Dixie Girl - Laundry Day
Author's Note: this is an older story originally published elsewhere. It has been modified in accordance with site policy. No characters appearing in this work are under the age of eighteen. Note that this is a raceplay-focused story, featuring a character who trades in neo-Confederate imagery; that may not be something everyone is looking for in their smut so just providing a heads-up in advance.
The little laundromat was deep in the depths of the student ghetto, about a block from Sorority Row. A narrow and deep brick building, it featured a double row of washing machines down the center and dryers along both walls, making two aisles.
A tall lanky black boy stalked down first one deserted aisle then the other. As he passed each still dryer in turn his face slowly darkened with fury. Every dryer was full, silent, and unattended. Every last one was piled from top to bottom with waiting female clothing. Little skirts, blouses, bras, and panties peeked out at him through the window of each and every machine... and yet not a single nubile body was in sight to open and claim any of them. As he reached the end of the second row, the bag holding his own soaking wet laundry hanging heavy from his shoulder, Python stopped, turned and swore viciously.
There was not a single empty machine in the entire building. Every last one of them was filled up to the brim with skimpy frilly clothing, and not a single one of their pretty owners was in sight.
It was his own fault for trying to do his laundry in the middle of Sorority Row on a Friday night, of course. But that didn't make his long, muscular arms tremble with any less rage.
"Fuck this pussy-ass shit," he said, at last.
Deliberately walking up to the machine with the skimpiest panties and the largest-cupped bras of all peeking out at him through its window, he jerked the door open. Yanking over a wheeled laundry cart, he started hauling out fistfuls of silken underthings and tiny shorts down into the waiting bin. Then, halfway through emptying out the machine, Python suddenly stiffened and froze. Hidden amid a pile of shorts and bras, something had caught his eye. He pulled a pair of pastel-colored running shorts aside to expose a tiny yet distinctive skirt. It looked like a pleated cheerleader skirt... save that it didn't match any of the cheerleader teams in the area. And Python should know, as he had a nearly complete collection of them on his bedroom wall.
This skirt, as he held it up, had a pattern of two red pleats followed by a blue one, the blue pleat bearing white stars. The space between red and blue was white. As he let it dangle from his night-dark fingers, it stirred some preternatural memory in him.
Then, looking back down, he spotted something else. He let the skirt drop. His hand dove back down, into the space between underneath a huge-cupped satin bra and a frilly lace chemise.
His dark hand rose back up... with a tiny scoop-front panty dangling from his extended finger. Printed upon it, as it dangled daintily before his dark face, in soft pastels, was the Confederate Flag. Slowly, Python's eyes widened.
"Well, all be damned," he said. And, closing his hand, ran his fingers over the soft surface of the infamously-decorated panty, with relish.
Holding her empty laundry bag lightly in her fist, Clarabelle Weiss hummed a cheerful tune as she approached the laundromat. As she got close she turned around and bumped the door open with her taut yet well-rounded ass. The door jangled loudly as her wiggling, short-denim-skirt-clad ass pushed through. Having cleared the way, Clarabelle bounced through. Whirling around a pillar at the end of the row of machines, she turned to face her waiting dryer. Then, mouth dropping open in shock, she skidded to a halt.
The door to her machine was open, and it was empty. Her clothes and underthings lay heaped carelessly upon a cart, before it. A scuzzy-looking black boy stood over the pile and, though his back was to her, she seemed to have caught him in the very midst of pawing through her delicate under-things.
"Hey! You! Creep!" Clarabelle snapped. Her superheroine sidekick instincts kicked in in moments. For though she appeared to be just a normal girl, Clarabelle came from a long line of superheroes, including her stalwart mentor, and big sister, the mighty Rebel Belle. Even though she was out of costume, wearing only a tiny jean skirt and pastel yellow spaghetti-strap top, the eighteen-year-old blonde spread her long muscular legs wide, put her hands upon her hips, and thrust out her considerable rack, as she lifted her chin boldly. "Those are mine!" she declared. "Get your hands off them you low-class pervert!"
Not saying anything, Python slowly turned and faced her. He had a huge grin on his lips... and her famous Dixie Girl panties dangling from his fingertips. Clarabelle gasped. Her eyes darted briefly to the cart again, and spotted at last her trademark skirt and her Confederate Flag shell vest laid out atop the rest of the laundry. The only thing missing was the glowing Shard of Virtue that, when inserted into the center of the vest, would have given her her powers. Clarabelle habitually kept it in her purse when in civilian identity - but said purse was currently sitting back in her dorm room.
"H-hey!" she whimpered, a blush spreading across her cheeks. "Those are mine!"
"Finders keepers, bitch," Python purred. He wiggled his finger back and forth, making her little panty sway tauntingly before her lovely, horrified gaze.
"You... you can't do that!" Clarabelle gasped, staring in horror at her own underwear. "It's illegal!"
Lifting his free hand, Python pointed up at the wall, where a large sign had been posted. 'Do Not Leave Machines Unattended!' it read in huge letters, and below that in smaller letters, 'Uncollected Loads Are Forfeit.'
Dixie Girl gaped upwards, her jaw dropping in horror. It was hardly federal case law. But it was still enough to deflate her sense of righteous-indignation, to be replaced by a creeping, guilty dread. Gulping, she turned her eyes back to him and squirmed. Without her jewel, she knew, her chances of defeating such a tall and muscular boy were far from certain. And, she realized with a sickened gulp, she had in any case already blurted out enough to more than confirm her precious secret identity. Even if she beat him up, he would still know who she was.
"Please," Dixie Girl whispered. Bowing her head, she folded her hands nervously behind her short-skirt-clad hips. Forced to be penitent before the leering black pervert, a helpless squirm wiggled through her voluptuous body, making her massive rack shake deliciously for him through her tight, tiny top. "Please, give me back my panties."
"Sure, bitch," he said. "I'll trade 'em to you... if you give me a blowjob first."
Clarabelle's gorgeous blue eyes went wide as saucers. "You... you can't be serious!!!" she said, shocked.
