by Simon Collins
In the beginning my nine-to-three shift at the Laundromat usually passed uneventfully. I would just make change and keep an eye on the place, reimbursing lost quarters and checking out the ladies. I had never been aware of it before taking this job, but lately I find that I am intrigued by women’s undergarments. I watch with interest as girls tumble their clothes out of the dryers and into baskets, and crane my neck to catch a glimpse of lace or silk.
During the day there are a couple of women who come in to do other people’s laundry. I myself don’t have to do anyone’s wash, but I take in the big bales when customers want to take advantage of the Laundromat’s drop-off service. All I have to do is fill out a receipt and tell them to check back in a day or two.
One night a beautiful redhead came in. She was about six feet tall, with these magnificent D-cups jutting out from underneath her blouse. She dropped off two huge bundles of laundry and said I could take my time washing them, that she’d be out of town for a week. I asked for her name and number—for the receipt, of course. Her name was Estelle, she said. No number.
That night after closing, I eyed Estelle’s bags of laundry innocently lying in the corner, and, as wicked thoughts started going through my head, I felt my cock spring to life. I wondered if Estelle wore those underwire bras . . . if she was the lace type or the silk type . . . and before I realized what I was doing, I was rifling through Estelle’s laundry, madly searching for her underwear.
The clothes smelled fantastic, heavy with her perfume and other female scents, and I inhaled deeply as I dug down into the bag. Near the bottom I felt something stiff and pulled up a large bra. Sure enough, Estelle wore the underwire kind, and it was satin and lavender-colored. I dove back into the bag in hopes of finding a matching pair of panties, and after a bit of rummaging I did.
Delicate lace trimmed the lavender triangle that looked like it would barely cover Estelle’s pubic hair; she was such a big woman. It boggled my mind to think of her in this beautiful pastel ensemble.
My cock, by that point, had just about climbed out of my shorts. I reached down and rubbed my hard-on, closing my eyes to get a good mental picture of Estelle. My balls were aching to unload while lascivious thoughts of her were torturing me.
Standing there massaging my stiff dick, I decided that if I couldn’t see Estelle in person wearing these frilly underthings, I’d put them on myself! I ripped off my T-shirt and shorts and grabbed the panties, pulling them slowly up my legs. The satin felt cool and smooth, and the lace pulled at my pubic hair. They fit snugly on my ass and around my balls, but they left about three inches of my hard-on uncovered after the elastic. It was a total turn-on to look down and see my cock poking up out of the lavender lace underpants.
Feeling quite glamorous, I reached for the bra and fingered the stiff wires. How uncomfortable her heavy breasts must be with these unyielding wires underneath them, I thought. I attached the tiny hooks and slid the straps over my arms, disappointed with the gaping space between my chest and the satin cups. I balled up a few loose socks and stuffed them into the voids, creating soft round breasts for myself.
I strutted through the laundry, past the warm dryers, watching my reflection in the round glass doors. My ass looked great in the shiny purple satin, and I ran my hands over my smooth cheeks. My cock was rock-hard and I couldn’t stand it any longer; I had to jerk myself off. I stood with my feet apart in front of one of the big dryer doors and pumped my dick with my fist, stroking my balls through the satin with my free hand.
Within seconds I was spurting violently. Hot, steaming come splattered the dryer door, with some dribbling down the lavender panties and onto the floor. Droplets dotted my stomach. I groaned and caught myself on a washing machine as my knees weakened. I hadn’t had that powerful an ejaculation for weeks, and it nearly knocked me out.
I mopped up as best I could, crumpling the slightly sticky satin panties into a tight ball. I shoved them deep into Estelle’s laundry bag and hoped that the day shift would just throw the whole bale in at once without detecting the remnants of my impromptu fashion show.
That was just the first of many quiet nights, after closing, spent experimenting with assorted ladies’ undergarments. I found sports bras to be rather unappealing aesthetically, but enjoyed the binding feeling they created across my nipples. The G-string underwear strapped tightly to my stomach and with the string separating my balls, riding up into the crack of my ass, I could almost get off on pure sensation alone.
All of these fashion forays culminated in frenzied climaxes. Here I was: my eyes squinted, my breath caught in my throat, surrounded by the clean, warm scent of soap and fabric softener.
I was always very careful to conceal the ejaculatory results of my fantasies. The only unpleasant thing associated with my newfound “hobby” was a small, paranoid voice in the back of my mind asking, “Does this mean I’m gay or something?” But I assured myself that I was still very much attracted to women. In fact, envisioning the women themselves wearing the garments I had on would always fuel me to orgasm. Especially Estelle.
Every few weeks Estelle would come in right before closing with her bales of laundry hugged up against her huge breasts, drop them at my feet, and instruct me not to hurry, that she’d be out of town. When I finally got up the nerve to ask her where she was always going “out of town” to, she replied, “Well, I’m a buyer for a lingerie boutique, and I travel to shop for exotic underthings.”
I closed up the second she left, rapidly jerked off, and came forcefully, imagining Estelle in foreign cities fingering mysterious fabrics. For days after that brief but stimulating conversation, I continued to masturbate while fantasizing about Estelle’s travels and her luscious body clad in her most recent purchases. I could not get her off my mind. One late Friday night, after a particularly irritating evening of work, I was getting ready to close, wondering which laundry bag I should burrow into to relieve the stiffness I was experiencing in my shorts. It had been a few weeks since I’d seen Estelle, and what I really wanted was to put on a set of her imported panties and climax, inhaling the lingering scent of her flowery perfume.
As I was counting the cash drawer, I heard a knock on the door and looked up to see Estelle clutching an armload of bags and packages. I ran to unlock the door and let her in. Fortunately I hadn’t let down the gate yet.
“I’m glad I caught you before you closed up,” she panted.
“Going out of town again?” I inquired.
“As a matter of fact, I just returned from a long, stressful trip to the Mediterranean. And I have loads of laundry for you,” Estelle said, dropping a large canvas sack at my feet. Immediately my imagination went into high gear as I tried to picture what fabulous new panties I’d be slipping into after I closed the door behind her.
“There’s no hurry,” she said, as she always did. “However,” she added, “I do have something here that’s a bit more urgent.” She set a deep-green shopping bag down on top of the closest washing machine. It had intricate gold lettering across the left edge. “Go ahead, open it,” she urged. “It’s a gift.”
I wasn’t sure how to respond to this gesture. The standard “You shouldn’t have” seemed too obvious. Of course she shouldn’t have; she hardly knew me. Instead, I managed to stammer a polite thank you as I reached for the bag. The heavy paper inside crinkled loudly in the silence of the laundry, and I cleared my throat.
“I hope you won’t think it too forward of me,” Estelle said, breaking the tension.
I reached into the bag and pulled out the most exquisite bustier I had ever seen. It was all gleaming white eyelet, seemingly held together by invisible threads. It had a distinctive hourglass shape, but no discernible rigging. It was almost magical.
“It’s from Italy,” she informed me, “made from the finest Venetian lace. Please, put it on.”
My face blossomed with a fierce blush and I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. “I’ve been spying on you these past few months,” she said, her eyes gleaming mischievously. I looked around frantically, trying to figure out how she could have witnessed my evening escapades with the storefront gate pulled down at closing time. Reading my mind, she answered, “I park in the back, right out there,” and she pointed through a tiny window to the employees’ lot. “At first I only caught a glimpse of you through the corner of my eye, but when I stood up on the bumper of my car, it was like having a front-row seat.”
My eyes were watering with acute embarrassment. I couldn’t believe that, for all these weeks, my most private, erotic moments had been on view like a stage show! My face stung from the blood rushing to my cheeks, but I was also vaguely aware of blood rushing elsewhere.
“Oh, come on, aren’t you going to try that on?” Estelle asked as she fished around in the bottom of the green bag. “Here, I think these should complement the bustier quite well,” and she pulled out a pair of sheer white stockings with lace tops. “Please?”
I couldn’t wait to get into the bustier, to feel the fine lace against my skin, but I didn’t want to appear too eager. “The thought of you in this ensemble has had me turned on for days,” Estelle cooed, and her hands brushed across her breasts. “There’s nothing more exciting to me than a fine human form scantily draped in expensive fabric.”
That was all the encouragement I needed; if Estelle was stimulated by the sight of bodies in lingerie, I wanted her to see mine, desperately. I peeled off my T-shirt and wrapped the stiff lace around my chest, straining my arms to fasten the hooks behind my back. Then I lifted my left foot and rolled a silky stocking slowly, sensuously up my leg, aware of Estelle’s longing gaze and her breath coming in quick little gasps.
“Doesn’t the silk feel wonderful?” she asked. “It’s the most expensive there is, from the Orient,” and she began to unbutton her blouse. “You’d better get rid of those shorts,” she said, arching her eyebrows. “They simply don’t work with the eyelet.” Another button undone and her bulging cleavage became visible. With one stocking clinging to the hairs on my leg, I yanked off my shorts, kicked them aside, and proceeded to slide the other stocking up my right leg. They bagged loosely, and Estelle handed me a garter belt.
“This will hold those stockings in place beautifully,” she rasped, her voice thickening. As I snapped the garters to the hose, she let out a small gasp and fingered one of her erect nipples. “Oh, just look at yourself. You’re beautiful.” She grabbed my shoulders and turned me to face my reflection in the dryer door.
She was right: I looked magnificent. My chest was spilling out of the bustier, small blond hairs poking through the eyelet. The shape of my legs was accentuated by the glistening white of the silk. And my cock, well, my cock was stiff and purple, pointing straight into the air.
In the reflection, I saw Estelle’s hand circling her crotch. Thus far I had evidently performed admirably for her. I wondered aloud if there was anything I could do for her now that I was properly attired. “Perhaps there is something,” she answered, and she continued undressing.
She undid the last of the buttons on her blouse and dropped it to the floor, exposing her succulent breasts, displayed prominently in a stiff white eyelet demi-bra. It was a companion piece to the bustier I was wearing! I groaned.
Then, rather than removing the bra, she flopped each breast over the tops of her bra cups, the underwires and starched material pushing her tits out at me.
From there, her hands moved down her fleshy torso to her spandex skirt. She slid it down in a quick motion, revealing her panties and the small white V of eyelet, her excess strawberry-blonde pubic hairs framing it beautifully. I let out another deeper groan, and my hand went straight for my cock. I massaged it slowly as Estelle stepped out of her skirt.
In a second she had boosted herself up onto a washing machine. She smiled at me and slowly parted her legs. Her sweet lace panties were crotchless! Two thin curlicues of eyelet flattened the hair on either side of her pussy. Eyeing Estelle’s gleaming cunt lips, opened wide in invitation, I moved toward her. A bead of pre-come dribbled down the front of my erection, and I ran my thumb around the head, spreading my lubricant.
Leaning into her, I could smell the familiar perfume that had hung in the air during so many of my masturbatory fantasies. Now my fantasies were becoming reality. Gripping the edge of the machine that Estelle was perched on, I slid my cock inside her in one quick, fluid motion. We gasped in unison, and I slowly, smoothly, began to pump my stiff cock in and out of her slippery cunt.
She leaned back on her palms, wrapped her soft legs around my waist, and pulled my hips hard into her. My dick plunged deep inside Estelle, and she cried out. Instinct overcame all control, and with sharp, rhythmic thrusts I was slamming into Estelle, my thighs slapping against the side of the washing machine. She threw her arms around my neck and rode me, lifting off the washing machine with each violent thrust of my pelvis.
The pressure from months of dreaming about Estelle and her succulent body was building to a crescendo. I was wildly humping her, shoving my cock into her with powerful strokes, accompanied by my low, throaty grunts. Estelle was answering every stroke with equally powerful thrusts of her full round hips, pressing the delicate points of the bustier into my skin with each clench of her legs. As her moans got louder, I knew that neither of us could hold back much longer.
Our rhythm increased and sweat drenched our bodies, soaking the stiff lace of the bustier until it was limp and heavy. In the final few seconds before I came, all other sensation faded as every nerve in my body seemed to be concentrated in my cock. All I could feel was the soft, wet insides of Estelle’s pussy clutching my dick. When she cried out sharply, “Oh, yes!” my cock exploded inside her, letting go a seemingly endless stream of come. I could feel it pulsing into her, echoed by her post-orgasmic contractions. I leaned back a little, my dick still inside her, and prayed I wouldn’t pass out.
Estelle’s long, soft legs were still wrapped around my waist, sealing the sweaty lace to my skin, and her pussy still had a tight grip on my cock. When I finally opened my eyes, she was looking at me with a satisfied expression on her face.
“I can’t tell you how long I’ve wanted to do that,” she sighed.
Not wanting to let go of Estelle’s accommodating body, I ran my hands over every inch of fleshy soft skin within my reach. She massaged the knots in my shoulders and the back of my neck. I had goose bumps from the feel of her strong fingers and the cool, damp fabric drying and stiffening against my skin.
When she began working at the flesh of my buttocks, I felt my cock hardening up again inside her. She made a sly remark about my stamina, and I assured her that my ability to fuck for hours would leave her crying for respite. She laughed and said, “Show me,” and with that I lifted her off the washing machine, carried her across the room still straddling my cock, and laid her down on a soft pile of fresh laundry.
We made love for hours in a dozen positions, insulated by the warmth of the laundry. I explored all the gentle curves and moist spots that had featured so prominently in my dreams, and she returned the favor, pleasuring me over and over again. When we heard early-morning stirrings outside on the street, I suggested we continue our explorations elsewhere, and Estelle eagerly agreed.
I did my best to disguise the fact that two tremendously sexual beings had been using the Laundromat as their personal playground. Estelle slipped into her skirt, buttoned her blouse, and watched with a gleam in her eye as I pulled on my shorts over the silk stockings. I also left the bustier on underneath my T-shirt. This caused Estelle to giggle and growl, “Just wait until I get you home!”
Wait indeed; after the months of waiting I’d already endured, the drive to Estelle’s was nothing. As she led me across the threshold, through the bedroom, and to her closet, which was bursting with the most beautiful lingerie I’d ever seen, I knew this was only the beginning of a long, adventurous affair. And Estelle had been well worth the wait.