We’re the last in the laundrette

We’re the last in the laundrette. It’s a Wednesday in June and most people and machines are already asleep. The wall of Bosch washers stares at us like a regiment of hollow-eyed Cyclopes. The tiles mirror our empty bags. With a blue ballpoint I circle the birthmarks on my left thigh. I shouldn’t have chosen the long programme. 

‘You’re leaking,’ he says suddenly. I look up. The young man is sitting slumped against the wall and he points to my fingers, which are covered in dark-blue marks. 

‘Your pen.’ 

‘Oh.’ I put the pen down and wipe my hands. Blue stripes on bare thighs. Without thinking I put my fingers into my mouth to rub the ink off with saliva. 

‘Now it’s on your mouth.’ He gives me an odd look. I drop my hand in surprise but his gaze is still fixed on me. I swallow and look at the floor, at my wet fingers. 

‘I’m not staring,’ he says, although I can feel his eyes on me. I blush, but then straighten up. ‘Neither am I,’ I say and look back at him. A faint smile plays across his face. 

‘My name isn’t Boris,’ he says. 

‘And I’m not Marie.’ 

There’s silence for a moment, apart from the hum of the washing machine behind my back. We don’t take our eyes off each other. I suddenly have a delightfully tight knot in my stomach and before I know it I’ve put my fingers into my mouth again. His eyes narrow and I stifle a grin as I press my damp hand to my soft inner thigh. I slowly rub at the traces of ink. I make glistening circles with my thumb and watch his lips part a little. 

‘You’re only making it worse.’ He doesn’t sound as if it bothers him. 

My face is warm and I feel my breathing gradually gather pace. The compelling gaze of this strange young man fills me. As my fingers circle between my legs, I feel the wet washing churn round and round in the belly of the machine behind me. The night hums. I take a deep breath and spread my thighs. I hear him gasp for breath and glance down. ‘They look like clouds,’ I say. 

‘Waves,’ he whispers huskily. ‘I see waves. Waves and flames.’ 

For a moment we both look at the spectacle in blue. Then I take a decision and put my hand between my legs again. Through the thin fabric of my slip I now begin openly stroking my clit. The clouds and waves tremble and my belly contracts. Blue fire. I moan softly and my hips gently jolt. The cotton between my fingers is soaking wet. He looks at me hotly from the other side of the room, his cheeks red. We are both breathing hard. 

‘Fuck.’ He sounds choked. 

Behind me the washing starts its spin cycle. As my whole body tenses, the vibrating machine pounds against me and I feel the vibrations pass through my whole body. My pelvis tilts up and I throw my head back. The mechanical shaking combines with the inescapable spasms of my body. Under my slip my fingers scrabble for release. I close my eyes imploringly and the machine quakes. Everything pounds. With my head thrown back against the shaking washing machine I surrender, and quivering, moaning, pulsating I come. My smell mixes with the perfume of fabric softener. I slump down and let the warm after-waves of my pleasure rock me. 

When I finally open my eyes I see that his washing is ready too. The red light is flashing unattended. 

This story is written by Luz Berge for Het Rode Oor 2018. Het Rode Oor (The Red Ear) is the annual erotic writing contest in the Low Countries, curated by the Flemish-Dutch House deBuren in collaboration with Company New Heroes, Hard//hoofd, ILFU and the Writer’s Guide (to the Galaxy). This story is translated by Liz Waters.