Spin Cycle

Vintage Oxydol AdI have a fondness for dryers. Of all the major appliances, it is the only one I truly love. This is because I was sitting on a dryer when I had my first accidental orgasm. At first I didn’t know what happened. All I knew was that it had been lovely – a warm syrupy feeling like sticky, sweet magic – and that I wanted more. It took a conversation with my worldly, thirteen-year-old best friend for me to clue in. Needless to say, laundry became my favorite chore.

It will come as no surprise then that, years later, I still indulge in the occasional session of dryer-love, and not just for sentimental reasons. Nothing gets me off quite like the rumble and thump of an ancient dryer, set to high, full of heavy wet towels and sheets.

As it happens, I was doing just such a load while my roommate was at the gym one incredibly hot afternoon. The air conditioner had busted again, beading my body with sweat as I heaved the load in question from the washer to the dryer. The laundry room was stifling and I wanted nothing more than to take a shower and a nap – until the dryer started to thump. I swear it only took two crashes and a bang before I was swollen, wet and ready to go. I looked at the clock. Michael wouldn’t be home for another half hour. Plenty of time.

Pulling up the hem of my sundress, I shimmied out of my panties and tossed them in the wash. They were thin and lacy and completely soaked, though from sweat or my perky libido I couldn’t have said. I checked the clock again, just to be sure, calculating that even if Michael came back early, I’d hear the door and make a graceful recovery before he could ever suspect. On a side note, Michael, with whom I’d been friends for years, had recently left the seminary. He was adorable in a solemn sort of way, but his spiritual calling and near-priestliness had rendered him off-limits years before. While I wasn’t above the occasional fantasy, all I was thinking about then was the rumble and thump of our ancient Maytag. So I climbed right on.

Over the years, I’d perfected the art of dryer-top masturbation. The trick is to brace one hand on the wall, leaving the other free to manage things below. Depending on the dryer and your own flexibility, you then prop one leg up on the edge while the other dangles free.

Having never put this particular dryer to erotic use, it took me a couple of seconds to get my bearings. Then my leg rose up with instinctive assurance until my heel rested against the dryer’s hard metal edge. I spread my other leg just wide enough to grant my hand access. I was so hot, as much from the weather as from anticipation, that I skipped the preliminaries and dipped my fingers right in. I swear, my skin nearly rippled as the hem of my dress slid up my thigh and pooled at my hips, leaving me both obscured and exposed depending on the angle and drape.

One finger. Two. I moaned, savoring my wetness and loving the rumble of the dryer beneath my ass. I stroked myself as deeply as my fingers could go before slowly removing them and trailing them, hot and wet from my juices, up over my folds to my swollen clit. The dryer kicked into high gear as I stroked and rubbed myself. The orgasm began to tingle and pool in my feet, before it traveled up my legs. I spread them wider and let my head fall back as I moaned, moving my hand convulsively as my cunt began to contract. Gorgeous waves of syrupy pleasure went rolling through my body. I abandoned my clit, letting the dryer work it’s magic there while I plunged three greedy fingers into my hungry cunt.

That’s how Michael found me – finger fucking myself on top of the dryer, on the absolute edge of an orgasm.

Most people would have stopped. Most people would have been disturbed or, at the very least, embarrassed to be found in such a state. But I was not most people, at least not then, not when I was about to have the most deliciously strong, catastrophe of an orgasm that I’d had in months. I couldn’t have stopped if I’d tried. So I didn’t.

Michael didn’t move. The strap of my dress slipped off my shoulder, exposing my breast as I writhed. I could feel him watching me as the orgasm crashed home. The knowledge just made me hotter, drawing the orgasm out to ridiculous, pornographic proportions. Finally, the convulsions ebbed as the dryer finished it’s cycle, and the Maytag and I wound down to a satisfied resting state. I opened my eyes, expecting to see shock or embarrassment on Michael’s face, but what I saw was desire. Raw, hard desire working the muscle of his jaw.

“Hi,” I said, lowering my leg so that I sat perched atop my industrial vibrator like a little girl. My hand moved to the hem of my dress. But before I could pull it down, Michael had dropped his gym bag and was standing between my legs, one hand resting on my knee, the other on my hand.

“Don’t,” he said.

Then he took my fingers, which had so recently been inside me and licked them, one by one, his eyes never leaving mine. At this point, things get hazy. I might have said something inane. I might not have. I know I couldn’t breathe. This wasn’t the Michael I knew, my roommate and old friend who had almost become a priest. This was a man with hard muscles and rough stubble and a soft, warm mouth who, at that very moment, was licking an orgasm off my hot, sticky fingers. This was a man that I wanted to fuck. And judging from the heat coming off his hard, ready cock, he wanted to fuck me back.

Michael smiled, as if he’d read my mind. “Let’s run this load again,” he said reaching for dial.

Then he kissed me, deeply, as if he was making love with my mouth just as the dryer kicked back in to high gear.

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