On the fine art of washing machine repair, balcony balancing, boutique weed strains, and fucking the neighbor in the ass after a canceled date – Part 1 [MF] [Consensual] [Stoned] [Tipsy]

*Synopsis: Miya needs her washing machine repaired and notices her neighbor Kurt might be able to help, so she asks. Hot fucking ensues.*

This is a bit long so I split into two parts, but if you’re like me and love build-up, you might enjoy this story. Actual sex doesn’t occur until Part 2.

I do love feedback because it helps me write better, so good or bad, I’d be grateful for it! I’m particularly interested in framing consent as a normalized, very hot practice, so if I did that well here (or didn’t) please let me know.

***

It’s a spring, rainy Saturday afternoon: warm air, cold rain. You’re walking out of your apartment and you see me in the hall walking into my apartment, next door. I’m wearing a worn flannel shirt, some old jeans with paint splotches all over, knees torn, and carrying a laden bag of Home Depot stuff. I’m drenched too; it looks like someone (me) forgot their umbrella. There’s a puddle of water where I’ve been standing while fiddling for my keys.

“Hey there Kurt,” you say, smiling, as you step into the hallway. You’re wearing a flowing spring sundress, hanging by straps from your freckled shoulders. Even in our sunless shared entry hallway, I make mental note of its semi-transparentness, then shake it off. I realize I haven’t seen you without your mask. I thought you were gorgeous before, but now?

“Hi Miya,” I respond, cheerfully. Some water drips from to the floor.

“You’re in marketing right? Or is handy work?” you say, nodding to the Home Depot bag.

I laugh, “I’m handy when I need to be. Kind of. When it’s easy. Actually tonight I’m working on some closet doors. Our landlord sucks, as you know, and I’m tired of these doors not working, and him not doing anything, so I’m doing it myself.”

You smile again, looking me up and down, your eyes finally resting at that puddle forming on the floor.

“Hey Kurt,” you say, with an idea, “How about being handy for *me* today?” You smile and look sideways, maybe that didn’t come out the way you meant, and you try again, “I have a washing machine that leaks. I’ve tried, uh, staring at it? That didn’t fix it. Maybe you could take a look for me?”

You smile a big smile. It causes a little flutter in my stomach. I smile back. “I’d love to be your handyman,” I say, laughing a bit and looking away because I feel a blush coming on. “How about I swing by after I get things wrapped up over here. Maybe around 4?”

“Perfect,” you smile back (whew), “I’m supposed to be heading on a date,” you motion to your outfit, “around 7 or 8, so 4 is great!”

You walk down the hall to the mailboxes, leaving me with my puddle.

***

It’s a little after four when I knock on your door.

“Hey handyman,” you say, as you open the door. I think you’re checking me out again. The flannel and jeans must do it for you. I like the attention.

“My washing machine is in the closet. As you know. Because our apartments are probably the same.”

“Right,” I say, carrying my tool bucket in.

“Help yourself,” you say, as you turn towards me. I walk by, but the hallway is a little tight. You turn your body just a little to walk forward and my upper arm brushes against your breast – purely accidentally of course – and it sends a little tingle through me.

I’ve been around friends here and there, tried to date during the pandemic, but this little exchange? Feels heightened. Different. Hotter?

“Excuse me,” I say.

“I don’t mind,” you say, smiling as I walk by. Neither do I.

“Hey,” you call, as I walk to the closet. “You want a beer? It’s the least I can do if you’re fixing my washing machine”

“Sure,” I call back. “And no promises on fixing this ok? I’m only an expert in watching youtube videos about fixing appliances.”

As I get set-up in the laundry closet, I hear you rummaging in the fridge. You arrive a few moments later with two open beers. “IPAs. I know I’m supposed to like sours or pilsners or something,” you say. “But I’m still just a plain old IPA girl.”

“Hey, a beer’s a beer,” I say, and I take the bottle, chink it with yours. “Cheers,” I say, then taking a swig.

“Cheers,” you reply.

“Well let’s see what’s happening,” I put the beer on the dryer and get to work. “By the way Miya, nice washing machine,” I say, admiring the older model.

“You’re joking right? It was my mom’s. At least it still works. Or did, anyway.” You smile and start to walk away.

“I admire anything that’s easy to fix,” I say as I start poking around. “The newer models cost hundreds to replace a button. Anyway . . .” Yeah, I’ve watched too many washing machine youtube videos.

“I need to do some cleaning up so I’m around if you need anything,” I hear you say as you walk out of the room.

I give a thumbs up from behind the machine.

***

After an hour or so of amateur appliances repair guy detective work, which is to say randomly unscrewing panels, testing the water (and getting my shirt wet when I forget to turn off the water), I finally figure out what’s wrong. It’s actually two vert simple things: a valve inside the washing machine that controls flow needs a new washer, and there’s a leak in the hose from the cold water to the washing machine. I should have the washer and – surprisingly enough – an extra hose back at my apartment (I have a weird habit of storing all the extra parts I buy).

As I’m getting standing up to go back to my apartment for the washer and hose, you walk up with a second beer. And also, a button has come undone on your sundress, somehow (“somehow,” ha) since when you welcomed me in. Maybe cleaning up was tough work. Or maybe you’re trying to let me see more of you. Regardless, I can now see the gentle slope of your breasts, the pale white tops of your breasts between the crevice of fabric, and I’m thankful for it.

“Here’s another beer!” you say, offering another beer.

“Thanks,” I say, grabbing the beer, trying not to look like I’m obviously staring at your chest. “I have to go back to my place for some parts. I’ll be right back?” This is good timing; my cock is hardening, and in these older, tighter jeans (thank God we’re not wearing hipster tight pants anymore), you’d have definitely seen it growing.

“Ok, just be sure to come back” you say, smiling with a nod.

I put the beer on the washing machine and walk past you. You stand still this time, and our bodies brush against each other. I am pretty sure you kept your hand at your side on purpose, because I feel your hand “accidentally” brush against my hardening penis. Or maybe I’m just imagining it. Anyway, I see myself out, rummage around in my apartment, and a few minutes later I come back with the parts. I let myself in (“Hey,” I say when I enter) but I don’t hear anything back so I make my way to the washing machine and start working.

It takes another thirty minutes to disconnect everything, remove the panel, and install the new parts.

Meanwhile the happy hour beers are kicking in. I feel a nice level-headed tipsiness. I’m a big guy. You’re quite a bit shorter, and I’m wondering if you’re feeling as tipsy as I am. You must be.

When I’m done hooking everything up, I start the washing machine. It’s an older machine so it starts up loud, water pouring heavy into the roller. I bend over the back of the machine, checking for any leaks. So far so good! When I stand back up and turn around for my beer, I see you in the hall behind me, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, beer in hand.

You’ve been watching me bend over the washing machine, it would seem. Not sure whether what you’ve been seeing is the flattering “nice ass” kind of look, or the plumber “ass crack” look. Hoping for the former.

“Oh, hey there,” I say as I turn around, trying to discreetly pull up my pants just in case. “I think I’m done.” As I turn to face you, I notice you’re looking pissed? Sad? Something?“You ok?” I ask.

You let out a big sigh. “No. Yes. No. Yes. Whatever. My date just canceled on me. Now he’s ghosting. I hate these fucking apps.”

“Why would anyone cancel on you,” I ask. It’s a serious question that just comes out.

“You’re sweet,” you say, with a kind smile, and even though we don’t really know each other, it’s like I’m seeing a part of you haven’t shown me yet – up to this point you’ve been bouncy, spry, sarcastic. It’s nice seeing this part of you. But the sarcastic Miya takes over real quick though.“And I know right,” you say, “Fuck em.”

“Fuck em,” I echo.

You breath in and out with another big sigh. Yes, I notice your breasts heaving up and then down as you exhale. Then you say, “Well. Fuck it. Kurt you wanna get high with me? Since I’m apparently staying at home tonight. Doing laundry, hopefully.”

I look back at the washing machine. It looks like I’ve done everything that needed my full attention. “Yeah, ok. There’s a good chance you should be able to do laundry. And also, yes to getting high. Let me finish up though,” I say.

“Great,” you say, turning into the hallway,” I’ll meet you on the balcony? I need to change.”

“Sounds good,” I say, though you look so good in that dress I wish you wouldn’t change.

***

When you join me out there on the balcony, I’m actually pretty happy you did change. You’re wearing tight cut-off jean shorts, and a white, low-cut v-neck t-shirt. Annnnnnd you’re braless. I can’t tell if you’ve dressed down for me, or out of frustration with the existential crisis of modern dating. It’s probably not about me. It’s not about me. But either way, I’m the winner, not the douchebag who canceled on you. You look fucking fantastic. As with the sundress, I can see your breasts, they’re hanging a little bit more down without a bra – I love that, by the way – and your aureolas are dark, big, clearly visible through the thin cotton. Your nipples are standing out, apparently perpetually in a state of semi-hardness. My cock flexes instinctively. Breath Kurt, breath. You must know what you’re doing to me, right?

It’s nice out, starting to get dark, the sounds of the city filtering up to the skinny balcony. As far as balconies go, ours are pretty shitty, probably somebody’s excuse to add $200 to the rent for effectively 6 square feet of “balcony.” Whatever. It’s good enough for us to hang out and smoke.

“So Kurt, I have to warn you,” you say, as you hold up the joint. “This is some strong shit. It’s all I have on me.”

“That’s fine,” I say, thinking indexing my plans for the evening while easing into the plastic chair in the corner of the balcony. My plans did involve doing some home repair work of my own – that closet door – but nothing I can’t ignore for one more night. Besides, the IPAs have kinda hit hard anyway. “I’m already a little tipsy,” I admit.

“Me too,” you say, your eyebrows arching up. “But, this stuff is for real. I got it from an ex, who is some hippy organic farmer guy. Super hot guy, really kind, terrible in bed, but he grows the best weed I’ve ever had so we stay friends. This, apparently,” you say, holding up the joint, “is what he calls Horny Gelato. It sounds like a teenager named it, which is kinda true. He’s a basically a teenager. I mean, not literally. Just a teenager, in attitude and practice,” you laugh, and it echoes in the tiny space. “Anyway it’s some kind of hybrid he grew last year and it doesn’t get very big – kind of like him actually – so there is never much of it. But he calls it ‘horny’ because, well, it does make you feel kinda horny.” you say, shrugging. “And also it’s the only weed I have left. And it’s that kind of night.”

“Sounds good,” I say.

You give me the lighter to help you light the joint, which I do,, then you take a big, slow drag, and turn your face blow into the air. “Oh that’s nice,” you say, already visibly relaxing, and you hand me the joint. As I take my own puff, you hop up so that you’re sitting on the window sill and your feet are propped up on the balcony railing.

Your legs look amazing, white, big calves and thighs, ugh those thighs, and your short jean shorts have creeped up to where I can just see a bit of your ass cheeks resting on the window sill. Your breasts, which look bigger without a bra, push slightly against the sides of the t-shirt fabric. It’s….quite a sight.

“This is good,” I say, breathing out, looking at the joint like it’ll tell me something about itself. “It tastes like wedding cake. I’m not a big fan of the super stanky stuff. But this is actually kind of sweet, almost like a cigar.”

“You partake much?” you ask, as I hand back the joint.

“Not so much,” I say. My head is already starting to swim. The beers probably help (or don’t). Man this is some strong shit. It feels good.

We pass the joint back and forth, taking turns, shooting the shit. We talk all kinds of stuff. Dating, of course, and how much it sucks, and how I haven’t really connected with anyone since I broke up with my girlfriend a few months ago, and you, about how you just haven’t found someone. The pandemic, and how it feels good to be in public again, to not have to wear a mask around neighbors, where we got vaccinated, Moderna vs Pfiezer, etc.

And: “I haven’t had a good fuck in months,” you say.

“Yeah. Me neither.”

Then: jobs, where we moved from, favorite movies, shitty TV shows we binged during lockdown. It’s nice; nice to catch up with a person, nice not to have to have to be wearing a mask with who is effectively still a stranger, nice to share a joint – which upon thinking about it suddenly feels sacrosanct, intimate. Speaking of: it’s nice to flirt too. It’s weird that that hasn’t really happened in the last year either. Part of it, I think, is that you’re way more relaxed than before. Maybe part of it is the joint, the beers, or maybe you were just nervous about the date and now that it’s off you feel more comfortable with your messy, flannel-laden, amateur home repair neighbor guy. Whatever it is, we’re connecting well. It’s really nice. The sun has set, it’s getting dark, that magic twilight hour, and the weather is chilly, but balmy. It’s all really nice. You’re nice. This weed is nice. Everything is nice. I want to simultaneously melt into the chair and fall asleep forever, and jump you and fuck you hard as fuck right here on the balcony.

And yes, whether it’s me staring at your legs and ass and tits and hair from a few feet across the balcony, your ex’s weed strain, or both, sure enough I am horny as fuck. I’m having a hard time keeping my eyes off your body, and my cock is hard as rock in my pants. I’ve had to do the whole 8th grade math class morning boner leg reorientation to hide my crotch. I wonder if you’ve noticed in the dark.

Apparently you have noticed: “So it works huh,” you say, joint between your fingers, hopping down off the ledge and leaning back against the balcony wall. Your full breasts bounce as you hop down.

“Works? The washing machine?” I ask, high, tipsy, confused.

“No, the Horny Gelato,” you say, nodding in my cock’s direction. You’re now leaning up against the wall in the dark, a little bright light coming from the joint in your hand. I’m a bit taken back by the directness. But I like it. Also. You look amazing.

“You ever shotgunned a joint before?” you ask.

“I…don’t think so?” My brain is trying to catch up to the conversation. How are you talking right now?

You smile mischievously, take a long final drag from the joint, put it out in a nearby ashtray, then walk over to me, and, without breathing out, put your hands on the armrests of the chair, lean down to me – your breasts hang down in the shirt and I can’t look away – and you put your lips on mine and breath into my mouth. I can’t help but breath in the smoke. The kiss feels nice, but it’s surprising.

As you stand back up, I cough, hard, surprised, taking in a lot of smoke.

“I’m sorry,” you say, stepping back and laughing a bit, covering your mouth. “I should’ve told you what I was going to do. It’s kinda funny though.”

“Is it though?” I muster between coughs, trying to laugh to show you it’s no big deal. It was hot, to be honest. Finally my cough subsides enough to look up.

I want to ravish you in the dark.

There’s a silent moment that hangs between us.

Then: “Instead of pulling surprises on each other, let’s just tell you tell me what you want and I tell you what I want. What do you say Kurt?” you say.

“Ok,” I say, having to again shake off the cough. The word to describe how you look standing in front me in the shadows is “demure.” Like modest, but hot. Your nipples are like lighthouses in the dark, tenting the white t-shirt. It’s like they’re calling me. I am no longer pretending to not stare at them. I am staring right at them. I wonder if you notice. You probably do.

“Like this. I tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to walk inside,” you explain, “You’re going to watch my ass as I walk away. You’re going to think it’s the finest ass you’ve seen in….years. As you sit watching it, you’re going to think about what you want to do to my body. Then I’m going to go walk down the hallway and I am going to inspect your work on the washing machine, Mr. Kurt,” you accentuate the mister, which sounds unusual at first since it’s new, but I like it. You keep going: “When you walk up, I’m going to be bent over, my ass in full view, my tits pushed down on the cold top of the washing machine,” and at this you hold your tits in your hands as a kind of demonstration and they push together, and fuck I’m having a hard time keeping up with how fast this is going.

“And, Mr. Kurt,” you say, “I want you to fuck me. I want you to take me however you want. No condom.”

I need like 5 minutes to catch up. I don’t have it, so I just stupidly and stonedly say, “Ok. That sounds really great.”

“What do you want do to me?” You ask, in this high-pitched fake girly voice. We’re in a weird spot here but I love it.

“I uh,” I stumble, fumbling for time to formulate the thoughts from my foggy brain, so I just say what I want and let it all out at the same time, “I want to fuck you hard. I want to fuck you hard enough that you scream out begging for more.”

“Ok. That’s exactly what I wanted too,” you say. “I mean. You have to admit this has been basically a porno anyways. Hot neighbor in ruffled flannel shirt and messy jeans fixing hot girls’ washing machine. It writes itself. I mean, it’s so hot you’re already touching yourself.”

Wait, what? I’m a little shocked but I look down, yes, sure enough, I am absentmindedly running my hand over my cock. A large pre-cum wet spot has formed on my pants.

You must be able to tell I’m embarrassed; I can see you smiling in the dark. “It’s ok, see, I’m horny gelato too” you say, laughing at yourself a bit, and you start to tweak your nipples with your hands, right in front of me. This is basically like a porno. What the actual fuck?

You moan in an exaggerated voice as you knead your breasts; almost like you’re faking what a porn would look like but enjoying the faking. It’s Jean Beaullard simulation becomes reality, but porn. You tweak your nipples through your shirt and I can see them hardening in the dark. I am loving the way your breasts gather beneath the pressure of your hands. You move your hands slowly down your body, where they brush over your pussy for just a second.

I breath out slow. This is wild.

“Meet me inside, Mr. Kurt?” You ask in that high, porny voice, your teeth biting your lip.

“Uh, yes,” I say, as you turn through the balcony sliding doors and walk away.

“See you in a minute,” you say, as you pass through the curtains.

Then your head pops back through the curtains, and you squint and look at me. “Am I coming on too strong Kurt? Is this too much? I don’t know why I did all that, but…it felt right.”

“Yeah,” I say, “it’s a lot. But,” I think before I respond so I can be truthful. “I like it. I do. Let’s do this.”

You smile really big. “Ok. Mr. Kurt,” you say, and then your head disappears and I hear you walk through your room to the hallway.

Before I get up, I sit there for a second and take stock of everything. First, I am definitely high as fuck. Higher than I’ve been in a long time. Or maybe ever? And it’s a unique kind of high – like pure energy and pure relaxation. It’s a weird but welcome feeling. Second, I am also tipsy; that’s in there somewhere but lost to the fog of the weed. Third, I am horny as fuck. Maybe that’s just because I was told I’d be horny? There’s this gourmet ice cream place I love, where – at least pre-pandemic – you could sample to your hearts delight. So you’d ask for toasted marshmallow and the employee would say something like “this always reminds me of a crisp fall night where the campfire smoke rises up into the trees and you toast a marshmallow that melts in your mouth and that’s this taste,” so that when you taste the sample, you’re like “you’re right! That’s exactly what it tastes like!” So maybe that’s what’s happening now? You said it was horny weed and that’s what I’m feeling? Horny? Or maybe it’s because the lockdown sucked – I’m glad it saved lives – but for sex it sucked. So maybe I’ve been repressively horny for a year and I’m ready to fuck this first person without a mask that I can? It’s so complicated. It’s making my brain hurt overthinking it.

So I just let it all go. Then in the mental vacuum of letting go of my usually constant overthinking, I’m left thinking about what I want to do with you, with your body, and just making sure I’m not going to do anything you don’t want to happen. Basically I want to fuck you so hard you slam into you against the washing machine and moan loud, and beg for my cock. I want to cum in you. Explode in you with all these feelings I’m feeling; feelings right now, but if I can get existential, the whole last fucking year.

I cross-check that for a second to make sure there are no signals otherwise, and it’s making me harder and hornier to realize: what I want to do to you is exactly what you want done to you.

I take a breath in – still tasting that wedding cake taste down in my throat – and stand up and walk down the hallway.

***

Thanks for reading! Part 2 is [here](https://old.reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/nfcq13/on_the_fine_art_of_washing_machine_repair_balcony/)

Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/nfcoce/on_the_fine_art_of_washing_machine_repair_balcony