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In the first two weeks at my new apartment, I had learned two things.  

The first was that living by oneself could be lonely.  My apartment building was more social and older than any other place I had lived, but I had not assimilated myself into the social scene.  Every place seemed to serve as a social venue – the parking lot, the pool, each other’s apartments.  Judging from the noise, the apartment next to mine had a recurring party in it every other Friday.  

The second was common laundry room areas were a horrible idea.  Often times I would go back to my apartment to waste the hour or so, only to discover my clothes removed from the machine they had been in when I returned.  As if that were not frustrating enough, four pair of my panties had “disappeared.”  The first time I chalked it up to dropping or misplacing them, but by the fourth pair I was certain someone was stealing them.

As a result, I currently found myself in the laundry room at 230am on a Monday.  I was seated on red plastic chair with aluminum legs – the type you’d discover in your grade college classroom. My feet were up on the edge of the seat and my legs near my chest as I read my Cosmopolitan magazine and drank wine out of a paper cup, refilling it with a bottle I had brought down in my laundry bag. I was already three quarters of the way through the bottle and seemed likely to finish it in the 30 minutes remaining until my clothes were dry.

A man entered the laundry room, giving a quick glance in my direction before focusing on removing his clothes from a dryer two down from mine.  My eyes drunkenly focused on him, wondering if he was the panty thief I had been hoping to catch.  

He was average height for a man, around five-feet-nine-inches, and carried enough extra weight that I assumed he indulged in the same greasy, fatty foods I had been lately.  In the two weeks since I had moved into my apartment, I had gained fifteen pounds.  A life of work, isolation, bar food, and beer had noticeably fattened both my face and stomach.  

He wasn’t good looking, but he wasn’t ugly either.  He was…average.  He moved slowly, taking his time removing each piece of clothing from the dryer and putting it in a bag.

Abruptly, he turned and looked at me.

“Can I help you?” he shot over.

“What?”

“I can feel you staring at me.”

“I wasn’t staring at you,” I said, drinking the rest of my wine in a bit of nervousness.

“Yes, you were.  Why?”

“I don’t know.  It was an accident.”

“Nothing is an accident.  Do I have a stain on my shirt? Are you plotting to steal my clothes?”

“Steal *your* clothes?  Someone is stealing *my* clothes!”

“No one wants to steal your pink tank tops,” he smirked in an attempted joke.

“They’re stealing my panties,” I blurted out, immediately embarrassed I revealed that information.

“In that case, I’ll keep an eye out for the panty burglar as well,” he said, obviously aware of the awkwardness looming in the air. 

We made small talk.  His name was Tim.  He was originally from Atlanta and was recently divorced.  Tim lived in the complex a little over a year and while he socialized with many of the tenants, he wouldn’t consider them close friends.  

Tim was good at conversation, a trait I admired and was jealous of.  It seemed natural to him and I enjoyed talking to him.  It was lonely in the laundry room and lonely in my life.  I enjoyed this ordinary human interaction and conversation.  I felt…ordinary.  But Tim cut the conversation short.

“I’m going to head up to my place.  It was nice talking to you.  And I’ll keep my eyes out for your panties,” Tim said with a wink.

“I’ll probably head to the store.  Grab some more wine,” I smiled.

“It’s 245AM.  I doubt anywhere nearby is open.”

“You’re right.  I’ve lost track of time sitting down here.”

“No wine at home?” Tim asked.

“Sadly no.  This was the last of it,” I frowned, shaking my cup.

“I have a few bottles in my place if you want to come fill up real quick.  Some great Cali wines.  I doubt the panty burglar will strike during the 10 minutes it takes to fill your cup.”

“You sure?”

“Of course.  Follow me.”

I followed Tim up to his apartment which was approximately eight doors down from mine.  For a brief moment I considered walking to my apartment and calling it a night.  After all, it was nearly 3am.  Instead, as if buoyed by loneliness and a thirst for wine, I followed him inside his apartment.  

Tim’s apartment had the same layout as mine but was much more put together.  It had a black leather sofa, love seat, and recliner which surrounded a white, rectangular coffee table which was spotless.  I stood in the living room while Tim grabbed my cup and made his way into the kitchen to pour me some wine.  I focused on a mirror in the living room, embarrassed by my reflection in the mirror.  I had not expected any human interaction so I was wearing shorts and a tank top. I was not wearing make up, nor was I wearing a bra.  My face looked bloated and puffy and I thought whether that was due to the wine or the weight I had recently gained.

I needed to stop looking at myself and I spun from the mirror and walked to the kitchen to check on Tim and my wine. 

Tim had opened a bottle and I walked over just as he finished pouring a hearty glass of wine, having disposed of my paper cup.  Tim handed me the glass and I drank half of it in one gulp, noting the taste.

“What wine is this?” I asked curiously.

“Ah, it’s this great California Pinot Noir.  It’s a tad expensive but it’s my favorite.  From that large drink you took I take it you like it too?”

“I do.  It’s really good.”

“Come here, I’ll show you the bottle,” Tim said leading me to the counter where it sat.

Tim held the bottle like a waiter at a fancy restaurant and droned on about his visits to Sonoma and his favorite wines.  Tim was certainly not like most men I met throughout my years in Florida who preferred beer, bourbon, pills, and cocaine.  He had a sophistication to him which made me wonder how he ended up in an apartment complex of such little stature.  Tim seemed to notice things, like when my wine needed a refill or his eyes following my hand as it dropped down to adjust the bottom of my tank top to ensure it fully covered my belly. 

“I’m going to head back to the laundry room,” I said as I placed my glass in the sink.

“Already?”

“Already?!  It’s 325AM Tim!” I drunkenly giggled.

“Wow, I guess it is.  Your clothes aren’t going anywhere though,” Tim replied.

“Actually, they are.  Remember?  My panties?”

“Oh yeah.  Just one pair though, right?”

“No!  Four pairs so far.”

“So that’s why you were sitting down in the laundry room.”

“Yeah.  Why else would I sit down there?”

“I figured you were just lonely.”

“What?”

“Yeah.  You gave off a lonely vibe.”

“What exactly does that mean?” I asked.

“A woman, drinking by herself in a laundry room at 230am?  Wearing a tank top, without a bra, that not only shows cleavage but side boob as well.”

I looked down and pulled the sides of my tank top toward my armpit to cover up any side boob currently showing.

“You just struck me as someone who was lonely and could use some attention.”

I bowed my head in embarrassment.  My subliminal mannerisms had exposed how lonely and desperate for attention I was.

“I’m not lonely,” I murmured.

Tim took a step toward me causing me to take a step back, my back resting against the kitchen counter.  Tim’s hand rested underneath my chin and tilted it up, forcing me to stare into his eyes. His lips descended on mine which instinctively kissed him back and accepted his tongue into my mouth.  Tim’s hands wasted no time, feeling my breasts over my tank top.

“I’m gonna go,” I gasped as I pulled my mouth away from his.

Tim’s lips found my ear then neck as his hands slip inside the bottom of my tank top.  I reached down and between his legs.  Even over the fabric of his jeans I could tell he was already hard and standing at attention.  

“You’re already hard,” I whispered as if his hardness needed to be kept secret.

“Is that a bad thing?” Tim asked as he pulled my tank top over my head.

“No,” I returned.

Tim’s hand journeyed from under my shirt to my stomach where it slowly rubbed from one hip to my other.  I felt as if each pass of his hand across my stomach alerted him to more and more rolls of fat around my midsection and I feared that if he took note of that, he may stop.  And my body was too worked up sexually to stop the action now.

I grabbed Tim’s hand and pushed it downward, imploring him to slide his hand into my shorts as opposed to on my stomach.  Instead, Tim pulled his mouth off of the tit he had been sucking, took one step back, and swiftly pulled my shorts down to my ankles.

“No panties?” Tim asked with a smile?

“They’re all stolen or in the dryer,” I answered embarrassedly.  

I was now totally naked in a strangers kitchen.  Not just a stranger, but a stranger who lived eight doors down from me and who I would most certainly see again in some capacity.  Even worse, Tim just stood there, looking at me, as if he were a professor assessing how to grade a paper.  Each second that passed was excruciating.  Did he think my stomach was too fat?  Did he not like my labia?  Was he turned off by the hair which certainly needed some landscaping?  Was he no longer interested?

Finally, Tim acted.  He knelt on the floor between my legs and aggressively began eating me out as I steadied myself against the kitchen counter.  Tim’s whole mouth engulfed my vagina.  I could feel his lips, tongue, and even nose slide up and down the length of my pussy.  Tim obviously did not believe in pacing himself as he dove in face first as if he were in a pie-eating contest.  And indeed, this was a pie eating contest of a different variety. 

As I looked down, I felt that Tim must be uncomfortable – his knees on the cold kitchen floor; his neck craned at an angle which ensured it could reach each area between my legs.  My musings were interrupted as the focus of Tim’s mouth was now solely on my clitoris.  Tim’s tongue and lips took turns greeting my clitoris and I could feel an orgasm building.  I grabbed Tim’s head in an attempt to pull it away so that we could move to the more comfortable confines of a bed, but Tim must have misinterpreted my signals and instead tongued my clit more aggressively causing me to let out a brief cry followed by an embarrassing moan that filled the kitchen.

Tim seemed emboldened by the moan and easily slid two, then three fingers up inside me.  My legs began to shake as Tim fit a fourth finger inside of me and began to thrust all four fingers in and out of me, all while continuing to tongue my clit.  I was incredibly wet which resulted in a squishing sound each time Tim’s fingers entered me.  Tim’s mouth and fingers were incredibly talented and had me on the verge of coming.  

“Let’s go to the bedroom,” I implored as I reached down and attempted to push his hands out of me.

I took a step back into the kitchen entry way but Tim’s fingers followed me.  All four fingers were now feverishly fucking me and I couldn’t take anymore.  My legs buckled as an orgasm struck and I collapsed into the living room floor, the carpet feebly attempting to cushion my fall.

Tim stood up and walked over to me, staring down at his new friend who was now naked on his floor, crying as a result of an intense orgasm.  Tim pulled off his shorts as if modeling it for me as he stood above me.  It was six inches and extremely hard.  Tim joined me on the floor, spreading my legs and easily slipping inside my soaked pussy.  Tim wasted no time fucking me and fucking me hard.  It was animalistic sex between strangers. Moist noises signaled his strokes which were so fast and furious, I doubted he could last long and I was right.  Tim pulled out and covered my stomach with three ropes of watery cum.

Tim stood up and put his shorts back on staring down at me awkwardly – the reality likely setting in that a woman he had met no more than an hour ago was now laying naked on his floor cover with cum.

“Do you have something I can wipe this off with?” I asked.

“Oh…yeah…sure,” Tim stuttered, as he walked into the kitchen and returned with paper towels.

“I should go check on my laundry,” I murmured as I wiped my stomach off.

“Yeah.  I’m going to try and get some sleep.”

“So…see you around I guess?”

“Yeah.  Sure.”

I put my clothes back on and left Tim’s apartment.  The residue of his cum on my stomach slightly stuck to my shirt.  This was not how my night was supposed to go and I questioned how I repeatedly ended up in these situations.  How did seemingly ordinary tasks, such as doing laundry, evolve into sex.  What was it about me that was so open to men’s advances?  Why did things never just end with a make out session?  Why was I incapable of saying no to sex or men in general?

I was embarrassed. I had no control over my libido or my actions and it was concerning.  I often told myself that my sexual promiscuity was a result of the business I kept; the party atmosphere of being a bartender and hanging out in that social circle.  Or the result of doing drugs which lowered my inhibitions.  While all of that was true, this past encountered featured none of those elements, yet yielded the same result.  There was no dinner or dates for me.  Hell, I wasn’t even partying tonight.  I was doing laundry at 230AM.  I was minding my company.  Yet somehow I ended up getting fingered and fucked so quickly that I was now back in the laundry room an hour and a half later.

I was alone, not only in the laundry room, but in life.  My proclivity for attention and business had reared its head yet again.  For some reason, this encountered bothered me more than the others.  It was a sign that I had no control.  That I didn’t just want sex, I needed it.  It depressed me.  I didn’t have friends.  I would just discover someone to have sex with when I was lonely and wanted business.  It was not ordinary behavior.  Maybe I needed to go back to therapy.  Or maybe I just needed some drugs to make me care less…about myself and my actions.

NSFW: yes

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