Doing the laundry

The bent shape of her ass under that too-short skirt stopped me cold in the doorway. One quick step forward and my hand claimed it. She belonged to me. I was the one signing the checks, so I took what was owed. My fingers sank in, testing the give of her flesh through the thin fabric, and she kept loading laundry like nothing had changed. The pale curve peeked below the hem, smooth and untouched, the kind of view a girl that age probably thought she could hide. My other hand slid lower, pushing the skirt up until black lace stretched across her cheeks—cheap, but pretty against her skin. She didn’t flinch when I traced the line where lace met bare thigh. Two fingers slipped inside the waistband, tugging the panties aside to reveal the tight cleft beneath. She stayed bent, arms still in the machine, letting me look. I pressed two knuckles to her bare slit and felt the heat there, already starting to slick. The metal rim of the washer bit into her hip bones every time she shifted, and I liked the way her back arched deeper, offering more without a word. My palm smoothed over one full cheek, then lifted and came down with a sharp slap. The sound echoed off the tile. A pink handprint bloomed instantly. I repeated it on the other side, watching the flesh quiver, then spread her open so the cooler air hit everything pink and private between her legs. She stayed perfectly still except for the slow, steady rock of her hips against my hand. I slid two fingers along her seam, parted the lips, and pushed inside. She was tight, wetter than she wanted to admit, and the muscles fluttered around the intrusion like she was trying to pull me deeper. I pumped slowly, deliberately, letting each stroke drag across the spot that made her breath catch. My thumb circled her clit in lazy time with my fingers. The contrast of my dark sleeve against her pale thigh, the way her little skirt bunched at her waist, the tiny sounds escaping her throat—everything told the same story. She needed this. I curled my fingers, pressed harder, and felt her thighs start to tremble. One more slap, this time low on the curve where ass met leg, and she pushed back against my hand like she couldn’t help it. I kept her open, kept her wet, kept her right there on the edge while the washing machine hummed beside us, waiting to be loaded.