It’s late night at the laundromat and one single mother finds herself relieving her dry spell with the help of a sexy young man and a washer.
Late night is the only time I have to myself. My days are full of work, the kids, and online classes from the local junior college. I recognize that I’m lucky enough to have a neighbor who can sit on my sofa, sipping drinks, and watching Netflix while I go out.
Not to the bar.
I’m not that kind of girl.
I’m straight-laced. I’ve had my three kids, lost a cheating husband to a younger and obviously more playful woman, and am trying to get my life back on track. It’s hard. I’m tired all the time. So no partying for me. Nope. I’m here doing laundry. I’ve got three baskets and one hamper emptied into six of the small washers and I’m sitting here trying to enjoy the quiet.
I sip on my soda, the one I selfishly buy with two of my quarters every time I’m here, and think about the assignment for English Lit I’ve got due at the end of the week. It’s a story, not a paper, and it can be on anything we want. Our focus is supposed to be on descriptions. The more descriptive, without sounding stupid or over the top, the higher your grade. I don’t think I’ll do too bad on it. I’ve got a notepad in the backpack sitting at my feet but I haven’t bothered getting it out yet. It’s wide ruled because that’s what my kids use. I’m not sure what to write about and soon I’m lost in my own head as I try really hard to come up with a suitable topic or scene.
So far I’m coming up blank.
A thump from somewhere nearby startles me and I jump. My head whirls around. I’m no longer alone. A man, a very sexy man, is loading up a washer at the end of the row I’m using. The place is large so I wonder why he’s chosen a machine so close to my own. Trying not to spy or appear nosy I watch him. He’s got on sweats, dark gray ones, and tennis shoes. His shirt is blue with the local University’s mascot on it but he soon takes that off, tossing it in the washer with the rest of his clothes.
My body freezes. He’s got sculpted abs and there’s a tribal tattoo running down his side. Tan, I imagine he must be an athlete. His hair is in that stage where you can tell he likes it short but he just hasn’t had time for the trim. It’s a messy kind of hot.
When I finally decide to breath I tear my eyes away, afraid my undivided attention might be noticed. I’m obviously older than him and while I’m in shape, my ass tight and breasts a good size, I’m no young thing anymore.
“Mind if I sit here?” he asks.
I close my eyes for a brief second and curse the gods for putting me in this position. Then I open them, smile, and shrug. “Sure,” I tell him, wanting nothing more than to suggest he go sit in any of the other fifteen to thirty seats available.
He sits down on the bench next to me and I glance his way, offering him a polite smile, then look away. I hope he gets what I’m dishing out but no such luck.
“I haven’t seen you here before,” he says. “I’m Lucas.”
I’m forced to turn and look at him again, this time for more than a glance. “Ashley.”
His eyes draw me in. They’re blue, normal, but his eyelashes are long and dark. There’s just the hint of scruff along his cheek line. I almost lift my hand to touch it when I catch myself. Making a fist I internally chastise myself for my horny teenage behavior.
Hot, sexy, amazing dimples.
I sigh just a little.
He arches a brow. “You okay?” he asks.
“Oh.. yeah. Sorry. It’s been a long day.”
“And still going I see,” he says, gesturing to the washers.
I nod. “Yep.”
We stare at each other for a moment but eventually I get a chance to turn away, my eyes focusing on the carpet just in front of us. My heart is racing and I wish I had the courage to stand up and walk away. Or the courage to lean over and kiss him. I don’t know where this side of me is coming from! Maybe it’s because I’ve been too busy to date, to find a man. I’m too busy with the basic necessities of living to find a relationship. So my dildo, my fingers, and I have become very good friends. The idea of having sex with a man stirs something deep inside me. I suddenly realize how much I miss the feel of a man’s flesh beneath my fingertips, his lips on my skin, and his dick inside me.
But I don’t even know this guy. Lucas. I don’t know Lucas. And he doesn’t know me.
“Hey,” he says and when I turn towards him this time his hand comes up, his palm cupping the side of my cheek.
His hands are soft and large, his fingers long. I lean ever so slightly into the caress even though I know I shouldn’t. “You look worn out. Shouldn’t you have some help with all this?”
“I’m a single mom,” I tell him and my heart waits for him to make some snide comment, to belittle my place in life. Single mom means I have kids. It also means that for whatever reason I can’t keep a man. Or so I’m told. I brace myself for that rejection, that pain.
It doesn’t come.
His thumb moves slowly over my lips. “You deserve some rest, something for yourself.”
I blink. That’s the last thing I expected to hear out of his lips. His delicious looking lips. My mouth opens slightly and his thumb continues to rub along my lower lip, just farther in. I start to breath heavier, my chest rising and falling quickly.
“Can I touch you?” he asks. I’m caught off guard by his politeness and respect.
His hand leaves my face and travels down into my cleavage. Reaching out with his other hand he proceeds to unbutton the first three buttons of the shirt I’m wearing. It was my husbands, a leftover, something I keep only because it’s comfortable and I wore it far more often than he did. My bra is black and lacy, cute but functional. It hooks in the front and when he finds that he slowly unhooks it. With a tug he has my breasts free, both of them resting on the taut fabric of the rest of my shirt that’s still buttoned.
There’s a chill in the air but my skin is on fire. My nipples are hard and the anticipation makes me shiver.
He smiles and looks at me, his hand flat on my chest. “You’re beautiful,” he tells me. When he says it for some reason I believe it. I haven’t felt that way in a long time, haven’t had any reason to believe I still had the sex appeal to get a man’s attention. Divorce can do that to you.
Leaning forward he puts his lips on mine. I kiss him back. Our lips open, tongues in play, and soon we’re making out. I put one hand on his chest and the other around the back of his neck, holding him to me. His free hand rests on my thigh, his fingertips close to my ever dampening slit.
When he pulls away we’re both breathless and smiling.
We stay there, looking at each other, breathing, for a few seconds before he pulls away and stands up. He offers me his hand and I take it, letting him pull me to my feet. Slowly he undoes the rest of my buttons, pulling my shirt off my shoulders and letting it fall to the ground at our feet. My bra, already dangling, follows.
Next he reaches down and unbuttons my jeans, the old pair I wear when I work around the house and, obviously, when I do laundry. He pulls them down, squatting so he can remove both my flip flops and the jeans. Reaching up he slides my underwear down. The pair is soaked so it rolls up a bit as he takes it off. I see him smile up at me and I find myself a little nervous. I’m naked, in a laundromat, with a man I’ve never met before. What kind of woman am I?
A sexually starved one, obviously.
Standing, he steps back away from me. In one swift movement he has his shoes, pants, and boxers off and he’s standing before me in his birthday suit. He looks good in it.
There’s a light tuft of hair above his cock and to the sides of his sack but otherwise he’s smooth and bare. The cock itself is large, thick, and I can see it bouncing in eager anticipation. I stare at it, biting my lip. I can feel my body responding to my predicament. The same fire that soaked my panties is still pushing out juices, the kind that’s rolling down my legs.
He steps over to me, his cock pressing against my leg, and smiles down at me. Taking my face in both his hands he kisses first my forehead, then each cheek, and then my lips. “You deserve something that’s all yours, just for you,” he tells me. He speaks as if he knows me but I know he doesn’t. Even so it feels good. He’s got me feeling something more than the mundane that sticks to me every single day. He’s tall but I put my arms up around his neck anyway, my fingers barely able to intertwine.
Reaching down he grabs my ass cheeks and lifts. I wrap my legs around his waist and hold on as he steers us towards the nearest washer. I tilt my head and look at him when he sits me down on the vibrating machine. He smiles. “A little extra fun for you,” he tells me, leaning forward so he can kiss me again.
As we kiss he maneuvers his cock into position, its tip pressing at my entrance. I inhale sharply, anticipation and my long dry spell have me ready to climax already.
He lifts his head and looks down at me. There’s kindness in those eyes. “You okay?” He asks again and I’m touched by his concern. I run my fingers through his hair and decide to be honest.
“It’s been a long time,” I tell him.
He nods. “I figured,” he says, wrapping his arms around me. “But it’s okay. You’re here and I’m here and I want to make love to you. Right here. Right now. On this washer.” He leans around me, looks at the display, and then looks at me again. “Preferably before the cycle’s over.” When he grins I laugh, burying my head into his neck.
His cock shoves forward, sheathing itself inside me. I gasp and he pulls me tighter. My body starts to tremble and he just holds me, staying buried until my body has adjusted. Once it has he begins to piston in and out of me. The washer beneath me shakes and the sensation adds another dimension to our lovemaking.
In and out he goes, pressing far enough back to touch parts of me that haven’t been touched in far too long. I whimper, biting his shoulder. I feel him flinch but he doesn’t ask me to stop. Instead he slides one hand up so he can grab a fistful of my hair that’s loosely braided. My head isn’t pulled back, not like you see in movies or read about. No, he just holds on, his grip a solid reminder of the here and now.
Tears fall from my eyes and he continues to thrust. I hear him moan and that adds to my ecstasy, to how much I’m enjoying this.
When I reach the point of no return and I fall off the cliff, he’s there to catch me. I wrap my legs tighter around him, trying to hold him in as I climax. I lift my head and lean back, letting out a primal growl. I look at him and his eyes close. It’s his turn before I’m finished, his cock diving deep and holding there as he spills himself inside me. We cling to each other and as we expend the last of what we have the washer winds down and comes to a stop.
He opens his eyes and we share a look. Then a smile. Then laughter.
“I bit you,” I tell him.
“I know. I felt it.”
He kisses my forehead. “Don’t be sorry for a single thing, Ashley. You were perfect.”
“You were pretty good yourself.”
When he smiles those dimples arrive, making him all the cuter. Especially up close.
I take a couple deep breaths, loosening my hold on him. He lifts me up and sets me on the ground, his cock falling out of me as he does so. When it’s gone I miss it. I miss sex, miss being important. I miss simple physical contact.
His finger traces my jawline. “You going to be okay?” He’s still concerned for me. Even after. There’s more to him than just the sex, I think. I’m not sure what but I’m thankful.
I nod. “Yeah.” I glance at the washers, all of mine now still and silent. “I’ve got to get those in the dryer.”
“Give me a sec to get dressed and I’ll help you,” he says, stepping over to his pile of clothing.
Smiling I get dressed, too. “Thank you,” I tell him.
He pauses, balanced precariously on one foot while putting on a shoe. “You don’t need to thank me. Ever,” he says.
I may never see him again but I hope I do. If I have the courage I’ll see if he wants to exchange numbers or Facebook info.
I take a deep breath and open the first washer. I’m back to being me, back in the real world.