It’s always tickled me that the dirtiest thing I’ve ever done happened in a room whose sole purpose is the pursuit of cleanliness. Yes, I’m talking about a laundry room—the laundry room, to be precise, where a frat boy once went down on me on a running washing machine in a dorm basement. Allow me to explain.
I met Eric* through my sorority sister. I needed a date for our upcoming Greek life mixer and she knew just the guy for me. Eric had sandy-brown hair that swept over his blue eyes in that baby Justin Bieber kind of way—it was 2011, alright? He was just under 6 feet tall, with a captivating smile and kind, sparkling eyes. We quickly hit it off over our shared love of skiing, dubstep, and vodka (#SoCollege). I was immediately charmed; he was so cute in a boyish way, one that made me feel safe and laugh easily. I don’t often hook up with guys on the first date, but this night, I was feeling frisky.
We pre-gamed in his fraternity house bedroom with mutual friends. He looked so handsome in his suit and slicked back hair, a perfect curl dancing above his eyebrows when he laughed. “You look beautiful,” he said, complimenting my sparkly pink dress—which he, unbeknownst to me, would soon have his face buried under. In a land of “DTF?” and “Ur hot,” it felt rare and special to hear a guy bust out three-syllable words like beautiful. After more than enough shots of cheap vodka, it was time to go downstairs and head off to the venue.
My sorority sisters and I giggled as we took selfies, drunkenly hugging each other. The vibes were high and we were all pumped for a night of extravagance. My friend Steph* pulled me in close: “Ummm, hello. He’s so cute,” she gushed. I smiled and whispered, “I know. I already can’t wait to go home with him.”
Just then, Eric grabbed my hand, pulling me away from the drunken frat bros and sorority girls mingling in the living room waiting for the bus. “Come here,” he said as he pulled me around the corner, pushing me against the door and gliding his tongue down my throat. This man wasn’t wasting any time—and I loved that. Our kiss was immediately in sync, his minty-fresh breath dancing around my tongue. “We’re not supposed to go down here,” he whispered in my ear as he opened the door. Say no more, I thought. I tiptoed down the steps, revealing a dark basement filled with washing machines and dryers in a row. He switched the light on, illuminating his handsome face and his pristine suit. “I’ll get into a lot of trouble if we get caught down here,” he said.
He thrust me up onto the running washing machine, the vibration immediately making me horny as fuck. He swiftly lifted up my dress, delighted by my lack of panties. Needing no proper introduction, he buried his face into my soaked pussy as I leaned back, my body softly bouncing up and down. The hum of the washing machine drowned out my moans as Eric drowned in my juices. I glided my hands through his soft, tousled hair as he sucked lightly on my clit and entered my pussy with two fingers. He was licking up every last drop of me, his head quivering in my lap as the washing machine and I both whirled in excitement, the cold metal pressed against my bare ass making my nipples hard as ever.
I slipped my dress straps off my shoulders, exposing my breasts to the chill basement air. He reached up with one hand, squeezing and twisting on my nipples. His tongue perfectly alternated from soft and flat caresses against my clit to hard and pointed thrusts as he face-fucked my pussy.
Meanwhile, just above us, our peers were wondering where we were. I could faintly hear someone asking, “Where’s Serena and Eric? The bus is leaving.” Suddenly, I didn’t care about the formal. We were busy getting formally acquainted.
He lifted his face out of my wetness to come up for air, pulling me in for a kiss as I tasted my own sweetness on his lips. He pressed his hips into my vagina so I could feel the outline of his hard cock through his pants. I reached toward him, almost about to grab it, when he stopped my hand. “Uh-uh,” he said. “Tonight’s all about you.” (And they say chivalry’s dead!)
I could feel the hair on my body standing straight up as a sensual chill shivered down my spine. He placed his lips softly on my bare neck, leaving a trail of kisses down my chest as he headed back toward my pussy. The washing machine still quivering underneath me, I leaned my head back in ecstasy. He put his fingers deep inside me, pulsating with every lick of my clit.
I felt the orgasm burning from deep down, almost ready to escape. Just then, someone opened the door and called below: “Eric? Serena? Are you guys down there?” We froze for a moment as I bit down on my lip to stop the moan from escaping. “I don’t hear them,” the voice said, as the door closed. Without missing a beat, Eric resumed sucking on my clit as I squirted all over his face and nearly started hyperventilating, gasping for breath as my body shivered in delight. My vagina walls pulsed with euphoria, clamping down on his fingers still lingering inside. He peered up at me with a proud grin. What a gentleman.
Eric and I never made it to formal, but he did take me out to Denny’s after our little washroom rendezvous. We laughed and flirted over pancakes and milkshakes like giddy teenagers, which I guess we still were, and agreed that our night was way better than if we’d gone to that dance. Even in that moment, I already knew I’d never be able to look at a laundry room the same.
Over 10 years later, I still think of Eric every time I wash my clothes. And I know somewhere out there in the world, when laundry day comes around, Eric thinks of me. As I pour my detergent, I think of his face buried between my thighs. When I put my wet clothes into the dryer, I think of him putting his wet fingers into me. And when the machine gets turned on, well friends, so do I. All of which is to say, dear reader, if you’ve never been eaten out on a running washing machine, I highly recommend you take it for a spin.
*Name has been changed.
