Laundry

Laundry

or

Two Neurotics Almost Have Sex

[special thanks to heartlessfujo for her editorial support and expertise]

He walks into the room and freezes. She's standing there leaning against the juddering machine, jabbing at the controls. Like she's mad at them.

The dryer rumbles in the corner, tumbling what he thinks must be a bag of nickels. The clanking reverberations off the cinder block walls, the droning of the machine's motor, and the blanket-like humidity conspire to mask his entrance. He could just leave quietly right now. He wouldn't have to explain anything.

She swats the washer's lid up, clearly irritated. As the machine grinds to a halt, she looks up, sees him. Their eyes meet across the room, and something like panic flickers over each of their faces for a fraction of a second. Like they got caught.

A beat passes. The nickels clang a couple of times.

He puts on his "surprised" face, says he didn't expect to find anyone in here at four a.m. He tries casually to ignore what's in his hand.

She puts on a convincing smile, one that she's practiced. One that comforts the freshmen as they try to adjust to the emotional turmoil of moving into a residence hall, away from home for the first time. She hopes it will be enough to distract from the red puffiness around her eyes. She's not sure if it would be better if he thought his RA was high, or if he knew the truth. Decides to turn on the charm. She waves.

He waves back, polite reflexes overriding his attempt at subterfuge. His arm skids to a stop mid-wave, like that might somehow help his predicament. He sees her eyes go wide as she notices his raised hand. But there's something else there too. His embarrassment takes a backseat for a moment. Has she been crying? But then her eyes soften and the smile on her lips relaxes into a grin that's more at home on her face.

She chokes down a giggle, pretends to clear her throat. She reminds herself that even though she's several years older than him, she's still just a student like he is. But she's also a trusted employee of the Housing and Dining department. She's supposed to comport herself as a professional. But maybe because of the day she's had- or hell, even the week- something else inside her pushes back. Another part of her that wants something.

She nods for him to come closer so they can hear each other over the nickels.

He shuffles a few steps to where she stands at the machine, obviously embarrassed about being caught carrying a tiny pair of sexy women's underwear through the dorm in the middle of the night. He tries to play it cool. Stammers "I'm... sorry." He realizes, only too late, that his mouth was not in on his "cool" plan.

Another beat passes. She knits her brow, her smile transforming into something like a frown, or maybe a pout. She says "Thank you" with that lilting semi-whine that's universally understood to mean "you're so sweet." Kind of condescending. She says it on autopilot. But when she pauses to actually think about it, he really is kind of sweet. One of her freshmen, unassuming but polite, not what you'd call a ladies' man. That other part of her thinks he might even be a virgin, maybe?

She breaks from her reverie, tells him that she thought she'd never see them again. He realizes she's talking about the panties. He asks if these are *hers*, seeming almost incredulous at the idea. She's pretty sure he doesn't imagine her as "the type" to own such skimpy, gauzy things. That other part of her might want to prove him wrong.

It occurs to her that she hasn't answered his question. She explains that some asshole dude-bros like to swipe the more choice bits of women's intimate apparel from the laundry when nobody's looking. Show them off as counterfeit fuck trophies. Or leave them hanging on some chump's door handle to make him think he has a secret sex crush.

He doesn't chime in to mention that he's apparently the chump tonight. He nods, showing that he understands. But with a scowl, showing that he disapproves. He's pretty sure he's pulling that off.

Another beat passes. The nickels keep thrashing about.

"Soooo," she says, the word dropping in pitch as it stretches on. Asks if he's going to keep them, or can she have them back? That other part of her wonders which answer she'd prefer.

He screws up his face, asks with mock surprise if he's still holding those. He tells her that yeah, for sure she can have them back. They're hers after all. They are his hand in her panties. No. *Her* panties in *his* hand. These are her ... hers. Yes.

He wonders how much of that he actually said out loud, decides to just pretend that it came out better than he imagined.

She looks him over as he flounders. His white pocket t-shirt snug on his frame. His flannel pajama pants a little too on-the-nose for a college student. It's OK, he's new. He's kind of adorable, with his awkward demeanor and wholesome mid-western looks. Kind of a Clark Kent vibe.

He moves to her side of the machine, dropping the item in question into her basket with the rest of her unwashed laundry. She thanks him, turns back to her chore. He steps back, releases a breath he doesn't remember he was holding. Not sure what to do now, he scans the stuff she's piled on the table. Notes a stack of well-worn textbooks among the more mundane trappings of laundry day, an intimidating Organizational Behavior tome lying open, the pages brutally hi-lited.

Movement draws his attention back to her. She's loading her dirty things into the washing machine, turning side-on to him as she does it. But she doesn't just lean down to the basket at her feet. She squats with her knees together, grabs a handful. Levers her way upright, flexing her legs. Drops the clothes into the washer. Repeats. It looks like a workout routine, a lot more effort than is really called for, he thinks.

Before tonight, he hadn't really *seen* her. Not as anything besides her position, anyway. She organizes and keeps an eye on people, holds them responsible for the rules. She's basically an adult. But right now he sees her. Sees a set of curves, bundled in the dubious combination of short-shorts and an oversized sweatshirt bearing the emblem of some other university. Long, substantial legs that have clearly made many treks up the mountainous stairs to the library. Bare ankles that disappear into well-worn canvas sneakers. He watches her turn her back to him and start putting soap in the machine, bending slightly at the waist. The hem of her alarmingly thin short-shorts creep ever so slightly northward.

But as much as he wants to stay for the show, he doesn't want to look like a creep. He shakes off his ogling and retreats toward the exit.

Almost makes it to the door.

"God Dammit!"

The metal clang of a washer lid banging shut booms through the cramped, concrete box of a room, much louder than she would have liked.

Startled, he snaps around to see what happened. Did he do something wrong? Sees her fighting with the controls again. The look on her face says she's probably losing the battle.

He asks her if something is wrong, practically having to yell it over the din of the dryer and its nickels. She twists around to face him. Shushes him more harshly than she intends to. He's a little taken aback, partially at her rebuke, but mostly at the transformation of her face. The color in her cheeks is raised, her brow knit. She's a million miles away from the well-put-together woman he'd just encountered.

A beat passes. She waves him over, tells him she doesn't want to wake up the whole floor. He doubts anyone, anywhere could hear them over those goddamn nickels, but keeps the thought to himself. With her hand retracted into the sleeve of her cavernous sweatshirt, she rubs an eye and swipes some stray hairs off her forehead. Says that she didn't mean to go all schoolmarm on him. He waves it off. Again he asks what's wrong.

She growls a little, and complains that it's fucking ridiculous to have to stay up all night doing laundry. He asks why she has to. She pauses, not sure if she should go into it. She's not inclined to let one of her residents see how close she is to the end of her rope. How frayed it is.

She says it's not really the laundry, it's more that she doesn't have time for *anything.* That she's always going from one responsibility to the next. Classes, labs, club meetings, work-study, RA shit. Sometimes it's all just... too much. Tells him that she's got a pile of laundry tonight, a heap of cramming to do before finals, and a mountain of student debt looming over her when she graduates next semester. And it feels like everything is conspiring to be as difficult as possible, to thwart even her most trivial efforts. She swipes at her face again, lets out a long breath from puffed cheeks, says that she just needs something to go right. Something...else. That other part of her knows she'll need some help getting it.

He listens, takes it all in. The tension on her face, the strain in her voice, the welling in her eyes. Without even a hint of guile, he asks if there's anything he can do to help.

She automatically says no, the way everybody is programmed to. She repeats, out loud this time, that he's so sweet. She's just tired and shouldn't dump all her problems on him. She thanks him, then turns to grab more clothes from the basket.

He takes the hint. Decides it's time to head for the door before he ebarrasses himself further. Yeah, he should probably go now.

The nickels in the dryer sound like the world's most poorly-maintained freight train.

He says "OK, I'm gonna g-"

She says "-tually, there might be something."

She nearly stumbles into him as she turns around and steps forward without thinking, without realizing that he hadn't actually gone anywhere. In this Soviet-era Eastern European jail cell of a room, that puts them uncomfortably close. Like "that song by the Police" close.

She jumps a little in surprise, takes a tiny step back with a dismissive giggle. Gazes down at her feet, tells him in a much smaller voice that really, she could use some help.

What, with the laundry? he asks.

She asks if he's ever had that problem where you can't sleep, then you get stressed about not being able to sleep, which makes it even harder to sleep?

Sure, he says. It's a vicious cycle that's almost impossible to get through without drastic measures like drugs or...

No, she tells him. She's not trying to score weed off him. She looks away, finds an interesting spot on the wall to stare at. Says she's going through a cycle like that, not for sleep but for her whole mental health. She's been through this before.

That other part of her coaxes her to keep going.

She says there's a way to make it go away, at least for a little while. But she needs something. Something she can't seem to get on her own. She can't bring herself to look at him while confessing her need, but his wide eyes would show her that he gets it nonetheless.

Whoa, wait. Is she...? Just to make sure he's thinking what she's thinking, he asks, doesn't she uh, have something for that, like a... you know?

This conversation has clearly swerved past Questionable and is careening headlong into Wildly Inappropriate territory. But that other part of her knows what she needs, urges her to give voice to it.

"What, a boyfriend? A vibrator?" she asks with a strained chuckle. Ok, wow, she just said that, out loud, and she's still alive. That other part of her is impressed, proud even. She still won't look at him though. "Well, yeah. But one of them is an unsatisfying tool, and the other one's batteries are dead." Ba dum dump. Regardless, she tells him, neither of those things is here, now. She says she knows this makes her look like a stereotypical woman, a worn-out cliche, all needy and whining. But she needs this, now. That means here. That means him.

She clenches her gut, wills herself to raise her eyes to meet his. It feels like trying to jump off the high dive- she can't think about it, she just has to force her legs to go forward and hope for the best. She looks up, and in a throaty near-whisper, she asks, "will you help me?"

Jesus, they both think, a flutter of adrenaline rippling through their veins. She feels a jolt between her legs. A twitch makes him suddenly need to shift his stance.

This time she sees how big his eyes get. He's clearly shocked, maybe taken aback. But not that much, that other part of her points out, considering the way he makes a discreet effort to adjust his pajama pants. Still, she's quick to hedge against his objections.

"You don't have to if you don't want to. And I promise, I won't hold it against you or say anything about it either way. But I'm not asking for anything more. I just want you to help me to, well..." she stammers, biting her lip and clenching her fists inside her dangling sleeves. That other part of her provides a final little nudge to tip her over the edge, to finish the thought. "...to get off."

She dives into the void, and that other part of her falls by her side. Plunging into the deep end, they dissolve together, becoming one. Looking up at him with pleading eyes, she asks, "will you help me?"

A beat passes. Nobody notices the nickels anymore.

Of course, he says. He means, yeah, who wouldn't want to... help her? What does she want?

She releases her fists, swaps her lip-bite for an impish grin. She says not to worry, she'll tell him what to do. Moistens at the thought of what she could teach him.

He glances around the fallout shelter of a room, at the door. Wait, here? That's crazy, right? What if somebody walks in on them?

She turns to the table, scoops up the mass of textbooks, carries them to the door. Drops them on the floor, pushes them against the jamb with her foot. Transforms her burden into a bulwark against intruders.

Ok, he says. Now what?

She walks over to the washing machine, tells him to come stand with her. He nods, snapping to her heel like an eager puppy. She says that she needs to be right here, with the machine between her and the door. She plants her feet, her thighs astride the outer edge of the washer. She sidles up to the smooth, gently-curved wedge of its unyielding metal body. She leans forward.

From the door where he entered, it would look like she was merely leaning against the washing machine, completely casual. But from here, he can see her rocking on the balls of her feet, just barely shifting her weight forward and back. She's pressing her pelvis deliberately against the vertical edge of the washer. Making tentative contact, backing off. Furtive, teasing. A subtle bounce.

With each press, she guides the middle seam of her shirt-thin shorts against the appliance's stationary bulk. Eases the edge directly between her barely-covered folds. Twists her hips ever so slightly to slip her hardening bud across the metal rim. With only the insubstantial fabric of her short-shorts between her skin and the machine, every tap sends a little electric spark up her spine. Each contact buzzes a little stronger. Holds herself to the ridge a little longer. Within moments, a warm slickness rises to the surface between her legs.

She tells him to stand behind her. He complies without hesitation, wedging himself between her and the table where she's piled her things. He catches a trace of earthy-sweet aroma as he brushes across her scantily-clad backside.

She tells him to start the washer. He strains toward the controls, his entire front pressing against her backside. He reaches over her shoulder, turns the dial to NORMAL, presses the ON button. The machine staggers to life, clunking and gurgling.

Before he can relax back into his stance, she reaches behind her, grabs his waist, halts his return. They stand cheek to cheek. She turns her head slightly toward him, whispers in his ear. Tells him not to worry. She's not going to take anything from him, spoil him for anyone else. She's not going to fuck him. She just needs his help. Needs him to be... right... here. Can he do this for her? Does he want to do this for her?

A nod. A barely audible "mm-hmm." His heart pounding against her back. Yes.

She slides her hand down from his waist, finds his knee. She pulls it forward between her parted thighs, guides it to a precise position against the washer. Tells him not to move. Feet flat on the floor, she bends her knees. Lowers herself slowly. Cradles her divide between his thigh and the machine.

The washer shifts into its normal cycle, humming and pulsing. She bears down, dragging her thinly-veiled mound forward along his thigh, toward the noisy machine. The front of her shorts comes into contact with the thrumming metal ridge. She presses her weight against it, parting the crest of her swelling lips on the appliance's frame. Vibrations rumble through her. Jitters radiate from her clit and bounce around inside her. Savoring the sensations, she takes her time sliding her damp crevice up the rim, then returns to where she started.

She repeats the motion, following a cyclical path: down his thigh, to the washer, up its edge, back to him.

He leans his weight back on the table behind him. A haze blankets his mind. From the humidity in the air. Or the heat of her body against his. The hypnotic rhythm of her movements. Her well-toned legs piston her body in circles. Over his growing bulge. She's a machine. Again. A pumpjack in an oil field. Again. A steam engine. Again. The leg of his gauzy pants begins to darken as her moisture seeps through their clothes.

There's a bubble inside her, growing bigger with each pass. Warm like the perfect bath. Tingling like that feeling in your stomach while you wait for your grades to be posted. Itching like a bug bite you just can't reach. The bubble presses out against all of her pleasure points- her clit, her pussy, her ass, her nipples. They're all connected through the bubble's expanse, a prickling, twitchy heat seeping through her. She wants it to explode and fill her with all the promises inside. She coaxes the bubble ever larger: dragging, pressing, sliding, releasing. Again. Again.

But just as she reaches the line where agony becomes ecstacy, her pump falters. She hits a plateau. The bubble has swollen so much, it's crushing her from the inside, prolonging her anguish. But it won't burst. Not like this. Not without more help.

She tells him to come closer, to sharpen the angle between his leg and the wall of the washer. They scissor into this more cramped position, wedging her crotch tightly between his upper thigh and the rounded corner of the machine. Further up his leg now, he feels the heat of her restless pussy radiating through their clothes, right into his aching cock. Makes him even harder.

Suspended at this height, she can barely keep contact with the floor. She flexes her legs, arches her feet. She's on her tiptoes, crinkling the canvas of her shoes. She wouldn't be able to hold this position on her own. She's grateful for his help, but still aches for release. She reaches forward, cranks the dial to SPIN.

The shuddering unit goes quiet for a heartbeat, then begins whirring. Its motion intensifies with the rising whine of a high-speed turbine. She eases forward, lines herself up with the washer's corner, leans in. The vibration arcs through her clit like an electric shock. Too much. The jolt numbs her, nearly paralyzes her. She rocks back away from the machine, and a rush of sensation crashes through her like thunder. She grinds her pussy back over his cock, then forward again onto the washer. Vibrating. Precise. Unyielding. Again her pussy is jolted, again she retreats back across him. She's desperate for the raw mechanical power of the machine to release the pressure building inside her. But she needs his pliant warmth to keep the explosion from destroying her.