Spontaneous sex in a shared laundry room [MF]

The best thing about my sex life with Kelly was how easy and natural everything felt. I’m not sure whether it’s my personality, an occasional lack of confidence, or maybe just the reality of growing up, but most of my earlier intimate relationships had been marked, at least occasionally (or in retrospect), by awkwardness, uncertainty, and a certain amount of talking around what either of us wanted, or what was going wrong. Not so with Kelly.

 

She established her sex drive from the start, with zero embarrassment: on our third date, she ground herself to a fully-clothed orgasm on top of me, all while saying she couldn’t sleep with me until she knew whether we’d be in a relationship. Later that night, when I joked about her getting off on top of me, she texted back: “Next time maybe you’ll get off inside of me.” Once we’d been dating a little while and could talk more casually about our desires, she told me point blank: “If we’re together and alone and I’m not distracted by work, I always want to fuck you.” She’d text me sometimes from work about her fantasies, or what she wanted. In some ways, I guess, she was comfortable displaying what society tells us is stereotypical ‘male’ behavior—in other words, she knew what she wanted, and she went for it.

 

It also helped that our relationship always had a ticking timer. I was 27, and she was 26. Both of us were applying to jobs all over the place, trying to make the jump from our starting positions into something a bit more lucrative, more stable; she wanted to move back south, and I wanted to get a full-time, tenure track teaching job anywhere that would have me. We never expected to make it long enough to really require a ‘what will happen to us’ conversation. We’d have our fun, enjoy each other’s company, and when one of us got the right job offer, it would be over.

 

Late in our relationship, I went on my summer trip home to visit my family. We hadn’t been separated much since we started our relationship, other than a vacation she took to Nicaragua, and the effect of the distance become obvious. We sent each other dirty texts night after night, and one morning she texted me—“I miss your personality too, but right now I really just miss your huge cock”—followed by a picture of herself in bed, topless, back arched, and hand in her panties. But when I got back to New Jersey, she was distant. We didn’t sleep together on my first night back; in fact, we barely kissed. A few days later she called me and told me that she thought we shouldn’t slow things down: she was applying to jobs, but the past few months had had the strange result of making her actually like living in Bloomfield. She didn’t want anything tying her to the town she was trying to leave.

 

Eventually, though, the sexual chemistry proved to strong, and we started up again, albeit less frequently and with our emotions more guarded. One morning she woke me up with a text: “Come over and fuck me. Merry already left for work.” I looked at the clock before responding that I couldn’t—I needed to lesson plan and leave for work in like half an hour. “Please come fuck me,” she repeated. “I’m so wet and I need to be filled by something huge.” I was hard as a rock, but I didn’t cave. I really did have work to do before leaving for class. She was pissed.

 

And so we came to one of our last times together, the sexual tension still high but her interest in being emotionally intimate with me waning, largely out of self-preservation and a little bit of resentment that I hadn’t come over a few weeks before and fucked her all morning. I had an evening off and went over to her place to make some food, watch a movie, and maybe have a few drinks out in her yard on a nice summer night. In the first two thirds of our time together, there would’ve been no doubt about also sleeping together, having a little fun, exploring each other’s bodies…but in this late stage, I had no idea. Nothing was guaranteed.

 

When I got to her apartment, her roommate was home with her boyfriend in tow. It was a small apartment, so this was bound to cramp our style. Since they’d been there first, they had claim to the TV, and given the limited space and thin walls, we weren’t likely to get too active even if Kelly did want to take me to her bedroom. Unless we went back to my place, where she hadn’t stayed over in nearly a month, sex seemed off the table. The four of us agreed to have some dinner together, so I started preparing food, chopping vegetables and making pasta and starting some water on the stove. It was hot and cramped and uncomfortable, so when Kelly said she was going down to the basement to swap her laundry into the dryer, I told her I’d join her.

 

Their apartment was the second floor of a house that was split into two separate sides with two apartments each. All four shared a basement laundry room that was accessible through only one of the ground floor apartments or by walking around into the yard and then down through a creepy cellar door. The ground floor tenant, Deborah, was not high on Kelly’s list of favorite people—too nosy, too uptight. The room was dingy, dark, cramped, and musty. Spider webs spanned the corners, and a single uncovered lightbulb flickered overhead. A door leading to the attached apartment could swing open at any moment. Together we quietly set about separating her laundry and putting the appropriate items into the small dryer.

 

“It’s cramped up there,” I said after a while, more to fill the silence than anything else.

 

She didn’t look up. “Yeah, sorry. If I’d known Nora and Chris would be here, I wouldn’t have asked to you to come over.”

 

“That’s not what I meant,” I responded. “I like spending time with you—I really don’t care if they’re here.”

 

She was silent for a while. Finally, she said. “Sure, but I’d prefer a little more privacy.”

 

I watched her squirm a little bit where she stood, surprised. “Oh?” I asked, reaching over to run my hand up her side, under her thin t-shirt. I felt myself stiffening. “What for?”

 

“I know I said we should stop,” she said, glancing quickly over her shoulder. “I have a second interview tomorrow for a job in South Carolina.”

 

I kept my right hand running up her rib cage toward her small breasts—she wasn’t wearing a bra—and let my left hand wander to the waistband of her athletic shorts, where I flicked a few fingers beneath the elastic. I felt her breath catch. She shifted her butt up and back, trying to grind against me. “But?”

 

She moaned quietly. “But I can’t stop thinking about fucking you.”

 

I cupped her breast, tweaking her nipple, and worked my other hand closer to her clit. “And what are you thinking about?”

 

She reached around without looking and wrapped her fingers around my cock, erect underneath my jeans. “Nothing in particular,” she said. “I just need to feel you. I need you inside me.”

 

I moved my hand to her neck and turned her around to face me, kissing her deeply. We moaned into each other’s mouths, both pent up and horny and missing each other’s bodies. With my left hand, I felt for her clit and slipped a finger inside of her. She was soaking wet, a damp spot at the front of her shorts. “Fuuuucck,” she said. “Oh fuck.”

 

We made out briefly, tongues darting into each other’s mouths, while she ground against my hand. I could feel heat radiating off her, my cock throbbing underneath her slow, purposeful strokes, the need to come rising.

 

She broke the kiss. “We have to make this quick,” she said. “Deborah could come down any minute.”

 

I flipped her around so she was facing the dryer and bent her over it at the waist, her cheek pressing against the white metal. At just over 5 feet tall, she had to get up on her tiptoes. With one hand I worked her shorts down over her ass, a trail of wetness stretching for a second from her soaked shorts to her pussy, and slid them down until she stepped out of them.

 

“What are you doing?” she asked through a kiss, turned over her shoulder to face me. “Don’t undress me—we need to be quick.”

 

“I don’t fucking care,” I growled. “I want to see you.” Our sex had been plain and infrequent in recent weeks, and I missed looking at her body, seeing her while our bodies came together, her back arching down and her butt and legs flexing with each thrust. I needed to watch her. I peeled her shirt over her head until she was completely nude, legs spread wide, feet flat on the concrete floor, palms now pressed against the top of the dryer. Together, we fumbled with my belt and fly.

 

“Do you have a condom?” she asked. Throughout our relationship she hadn’t been on birth control, a combination of bad health insurance and a shitty salary.

 

“Fuck,” I said. “I don’t…they’re in my bag upstairs.”

 

She thought for a second, grinding her bare ass against the huge bulge in my boxer briefs. “Fuck it,” she said finally. “I’m not going back upstairs like this to find a condom, and we’re not going back up to eat dinner with them until you get me off.”

 

Irresponsible as it was, I got even harder at this…we needed each other so badly in that moment that nothing else mattered, I was going to feel her bare skin on bare skin for the first time. Working her clit with one hand, I tugged off my pants and boxers in one clumsy movement and then quickly pushed myself into her.

 

She felt incredible. Of course this was hardly our first time together, but without a condom I could feel every detail and nuance of her body. Both of us were so pent up and horny from the slowdown in our sex life that we fucked like our lives depended on it. Her hands slid forward on the top of the dryer on every thrust until she grabbed the side, white knuckled, and held on for dear life, the force of taking my cock rocking her whole body up against the machine, her butt clenching and flexing, craning up on her tiptoes to find the ultimate angle.

 

As I fucked her, I reached around her torso to rub her clit, and the combined stimulation proved intense enough to send her to the edge in a matter of minutes, with me following close behind. I felt her begin to contract around me, her moans getting loader despite her best attempts to be quiet for the neighbor behind the door, a repeated “fuckfuckfuckfuuuuuuckyesyesfuckyes” with the occasional yelp on a particularly hard thrust as I bottomed out inside of her. She was so wet it was dripping down her thighs, and as she came, a switch flipped and she lost control of her legs, twitching and spasming and coming down hard with all of her weight against the dryer, taking me with her.

 

I fucked her through the orgasm until she regained her words, and she did what she often did when we were going especially hard—started begging me to cum. “I need you to finish,” she pleaded. Please, fuck me, fuck me, please. I need your cum. Cum in me. Now.”

 

I picked up my pace as much as I could, sweat dripping off my shoulders and chest onto her, wondering somewhere in the back of my mind whether she meant it—did she really want me to finish in her without protection? I doubted it.

 

“Where do you want me to cum?” I gasped, breathing hard with the exertion. “Where?”

 

“In me,” she panted. “I want to feel you in me.”

 

I bit her shoulder and let out a moan, the sounds of her bodies coming together, the slap of skin on skin, filling the tiny room. “I don’t have a condom,” I gasped. “I’m going to cum, please, god, now, where do you want it?”

 

“Oh fuucccckkkk,” she groaned on a particularly deep thrust. “Goddammit. I don’t know. Mmmmmffffff.” Right as I hit the point of return, she gasped, “Just don’t cum in me—”

 

I pulled out at the last moment and came hard. Rope after rope, thick streams of come, shot across her back. I always come hard, and a lot, but this was one of the most intense orgasms of my entire life. I felt like it would never stop, I just kept coming, painting her from where my cock rested in the crack of her ass all the way to her shoulders, even in her hair, making an absolute mess.

 

When I finally finished, I picked myself up slowly, overheated and exhausted.

 

“Ho-ly shit,” she said, breathing hard, eyes closed, all her weight against the top of the dryer. “I guess you missed me, huh?”

 

I kissed the top of her head, then each shoulder. “You have no idea.”

 

“Is it weird if I ask you to take a picture?” she asked. “I kind of need to see this for myself…”

 

I reached over to the washer for her phone, snapped a picture, and saved it to her camera roll. “Not that I wouldn’t love to keep going,” I said, “but we probably shouldn’t stay down here like this. Deb could walk in on us.”

 

Kelly laughed. “Can you imagine?”

 

I pulled up my jeans, forcing myself—still hard—into them, and looked around for something to clean her up with. A paper towel, Kleenex, toilet paper…nothing.

 

“How are we going to clean you up?” I asked, turning again to look at her. She was still face down, her hand between her legs, teasing herself absentmindedly.

 

“I don’t care,” she said. “Isn’t there a towel or something?”

 

“Just your laundry.”

 

“That’s fine,” she said, biting her lip. “Who cares.”

 

“Are you sure?” I asked, reaching for one of her workout shirts.

 

“Go for it.”

 

I cleaned her up quickly, a little sloppily, absolutely ruining the shirt, which we threw back into the washer with another load of laundry. Still sticky, still glowing, she pulled on a new, clean shirt and a pair of shorts that were dryer than her original ones.

 

“Don’t you think Nora and Chris will notice you’re wearing different clothes?” I asked, pulling on my shirt.

 

“Let them notice,” she said, turning to kiss me again, biting my lip for emphasis. “I don’t care.”

 

Eventually we went back upstairs, red-faced and sweaty, and sat down to dinner with Merry and Paul, reeking of sex. We never slept together again, apart from some mutual oral that night (“You could have just cum in my mouth!” she realized), and I sometimes wonder if she still has the picture on her phone—whether she still looks at it, or thinks of me, or remembers those times as fondly as I do.

Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/braq8o/spontaneous_sex_in_a_shared_laundry_room_mf