Tuesday afternoon

Sherry’s phone buzzed, screen flashing and alarm chiming. She silenced the phone, marked her place in the textbook with a sticky note, stood up from her desk and stretched. Mid-term preparation was murder, but at least she could do the reading at home, in her pajamas. The opportunity to get her laundry done, free of the weekend rush on the machines, was another bonus. She slipped on some sandals and grabbed the laundry basket.

The laundry room was at the far end of the hall, but on a weekday afternoon the building was mostly emptied out. It was always toasty in the laundry room, no windows or air conditioning to compete with the warmth of the dryers. The skin of Sherry’s legs prickled in the chill of the hallway, left exposed by her cotton pajama shorts, and her nipples poked at the thin fabric of her tank top.

In the laundry room, she propped the door open, the wooden wedge scuffing against the scratched gray linoleum tiles. One of the dryers was buzzing insistently, and her washer had a flashing light indicating it had also finished its cycle. Sherry checked another washer, finding it empty, and dumped in the basket of dirty clothes. She silenced the dryer, transferring the dry clothes to her now empty basket, and started shifting the wet laundry to the dryer. She was on her tiptoes, reaching for a wayward sock stuck at the back of the drum, when she heard a familiar voice.

“I didn’t know this room had a view.”

Sherry whirled, startled, and Dylan chuckled. “Don’t let me stop you, Cherry. I’m sure you almost had it.” His dark eyes raked over her, taking in the exposed skin, barely covered curves, and the sparkly cherry on the front of her shirt. “Very nice, indeed.” Dylan was wearing gray sweat pants and a white T-shirt, a laundry bag over one shoulder. In the bright light of the laundry room, Sherry could see what looked like tentacles tracing over the exposed skin of his left upper arm.

“Dylan, hi.” Sherry was acutely aware of her lack of bra, the messy bun she’d twisted her hair into, and the infrequently worn glasses perched on her nose. “I, uh, didn’t expect to see anyone. You know, in the building. Today.” She shifted her weight from one foot to the other and back again. Why was she nervous? She’d known Dylan for months, ever since moving into the apartment last summer. And he knew what she looked like naked, what she sounded like in a variety of situations and positions.

Dylan stepped into the laundry room, bumping the door stop with his foot. The door hissed shut, the room immediately feeling warmer and much smaller.

“Long time no see, Cherry.” He reached past her, setting his laundry bag on top of a machine, close enough she could feel his body heat, but not touching. “You haven’t been hiding from me, have you?”

“What? No! Of course not.” That was a lie, probably. “I’ve been, you know, studying. Mid-terms.”

“Aaah. Are you a good student, Cherry?”

She smiled, shrugging one shoulder. “I guess. I do alright. When I try.”

He leaned in again, the smell of his skin overpowering the smell of fabric softener, and whispered in her ear, “I shouldn’t keep you from your studies.”

Sherry’s throat was dry. “Study break,” she squeaked and took a shaky breath.

Dylan smiled. “So I’m not distracting you from anything, then?”

“Yes. I mean, no. I mean, it’s ok. All work and no play, you know?”

“Do you want to play, Cherry?” Dylan rested his hands on the top of the washer behind her.

“Yeah. Yeah, I want to play.”

Dylan’s arms wrapped around her, his hands sliding down the back of her shorts to cup her ass cheeks, lifting her onto the washer as he kissed her. She looped one arm around his neck, pulling her glasses off and tossing them in the basket of clean clothes with the other.

“No panties, Cherry?” he murmured, kissing down to her jaw, her neck.

“It’s laundry day,” she gasped. Dylan pressed against her, his hands supporting her back and urging her to lie back. He worked her tiny cotton shorts over her hips and down her legs, before pulling her back upright. He nipped at her breasts through the thin fabric of her shirt, and shoved the front of his pants down to reveal that he also had foregone underwear. Dylan rubbed the head of his cock against her folds, feeling her wetness. Sherry whimpered and rocked her hips against him, trying to capture his thickness where she needed it most.

“Fast and hard, sweetness? Wouldn’t want your grades to suffer on my account.”

“Yes, give it to me.”

True to his word, Dylan thrust deep into her aching pussy, almost lifting her off the washer. She gasped and groaned. He didn’t give her time to adjust before withdrawing and driving back into her with furious intensity, driving a moan from her lips. Sherry leaned back, her arms braced on the washer lid, meeting his thrusts. Her heels scrabbled against his still covered ass, seeking leverage. Dylan grabbed her ankles, wrapping one leg around his waist and resting the other foot on the washer’s edge, his pounding rhythm steady.

Sherry could feel ecstasy approaching, her body tightening with the promise of a powerful release, when she saw the laundry room door open. She sat up, pressing one hand to Dylan’s chest. “Stop, stop, someone’s coming!” she hissed, and he stilled, an expression akin to pain creasing his features.

The door swung open, revealing Mrs. Betty Smith. Mrs. Smith was somewhere between 75 and 112 years old, depending on who was asking and the stories she felt like telling. She looked like she’d ridden out the Civil War in this building. Her apartment, a few doors down from the laundry room, always smelled of cabbage and onions, except at Christmastime, when it smelled like lemons. Everyone on the floor received sugar cookies with lemon icing and a holiday card “signed” by her cats. Today, Mrs. Smith was washing approximately a hundred kitchen towels.

“Sherry, Dylan, how are you? So good to see you young people getting along,” Mrs. Smith exclaimed. Her gaze may have lingered on Dylan’s backside and Sherry’s leg around his waist, but it was hard to tell through the thick coke bottle lenses of her glasses.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Smith,” Sherry responded.

Dylan cleared his throat, “Ms. Betty, nice to see you.”

“Did you ever get maintenance to fix that flickering light outside your door, young man?” Mrs. Smith inquired, shifting her towels from one machine to another. Dylan gritted his teeth, moving slightly to block Mrs. Smith’s view of Sherry.

“I asked a couple times, but you know Tom. I took care of it myself on my last day off.”

Mrs. Smith continued the conversation, giving no indication she was aware of what she’d walked in on. Sherry looked up at Dylan through her eyelashes and smiled devilishly. He mouthed an emphatic “NO,” which only made her smile larger. The pained look on his face and the tension in his muscles intensified when she clenched her pussy around him, milking him. She leaned closer, sighing in his ear, relying on the white noise of the dryers to preserve Mrs. Smith’s ignorance. “Mmm… you feel so good…”

Finally, Mrs. Smith had arranged her basket and gotten her towels the way she wanted them. “Well, I won’t keep you any longer. You kids have fun.” She shuffled toward the door, pausing before exiting. “You know, I wasn’t born this old.” There was a twinkle in her eye, and she pulled the door shut behind her.

“You’re going to pay for that, Sweet Cherry,” Dylan growled.

“Have I been bad?” Sherry pouted, rocking her hips against him for good measure.

“So bad.” Dylan pulled out of her, chuckling darkly at her whine, and pulled her off the washer, turning her around and pushing her head down. “So very, very bad.” He punctuated his statement with a slap on her ass, thrusting back inside. “Bad girls get punished, Cherry.”

The sting of his hand and the fullness of his cock, the pain and the pleasure, were a delicious blend of sensations. Sherry pressed back into his thrusts, meeting his powerful strokes, yelping at the unpredictable impacts of his hand and moaning when the head of his cock pressed deeper into her body. She trembled, mewling and whimpering, her delayed climax building again. She covered her mouth to muffle her scream as her pleasure crescendoed. Dylan’s own orgasm followed, and he rested his weight on his hands, on the edge of the washer, his chest heaving against her back.

“Ffuuucckkk… You’re my favorite neighbor,” Sherry murmured, aftershocks leaving her tingling.

Dylan chuckled into her shoulder. “Mrs. Smith bakes for me. But you’re alright.”

“Dick.”

“You would know.” He pressed his hips against her again before withdrawing, digging through his dirty laundry for an acceptable towel. He cleaned her gently and wiped their juices from his cock before pulling his pants back into place. “You should get back to studying.”

“You could come back to my place, if you want.” Sherry slipped her shorts back on, chewing her lip.

Dylan smirked. “Go study. All play and no work makes Sherry a dumb slut.”

Sherry glared. “You have no right-”

“I do not fuck dumb sluts.”

“Oh.”

“Ace your test. You know where I’ll be.”