Chapter 3: Dirty Messages
But here, on this couch that smelled of them, it was held at bay, for just a little while longer. The silence stretched, a warm blanket. Then Lisa shifted, extracting her phone from beneath a cushion. Her screen glowed, a square of artificial light in the dim room.
“I couldn’t stop thinking either,” she said, her voice low. She handed him the phone. “After you left. I wrote it down.”
Ben took the device, his eyes scanning the text. The words were a direct current to his groin. I want you to use me. I want you to walk in and not say a word, just put your hands on me and turn me around. I want to be bent over the washing machine, listening to it spin, while you fuck me raw from behind. I want to feel you come inside me and not pull out, not once. His breath hitched.
“Christ, Lisa,” he muttered, reading it again.
“Is it too much?”
“It’s perfect.” He handed back the phone, his gaze intense. “When?”
“Tomorrow. David has a golf day. Sarah?”
“A charity lunch. It’s a twelve-thirty tee-off for him?”
She nodded, a flicker of fear and excitement in her eyes. “He’s usually gone by eleven.”
“I’ll be here at eleven-oh-five.” He kissed her shoulder, his lips tracing her skin. “And I won’t say a word.”
The next morning, the hum of the washing machine was a steady, mundane thrum. Lisa loaded a small towel, just for the sound, just for the cover. She wore a simple cotton sundress, nothing underneath. Every nerve was a live wire. At eleven-oh-four, she heard the soft crunch of gravel.
A key turned in the lock. Her breath caught. The front door opened and closed with a definitive click.
Footsteps in the hallway, heavy and deliberate. She didn’t turn. She kept her hands flat on the vibrating lid of the machine, the detergent scent of clean linen filling her nose. He entered the laundry room, a large presence that made the space feel suddenly miniature.
His hands, warm and rough, settled on her hips. She jolted at the contact, a small gasp escaping her. He said nothing. His fingers gathered the hem of her dress, lifting it slowly up her thighs, over the curve of her ass, bunching it at her waist. The cool air kissed her exposed skin.
One hand slid between her legs from behind, cupping her. She was already soaking wet. A low, approving sound vibrated in his chest. He parted her folds with his fingers, stroking her once, twice, making her legs tremble. Then he unzipped his trousers.
She heard the rustle of fabric, the sound of him freeing himself. The blunt, hot head of his cock nudged against her entrance. He pushed forward, an inexorable, stretching invasion that made her cry out, the sound swallowed by the machine’s spin cycle.
He filled her completely in one smooth, deep thrust, his pelvis meeting her flesh with a soft smack. He held there, buried to the hilt, letting her adjust to the shocking fullness. Then he moved.
His rhythm was relentless and deep, each withdrawal a near-total retreat before slamming back into her yielding warmth. The force drove her forward, her elbows sliding on the smooth white lid. The machine churned and shook beneath her, a counter-rhythm to their own.
“Fuck,” he grunted, the first word he’d uttered, a raw exhalation. His grip on her hips tightened, surely leaving bruises. “This cunt is fucking incredible.”
The obscenity, uttered in that low, possessive rumble, sent a shockwave through her. She pushed back against him, meeting his thrusts, wanting to be taken harder, used exactly as she’d asked. The metallic rattle of the machine, the slapping of skin, their ragged breathing—it was a symphony of transgression.
“You wanted this,” he growled, bending over her, his chest against her back. “This filthy, raw fuck. You dreamed of it.”
“Yes,” she sobbed, the pleasure coiling, tightening. “Don’t stop. Please.”
He reached around, his fingers finding her clit, a rough, perfect circle. “Come all over my cock. Do it.”
The command shattered her. Her climax ripped through her without warning, a violent, convulsing wave that clenched around his length, milking him. She screamed into the humid air, her vision spotting.
Feeling her pulse around him, he lost his control. His thrusts became frantic, animalistic. “Take it. Take all of it,” he snarled, before driving in one last time and shuddering, a harsh groan torn from his throat as he emptied himself deep inside her, his release hot and seemingly endless.
They stayed there, locked together, panting against the shuddering machine. Slowly, he softened and slipped out. A trickle of their mixed fluids trailed down her inner thigh. He gently smoothed her dress down over her hips.
Only then did he turn her around. He cupped her face, his thumb wiping a tear from her cheek she hadn’t known was there. He kissed her, deep and slow, a silent conversation.
“I have to go,” he finally said, his voice gravel. “I’m calling in sick to the studio this afternoon. I can’t… I can’t think straight after that.”
She nodded, unable to speak, her body still humming. He fixed his clothes, gave her one last, burning look, and left as quietly as he’d come. The washing machine beeped, its cycle complete. The sudden silence was deafening. She was left alone with the smell of clean laundry, sex, and the terrifying understanding that she was now wholly, irrevocably lost.