I was out of panties again. No matter how many times I shopped for them, I only ever managed to have six pairs on hand. Frankly, I was starting to suspect one of the people I lived with of foul play. Still, being as I could never find a clean pair of panties for the seventh day of the week, Sundays were laundry day. My local 24-hour laundromat was where I sometimes washed clothes. While I alternated between loading, washing, drying, and folding clothes, I would have my favorite book and my dirty thoughts to keep me company.
On the right day, laundromats were the kind of empty public spaces where a sexually adventurous woman like me could find all sorts of things to occupy her time. Of late, I was building up the nerve to masturbate in one, where the likelihood of me being seen were high. Between the video cameras and the glass windows that only reflected darkness from the interior, I had the perfect opportunity to fulfill a long-time fantasy of mine. Just the thought alone was enough to make my pussy throb and drip.
That Sunday night, I was perched on top of a washing machine, having just returned from loading the dryer. Legs spread wide, where I could be seen by passers-by and the surveillance camera— should anyone bother to review the tape—I opened my well-worn paperback of erotica. Deciding to forego spit, I dipped my fingers between my open thighs and used my pussy’s moisture to turn the pages and recover my last read paragraph. I was all for being efficient, and each time I wet my fingers to turn a page, I edged myself closer to detonation.
The thought of someone walking in and catching me in the act was more than enough to make me come hard. I’d done so many times before from the privacy of my bedroom, but I’d always chickened out when it came to actually doing it on location. Regardless, my plan was always the same: masturbate to orgasm right there in the middle of the laundromat, no matter who was there to watch.
When the tall, middle-aged man walked in with a small basket of laundry, it took everything in me to remain calm. A part of me wanted to close my legs and run humiliated from the building, but equally as strong was the urge to feverishly pump my fingers inside my exposed slit and gush all over the tile floor. For the moment, I did neither, and just pretended to read my book.
Other than a cursory glance, I made a point not to look at him too closely. I didn’t want to know what he looked like. I wanted to all but forget that he was there — except that I wanted him to notice me, to watch me come.
Jumping down, pretending to check the clothes I’d just put in to dry, I bent over into the jumbo dryer much farther than was necessary. A true exhibitionist, I had worn the shortest skirt I could get away with without being arrested. Cool air touched my skin where my skirt had risen, exposing a toned, sun-kissed ass and a well-trimmed trim to the man a few feet away.
Goosebumps spread over my skin, and I felt as if I were being watched. If he was in fact looking in my direction, I was giving him an eyeful. My clothes were still quite wet, as I suspected. Now, I was too, having had the chance to catch his eye. I added more coins before returning to my perch and my smutty book.
Nothing made me hotter than having an audience, and I felt bolder and hornier this week. Someone always came in around this time. It could have been the same guy for all I knew. But, I didn’t want to know.
From where I sat, I could vaguely see him out of my peripheral vision. I wondered what kind of person showed up in the middle of the night to do laundry. My mind drew the specific mental picture of an intelligent man, a gentle soul with a fondness for science fiction novels and women who wore short skirts without panties in public. I mentally shook my head to reset the visual.
More than likely, it was some hot college frat guy who’d ran out of clean clothes too. As my imagination raced while I hid behind my book, I could hear the slosh of water as he started his machine across from me. I felt my own fluids pool as if synchronized with his machine.
I was too excited to read at this point, but I continued to dip my fingers within my sudsy warmth, the paperback’s pages all but forgotten now. My focus was literally only on the task at hand as his machine whirred through the wash cycle, cloaking my panting. Before long, I was aware of nothing but the machines and my hands and the liquid heat that flooded my core and spread throughout my pelvis, as I began to agitate my clit in time to the washer’s drum rotations.
I’d heard him undo what I’d guessed was his pants zipper earlier on. But, he’d remained silent and very still, except for a vague arm movement. I imagined him exposed, erect cock in hand as he masturbated and watched me do the same. When I heard his machine began the rinse cycle, I began to move my hips faster. His breathing grew harder, louder. So did mine.
He’d forgotten to add the fabric softener, and I’d forgotten my book, now set aside. It was just him and I—and the machines—as we each gyrated through our own cycles of need together on a Sunday night.
I knew I was going to come soon, hard enough to be heard over the roar of domestic appliances and the unmistakable sound of flesh hitting flesh. There was no doubt I had his undivided attention, and nothing felt more erotic than this intimate moment I’d share with this would-be stranger. I could hear him groan clearly now, deep and low, as our masturbatory emissions competed with the white noise produced by the running machines.
I open my legs wider, giving him an unobstructed view. My box was sudsing up as my fingers rubbed the cleft of flesh at the apex of my soft machine. My pelvis was churning, chugging as I held back, awaiting the sound of the spin cycle.
There was no going back now. Even were someone to come in, I doubted I could stop my fast-approaching orgasm…or his. The smell of laundry detergent mixed with the scent of my sex. It reminded me of where I was, and what I was doing. Then, I heard the spin cycle start, and so did I. Head back, eyes pressed tight, I screamed my pleasure.
“That’s right. Come hard, baby!” He’d had to shout to be heard over the noise.
The next shouts I heard came just as he did. I looked up in time as opaque fluid shot from his cock to land on the towel in front of him. It reminded me of the homemade liquid laundry soap I’d made, but forgotten at home.
His eyes met mine for the first time, and I smiled at him. “That was so fucking hot! I can’t believe you went through with it this time,” he said, a familiar look of sexual amazement on his face.
I was amazed too. “Yeah, It helped pretending you were a stranger. Good call.” The rum and cokes I had earlier at the bar around the corner hadn’t hurt either.
“Let’s clean up and get out of here before some college kids come in and crash date-night,” he said. I wiped down the counter and retrieved the clothes I’d put in the dryer while he took the damp clothes out of the washer and threw them in his basket, still wet. I would throw them in the dryer when we got home. I still had several loads of the kids’ clothes to wash anyway.
We put ourselves and the facility back to rights, then walked to the door together, his free hand holding mine. I smirked when I saw the sign that said, “Come again soon!” We’d be back next Sunday. My husband liked to hide my panties, so I could only find six pairs at any given time. ■
Beatrix_B | The Pink Seam © 2018