tagNonHumanLaundry Day

Laundry Day


Carl stopped dead in his footsteps as he came to the door of the laundry room. It was at the bottom of a set of dark and dingy stairs, in the basement of his tenement building where he was staying. As a college student, he couldn't afford his own place, so he was left doing a sort of "community" living arrangement, until he was done the semester at least. He was in no place to complain about the dark and dismal set of stairs that led to an even darker and more dismal basement.

At least the laundry room itself was very well lit, with a horrid fluorescent light that hung from the ceiling and looked most days like it was about to drop right down ontop of whoever was hanging around below.

Today, it was lit. And full of steam from the washers and dryers lining the rectangular room's walls. Music blared from an old radio that somehow managed to pick up one of the Latin dance stations all the way down here.

Someone else was doing laundry tonight.

She had her eyes closed, and was leaning against the washing machine she was using. Her back was arched slightly, her shoulders back, her head tilted back slightly so that her long brown hair hung down behind her, almost to her waist. She was wearing a pair of denim cutoff shorts that used to be jeans, and the frayed edges were so short they rode up to the tops of her thighs, barely covering any of her ass. One leg was bent and flexing to the beat of the salsa or whatever that was playing on the radio.

Her eyes were closed but from where Carl was watching, he could see the long curve of her dark brown lashes against her high cheekbones. Her lips were full and dark, giving off the look of a woman in lust. As the minutes passed and Carl stood watching in awe, he came to realize why.

The washing machine was just below her waist level, an old beat up white beast of a machine. It was in the spin cycle, and rattling so fast it wasn't even sitting on all four of its old pegs at any given time. It rocked and shook against the girl, who stood poised infront of it as if to stop it. But as Carl squinted at the stranger, he saw there was more to it than that.

The vibrating machine was bumping rhythmically against the girl's privacy. She had curved her hips up and under, thrusting her pelvic bone forward against the painted steel of the machine. With shorts as tight and firmly gripping her flesh as these that she wore, the machine was likely giving her a humming thrilling sensation she could not find anywhere else.

Carl watched, enraptured, for quite a few minutes. Then a more familiar tune came on the radio, one sung by a Latina singer who could sing in both Spanish and English, and often did. He knew the beat, knew the English words; but hearing her singing now in Spanish made the song much more beautiful. The rhythm of the music quickly drowned out his movements as he came into the laundry room and lightly set his hamper of clothes down on the counter that ran the center of the room.

He moved his hands to his hips, watching the stranger. She had to be another student, he thought. Only students stayed in this tenement, during this time of the year. But it was mid semester, and she wasn't one of his regular roomies. Probably staying on the floor below. But still, if she was a student, he should have seen her before, on campus.

He lifted his hand to his hair, wiping his forehead free of the humidity clinging to his skin. Then he peeled off his sleeveless T-shirt and dropped it on the pile of clothes next to him. Carl ran his fingers through his dark hair and returned to watching the girl.

She swayed her hips side-to-side, not hearing a single sound Carl made. She was rubbing her pussy against the machine now, pushing against it and then dragging it to one side before changing directions. It was very hot to watch as her hands left the machine and went to her ribs, then up her burgundy tank top, up to her chest.

As Carl watched, her long-fingered hands cupped her breasts from underneath, holding the round mounds with a familiarity that made Carl gulp.

I wish those were my hands, he thought.

Carl chewed his lip. He'd read enough letters in porn mags to know what was possible and what wasn't. He'd also grown up with the lesson that you never got what you wanted by waiting for someone to give it to you. If you wanted something, you took it. If you failed to get it, you moved on until you found what was meant for you.

I won't know till I try, Carl thought, his mind reeling at the new ideas he was having.

Carefully, he reached over and closed the door to the laundry room. The girl did not turn. Then he stood, facing her.

She was silhouetted from behind by the light of the common bathroom on the other side of the washing machines and dryers. He just had to walk by her, let her know he was there, and act as if he was going to the bathroom. The rest would be up to her.

You never know until you try, he told himself.

Then he began to walk.

Slowly, but with self-assured footsteps, Carl began to move. He was coming closer to her. He could smell her slight musky sweat, mixed with a vanilla perfume that was pure heaven and got stronger as he got closer.

Now to get her attention, he reminded himself.

As Carl began to encroach on the girl's personal space, he put out his hand, the hand on the same side as she was. He continued walking, his fingertips running across the washing machines. Closer he got to her, closer, closer.

Then he was right next to her, inhaling her scent.

His fingers grazed along the curve of her bare brown-skinned thigh.

Keep moving, he warned himself, forcing his eyes to stare straight ahead at the bathroom.

His fingers moved over her body in the space of a heartbeat, and he felt her shiver suddenly as they dipped beneath the arc of her buttocks, dragging along the line of denim that was cutting softly into the backs and tops of her thighs. Her body shifted forward, pressing her further against the machine, and Carl kept walking.

In another footstep, his fingers had graced along the line that separated her thighs from each other and moved onto the other leg. Then he was no longer in contact with her.

There, done, he thought to himself, feeling his fingers come free.

The rest is up to her.

He barely had time to finish the thought.

The girl had gripped his wrist tightly in her fingers, tugging, and Carl was forced to stop and turn around. He turned to face her, looking at the soft milky-coffee color of her skin over his whiter flesh, her painted nails on the hand that held him fast. Slowly his eyes traveled up her arm, over her shoulder, up to her face. He was now staring into the most beautiful set of hazel eyes he had ever seen. Her mouth was slightly open, and she looked anything but indignant at his intimacy.

As the moments passed, she stared at him, blinking slowly. Then the washing machine bumped her again, forcing her into motion. She was pulling Carl closer now, drawing him in like a fish on a line. Then her hand released him, and he realized he was being propelled forward, towards her, of his own free will.

His lips met hers in a very hot and immediately deep kiss, her tongue seeking and finding his nestled in the recesses of his mouth. She toyed with it for a moment before pulling away.

Carl looked into her eyes and saw she was searching his gaze. Then she kissed him again, and he realized what she was looking for – she wanted to feel his fire, his desire, his response to her. And he wasn't going to let her down. He moved his hands to her hips, his body slipping easily behind hers and pushing her up against the washing machine. Their mouths separated but their bodies were firmly curved and ensconced against each other.

The music played on, loudly, and the washing machine rattled. As Carl came up behind the girl, she slid her hands over the top of the washing machine, pushing her bottom out against the taller man behind her. Carl moved his mouth to her neck, finding his tongue wet and in need of action. He lapped against the curve of her shoulder, where it became her neck, and slipped up to her earlobe, flicking there as his hands dropped to beneath her arms. He rubbed over her hips, and down to the hem of her flimsy shirt. Then he was lifting it, feeling the hot flesh of her back against his belly. He tossed the shirt aside, his mouth moving to the top of her spine.

She tasted salty, and smelled divine, the vanilla scent of her skin flowing and wafting over Carl's nose, filling his mouth as he tongued her shoulder blades. She shivered, her back arching. Carl moved his hands to the waist of her shorts now, slipping them infront of her and easily undoing the button and zipper there.

Then, suddenly, she was naked infront of him. He took a few moments to enjoy the look of her there, posed infront of him like a model pulled from a magazine and set into the most un-typical background possible.

How this vixen came to be in a student tenement's laundry room, Carl might never know. But he'd be damned if he let a gift from the gods pass unadorned. He dragged his fingers up her back, then down her ribs. From behind like this, he pressed himself into her buttocks, letting her feel the thickness of his cock through his jeans.

The music was blaring, filling their ears as she filled his senses with her delights. His hands squeezed her breasts, pulled at the chocolate nipples, and he looked over her shoulders, watching his fingers tease the areolas to a stiff erectness. She was panting now, but he couldn't hear her over the loud Latina wailing about love for just one night.

Tonight was Carl's night.

He watched as his hands slipped down her stomach, and in between her thighs. She was dark furred there, and he pulled her apart gently, fingering her wet folds. Then he grunted and pushed her forward with his groin, until she was pressing her exposed and sensitive cunt against the steel of the machine.

She gasped. But she did not make him stop.

Carl released her, noting she kept herself pressed forward, her puss not leaving the rocking, bumping washing machine. He reached to the front of his jeans and undid them, letting them drop to the floor. He couldn't resist looking down.

The woman had no tan lines. She was perfectly colored though, sun-kissed completely. He put his hands on her buttocks, slipping a finger down the crack of her behind and teasing at the flower of her anus. Then he let his finger go lower, feeling the swollen inner labia that outlined her slit.

She was hot. She was ready. And no one was around.

Carl took his cock in his hand, and guided it to her tight hole. He teased around with the head of it, and she groaned, looking at him over her shoulder, looking down to see where he was going. One of her hands went to his hip, behind her, and her painted nails clawed at him desperately.

He forced himself suddenly up inside her sheath, and she inhaled sharply, almost whining. He pushed himself as deep into her as he could go, pulling back on her by gripping tightly on her hips. Then he moved one of his hands to infront of her, separating her at last from the machine that had been toying with her clitoris since they had begun.

Carl found the hot little button easily, teasing now at the pearl with his fingertips and driving the girl mad. She writhed between Carl and the machine, which was now gyrating madly against them both as if trying to escape their intimacy or join in. He pushed her forward with every thrust, forcing her against his hand, which was vibrating and humming from the washer.

He could feel her bones shaking to the rhythm of the machine. He could feel her hips moving to the rhythm of the music. And he could feel her body dancing to the whimsy of his fingers and cock inside her.

Carl continued to fuck her, his movements speeding up as the song began its high crescendo and climax. He moved his fingers all over the girl's privacy, stroking her folds as he fucked her hole.

Then she was cumming, her hair swinging wildly as she tossed her head side to side. Her face was an erotic grimace of pleasure, and Carl almost stopped his thrusting to watch her. But then he felt her cunt stroking him in its orgasmic ecstasy, and he found himself forced up deep inside her, gripping her by the hips again as he came.

He filled her with his hot seed, almost able to feel the pounding whir of the washing machine through her body. He forced again inside her, spurting. And then he was done.

Carefully, they began to pull their bodies apart. Their eyes met, but their faces were flushed, with embarrassment as much as with desires freshly satiated. The machine finished its cycle and came to rest slanted, on only three pegs. The girl turned around and around, finding first her tank top, then her shorts.

Carl pulled on his pants, and quickly excused himself from the laundry room. As he began to run up the stairs, though, he realized he'd never done his laundry. And he'd left his keys ontop of his clothes. Slowly, he walked back down the stairs and opened the door.

He peered inside, ready to make excuses as to why he wasn't walking away like he should be. But no one was there. He went to the bathroom, it was open, light still on. But no one was there.

The room was empty.

Carl was dumbfounded. Had it all been a highly erotic but terribly delusional and psychotic episode of some sort?? He began to pile his laundry into the washing machine, shaking his head.

Then he smelled it. Vanilla musk. It was all over his skin, all over his clothes, even the ones that had stayed in the basket while he had...enjoyed...the stranger.

The entire room smelled of heavenly, divine vanilla musk. Carl smiled. If it was a dream, it was the best dream he'd ever had.

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