I was reading Philip Jose Farmer's Image Of The Beast.
Not a book that most people would think I'd read. But during the day, I kept such a cool demeanor, that it was almost needed to read some alien bizarre sex shit every once in a while. A girl's got to get her kicks somehow.
And I was sitting on top of the dryer. The little laundry mat of the apartment complex where I lived was very small ... only two washers and two dryers. And there weren't many apartments. But something about it was extra nice. Like knowing about people who lived there and not having to talk to them. Sure, it may seem sort of contrite to keep to myself (without sounding redundant), but I'm far too weird to unleash in my full glory upon an unsuspecting populous.
As I was saying, though, I was sitting on the dryer and reading. It was one of those wonderful Oklahoma nights ... the perfect warm temperature and semi-moist air, and a light breeze that flitted through the screened windows on the other side of the small laundry room. I suppose I would have been perfectly happy to have done my laundry and spent the rest of the evening reading while Esthero played in the background.
My night, though, was to become far better.
The door to the laundry room opened, and I nearly fell off my perch. I was about to shoot the intruder my Glare From Hell, but the only expression I could manage upon seeing who entered was a curious raising of one brow.
"Oh, sorry. Didn't mean to scare ya." The guy who'd entered was carrying an off-white round basket of (what I assumed to be) dirty laundry. And he was also the dark-haired dream sex machine I'd been fantasizing about all my life. He had the same dark eyes, the same shortly cropped in the back and long on top hair. Hell, even the Bruins jersey he was wearing was right.
That's why it took a full ten seconds before I responded proper. "Uh, s'okay. Just reading." And that's why I don't talk to people. I sound like a retard. I even waved my book for emphasis, hoping he didn't know the title.
"Ah," he said with a grin, plopping some quarters into the slots on the washer and dumping in a capful of Super Wash! Detergent. "Farmer ... good book. Read it a couple of times."
Lovely. He'd read it. Either that, or he was lying to try to get me into bed. "Did you like it?"
"Sure. Though the first few chapters were boring. I just liked to read the weird alien sex shit in the middle. Well, and that whole anal suppository thing ... that was interesting." He flipped a charming grin my way and closed the lid on the washer.
This was way too fucking weird. "Huh. I thought I was the only person in the world who'd read this book." I was blushing, though. My cool demeanor was certainly not going to fly with this guy.
He shrugged, slightly, moving to lean against the same washer that I was sitting on. I felt his shoulder touch my elbow, and moved away instinctively. He didn't seem to mind. "I've read a lot of books. You can learn a lot of things from books."
"Yeah, well, I don't think you're going to be able to walk down to your local E-Z Porn Mart any time soon and buy a suppository that..." My sentence was shortly cut off by the whining, half-dead buzz of the dryer announcing that my clothes were done. Rather than continue and embarrass myself further, I slid off the dryer and folded one of Image's pages over to mark my place. "My clothes are done." Thank you, Ms. Obvious.
"So they are," he agreed, rocking happily on the balls of his feet and looking me over.
I tried not to look at his ass, but it was impossible. It was a nice, round ass. The kind of ass that's perfect for pushing. I scooted my pale blue laundry basket in front of the open door of the dryer, and prepared to scoop the clothes into it, and that's when it happened.
He'd moved behind me as I'd bent over, and I felt his hand, pressing lightly into my crotch slide slowly back and forth between my legs from behind. I froze. He was rubbing my crotch through my clothes, and I froze like the frigid chick I was. "Uh, what are you doing?" I croaked.
He chuckled from behind me, and I could see from his shadow he shook his head. "Do you want me to stop?"
Of course I didn't want him to fucking stop. But what would my mother have thought if she'd seen me then, bent over an open dryer door with some guy rubbing my pussy gently through my clothes? One word, people: whore. I didn't answer him, though, leaving me certainly ambiguous. But I didn't move away, either.
"Do you want me to stop?" he asked again, his voice softer, crooning. I felt his index finger poke around a little through the material of my sweatpants, finding the entrance to my pussy and rubbing there a little harder. I'm sure he could tell I was already becoming wet.
I shut my eyes; he couldn't see that, at least. I suppressed the shudder that threatened to run through my body, and finally whispered, "No."
"Good girl." I could hear the amused smile in his words, and suddenly felt a little humiliation. But there was no way in hell I'd tell him to stop now.
His large hand continued to caress my pussy through my clothing, and I felt him shuffle a little back there. The cool fingers of his other hand slipped through the opening between my hanging T-shirt and the smooth skin of my abdomen, crawling slowly to the curve of my bare breast. His fingertips traced the outline, stopping at my nipple and pinching once. I could feel it harden at his first touch.
And still his fingers worked through my clothing, teasing my pussy without a direct touch. The crotch of my sweatpants had developed a soaked spot in the middle. I stood there, half-hunched over my load of quickly cooling dry clothes, eyes shut, trying to suppress a shudder of pleasure.
The fingertips that had been toying with the nipple of my breast slowly worked their way in a tickling trail to the waistband of my sweatpants. Removing his hand from between my legs, the stranger whipped them down in one swift motion before I could voice a protest, exposing my bare ass and dripping pussy to his full view.
