The Laundry Room

Well, I’d officially reached rock bottom. Here it was, a Friday night in this midsize town in upstate New York, and here I was, doing my laundry.

I’m Fiona Ryan. Yep, you got it–I’m Irish. Or at least, of Irish ancestry. My people came from the Emerald Isle several generations back, so I guess that makes me about as American as they come. I’m twenty-six, and I think I’m fairly good-looking. I have this nice oval face surrounded by jet-black hair, and even though I’m slender, I have boobs that will make any man salivate (36D, if you care to know). And I have firm, curvy butt that more than one guy has called a work of art.

So why the hell didn’t I have a date for Friday night?

Okay, the town we live in isn’t exactly New York City, and maybe eligible men aren’t as common as they could be. But they’re out there. For some reason they haven’t figured out what a glorious piece of femininity I am. Not to be crude about it, but it’s been months since a guy stuck his dick into me, and I’m already getting pretty crabby and irritable about that. Men aren’t the only ones who need regular sex to feel right.

Anyway, here I was in the laundry room in the basement of the fairly big apartment building I lived in. The room itself was pretty cavernous, and to my dismay it was totally deserted. Well, why wouldn’t it be at around 10 p.m. on a Friday night? Most normal people had better things to do than wash their clothes: they could go to restaurants, dance in a club, or get laid.

I was doing none of those things.

I was stuffing the clothes into the washer all higglety-pigglety–unmentionables along with skirts, blouses, and even a few towels and washcloths. But so what? There wasn’t anybody around to criticize my laundry etiquette. Once the washer started, I debated on what I should do. Usually I stuck around to make sure that no one walked off with my things, but with the place looking like a ghost town I wondered whether I should bother. But then, sitting around in my empty apartment didn’t sound like a load of laughs either. So I just decided to wait there, watching my stuff get all sudsy from the detergent.

Actually, I pulled out a paperback book and started to read it. To my amazement, I got engrossed in it, so I was surprised how quickly the washing machine finished with my clothes. I put the book down and heaved the stuff into a dryer, inserting several quarters into the machine for a cycle that would probably run about twenty-five minutes.

It was only when the dryer was almost done that I noticed the guy.

I thought I recognized him–he must have lived in some unit not terribly far from mine. He was fairly big–almost six feet tall (compared to my five foot six)–and pretty stocky. Not at all bad-looking, as far as guys went. His hair was dark and untidy, but I didn’t mind that. And his face looked sort of craggy, kind of like the old Dick Tracy cartoon.

Only he didn’t have the bearing of Dick Tracy. In fact, the guy looked about as scared as a rabbit transfixed by a coyote bearing down on him.

And what he seemed scared of was–me.

Maybe that sounds silly. The guy probably weighed close to two hundred pounds, and I’m just a little over half that. But there are plenty of guys out there who find women terrifying, for all kinds of reasons. I smirked to myself, thinking: Well, if this guy tries anything funny, then I’ll just use his fear of me to my advantage.

I really didn’t know what this guy wanted. He was far away in another part of the room, but he wasn’t doing any laundry; he was clearly fixated on me. He tried not to stare, but there wasn’t anywhere else to look–I mean, no one’s going to find much entertainment gawking at row after row of washers and dryers. But he was doing his damnedest not to seem as if he was staring at me.

I just rolled my eyes. I may be what old books from the nineteenth century called “a little slip of a girl,” but I’m no shrinking violet. In my fairly wild college days I’d dealt with my share of arrogant guys who were full of themselves–especially those who thought they were God’s gift to women. Hah, what a laugh! I’d put more than one of those jerks in their place with swift kicks (in a manner of speaking) to their posteriors. So a little weasel (well, okay, a big weasel) like this guy didn’t frighten me a bit.

I stuffed my laundry in a basket and headed upstairs. There was no elevator, just several different flights of stairs in this five-story building. Just to be on the safe side, I made sure the guy wasn’t following me. He didn’t seem to be.

And yet, when I got to my apartment, put the basket down to fish out the key from the pocket of my pants, and opened the door–well, the next thing I knew the guy was right behind me, shoving me in and closing the door behind him.

This was an interesting development! Even so, I wasn’t alarmed. Remember, I’m a tough gal, and I’d dealt with the likes of him before. But, as he peered at me, his face breaking out in sweat (it was a warm night in June, and the humidity hadn’t tapered off yet), the one thought that ran through my mind was: This guy is, like, petrified.

I could see the whites of his eyes all around his pupils as he stared at me, and his breathing was kind of fast and ragged. I’m pretty sure he was startled, even horrified, at what he’d done. Here he was in someone else’s apartment–and a woman’s at that. I could already have him arrested for something. I knew that the way to get out of this awkward predicament was to be firm with him.

“Look, guy,” I said severely, “I don’t know who you are or what you want, but you’d better get out of here right now.”

The thing was that he was in front of the door, and he’d have to be the one to open it and vamoose. And he didn’t seem to show any inclination to do that. I looked him over more carefully–and I have to admit that the tight little T-shirt he was wearing and the super-short shorts (almost like swimming trunks) he had on made me think certain things that, at this moment, I probably shouldn’t be thinking of.

I put my laundry basket down and sized him up. Maybe an appeal to his good side–he probably did have a good side, since he wasn’t lunging at me or anything–would help.

“Hey,” I said, “you seem like a nice fellow, so why don’t you just leave me alone? You don’t want to get into trouble, do you?”

That didn’t seem to have much effect either. But then he did something that I didn’t expect at all.

He came toward me and fell on his knees in front of me. Wrapping his arms around my hips, he . . . How can I put this? He started to cry.

It was more like sobbing or even wailing. There were real tears coming out of his eyes–I could feel them getting my pants wet. Jesus, what the hell was going on? Men don’t cry, do they? They’re not supposed to, anyway. But then, maybe they should every now and then. There might be fewer scumbags in the world.

But what he didn’t notice–although I did–was that, while he was holding me in a vise grip around my midsection, his actions were causing my pants (they were just some old sweat pants with a fairly worn-out elastic band around the waist) to slip down over my hips. And my underwear was going with them.

Incredibly, the guy didn’t pay the slightest attention to the fact that, now, his face was pressed up against my naked delta. That’s right: the guy was crying right into my pubic hair. (Yes, I have a bush–a pretty thick one.) That was a first for me! The situation was getting pretty embarrassing. I’d actually long gotten over the fear of this guy: as I’ve mentioned, he seemed a lot more scared of me than I was of him. But I couldn’t help noticing that his hands were now pawing my butt as he continued to press his face into my groin.

Then all of a sudden he did figure out what was happening. He stopped crying for just a moment; then, sniffling, he began to lick me.

Okay, I admit it: I’d gotten wet. Well, wouldn’t you? My pussy has a pretty distinctive aroma when my juices start flowing, and this guy must have detected it. I’d somehow thought he was totally inexperienced with women; but the way he was tenderly licking and sucking on my labia and clitoris–well, he at least knew something about turning a girl on!

I knew I shouldn’t be enjoying this whole thing. I mean, this guy had broken into my place! Well, okay, it wasn’t quite like that–but he had no business here, and I didn’t even know the first thing about him. But the feel of his big, warm hands on my bottom and that delving tongue probing my cleft and making it even wetter was too much for me. I spread my legs a little further so he could have better access to my pussy, and I put both of my hands on his head and held it against my abdomen.

Oh, man, this guy was a good pussy-licker! Trust me, I’ve had all sorts of guys try that technique down there, and not a whole lot of them have passed the test. But this guy had a sort of intuitive knowledge of what to do–nuzzling me just hard enough to stimulate me, but not too hard so that it would get uncomfortable. My legs now started to quiver, and I held on to his head more tightly–mostly so I wouldn’t just fall down as my knees shook.

And then I came.

It really was one of the better climaxes I’ve had in a while. Way better than doing it myself–which is all I’d been doing the past few months. I was actually quite touched by this guy’s consideration: all he seemed to want to do was to give me pleasure. Too bad there aren’t more men like him! And he instinctively knew that it was possible to prolong a woman’s orgasm for minute after minute by gentle but relentless strokes and licks. In fact, my sensations went on so long that my knees finally did buckle and I slipped to the floor, landing on my back with my legs open. He slipped down with me, his face still buried in my sex, until he finally stopped and looked up at me, his lips glistening with my wetness.

“Was that nice?” he asked with a pathetic need for reassurance.

“You bet it was!” I said, then felt ashamed at being so enthusiastic. I mean, I really didn’t want to encourage this guy. Or did I?

He beamed at me benevolently. Then he stood up and calmly undressed.

Well, I figured that would happen. No way a guy like him was going to service me without wanting to get serviced in return.

But, in the half-minute it took for him to take his clothes off, I was the one gaping at him.

He had a member that was at least eight inches, maybe closer to nine. Not the absolute biggest one I’d ever seen, but pretty close. And it was so hard that it stood straight up, pressing up against his belly.

Well, this was now getting a little more serious–at least for me. I’d had a great time getting oral stimulation from him, but I had to remember that he was essentially a stranger who had invaded my personal space, and was now clearly planning to invade my body.

Was I going to let him?

He still had this sad/solemn/frightened look on his face as he knelt down between my opened legs and peeled off my thin sweatshirt. I wasn’t wearing a bra, so I was now completely naked, just as he was. When he caught sight of my nudity, he kind of gasped and, as his face scrunched up in a strange kind of grimace, he let out a little “Oh!”

I think I’m fairly attractive–but this guy seemed to think I was Marilyn Monroe. Very flattering! But I still didn’t know what was going to happen.

He was looming up above me as I lay on my back. I said, “Guy, do you really want to do this?”

I thought he was going to break down and cry again. In a croaking voice he said, “I got to.” And then he stroked my cheek in the gentlest way that any man has ever done.

By now I’d pretty much conceded that this guy was going to cork me. I mean, once a woman is in this situation, there’s really not much she can do, is there?

“Look,” I said, trying to delay things, “I don’t really care to do this on the floor. Can we move to the bed?”

My floor was carpeted, but even so, the thought of having this big guy put his weight on me while I was pressed against the floor was not appealing. He got up right away and held out a hand to help me up. Ever the gentleman! It was only a few steps to my tiny bedroom, and once we were there I felt I had no choice but to flop onto the bed and spread my legs for him once more.

I had now reached the stage where I really wanted him in me.

It wasn’t just my months-long sexual drought, although that had something to do with it. If it was only that, you’d be right to think I was some kind of slut or harlot. No, it was him: his tenderness, his weird gallantry, even the fear that still dogged him as he contemplated that most mysterious of creatures to his simple, masculine brain–the human female. I got the feeling he was one of these guys who think all women are totally inscrutable and baffling, never to be figured out. It was what some old guy had said long ago–“the eternal feminine.”

Even as he clambered onto me, I could tell that this man was fascinated with every part of me–not just the obvious parts (tits, pussy, ass), but my face, my shoulders, my back, my thighs, even the back of my knees. They were of compelling interest to him just because they belonged to a female. He was gazing at me with a kind of awe and wonder, as if he’d never seen anything like me before.

Then he entered me.

I won’t deny it felt good–real good. In fact, he slipped in kind of fast, and more than half of his length went right into me. I said, “Easy, guy! Not all at once!” He seemed mortified and cried, “I’m sorry!” So he pulled out a little, and then probed me more slowly. But as he got into a good rhythm, he went in farther and farther, until he was in all the way. Oh, man, did I feel impaled!

Even though I still knew next to nothing about this guy, and even though I was still not entirely sure I should have let him probe me like this, my body reacted on its own. It was kind of like muscle memory. My legs automatically wrapped themselves around his thighs, my arms crossed themselves around his neck, and I responded to his burning kisses with kisses of my own. For all anyone could tell, we could have been long-lost lovers who had suddenly gotten back together and wanted to do nothing but fuse our bodies with each other. Somehow, when a guy goes into you, you really feel as if you know him.

I had a feeling he couldn’t hold out very long: he’d been keyed up ever since forcing his way into my place. Sure enough, within five minutes he shot his wad.

So there it was. I’d come, he’d come, and he’d deposited his seed into me. We’d established a bond that would last forever, no matter what happened in the future.

He didn’t pull out right away. I kind of like a man to rest on me after he’s come, even if he puts his whole weight on me; but after a few minutes I started to find it hard to breathe, so I urged the guy to get off. He slipped wetly out of me and rolled off onto his back next to me.

I have to say I was annoyed with him about one thing. “Thanks for coming in me, guy,” I said sharply.

Once more this horrified look came over his face, and he looked over toward me. “Are you going to get pregnant?” he asked, as if wondering if a nuclear bomb was going to fall on us at any moment.

“No,” I said, “I’m protected. But you could have asked.”

He lapsed into a kind of brooding melancholy, seemingly wanting to kick himself for his thoughtlessness.

“Are you done, guy?” I said. “Ready to leave?”

I wasn’t absolutely certain I wanted him out of my place. I should have, I suppose, but now that we’d done “the deed” there was something strangely comforting about his presence. But the thought of leaving so soon after we’d achieved intimacy agitated him, and without warning he lifted me up and dumped me on top of himself, so that I landed kind of heavily on his chest. I let out a comical “Oof!” but he didn’t seem to feel the weight of my body at all.

He at once started cuddling me, stroking my back (and, especially, my bottom) while giving me tender little kisses on my face and neck and shoulders. Man, this guy just seemed to know everything about pleasing a woman, even though he otherwise seemed like a rube from the country. So many guys just can’t trouble themselves to snuggle up with a girl after sex, to convey the idea that it wasn’t just the physical pleasure they were after.

But this guy’s cuddling had another effect. In short, he got hard again.

I guess I should have expected that. I’d been with plenty of men who couldn’t get it up after they’d come once–but others took a certain pride in rising to the occasion a second time. This guy didn’t seem to be smug about his new erection; it was just an inevitable part of his fascination with me.

I won’t deny that I wanted a second round too. The first one had been kind of short: he’d been too excited to last very long.

“What’s this I feel down there?” I said in mock annoyance, pressing my belly against his cock to get it even harder.

“It’s all your doing,” he said with a touch of resentment.

“So . . . you want to do it again?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Maybe he was thinking we should try some weird position. But what he finally said surprised me–even though it probably shouldn’t have, given how enthusiastically he’d been massaging my butt.

“Can I go in back here?” he said with pathetic reluctance.

I rolled my eyes. “You want to do that?”

“Yeah.”

“Have you done it before?”

“No. But I’ve always wanted to try.” After a little pause: “Have you done it before?”

“I have, but I’m a bit out of practice. Anyway, we need lube.”

This conversation–which clearly suggested (to him, anyway) that I was willing and eager for rear entry–caused him to push me off of himself, as he almost leaped from the bed and made his way to my bathroom. I could hear him fishing around in my medicine cabinet for something that would work as lube.

He came back with an amusingly triumphant look on his face. He was holding my jar of cold cream.

“You’re gonna put that up my butt?” I said incredulously.

“Do you think it will work?” he said, as if suggesting an unorthodox answer to a math problem.

“I suppose so,” I said, rolling myself over onto my stomach.

I waited for him to do the job. If I was going to let him into my derrière, he was going to have to lube me up. I could tell he was a bit reluctant to put his fingers in that orifice, but he eventually worked up the courage to do so; he used the remnants on his fingers to put some of the stuff on his cock, which now seemed even bigger than before, anticipating this exciting new procedure.

He carefully got on top of me, recognizing that his big frame might be difficult for me to take. With one hand he slowly guided his dick into the hole in question. He seemed surprised how much effort it took–it’s pretty tight, you know! But then, all of a sudden, several inches of him slipped in at once, making me gasp with surprise.

“I’m sorry!” he cried in abject misery.

“It’s all right,” I said, breathing hard. “Just go easy, okay?”

He tried to do that, but his thrill at being in a girl’s posterior soon got to be too much for him. He began pounding me vigorously. I could hear slapping sounds as our bodies came together, his groin against my butt. I could even feel his balls pressing up against my labia every so often. He’d probably gone in nearly his whole length.

As I’ve mentioned, I’d done this before a few times, but never with a member this big. I felt a weird sort of choking sensation, as if that dick was burrowing all the way through my body and was about to come out my throat. And yet, I kind of liked his thick body covering me like some living blanket. He soon realized that he could also hold my tits while he pummeled me, and that made me feel totally at his mercy. But somehow I didn’t care. He may have been a total stranger–I still didn’t even know his name–but I felt an intimacy with him that I’d almost never felt with any other man.