of Passion, because she had gone to the gym over the weekend instead of laundering her clothes. Cursing under her breath, Val slurped down chamomile tea from a mug with a mosaic of survival cracks and leaned back so that her wide hips strained against the red folding chair. She fixed her gaze at the lather spewing onto the glass of the machine.
Like the ebb and flow of the ocean, the toxic water pulsed, teased, receded and splashed, reminding her of the approaching summer. But two months was too long a wait for the relentless sun to melt her frozen heart. Val closed her eyes as if the room's fluorescent lighting were as blinding as sunrays, and she began tracing the events that led her to emotional solitary confinement.
The last time Val trusted abandoning her wash to catch up on fictional characters airing their dirty laundry via the all-soap cable channel was a lonely night in January. She was sipping on jasmine tea at the faux-walnut snack table and dipping chunks of a potato samosa in plum sauce in a feeble attempt to watch her figure. A former high school sprinter, she was confident that her athleticism would rescue her from the perils of urban living despite her parents' warnings about careless acts such as doing laundry late at night.
Running down four flights of stairs to the laundry room in the basement only took a minute but the effort was moot because, to her surprise and embarrassment, someone had taken the liberty of removing her intimate apparel from the washing machine. Bras, thongs and camisoles were strewn about wantonly. On several washers, across a dryer and on the floor. She had no choice to retrieve them and prepare them, albeit with much silent cursing, for a repeat wash. Who would do such a thing? she wondered. Reaching down to grasp a lacy pink thong from the gritty floor beside a corner washer, she suddenly noticed a shadow loom over hers and found her answer. There in the brightly illuminated laundry room, a firm mocha hand covered hers and a dusky voice uttered, "Don't be afraid. I'm not here to hurt you." "Are you the one responsible for --" Val was interrupted.
"No, of course not. I've been the unofficial monitor of our building's basement," said the muscular woman, now helping Val to her feet. "Turns out there's a panty raider among our neighbors, and he or she is frightening the crap out of the women who do their laundry on-site."
"Geez, maybe I should go to the Laundromat around the corner -- Sudz," said Val. She thanked her neighbor, extending her hand and introducing herself.
"Pleased to meet you, Val. My name is Isis, and, no, I don't possess superpowers."
Both women chuckled and patted one another's shoulders in the comforting ways of women throughout the ages. When Val looked back at a thong that remained on the floor, Isis teased, "Hmm, I see someone has a naughty side, huh?"
"Well, I-I-I like to fantasize that I'm as sexy as one of those supermodels in their barely there lingerie," said Val.
"Why don't you give me your phone number in case of an emergency," Isis said, tugging at a paper in the back pocket of her tight jeans. "You know, with panty raiders among us and all," she said, laughing.
Val laughed back nervously but complied, even adding her apartment number, 3J, to the paper. Her confidence back in the safe zone, she managed to persuade Isis to guard the rest of her wash for the night. Handing over the remainder of a roll of quarters, she squeezed her new friend's hand gently, thanked her again and ran back upstairs to resume watching soaps on cable television.
Smiling at the fading thuds of Val's ascent, Isis ran her thick fingers through her short, spiked hair. She dropped five quarters one at a time in a washer's coin tray, pushed it forward and launched the wash, sensing her blood surge through her veins as powerfully as the machine's motor. She relished in her chair duty in the manner of a lifeguard misusing his or her vantage point to spy on the hard bodies wading out into the surf. While Val was upstairs cradling another ceramic cup filled with soothing chamomile tea, Isis was downstairs stopping the washer to remove one suds-soaked undergarment after another. When she found her favorite article -- the nylon black thong -- she stretched the narrow crotch between her thumb and middle finger, and with her other hand she undid the zipper to her jeans, tugged aside her own sopping thong and diddled the purple clit head that was extended from its engorged sheath. Then she placed the drenched panties in her back pocket.
Several hours passed, and Val stubbornly awakened to her telephone's insistent ring tones. The soap Edge of Passion was watching her, which made her laugh inwardly.
"Hi," the hoarse voice whispered. "Val, did I wake you? It's me, Isis. I'm holding your thong for ransom."
"Oh, I overslept," Val said. She did not hear Isis' joke. Instead, she offered, "Do you wanna come up now, or should I --"
"Don't bother leaving your apartment. It's nearly 10 p.m. I'll fold everything and come up in about 20 minutes."
It took 15 minutes for Isis to fold the clothes and another 15 minutes to shower away the cum that had oozed around her crotch during her self-adventure in the musty basement. Her apartment was situated one floor beneath Val's, and therefore she was at her friend's threshold, wearing a fresh T-shirt and jeans, before the 11 o'clock news could begin. In one of her back pocket she had stashed the nylon black thong, which was partially sticky and partially caked with cum, because that turned her on and gave her a power befitting a goddess.
"Am I too early for the pajama party?" Isis asked jokingly.
"Uh, I think I'm a tad underdressed, don't ya think?" Val replied, at first looking upset that Isis was late. In typical fashion, she shrugged off the minor annoyance, then pulled Isis through the door with much effort. "You are welcome anytime," Val said.
"Welcome to do what, young lady?" Isis said, flexing her eyebrows. She dumped the laundry basket near Val's hat stand and followed her to the lumpy plaid sofa.
"What are we watching on TV tonight, honey?" Isis asked, her right hand supporting her chin and left hand resting on her crotch in a mock-masculine gesture.
Val could only laugh heartily, apologizing in between to neighbors as if they could hear the joyful noise she was sharing with her newfound companion. She sashayed in Isis' direction, wearing a cotton, plaid prairie-style gown and fuzzy pink slippers, then plunked down wearily on the sofa beside Isis. "Something tells me you're going to be like the big sister I never had," she told Isis.
Isis walked over to the laundry bag, reached inside and pulled out a DVD, then returned to the sofa. When she dimmed the lamps on the end tables, Val opened her eyes, wondering what was happening and then spotted the title of the DVD: Sappho Sistas Part VI.
"What's up, Isis? I thought we would just be hanging out, just talking and playing chess or Scrabble. I mean, it being a Friday night and all," said Val.
Isis moved closer to Val, glancing up from her droopy breasts to her full lips. "I sensed downstairs, when you embraced my hand, that is -- well, I thought we had a connection, a certain, you know, under ... stand ... ing," she said, planting a kiss on Val's neck between syllables.
"Look, I don't, oo-oo-ooh --" Val was speechless for what seemed like the longest minute in her adult life. "I mean, oh, God, I mean, I'm straight, Isis."
"You mean, oh, Goddess, don't you?" said Isis, unable to hide a sly smile escaping her lightly mustachioed, dark-pink lips. Her warm tongue slithered between Val's trembling lips and then snaked along her palate. They savored the promise of sex lingering in every molecule of each other's abundant saliva while their uneven moans, as dissonant as an Indian love song, filled the emptiness of the living room.
Val's eyes were closed but her mind remained opened to Isis' entreaties. She crossed her legs as if to throw off her scent, but Isis was like a dutiful bloodhound ready for the hunt.
"Straight? Are you really?" Isis implored. She slowly lay a forefinger on Val's pouty bottom lip, then leaned her top-heavy body toward her so that Val was pressed backward against the sofa. "If you're straight, I'm a trophy wife, OK!"
The women laughed themselves into another, affectionate embrace. The DVD never had a chance that night. When Val reached for the remote, Isis slid it across the coffee table and seized Val's hand. She stood up and pulled Val to her feet, then spun her around so that she could stroke her neck from behind. Val threw her head back in surrender, inviting Isis to reach around and massage her breasts. They shared a brief joke about cup size and gravity, but when Isis hands began pulling up Val's gown from the large rear wet spot, the levity segued into staccato shrieks from Val, who had a five-octave vocal range. Groping Val's sopping pussy, Isis could not believe she had sparked such passion in her seemingly conservative neighbor. She released the gown and spun Val back around to face her, kissed her hard and long.
"Which way is your bedroom, honey? And I do mean honey because you're one sweet sticky thing," Isis said, licking the fingers from the hand that had wrung the cum from Val's unkempt bush.
"What exactly are we going to do?" Val asked coyingly and starting to walk backward toward the bedroom. At that moment, the telephone rang.
"Are you expecting another booty call," Isis asked, without a hint of amusement.
Val rolled her eyes, pursed her lip and gave her lover a silent "fuck you" before grabbing the phone.
"Hello, it's me," the voice melted into her ear.
"And what's supposed to come next, huh? I've thought about you for a long, long time," she sang, which made him laugh.
"You know I've always loved that Todd Rundgren song. Look, I'm really getting a divorce this time, Val."
"Neal, I can't keep rewinding that sordid tape of you and me making what can only be memories. Besides, this isn't a good time; I have company."
"Who's there? I bet it's --"
"It's no one you've ever met. Why don't you just forget my number, forget about me and repair your relationship with your darling wife."
"I told you we've come to an impasse. It's over, really."
"I don't believe you, Neal. Goodbye!" She disconnected him.
Isis had raided Val's fridge and among the assorted fruit and packaged deli meats had found a six-pack. She emitted a belch as she crushed the empty can. "I wish this was his face," she groveled. "You deserve better than a philanderer. Allow me to stroke the hurt away."
It was a deal that Val could not decline in her distressed state. She had thought Neal was her ideal man, always bringing her flowers after work and treating her to lavish dinners in restaurants that required reservations several months in advance. The whole time he was calling me his boo, she reflected, blind to Isis caressing her buttocks as they headed toward the bedroom in her railroad-flat apartment.
"You got any toys around here?" Isis asked bluntly.
"I stopped playing with -- oh, those toys," Val said, her wide eyes narrowing toward her androgynous seductress. "The only one I like to kill time with is my vibrator, this one," she said, reaching into a nightstand drawer for her Slim Zone, or "Slim Jim" as she liked to refer to her best friend.
"Well, if you've ever fantasized about a threesome, Jimmy and I are gonna make you cum tonight, babe," Isis said, leaning into Val, who was seated on the platform bed.
"You're already fulfilling my lesbian fantasy, Isis. I don't know if my G-spot can handle that kind of sensory overload."
They had a thrilling time finding out just how much Val could take. Roughly seven inches of the vibrator -- on high speed. Isis' technique had a failure rate of zero: First she prodded the shiny silver rod inside Val's panties, under the elastic and back inside, across her clit, then in the folds of her swollen vulva. Then she stripped off her clothing at a snail's pace while Val flung off her gown and undies. When Isis kicked her jeans over to the wall, near loosening the Sheetrock, which caused Val to snicker with nervous laughter because she knew that any damages to the apartment would be deducted from her security deposit. Isis apologized and gestured to straighten up the jeans and other articles of clothing when Val's nylon black thong slipped out of a rear pocket of Isis' jeans.
"Aha! You're the panty raider!" Val shrieked in mock-disbelief.
"Are you ready to give up other treasures?" Isis challenged, licking her swollen lips, which matched her nether quadruple set beneath her untamed forest mound. First she lubed her hand generously with her favorite brand of intimate moisturizer -- Frisky -- then slowly fisted Val until her soft mocha body quivered and tensed in sweet agony. She revved up Slim Jim, and on cue Val propped herself on her knees in front of her lover and went for a ride. With her distended breasts serviced by Isis eager lips and tongue and no brakes on the vibrator, Val bounced on the throbbing metal like jet skier braving fierce currents on a river.
Val reciprocated while Isis lay on her broad back, spreading her furry legs and exposing to Val her cum-coated mound and inner thighs. Val was so turned on that stuck her forefinger and middle finger into her goddess' gaping hole and scooped out a dollop of cream. Isis let out a scream that could be heard in the Pantheon. Val sucked the viscous white nectar from her slender brown fingers, then went back for more.
"Am I your flava?" Isis managed to ask in a hoarse voice.
"Yes, yes," Val assured her mate.
"C'mon, tell me," Isis huffed, nearly wheezing. "What's the goddess' flava? What's the flava, baby?"
"Ambrosia ... never ... goes out ... of ...style," was Val's breathy response. Then she slid the buzzing vibrator from her hole and penetrated the goddess' royal pussy.
The pair panted and shrieked, shuddering to climaxes in counterpoint and, hours later, in unison. They lay spooning each other in a huge wet spot, the vibrator still whirring on low speed due to ever-reliable lithium batteries. Four sticky hours later, dawn peeked in through sheer curtains marked by the silhouette of a fire escape. The panels, which were actually a repurposed sari, billowed in the breeze flowing from a littered, rodent-and-crackhead-infested courtyard.
As one often does close to awakening, Val shifted around in the damp sheets and murmured Isis' name. Isis had her back to her, so Val figured she allow her to sleep awhile longer. Then she changed her mind, craving early-morning sex from her musty bed partner. "Isis," she repeated. Upon hearing no response, she nudged her lover. It took an effort but she rolled Isis toward her and gasped at the sight of her lover's blank stare. Isis appeared as if she had suffered a heart attack. No blood could be found anywhere. The only sign of foul play could be found on a note taped to her agape mouth.
It was the same note on which Val had written her contact information, but someone crossed out her information with a pen and with such force that the ink barely could be seen through the rips. The tears on the paper gradually became outnumbered by Val's teardrops, which also began to obliterate a sentence printed with a black Sharpie: "NEAL WAS HERE."