That Friday, I declined a night out with my girlfriends so I could do my laundry. The decision wasn’t for a lack of clean clothes. Instead, the week had been depressing. Work overload, pressing deadlines, crazy customers, no break from the headache. I wanted time alone to wallow, and a laundromat on a Friday night at around 8 would be just the place.
I sorted my clothes. Gentle-cycle blouses from athletic socks, white slacks from red towels. Then a bell on the front door jangled, and there he was.
This man gave off a cologne of confidence. He was sheer personal strength and purpose, striding through the place. His eyes were dark in self-indulgence and he had a masculine mop of lovely brown hair.
I suddenly couldn’t think right. My mind slowed. A man had not overpowered me like this in years. This guy, though, caused a glitch, a scratch on the record of my thoughts. So much so that my hands did not attempt to shield my dirty clothes.
The man opened his washing machine lid and leaned into it. His tight butt filled out his acid-washed Levi’s. I love when an ass can do that.
He hauled an arm-load of damp clothes a few steps to a dryer and shoved them in. He slid in four quarters and bumped the round door closed with his hip. He gave me a bright wink. Then he left. Wow. I patted my chest and tried to calm my pulse.
I stood there, abuzz. His look gave me life on that Friday. He had burned away my blue funk, like the sun does the morning mist. As my mind’s disconnect reconnected, I recognized my once-white-now-pink pajama pants were on top of the pile of clothes with my full-size beige underwear as covering. I was upset that he had seen the clothes that should be hidden from everyone.
I dumped my laundry into a washing machine, as if it could hide my exposure. Feeling the washer rumble and spin, I wondered who he was and along came a desire to investigate. What would his clothes reveal about him?
I hopped off the washer to decipher him based on his clothes. First, a nonchalant glance into his machine found he had left behind one sock. It was a black sock clinging to the side of the drum. I thought about grabbing it and moving it to his dryer. I would hate to have one wet sock sitting on top of a pile of my hot, dry clothes.
No one was there to see me. I snatched the sock, quick as a pickpocket. It was a crew sock, about seven inches, still slightly damp. A questionable thought hit me: Had he ever slid his dick into it to jerk off and catch his cum? Or did he quit using socks when he outgrew his teens? I fingered the sock, feeling where his dick might have been.
Regaining myself, I opened his dryer and tossed it in. Before I closed the door though, I peeked at his drying clothes.
A sky-blue shirt with a button-down collar. Plaid boxers. Khaki trousers.
I imagined us on a soft couch, he holding me, his brown eyes staring into me. The back of his strong hand caressing my cheek and chin. Tucking my hair behind my ear, then running his hand down my back, going just passed the band of my panties. Feeling his soft lips kiss my neck. His slow move to pull me on top of him, pressing his lean dick against me, with only a thin layer of pink panties blocking him from me.
I closed the dryer door. I had to catch my breath.
Flopping in the dryer was Nike sports shorts, black ankle-high socks, gray boxer briefs with a florescent elastic band.
I imagined him standing high before me, a toned torso, a confident stance. His hands behind his head, eyes watching the tips of my fingers ring around the tight band. Teasing him, getting close as possible to his erect cock, making him hope my hand would at least brush against it soon. Seeing his eyes begging me to take hold of his dick, wincing as I would make him wait. Then stretching the elastic band so his cock could see the gleam on my face. Soon placing a gentle kiss on its head.
In the dryer, there was a short-sleeve, Bahama shirt, covered in a pattern of orange and lime wedges.
I imagined a tiki bar, empty Corona beers and melting margaritas, half a bottle of tequila. His eyes stealing glances at my breasts covered by a tiny bikini top. His hand rubbing up my thigh, through the grass of my skirt. My thighs jittering as his hands crawl higher. Allowing his fingers to wander wherever they like, underneath the cotton knit bikini bottom, through my trimmed bush and into a joy of my body.
I also saw a t-shirt, worn and ragged, faded black, the big Rolling Stones lips on it.
My nipples hardened, rubbing against the fabric as I shift, a desire to have them in his mouth, feeling his tongue move, watching it drag against my flesh, having his mouth kiss all over my body, hoping he likes it, knowing I would love the worship.
I saw even a heavy, long-sleeve tactical shirt, covered in camouflage
This man likely had a craving, and enough confidence, to lay me back, raise my legs to his shoulders. He’d grab the heels of my feet and spread my legs wide. Grinning greedily at the delight that had just parted for him, the secret to love, then feeling the pressure of his hardness spear me. My back arching and my face wincing at the penetration. Smiling up at the man, high above me, as he rocked back and forth. Seeing his eyes shut at the luxury of my pussy, bullets of electricity shooting throughout my body.
In the laundromat, I had to control my pulse again.
Minutes after his clothes had stopped flopping, the bells on the door jangled. Still wearing that cologne of confidence, he was humming, like life was going his way. I wanted that. I wanted him.
Wait. Want him? I don’t know him from Adam. I had to pause my flittering emotions and heated body. I tried, until he spoke to me.
“Doing well tonight?” he asked and reached into the dryer.
“Yeah, just doing laundry.” I shrugged, playing off my high.
He dragged out a heap of clothes into the basket. “I see that. Are you here most Friday nights?”
“No, this is a first.”
“Then I’m glad I came in tonight. I’m Luke.” He smiled into my eyes.
“Elaine.” I felt like I mumbled my name like a jittery preteen to her crush.
He leaned against the wall of dryers. “What brings you here on a Friday night?”
“I was looking for a night alone.”
As soon as I said that, I hoped I hadn’t bared myself too much, because I saw him frown, ready to let me be.
“I won’t intrude on you then.” He started an about-face to his clothes. He grabbed two socks.
“No, no, you’re all right, stay.” I reached toward him, inadvertently touching his shoulder. “It’s nice to be away from friends once in a while and meet someone new.”
“New people can be exciting.” He tucked those two socks into a ball.
There was an awkward silence while he separated his pile of clothes. Finally, he broke it. “I wanted to get some clothes done. I was thinking about going out later. Not sure where though. The night’s been boring.”
Hearing nothing from me, he continued. “It’s terrible when a Friday night is boring. I mean it’s one of two nights that we can stay out late and then sleep in.”
“You really realize how precious Fridays can be.”
“Like gold.” He folded a red t-shirt.
He and I laughed together.
Luke hung a button-up shirt on a hanger then turned to me, pausing. It was obvious he had an idea. “Are you almost finished?”
“My last load is drying.” Gaining some muster, I hopped onto a washer, drawing his attention away from his clothes and onto me. He had a handsome smile and blue eyes.
“We don’t want a perfectly good Friday to go to waste. Maybe we should take advantage of the night. Do you know what’s best after laundry on a Friday?” he asked.
“Not exactly.” I was cautious, despite my intensifying attraction to him. His suggestion might be anything.
He held up the shirt with the oranges and limes and flapped it straight. “I got this shirt in Puerto Vallarta last winter.”
“I’m not going to Mexico when this load is done.” I laughed. So did he. I was getting myself under control, a steadier pulse.
“How about a tiki bar, a Corona, a margarita or two. There’s a place not far from here. Interested?”
I hopped off the washer.
“Would I need a bikini and a grass skirt?”
His left eyebrow cocked upward and his lips spread into a tight grin.
“Got a bikini in there?” He pointed to my basket of dried clothes. “I’d like to see you in one.”
I put my hand on my hip. “Do you have a bathing suit in your laundry?”
He snapped his fingers playfully. “I left my banana hammock at home.”
I snapped my fingers. “Sorry, I haven’t got a thong either.”
We laughed again. He had a wonderfully deep laugh. To me, it revealed his charisma, his shine in a perfectly dreary night.
“Speedos and thongs aren’t necessary at the bar. In fact, I would be kicked out if I wore one. You though, they would not make you leave.”
My clothes suddenly stopped spinning. “Just need to fold a few.”
I straightened out the pair of white slacks and folded them.
“What do we do with our clean clothes?” I asked, logistics having interrupted my tempted mind.
“We can drop them off at my place. It’s a couple blocks away. And my new couch arrived today. I’d like your opinion on it.”
Deep down, I wanted to feel his couch and even lay on it, but I kept back that desire. But I said, “It may be too soon to put my ‘opinion’ on your couch.”
He looked confused for a moment. Then his face brightened, handsomely, as he connected my retort. “You’ve got a quick wit. A feisty woman. You do have an opinion though. And your ‘opinion’ is pretty cute.” Then he winked at me.
I wagged my finger and gave a devious grin. But he didn’t know what he was actually doing to me. And I couldn’t give it away too quickly or obviously. He would have to work to get my “opinion” on his couch.
“Let’s see how the night goes,” I told him finally.
“For now, I’ll drive us to the bar. Drinks are on me.”
With a nonchalant nod, I said, “Maybe later the drinks will be on the couch.”