Laundry

Her circular motion gives way to a back-and forth movement. Driven not by pistoning her legs, but by rocking her hips. Sawing. Quick arcs. Short.

He leans into her. Sweat works its way into his vision. Is it that much work to stand here? To stand in just the right spot, the right pose. To hold her in place where she needs to be. To endure the exquisite torment, the damp friction that she rakes across his groin. To help. He's so hard it almost hurts. He never wants her to stop.

She said she wasn't going to fuck him.

She leans over the machine, head tilted down, arms straight, elbows locked, palms pressed against the lid. Barely touching the floor, gravity pulling all of her into this singular effort. Back, forth. Flesh, steel. Comfort, agony.

She closes her eyes, seeing only inside herself. Sees the bubble swell, surely bigger than possible. It bulges against her flesh, insistent. She has to burst it before it tears her apart. She has to. She grits her teeth, biting down a whimper. She quickens her pace, her hips snapping, whiplike. Grinding against him faster and faster. Desperate. Frenzied. Furied.

She really wants to fuck him.

He doesn't know if he can take it. She's frantic, her full force intent on her need. He watches a bright red blush spread up her neck. Hears her breathing turn staccato. Struggles against the burning friction between his leg, his aching cock, the dampened fabric of their clothes, her burning pussy. He's so fucking hard. He might not hold on long enough. Bites his lip, focuses every ounce of restraint on helping her through this.

Then she feels it. The muscles in her legs tighten, freeze. She locks herself at the apex of her thrust, her clit firm against the corner of the washer's unrelenting vibration. A twitch. Oh god. It's finally enough. Oh fuck. It's finally here.

A blinding bolt arcs through her, penetrates the agonizing, swollen bubble. A fraction of a second of stillness. A dazzling, silent flash. A thunderous peal of pleasure shudders within her, rebounding off every contour of her body. White-hot sparks cascade across every nerve, overload her, sever mind and body.

Muscles contract and release. Her legs quiver then fail her, feet rising from the floor. His leg is all that holds her up, her thighs clamping against the sides of the machine, convulsing. Her body quakes, reflexes buck her hips against the metal frame. Once. Twice. Again.

He feels her come. Watches the pleasure wrack her body. It's too much. He can't take it. His will dissolves, and in its place a smoldering need arises. This unfamiliar urge seizes control, stokes the desire pent up inside him.

He's done helping. He doesn't even recognize himself as he places his hand on the back of her neck. Sees her look back at him, her face flushed and surprised. Feels her resistance crumble as he gently, but firmly, presses her down onto the top of the washer, her cheek held firm against the metal lid. Watches her eyes widen as he pins her in place atop the machine, her feet still off the floor.

She furrows her brow. Disoriented by his abrupt ascendance, the sudden shift between them. Confused by the quickness of her descent. Surprised by the arousal that kindles within her so soon after her dissolution. Pushing back the sweat-dampened hair plastered to her face, she locks eyes with him.

He holds her gaze. Holds her down. One hand clamping her neck, the other clutching her hip, digging his fingers into her flesh through her flimsy shorts. He doesn't know where this aggression is coming from. It consumes him. The whole world shrinks to the friction between them. His pulse pounds in his ears, throbs in his fierce erection. He thrusts it against her. His swollen cock itches, begs for release. He thrusts against her. His balls tighten, ready to explode. He thrusts. Tenses. Thrusts.

She feels it building again. Not just the renewed friction rasping against the echo of her hard-won orgasm. Something else. Not just the thudding of his head against the bottom of her still-swollen clit. Something different. Something about letting go. About being held down. His weight on her allows no escape. She grips the edge of the machine.

One more thrust. He holds it. Shit. This is it. Shit.

He grunts. His cock spasms, crushed against the drenched gauze that covers her twitching, swollen pussy. He erupts, unseen strands of cum saturing the fabric between them. His ass clenches with each burst.

Another force tears through her, this time a low, rumbling tremor. Her face burns an even darker red, her stare unbroken. No longer under her own control, her lips form a tight circle. Unbidden, her diaphragm lets out a long, low moan. It sounds like "oh," held in place and protracted. Not shouty, or enthusiastic, or ecstatic. An earthy, laborious "ooooooooooooh."

Overwhelmed, she surrenders to the tumult.

She doesn't remember closing her eyes until she opens them again. Like fog burning off in the sun, that other part of her recedes. Her vision clears, the blur resolving into the Cold War bunker of the laundry room. She feels a heavy weight lift from her. Maybe it's just him letting her up, but she feels 1000 pounds lighter. Like she has actual, functioning lungs again. The tension in her jaw expelled, her anxiety exorcised.

She returns her attention to the world around her. Lowers herself back down from the washing machine, her rubber soles squeaking as they touch the floor. She turns around, leans on the washing machine to steady herself. Sees him reclined against the table. His hair rustled. His t-shirt sweaty, clinging to his chest.

The machines have gone silent. The nickels are gone.

He runs a hand through his hair, self-conscious again. What the hell did he just do? He gives her a slightly confused grin. Mumbles an apology about whatever that last part was all about.

She shushes him, this time with a coy smile. Back in control. She thanks him for his help, tells him it was just what she needed. That she feels so much better. That he's super sweet. She pivots toward the washer again, clanks the lid open, starts rooting around. Turns her head back to him, glances down, nods in the general direction of his pants. With a teasing glimmer in her eyes, says she can tell he got something out of it too.

He follows her gaze, notices the darkened patch on the leg of his pajamas, sticking to his thigh, almost down to his knee. He stammers. Says he probably should do something about that. Jerks his thumb over his shoulder toward the door, says he's gonna go... do... that. Says he'll see her later or something? Yikes.

She says OK, yeah. That she hopes it's sooner rather than later.

With just a sliver of what he imagines to be swagger, he turns and heads for the door. Casually swipes the books aside with his foot. Just as he turns the knob, she tells him to wait. He pauses, turns around. She walks over, hiding something in her fist. When she reaches him, she holds it up, unfolds it in front of his face. A pair of her panties. That pair. Damp from the washer. She places a hand on his chest, stuffs the underwear into his shirt pocket with the other.

"You've earned these this time," she says. Kisses his cheek, then turns him back to the door with a playful push and a grin.