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Carol [mf, exhib, semi fiction, vanilla]
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
This posting is fiction. Though the small details are all truth, and
Carol, bless her, did exist-- this story is extrapolation. Don't take it
seriously; don't take offense at it.
--Clunk
logging in at mucho $$ per hour
CAROL IN THE LAUNDRY ROOM
One day Carol told me a secret-- "I want torn-up jeans. I've never had
torn jeans."
From the context, I knew she wasn't talking about jeans with a tear in
them. She was talking about
_torn_ jeans.
It might sound strange, but it was entirely sensible if you knew her.
She couldn't abide the idea of
owning, much less wearing, used clothes. She made it sound significant and
far-reaching, a Chinese
superstition. She wouldn't feel right wearing clothes that had witnessed
someone else's life. And no one,
buying clothes new, feels right in tearing into them with scissors to
engineer a faux worn-in look. Indeed,
my own pairs of jeans have endured so long that I've gone through pairs
without earning a single rip.
You have to _work_ for those tears. Carol wanted tears, but was without.
She was in a fix.
"What the hell," I thought. We went out and bought her jeans, new. If
they weren't designer jeans,
they wouldn't be too expensive anyhow. We found a stand at a street fair
that was selling knock-offs for
ten dollars apiece. I sprang for two pairs, one of which she insisted on,
the other I had a good feeling
about.
They were the pre-faded sort. I chose my pair because they would
probably fit badly, and they did.
They were a little loose around the hips, very tight around the thighs,
loooose around the calves. In fact,
they were so long they gathered at her ankles, flopping over her tennis
shoes. She pulled them on right
there at the street fair, holding her dress at her waist. They had the
perfect "big brother's old jeans" look to
them.
We bought some other supplies at a hardware store and went home to get
to work. The next few
hours would have marked us for fashion victims if we'd been up to anything
so benign as ripped jeans. We
were embarking on a noble experiment, an attempt to cage Entropy. We
bought the jeans new, and tried to
dictate the path they would take as they fell to pieces. They were jeans
for my lover to wear in public.
As I thought, the jeans she had picked out looked too right for her. Torn,
they would look contrived.
You have to look as if you, the jeans and you, fought a protracted
battle before you adjusted to each other.
You don't want to wear jeans that just give in without a fight. Designer
or not, they're cheap.
So I put her in the jeans I'd picked and told her to take a shower. She
looked at me as though I'd lost
my mind, but complied readily enough when I explained. In the shower we
scrubbed at the jeans with an
iron-bristle brush, the kind you use to remove paint from walls. It worked
as well for the jeans, roughing
the fibers with microtears so that the seams were ragged, and the light
blue color was obscured by fresh,
pained threadlings.
Then she peeled out of them, which was a delightful struggle. I asked
her to repeat it by the side
window, so the boys next door could see her, if they were in. I don't
know if they did, but in general they
loved her. There were little signs, like doubletakes behind her head when
we passed one of them on the
street.
After that was done, we layed the jeans on the floor and proceeded to
mash everything we could find
into them. Jelly, syrup, watercolors from my paint set. We mashed in
coffee grounds and soil from the
pots of my house plants. We boogie-boarded through the apartment on these
jeans. By then they were such
a wreck that we had to wash our feet. Then we had to mop the floor and
wash our feet again. We found a
semi-clean spot on the jeans and and used it to boogie-board (again) on
the slick linoleum, this time in
earnest.
Carol was delightful, frolicking in her still-wet panties and a
water-splotched cropped t-shirt. She
was so beautiful as we flopped to the sofa, so beautiful, that I hoped
she'd had some admirers next door.
She gestured to the jeans, which were now an unrecognizable pulp on the
floor.
"Thank you! What a cathartic release!!" she giggled. "No longer will I
allow nice clothes to come
before comfort!"
"But we're not done, yet. They're not torn yet, they've just been aged."
I gave her some boxers to wear, and we went to the building's basement
laundry facility. We put the
jeans through the wash several times, on several settings, with varying
degrees of bleach. When we got
impatient we pulled them out and tossed them in the dryer. Since the
laundry room had been empty
during the entire process, I thought we could play a titillating game
while the jeans dried.
"Let's work out some signals," I said.
"Signals for what?"
"You're not always going to notice when you have someone's attention.
And nobody can ever be sure
how someone's receiving them. Since I'm on the outside, though, I'll be
able to know what you could do
for the most effect. So when I squeeze your hand like this--" short,
short, long "--you crouch down like
this to tie your shoes."
I demonstrated a kind of squat, my butt resting on one heal while I
fiddled with the laces on my
other shoe. Carol watched me with a big smile.
"Or when I see you do this," she crossed her arms and tapped a bicep
with her hand. "I should do--?"
"Stand with your legs apart like this, no too far, don't be overtly
vulgar, and then lift one leg to
scratch your ankle."
"I'll fall over!"
"You'll catch yourself like this." I caught myself just in time, and for
a long moment, my legs were
spread. "If I tap my bicep three times, only scratch your ankle. Don't
fall over. Do it."
"Give me the signal," she said with flashing eyes.
I crossed my arms and signaled. She absently raised one beautiful leg,
up and a little to the side, and
scratched her ankle. It was perfect. If you were studying her, and I truly
was, you could see the flat area
under her vagina. I carefully noted where important rips should go, on her
jeans.
Another sign was more free-association. If she was on display, I would
cross my arms and drum my
fingers. Depending on the frequency with which I would drum them, she
would pivot, wheel, twist, bend
over, crouch, and et cetera-- anything and everything which would
innocently display her contours.
We were practicing when another building tenant walked in. A friendly,
rotund man with a wedding
band. He started dumping clothes into one of the washers. I said in a low
voice, "Carol , here-- hike up
your shirt."
She drew her breath sharply and complied. If this went well I could
parlay it into a blowjob-- Carol
loved that kind of currency. She hitched her t-shirt up and held it in
her armpits, so that the hem dangled
(and not very effectively) just below her breasts. It looked bunched, but
accidentally bunched. Her shirt
had that essential non-contrived look.
I strolled over to the bench and picked up a women's magazine. I put it
on a washing machine
opposite the bench and maneuvered myself so I could see the man's
reflection on the machine's chrome.
I'd see him, but he wouldn't see me see him. Carol came up and stood
beside me, against the next edge of
the washing machine. Carol was in tune; she always knew what I was
thinking. The man, if he opted to sit
on the bench to wait for his laundry, would have a complete side view of a
beautiful woman in a short t-
shirt and ineffectual white boxer shorts, and her male-friend's back. What
an opportunity!
Carol leaned in, feigning deep interest in the magazine, despite the
fact that it was sideways to her.
She rested her elbows atop the washer, and her shirt crept higher over her
breasts. They were hanging
free, and from any angle the soft, swaying lobes would have been visible.
Someone sitting on the bench
could see--as she shifted her weight--the regular peeps of her pink
nipples. I know because I made her
recreate it later that night (sans panties and boxer shorts, after a
thrill-ridden ride elevator ride to the
laundry room). And at times during the tease I could see her nipples from
straight on, beneath the sag of
her t-shirt.
I also rested my arms on the washer. A slight smile played across her
lips as I crossed my arms and
drummed my fingers. She swayed and laughed, as if I'd said something
clever. I flipped through the
pages and we went through an inane conversation. It was the sort, "Would
you ever wear _this_?" "Oh,
only at a ritzy restaurant." And on. I watched the man, through his
reflection in the chrome, drop to the
bench. He fumbled listlessly for a magazine of his own, but his heart
wasn't in it, and neither were his
eyes. He was literally devouring my Carol with his eyes. If eyes had been
fingertips, Carol would have
been bruised from head to barefoot toe. Even Carol's ankles, in the septic
atmosphere of the laundry room,
were sexy.
"How about this?" I asked.
"No. I'd have to wear something underneath. My nipples are a little too
sensitive for that," she
giggled girlishly and looked suddenly at the man. "Oops, sorry. I didn't
mean to say that so loud."
I didn't see his reaction, but his voice sounded pained. "What? Oh, no
problem."
I drummed my fingers a little faster. She tossed her hair (her breasts
jiggle when she does that), and
pivoted at her hips. She lifted lifted a leg and twisted her lithe body
--sooooo slowly-- to reach down and
scratch her ankle. I could only think fiercely about the shape of her
stomach, ass, breasts, and back, and
the line of her backbone, the warm tips of her nipples, the shadowy drape
of her hair, the useless fabric of
her t-shirt (pulled higher when she stooped than most necklaces)-- all of
which this man was seeing. This
man was studying those same nipples which would brush against my chest
later that night, that would
draw two lines of lightning across my skin. He had, I noticed, rested the
magazine on his lap.
When she came back to her original position, her legs were further apart
and farther away from the
washer. Her back dipped slightly. Her ass was raised like an invitation.
In this position, Carol's calve
muscles are round and solid as river-rocks.
I leaned in to kiss her. I whispered, "As I kiss you, he'll be studying
your nipples for a reaction.
Imagine him focusing in on them, wondering if they'll grow taught.
Imagine his gaze like a form of heat,
traveling from your bare feet, up your calves, over the soft curves of
your inner thighs, over your tight
little friendly ass, over your back and belly, up to the rim of your
breasts to your nipples. Are your nipples
firm?"
She grunted softly, her parted lips only centimeters away from mine.
"He'll focus on them to see if
they get firmer. And he'll do that when I kiss you."
We kissed a short, but very loose and wet kiss. Behind her, the dryer
buzzed. Her jeans were ready.
"Poor man," I whispered. "He's been so good."
"What are you thinking?"
"Well," I hedged. "You know my usual reward?"
She nodded. This beautiful woman always felt she owed me something after
these episodes, along
the lines of: I gave something by 'sharing' her with other men. She felt
she had to pay me back, fair and
just, for the flings I allowed her. As if I didn't enjoy them just as
much. Or perhaps this was just another
part of the game. Whichever, I wasn't about to rock the boat.
"I'd like something different. I'd like that man to know you were
showing-off for him. But it has to
be behind my back."
She frowned. "Now how would I do that?"
"I'll leave before you."
Sure enough, the cheap fabric was already coming apart. The jeans looked
old and rugged and
broken-in. She held them up against her stomach. She caressed them
against the length of her body.
"Mmmm," she said theatrically. "Don't you love warm clothes?"
"Sure do. I'll race you to the elevator!"
I charged out, unaccompanied. I waited by the elevator several long
moments before Carol strolled
out the laundryroom door and up the hallway. She clinched me in a
passionate, hard kiss.
The elevator opened and we tumbled in. She was wet enough that I could
slide two fingers into her
cunt at once. "What did you do? Tell me."
"As I was-- was-- walking past the man, I dropped the jeans. Ooh--" I
pushed into her . Her fuck-
juice coated the palm of my hand. "He reached down and got it for me, the
gentleman. He winked as he
held it up. I put a finger to my lip, like--shhhhh, 'don't let my
boyfriend know'" I squeezed her harder, to
get the truth out of her. "Then I took the jeans in my hand, and then took
_his_ hand in my other hand. I
put it against my breast. This one--" she cupped it. "He cupped my breast
under my shirt, and rolled this
nipple between his thumb and forefinger."
She sounded so amazed at herself. It only made me love her more.
She went on. "He looked so befuddled and bewildered I wanted to stay
there all night, showing him
about my body, and letting him use me. I wanted him to practice on me, to
relearn everything he might
have forgotten." My hand worked her closer to orgasm as the elevator
filled with her hoarse voice. "I
wanted him to show me off to his friends. I wanted him to say, 'Don't wear
panties tonight,' and then take
me to a ball-game with his friends, or a bar with high stools, or a dance
hall with podiums, and have me
spread while his friends all watched. I wanted him to finally say, 'John
over there, he's been lonely, would
you go home with him tonight, for me?' or 'I told Tom you gave great
blow-jobs, why don't you go down
on him on the way to the park?' Or I wanted him to play pool in a bar, and
I would have to give winner a
blow job on my knees. I wanted his wife to slap me. I wanted him to ask me
to show his thirteen-year-old
son about sex."
"We'll do that," I whispered. "We'll do all of that, someday."
"Thank you. I'll do anything for you," she moaned, as she finally came.
And eventually we got back to the jeans.
--end
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