Last night I gave my lover a homecoming blow-job in the laundry room.
I returned from the grand opening of Club Tantra to find him shirtless on my living room floor, doing leg-lifts to Peggy Lee. The sultry music begged for a strip-tease, which I fell into like a jazz singer who finds a scat outside the influence of preparatory thought. I danced around and seductively slipped off my jeans to reveal my retro pin-up lingerie. Then I straddled him while still standing, kissed and teased and shimmied over him till he was squealing with excitement, got up, grabbed my little coin purse of quarters, went to the door and said, "I'll be right back. I need to do my laundry."
I didn't put my jeans back on.
He laughed then watched me with a stunned look on his face as I stepped into the hallway and closed the door. As I was about to step into the elevator, my apartment door opened, revealing him looking rather incredulous.
When he realized I was seriously going to the basement in my lingerie, he followed me wearing sweatpants and an enormous erection.
Sex in the laundry room is hot! The lighting may be terrible, but it's private and warm and erotically confining. If you ever try this in an apartment building, I recommend that you play during the dryer cycle. There's no need to muffle your moans because the sound of the machine will drown out most other noise. (I'm not sure about orgasmic screams). And if you sit on a machine while it is running, I imagine you'll feel some nice vibrations. Unfortunately, the machines in my building are front-loading, so we had to settle for the little table in the corner.
The exhibitionist in me was disappointed that nobody else was doing laundry that night. How amusing it would have been if a neighbor had caught us in the middle of the spin cycle! Or in the elevator, with my lingerie and cum mustache and his "I just got great head" look! Oh well, the memory is just as good the way it is.
And with that memory, laundry will never be a chore again.