My name is Jeremy. I wish I was a lot of things. Taller, stronger, a better conversationalist, more apt to understand the female mind. But what I wish for more than anything else is to be less of an asshole. But hey, when opportunity comes knocking at my door, I'm going to take it. And not look back. Looking back is for those of us who don't see what's right in front of our faces. But anyway, that has absolutely nothing to do with this story. My story. About a woman, a bit of laundry detergent, and a whole lot of sex.
Mrs. Dubnicka, my next door neighbor of seventeen years (at the time) was the kind of woman whom, with just one look at her, you could tell married for money. She had this gorgeous figure for a mom of three: dark, thick hair that hung down to the middle of her back in gentle waves, sky blue eyes, a long torso and sexy, incredible legs. Her husband was a dick, though, but he was gone most of the time on business trips and whatnot, so the neighborhood didn't have to put up with him too much. I just liked when he was around simply for the fact that Mrs. Dubnicka got a lot more slutty, as if she HAD to show off how fucking sexy she was around her husband. Many times during my growth into adolescence and slowly maturing to adulthood, I wouldn't have to pull out my secret stash of porn magazines my dad had forgotten he had hid in his drawer over the years. All I'd have to do was look out my bedroom window and see Mrs. Dubnicka in the kitchen, bending over the sink to scrub the dishes , her gorgeous, round tits swinging, almost popping out of those low-cut shirts she loved to wear. And then whenever she'd bend over and stick that firm ass in the air to put the dishes into the dishwasher, it was all I could do not to explode all over my wall right then and there. But that was a long time ago. I'm different now. It's easier to control myself around women.
I guess I should tell you a little bit about myself. I'm actually pretty decent when it comes to looks. A nice stomach, firm from working out with just a hint of lines forming abdominals, relatively strong arms and legs, blue-gray eyes, and dark, shaggy hair. Think of the quintesential skater dude you knew in high school but with a football player's body and you've got me. Oh, and I have this uncanny ability to make any woman my sex slave in a matter of seconds. But let's not get ahead of ourselves.
The summer before my senior year of high school, the Dubnicka's decided they were going to renovate the basement bathroom, enlisting me to help out. Why they picked a high school kid with a limited knowledge of washroom appliances and how to install said appliances when they had tons of money to blow on a professional to do it, I'll never know. But it was just my luck that they did. I remember being down there in the cool air of the basement, dusting off a power tool, when Mrs. Dubnicka walked into the laundry room, which was adjacent to the bathroom.
"Hey Jeremy, hope you don't mind me coming in here. I was just wanted to get some clothes into the dryer." She gave me a smile and I bit my lip, trying hard not to picture her sliding off those shorts she had on and giving me one Hell of a lapdance.
"Sure, no problem Mrs. Dubs." She didn't like when people called her Mrs. Dubnicka, it made her feel too old. And since there was no way I'd ever get up the balls to call her by her first name, Charlotte, this was my improvised nickname I had come up with to make us both happy.
"You're so polite, Jeremy. Aren't you EVER a bad kid?" She laughed lightly, trying to make small talk.
Only when I think about what I'd like to do to you.
"Nah...I guess my parents raised me right." I shrugged and continued cleaning off the drill in my hands, using a rag to wipe off any grease or dust that had accumulated over the years of its use.
Mrs. Dubnicka went back upstairs, allowing me a great view of her ass cheeks swinging back and forth as her hips swayed in time with her feet. A raging hard-on was on its way if I kept thinking about her, so instead, I got up and began walking around, cleaning off the drill and checking out the laundry room. There wasn't really much to it. Just your standard washer, dryer, clothesline to hang the clothes once they came out of the dryer, and, of course, the unfinished bathroom to the side. My eyes wandered around as I walked, not paying attention to my surroundings, and I ended up tripping over a cable on the floor and falling down. This wouldn't have been so bad, except for the fact that somehow, the power drill had turned itself on. It began burrowing into the felsh of my arm, deeper and deeper. In my panic, I yanked it out and threw it against the washer, hearing a loud BOOM. The detergent that was on top of the washer wavered back and forth before falling on top of me, immediately covering me in cleaning chemicals. I coughed and spluttered and hopped up, holding my arm in pain.
Except, I wasn't feeling pain anymore. I looked down, and, to my surprise, my arm was actually healing itself. I got a tingly sensation where the wound should have been, and then the entire process was over. Just like that. Good as new. My arm actually looked better than it had before. I sat there for a few minutes, too stunned to do anything. What the Hell had happened?!?!
Finally, I stood up and grabbed the power drill, side-stepping that fucking cable and checking it out. There were spats of blood all over it, so I definitely did not imagine what had just occurred. I set it down gently on top of the washer and then picked up the detergent, looking at the back of the box to examine what it was made out of, and if I should call poison control or not. Nothing was out of the ordinary, but it was hard for me to believe that the combination of grease, rust, and sawdust from the drill and laundry detergent had mixed into my bloodstream and formed some group of super-cells that made me immune to injuries. But to this day, that's still my best guess. Work with it, people.
So, as you can probably imagine, I was curious as to why I wasn't lying on an ambulance bed with Mrs. Dubnicka looking over at me, those round orbs popping from her shirt...My mind jogged itself out of my daydream, knowing I should probably go home and think about what had happened. It was too weird being in such an ordinary place where such an extraordinary event occurred. Quickly, I cleaned off the blood stains from the drill and threw the rag away, bounding up the stairs to the first floor of the house and looking around for Mrs. Dubnicka to tell her I had to get home. I heard noise from her bedroom and knocked on the door.
"Mrs. Dubnicka?" I still heard noises and, wondering if she, too, had had a weird experience and questioning my own sanity, I opened the door to her bedroom, finding her lying on the bed, completely naked, her legs spread wide open, shoving a dildo into her soaking wet pussy. My eyes bugged out and my heartbeat started flying, but I couldn't move. I was stuck, frozen in the most awkward moment of my entire life. She sat up and immediately took the toy out of herself, crossing her legs and trying to cover up.
"Jesus Christ." I said, dumbfounded.
