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Laundry is such an intimate thing. The vulnerability of cleaning what our bodies have dirtied almost seemed more vulnerable than the act of undressing itself. It is so widely regarded as intimate that we’ve even created entire metaphors around its existence.
To air out someone’s dirty laundry, to bare their soul and all its secrets to the world. To show that we are, at our core, imperfect.
But my roommate’s soul smelled like lavender laundry detergent.
And if I’d known any earlier, I would’ve never let her through the door. If I had known what I would find behind her undressing, I would have told her to find someone, anyone else to torment with soft smiles and kind eyes.
Most days, it was easy to admire her quietly. Most days, she would perch herself somewhere in the comfortable silence. She would busy herself to the point that we would both fail to realize how much of my day was spent watching her.
Occasionally, she would be the one to start up a conversation. I would talk for hours, and she would listen until there was nothing left to be said.
Most days, I could delude myself into thinking that I could handle the situation.
But the nights were never the same.
At night, she came alive. Still quiet, but loud enough for me to hear the gentle sounds of her pleasure. The whimpers and whines filled the room until the sounds bled through the wall between us. I heard her so clearly that I could almost see her, with supple lips parted or pulled between her teeth as she tried to muffle her moans. Her legs shifted under satin sheets as she drove closer and closer to that moment of euphoria.
Some nights, I was weak. Some nights, I would join her in that longing, with one hand wrapped around my own aching lust and the other clutching bed sheets that still vaguely smelled like lavender.
I would wake in the morning with a terrible sense of guilt for having taken advantage of a young woman’s moment of vulnerability. The next time I heard her whispering sweet nothings to herself, I would bury my face in my hands until it was over.
But then she would do it again the next night, and I would come alive again, too. If only for a little while.
On those mornings, she would look at me with a seemingly knowing smile. She would hand me a cup of coffee and her fingers would linger, and I would be forced to wonder if she was trying to communicate something to me.
I would create whole universes within that split second where our fingers touched each other instead of ourselves.
We hadn’t had one of those days in a while. Truthfully, every night I sat with my ear practically pressed against the wall, just waiting, wishing to hear any evidence of her indulgence on the other side.
I’d accepted that she’d probably found some other way to appease her desire. I’d never lingered long on the thought because I couldn’t bear to imagine her with another man.
Some days were harder than others. The hardest were days like that one, days sat in her favorite seat on the couch in the hope that the breeze might bring the lavender back to me. And although it might be a little pathetic, I indulged myself in a different way. A simple load of laundry that would also smell like her detergent.
But as I carefully folded each familiar article of clothing, my fingers stumbled upon something new. Something soft like velvety petals, something decorated with intricate lacework patterns that made my heart race before I’d even seen them.
I lifted the lavender-colored lace from the rest of the laundry with a trembling hand. My mind immediately began weaving hundreds of thousands of hypotheticals, images paired with sounds that echoed through every cell in my body.
I knew that I should return them. I knew that it was almost certainly nothing but a simple mistake, a failure to check the dryer closely enough before shutting the door.
But when I heard the door open and her voice call my name, I panicked. I shoved the secret beneath my pillow and told myself I could feel bad about it later.
I carried myself as well as one could while doing something as juvenile as stealing a pretty young woman’s undergarments, which was to say, not at all. If she’d known what I’d done, she said nothing of it. She just came to greet me with that soft smile and those kind eyes that always seemed to know things that they shouldn’t.
That night, I laid in bed and stared at the ceiling as I contemplated whether this had all gone too far. I’d even begun trying to convince myself that my secrets hadn’t been secrets at all — that she had known what she was doing since the first night, and had enjoyed the very same game.
I pictured her with her ear pressed against the wall, too. Waiting for permission for debauchery the same way I had.
When it didn’t come, however, she took it into her own hands. With the same hand that lingered against my skin, she would touch herself. I could hear it, see it, feel it at my core. Without even thinking, I would let her sounds guide me until I was right there with her.
Except that time, I found myself reaching beneath my pillow before I reached below my belt. I clutched silky fabric while I fought my inner demons. I fought the guilt and the shame the only way I could think to do. I pressed the garment against my face, and I felt the way my scruff caught on its delicate fibers. My breathing got deeper, and the intoxicating scent of lavender petals called to me like a dream, begging me to follow her into the fantasy.
It was vivid, so overwhelming that before I knew it my hand carried the softness down. Lower, and lower I went until I could feel the satin with the utmost detail. I dragged lilac fabric over my cock until I felt her there, too. The scent of her lingered on my face and I could almost imagine what it would be like for her hair to tickle my face as she gasped in my ear.
‘Spencer,’ she would call into the night.
“Y/n…”
I hadn’t even realized that I’d said it aloud because she had grown louder and more reckless. Her whimpers turned to whorish moans that felt like they would carry through the walls and shake loose the secrets we kept on each side.
My breathing got harder and sharper until I could hardly finish a single breath. With empty lungs, I still called her name. I still moved a feverish hand in quick motions, still used her intimates to mimic her intimacy.
I rode the line between guilt and euphoria and I had no intention of letting go of the pleasure so soon.
But I swore that I heard her call, “Spencer.”
And I was left with nothing but dirtied lavender laundry once more.
Spencer usually smelled like freshly brewed coffee and vanilla creamer. I often joked that the sweetness in his heart was the true source of the heavenly scent. But Spencer, through an awkward smile on a beet-red face, would insist that it was just the soap he used.
But some days Spencer smelled like lavender. And I knew why that was, too.
It wasn’t his fault that he was so shy. He couldn’t be blamed for fearing intimacy. His life had been a series of tragedies that had left him with no discernible notion of confidence.
But on those days where Spencer smelled like lavender, he was bold. I knew that because I could feel the weight of his lust through inches of plaster and wood. I could hear heavy breathing so clearly that some nights it felt like he was right beside me.
And in a way, he was. He wanted to be, and so he was.
To him, I figured the fantasies were the best he had available. But I wanted more. I craved him. I longed for his touch to be more than a mild mid-morning lingering of fingertips. I wanted to consume him, to burn the image of myself onto his body so that we were never really apart again.
I had to be certain that these feelings were as requited as I’d hoped. I couldn’t delude myself into thinking that he’d cared about me and risk the rejection of the best roommate I’d ever had. Luckily, it was easy enough to plant the seeds of lust. The small, petal-soft sign of the lavender’s bloom.
There were many things I’d anticipated, but him keeping the garment was near the bottom of the list. Its surprise, though, was not borne of disappointment. In fact, I’d never been so thrilled as when I’d come home to find him innocently folding laundry through a sheen of sweat. I could see how his hands shook like they’d been burned. The satisfaction stoked the flame in my heart until it was almost unbearable to see him.
The anticipation was so exquisite that I couldn’t let it go yet. That night, I touched myself and I felt the difference in his company. I pressed my palm against the wall between us like he would be able to feel me, too.
Well, more than he already did with my underwear shoved between his hand and his dick.
It still wasn’t enough. The next morning he was riddled with an odd mixture of pride and shame that he could barely look at me without losing his breath. Yet I could feel that darkness, that charred remnant of his dwindling insecurities.
And I decided to let the fire rage until the whole world smelled like burnt lavender smoke.
That night when I approached his door, I was unsurprised to find it cracked open like it always was. With a slightly hesitant hand, I announced my presence with a gentle knock before I crossed the final threshold.
Spencer didn’t speak. He just looked away from his book and up at me with a furrowed brow and a bitten lip.
“Can I ask you for a favor?” I asked.
“Sure, of course. Anything,” he answered. Exactly as I’d thought he would.
And oh, did I watch him swallow the words. With just one step towards his bed, his regret was audible, palpable like his bobbing Adam’s apple and his shifting body under the covers. He saw how I had never intended to let the edge of his bed stop me.
Instead, I crawled onto it. Armed with a smile and more than enough knowledge of his misdeeds, I made sure that the next time my hand fell, it landed on his thigh beneath the sheet.
“W-What are you doing?” he asked as if it weren’t already clear.
As I continued to crawl on top of him, I purred, “I need your help.”
“With… what?”
Try as he might’ve, Spencer couldn’t keep his eyes on mine. They darted down, but never away. They stayed on me with that same precision and care that he’d always had when he looked at me. I didn’t need to imagine what he saw because I had been sure to wear something to keep his attention. A simple opaque negligee that left just enough to the imagination.
I was certain he’d had more than enough time on his own to imagine the parts of me he couldn’t see. That was why when I came to settle in his lap, with my thighs straddling him and my heat pressing against his hardness, his eyelids fluttered shut.
They were only shut as long as it took me to speak.
“I lost something,” I said.
His eyes shot open.
“Have you seen them?”
“Um…” He swallowed again, forcing himself to look at me as he set the now forgotten book on the nightstand beside his bed. But the poor fool had missed the barrier immediately. He hadn’t been expecting me to move closer, but I did.
The movement was enough to force the words out of his throat in a significantly higher pitch.
“Seen… what?”
I lowered further. He shivered when my breath hit his face, hot and humid and filled with longing. I came close enough that my hair tickled his skin and left his whole body trembling just in time for me to whisper into his ear, “I think you know.”
There was silence. Even the clock on the wall seemed too frightened to make a sound. Spencer was the first to break it with a small, shy whimper when he felt my bodyweight move. Then, the bed creaked as I reached below his pillow.
As soon as he realized what I was doing, he shouted, “No—!”
But he was too late. I had already found what I was looking for. There, dangling from my finger in front of his face was the very piece of fabric I’d so carelessly ‘lost.’
Spencer said nothing. He just stared in horror, with wide eyes and blown pupils in the darkness. I could feel the tension and fear in chattering bones. And when I ground my hips down against him, I relished the way it made his whole body writhe.
The embarrassment hadn’t been enough to persuade his blood to move elsewhere, it seemed. In fact, my seat seemed even more suitable the longer I afforded him that self-righteous smirk.
“Naughty boy,” I said with a giggle.
I almost felt bad about it, too. But I could feel his dick jump at the reprimand, and I stored away that thought for future use. For the next time that I would crawl into his bed late at night.
Spencer couldn’t share the excitement buzzing through me at the half-baked fantasy, though. He was too busy trying to get enough blood to his brain to make a single coherent sentence.
“I…”
So close.
“I’m sorry,” he finally whimpered. “I’m so, so sorry.”
And while he might’ve meant it somewhat, he didn’t fully believe it. He wasn’t sorry that he’d taken them. He was sorry he’d gotten caught.
“Ooh, I don’t think you are,” I sighed. With a smile, I twirled the fabric in my fingers. When I saw he was about to open his mouth to explain, I pressed the lace against his lips with two fingers.
I felt how tightly he held his mouth shut. I felt how badly he wanted to part peach-pink lips to welcome me in.
“You know, this is my favorite pair. I even had to buy a replacement when they went missing,” I explained through an exaggerated pout. Through feigned sadness, I sighed again.
I dragged my fingers away from his lips to take them to more interesting places. I placed the clean underwear next to him and drew my hands slowly up my thighs. Spencer’s eyes shot ahead before my fingers ever breached the hem. His pulse went wild — I felt it and saw it through the fast, fluttering vein in his neck.
He’d realized before I grabbed hold of the bottom of my negligee. He had already started to imagine what was underneath before I ever asked.
“Do you want to see them, Spencer?”
He nodded. I dropped my head to the side like I hadn’t received any answer at all. My eyes followed his Adam’s apple as he swallowed his anxieties. He fought through the insecurities and let that animal in him come through.
It was still meek, still small. But the single word was laced with enough desire to make me ache.
“Please...” he whispered.
He looked up at me with half-lidded eyes that seemed more dark than light. His hands inched closer to me until his fingertips brushed over my thighs. He lazily fiddled with the satin covering me, but he never once looked away from my face.
“Please what?” I asked.
Then, with enough confidence that I barely recognized the sound, he said, “Let me see them.”
I tried to hide the goosebumps the beg had elicited, but it would be a fruitless effort. It didn’t matter if he couldn’t see, because he felt the way my body responded. As my muscles tightened around empty space, Spencer smiled.
No, he smirked.
“I’ll let you see them… under one condition,” I said, sort of stumbling over the words as I fought to take back my power.
The power which he surrendered immediately and without any doubt.
“Anything,” he breathed. That time, I believed him.
I rewarded his honesty by lifting the hem of my negligee. He let it slip from his fingertips unhurried. Slowly, his eyes traced the newly discovered lines of my body. With just his eyes, he caressed me more gently than I’d ever felt before.
“You have to take them off,” I told him. The poor thing had become so distracted by the sight before him that it seemed like he’d already forgotten the purpose behind my words.
But once that genius brain caught up to our current position, he sprung into action. Still quiet, still soft, Spencer let shaky hands finally make contact with my skin. He flinched at the heat radiating from my thighs, but he reveled in it all the same.
For all his haste in sitting up and hooking his fingers under, he still hesitated to remove the garment. If it had been anyone else, I might’ve become worried that he was rethinking the whole endeavor. I would’ve worried that his fantasy was better than the reality of it all.
But there was no doubting the love he exuded. The love-ladened lust in his eyes and the tenderness in his touch left nothing to be feared.
He simply wanted to look at me a little bit longer to ensure that he would remember it perfectly. Then, when he was sated, he was careful in helping not only to remove the barrier but to also guide me back to my original, well deserved throne. He used his hand on the back of my neck not to cause pain, but to urge me closer.
His lips were as soft and attentive as I ever could have imagined. While I had theorized that he was not nearly as chaste as his mannerisms made him seem — and I had been right about the panty snatching — I was happily surprised to find that our noses and teeth still bumped. It was still easy, still fun to be loved by something so innocent.
“Is the real thing better than your fantasies?” I whispered against his lips.
“Yes,” he answered with that same eagerness with which he’d kissed me.
Every few seconds, I would tense my stomach with need. Each time, he would buck his hips back, almost like our own kind of language. Like our bodies were reaching for one another. His erection strained against the loose fabric of his boxers until he couldn’t take it any longer.
“Please, I want to make you feel good,” he rasped. Then, when he decided he hadn’t stated his intentions with enough specificity, he groaned, “I want… to hear you say my name.”
He’d left off the ‘again,’ but I knew he’d heard it before. The last time we touched ourselves to the thought of the other, I’d said his name, and he’d said mine. Although he wasn’t the only one who’d wanted to hear it again, I figured his pride hardly needed another boost.
So, I teased, “Is that right, baby?”
Though it wasn’t his name, he was hardly disappointed in the moniker. It sounded too pretty to stop then, so I said it again.
“You want to fuck me, baby?”
“Please,” he muttered as his eyelids fluttered shut from the tension burning through every cell of our bodies.
Even when I reached through the hole in his clothing, he didn’t stop.
“Please,” he said again, and again. “Please.”
The words stopped when I pulled him free from fabric constraints, but he was hardly silent. Instead, he broke out in a string of slurred curses and whimpers that took my breath away. I held him harder, feeling his pulse against my fingers as I started to make loose strokes that would never be enough of me.
I almost thought he would finish before the fun even started. I figured he would be such a shy, obedient boy that he wouldn’t dare to ask. But even his patience had its limits, it seemed. His hands were almost absent in the way he started to pull my hips forward. His eyes shut for a moment, as if he couldn’t stand to watch me as he fantasized about using my body to its fullest potential for his most unholy desires.
I let him keep those pretty hazel eyes shut. I knew they would open of their own accord when I got into position. Sure enough, as soon as he felt the tip of his dick run along slick folds, his eyes shot open.
“Please,” he sobbed, “I want you so bad it hurts.”
When I smiled, he swallowed. With even more urgency, he pleaded, “I’ll do anything. Just, please, god, let me feel you.”
It hadn’t been the first time that I’d been called a God, but it had certainly been the most flattering. There was no denying how fervently he believed it. He looked at me and saw something divine enough that he was willing to give up any hint of propriety to have me closer.
I answered his call, although I took my sweet time. I savored each microexpression, each quick, sharp breath as I started to take him in. Lowering over him, I stayed far enough away that our lips barely brushed against each other with each heavy breath. I stole his breath and the flames inside me grew stronger until I was as lost in the haze of burnt lavender smoke as he was.
It was only then that I purred, “You’re so pretty when you beg, Spencer.”
Without a second of hesitation, Spencer’s hands on my hips pulled me down with one motion. My legs trembled at the intrusion, but the tension was more than welcome. I cried out in pleasure, surprised to find that there was no pain.
I struggled to readjust to the feeling of him, the fullness between aching walls that craved more. The two of us tried to breathe, but our lips were too inviting not to touch. I kissed him despite the mutual breathlessness. We gave in to the animalistic desire without regret.
Spencer remained attentive and eager. His motions were slow, but they were deep and purposeful. I could feel him dragging against tight walls. I could see him memorizing them and storing them away for the next time that we couldn’t share a bed.
The thought brought back so many happy memories, so many nights of longing that had led us to where we are. At that point, he had already won. We both had won. Because we were there, with our limbs entangled and tongues swapping spit.
Our bodies kept speaking in that cryptic language even when our mouths couldn’t make words. Each twitch of our muscles acted like a catalyst that left us falling apart again. And although Spencer hadn’t been the strongest man, he held me together with his everything.
Just as I thought how badly I wanted to feel him lose control, his restraint slipped and he drove up into me while his hands forced me down.
“God, you feel even better than I imagined,” I gasped between long whines.
“It’s all for you,” he explained with the little bit of air his lungs allowed.”
With even more need, he sobbed, “I’m yours. All yours.”
He offered me the reins, and I took them.
“Mine, huh?” I chuckled.
My hand flew to his throat like a magnet to iron. I dug my nails into it just enough to feel the way he struggled, then I let him go. Just for a second, just until I cupped his jaw and forced him to look at me.
But that clever boy flashed me such a pitiful, adorable little stare that I only wanted to torture him more. My mind went back to how this started, to the way his whole body responded when I teased his perverted, panty-snatching tendencies.
“You wanna be my new toy?” I cooed.
“I-I…” he tried to answer, but then his whole stomach tensed like he’d been punched in the gut. His breathing got even faster and his eyes could hardly stay put as he whined, “Oh, god.”
“What a nice, pretty little toy,” I said just to watch him suffer.
And he did. His pleas turned to unintelligible blubbering that always ended with my name. His hands had stopped pulling me down and were now trying to ease my descent, trying to prolong the feeling a little bit longer before it was over.
“We’ll have to work on your stamina then, Spencer.”
“Please,” he tried again. His teeth were clenched and his eyes were devoid of any thought other than the need for release.
He was putty in my hands. Pretty, pliable putty that would do whatever I asked of him.
It was everything that I’d ever wanted. So, it was only fair to show him what he asked for. Mercy.
“But for now…” I whispered, drawing out that delicious tension for a few seconds longer. Then, with my eyes locked on his and my palm holding his pink cheek, I issued my own beg.
“Come for me, Spencer.”
With all the permission he desired, Spencer found his release. Blunt hands dug into my skin hard enough to bruise. I welcomed the sting. I wanted to feel the full force of his strength, his desire for me as he claimed as much of my body as he could. He painted the space between my legs with his longing and wrote his name in teeth marks on my bottom lip. But I still found the softness in the gentle twitching of a spent cock.
In the quiet that followed the chaos, I heard him still whispering my name like a holy word.
I stood from my throne without warning. I felt the heat of his touch dripping from between my legs, and I left him messy with the aftermath. I started to leave the room, but paused when I heard him croak another beg.
“Don’t leave… Please.”
I smiled. Not because I relished torturing him, but because I had no intention of doing such a thing. Instead, I merely wanted to offer him a look at my trembling legs coated with his desire.
Because I wanted him to watch as I picked up the dirty, discarded underwear from the floor beside us.
“Don’t worry, baby,” I said to the poor confused thing.
Before I’d even touched him, he yelped at the thought of me using soft silk to clean him. I felt him tremble with pain, pleasure, and love as I dutifully collected everything the fabric could hold.
And as I dropped the fabric that no longer smelled anything like lavender into his hand, I giggled.
“We’ve got a whole other pair to make a mess of.”