The front-loading washing machines in the dim, dank laundry room lurched and groaned their grievances over decades of neglect. But what could be worse than Val was missing her favorite prime-time soap, Edge of Passion, because she had gone to the gym over the weekend instead of laundering her clothes. Cursing under her breath, Val slurped down chamomile tea from a mug with a mosaic of survival cracks and leaned back so that her wide hips strained against the red folding chair. She fixed her gaze at the lather spewing onto the glass of the machine.
Like the ebb and flow of the ocean, the toxic water pulsed, teased, receded and splashed, reminding her of the approaching summer. But two months was too long a wait for the relentless sun to melt her frozen heart. Val closed her eyes as if the room's fluorescent lighting were as blinding as sunrays, and she began tracing the events that led her to emotional solitary confinement.
The last time Val trusted abandoning her wash to catch up on fictional characters airing their dirty laundry via the all-soap cable channel was a lonely night in January. She was sipping on jasmine tea at the faux-walnut snack table and dipping chunks of a potato samosa in plum sauce in a feeble attempt to watch her figure. A former high school sprinter, she was confident that her athleticism would rescue her from the perils of urban living despite her parents' warnings about careless acts such as doing laundry late at night.
Running down four flights of stairs to the laundry room in the basement only took a minute but the effort was moot because, to her surprise and embarrassment, someone had taken the liberty of removing her intimate apparel from the washing machine. Bras, thongs and camisoles were strewn about wantonly. On several washers, across a dryer and on the floor. She had no choice to retrieve them and prepare them, albeit with much silent cursing, for a repeat wash. Who would do such a thing? she wondered. Reaching down to grasp a lacy pink thong from the gritty floor beside a corner washer, she suddenly noticed a shadow loom over hers and found her answer. There in the brightly illuminated laundry room, a firm mocha hand covered hers and a dusky voice uttered, "Don't be afraid. I'm not here to hurt you." "Are you the one responsible for --" Val was interrupted.
"No, of course not. I've been the unofficial monitor of our building's basement," said the muscular woman, now helping Val to her feet. "Turns out there's a panty raider among our neighbors, and he or she is frightening the crap out of the women who do their laundry on-site."
"Geez, maybe I should go to the Laundromat around the corner -- Sudz," said Val. She thanked her neighbor, extending her hand and introducing herself.
"Pleased to meet you, Val. My name is Isis, and, no, I don't possess superpowers."
Both women chuckled and patted one another's shoulders in the comforting ways of women throughout the ages. When Val looked back at a thong that remained on the floor, Isis teased, "Hmm, I see someone has a naughty side, huh?"
"Well, I-I-I like to fantasize that I'm as sexy as one of those supermodels in their barely there lingerie," said Val.
"Why don't you give me your phone number in case of an emergency," Isis said, tugging at a paper in the back pocket of her tight jeans. "You know, with panty raiders among us and all," she said, laughing.
Val laughed back nervously but complied, even adding her apartment number, 3J, to the paper. Her confidence back in the safe zone, she managed to persuade Isis to guard the rest of her wash for the night. Handing over the remainder of a roll of quarters, she squeezed her new friend's hand gently, thanked her again and ran back upstairs to resume watching soaps on cable television.
Smiling at the fading thuds of Val's ascent, Isis ran her thick fingers through her short, spiked hair. She dropped five quarters one at a time in a washer's coin tray, pushed it forward and launched the wash, sensing her blood surge through her veins as powerfully as the machine's motor. She relished in her chair duty in the manner of a lifeguard misusing his or her vantage point to spy on the hard bodies wading out into the surf. While Val was upstairs cradling another ceramic cup filled with soothing chamomile tea, Isis was downstairs stopping the washer to remove one suds-soaked undergarment after another. When she found her favorite article -- the nylon black thong -- she stretched the narrow crotch between her thumb and middle finger, and with her other hand she undid the zipper to her jeans, tugged aside her own sopping thong and diddled the purple clit head that was extended from its engorged sheath. Then she placed the drenched panties in her back pocket.
Several hours passed, and Val stubbornly awakened to her telephone's insistent ring tones. The soap Edge of Passion was watching her, which made her laugh inwardly.
"Hi," the hoarse voice whispered. "Val, did I wake you? It's me, Isis. I'm holding your thong for ransom."
"Oh, I overslept," Val said. She did not hear Isis' joke. Instead, she offered, "Do you wanna come up now, or should I --"
"Don't bother leaving your apartment. It's nearly 10 p.m. I'll fold everything and come up in about 20 minutes."
It took 15 minutes for Isis to fold the clothes and another 15 minutes to shower away the cum that had oozed around her crotch during her self-adventure in the musty basement. Her apartment was situated one floor beneath Val's, and therefore she was at her friend's threshold, wearing a fresh T-shirt and jeans, before the 11 o'clock news could begin. In one of her back pocket she had stashed the nylon black thong, which was partially sticky and partially caked with cum, because that turned her on and gave her a power befitting a goddess.
"Am I too early for the pajama party?" Isis asked jokingly.
"Uh, I think I'm a tad underdressed, don't ya think?" Val replied, at first looking upset that Isis was late. In typical fashion, she shrugged off the minor annoyance, then pulled Isis through the door with much effort. "You are welcome anytime," Val said.
