Hedonistic Worship

He saw her most days; their schedules overlapped. When he returned from his night shift, she left for work. Some days, as the elevator opened on their floor, she'd be there, waiting. They always shared a smile, but they never said more than hello. She'd often whisper, "fuck," when she'd just missed the elevator, and while she waited, she'd tuck in her shirt, or put on an earring, or comb back her short hair. She dressed smart: tight-fitting skirt, ironed shirt, stockings, practical shoes, and librarian glasses. Occasionally, she'd wear a dress, the playful kind, and on Fridays, she sported jeans, which suited her particularly well.

Her name was Clare—he knew that from her post box in the foyer—and he often fantasized about her when he masturbated.

On Sunday, he did his laundry in the building's basement. To pass the time, he played Angry Birds on his phone while making idle conversation with Harold, a life-long tenant with a sailor's disposition, and the only other early bird doing washing.

To his surprise, Clare descended the stairs into the laundromat, struggling to carry two baskets. He'd never seen her here before; their brief encounters were strictly a weekday affair.

"Here, let me help," he said, taking a basket from her. She was barefoot, and wore a t-shirt and shorts.

"Thanks. My mum's machine broke," she explained.

"Your mum still does your washing?"

She smiled. "Yeah. Jealous?"

"Not at all. I love spending my Sundays here with Harold," he said. "Isn't that right, Harold?" The old man, being hard of hearing, didn't acknowledge.

Clare's smile transformed into a delightful grin. Without makeup, he noticed her freckles for the first time. Why does she cover that up, he wondered?

While Clare sorted her laundry, he couldn't resist spying on her. She wasn't wearing a bra and her nipples protruded, pointedly visible under her shirt.

She caught him staring and looked down at her breasts. "Sorry," she said, looking somewhat mischievous and not at all self-conscious.

"No," he said. "I shouldn't stare. But I... I like it."

Clare's eyes brightened. "Really?" She watched Harold, who was reading a book, and then she stepped up to him. "What if I like that you like it?"

Without breaking eye contact, he slowly lifted his hand to her chest. Clare made no attempt to stop him. He brushed her left breast and she shivered visibly. Using his index finger, he started circling around and over her nipple, hardening it further.

A door slammed.

Harold had finished a load of washing.

Clare looked at the old man and then back at him. She grabbed his hand, said, "Come," and led him up the short flight of steps to the elevator where she hit the button in quick succession.

He pushed her against the doors and kissed her. She tasted of spearmint. This is really happening, isn't it? The doors parted and they stumbled into the elevator. He pushed number 6 and turned around. Clare stood in the corner, half-lifting herself up on the handles. She bit her lower lip, looking disarmingly naughty. He rushed to her, pulled her close, and resumed their necking. With one hand, he grabbed her thigh and with the other, he ardently cupped a boob under her shirt. She nipped his lip in response.

DING.

Clare led him to her flat and into her bedroom. He wanted to undress her, but she resisted. "No. You first." He stripped off his shirt, shoes, and socks. She helped him out of his trousers, and then she was on her knees before him, rubbing her face on his boxers and against his hard member. Without ceremony, she yanked his pants down and offered him a wicked smile before licking his manhood all along the shaft. "Jesus." She gripped his cock, put it in her mouth, and sucked. He held her head, more in an effort to steady himself than anything else. Thank God I've got a condom in my wallet, he thought.

When Clare concluded her oral kindness, she shoved him onto the bed and stood over him. She crossed her arms and pulled her shirt up, slowly exposing the round bottoms of her shapely bosoms. The fabric caught on her pink nipples, lifting her breasts for an instant before they bounced free. Next, she undid the button of her denim hotpants, turned around, and tugged the shorts down until it surrendered to gravity. Facing away, wearing nothing but canary yellow panties, Clare was a portrait of his desire. Her striking dimples of Venus somehow made her all the more alluring. Moving in a sensual slow motion, she proceeded to slip her undies off, bending lithely forward as she did so. With hands on the floor and knickers around her ankles, he got a healthy glimpse of the lip-line of her sex. She straightened and turned to face him, showcasing a carefully trimmed triangle of dark pubic hair.

He jumped up and lifted her onto the bed, causing her to giggle in delight. Laying over her, he kissed her neck and shoulders. Next, he sucked and played with her tits, first the one, then the other, and while he did this, he moved his hand to her groin, gently tickling her skin on the way. She opened her legs to him, and he caressed her cunt, drawing circles with his middle-and-ring finger. While he maintained this massage motion, he returned to kiss her until they were both breathless. After this, he advanced down to her inner thighs, pecking her body with his tongue and lips as he wandered, and then, at journey's end, he spread her legs as far as they could go. Using his two thumbs, he parted the folds of her vulva to expose the wet button of her womanhood. He rhythmically licked around the nub, letting her get used to the sensation. Her soft moaning thrilled him and his dick twitched reflexively in answer. Gradually, he escalated the intensity of his service until he finally just licked hard and fast, straight up over her clitoris. With each flick of his tongue, her tummy tightened.

"Fuck me," Clare pleaded. She reached over and opened her bedside table drawer, retrieving one of her own condoms which she tossed at him with distinct urgency.

Sitting on his knees, legs apart, he pulled her close. After tearing the metallic packet and rolling on the ribbed latex, he rubbed the head of his cock through her slit, and then, he entered her.

Clare gave a small yelp. She felt warm and tight. Overcome, he thrust deep from the start, again and again, holding her legs tight as the tempo accelerated. A pleasurable tingling soon built up in his groin. Not wanting to spend himself too soon, he slowed down, and leaned forward to find her mouth again.

They turned over and Clare straddled him. She allowed him to suck her nipples and then flirtatiously pulled away so that they were just out of reach. Stretching back, she squeezed her thighs, and started moving them with the grace of a belly-dancer. He grabbed her ass with both hands and moved with her motion. She worked on her pleasure with eyes closed. Her face contorted with each penetration. Her moaning was no longer polite. Beautiful agony.

"I want you to finish me from behind," Clare demanded. She dismounted and proceeded to stand on all fours.

A more inviting scene he could not remember. He gripped Clare's thighs and fucked her as hard as he could. After a couple of thrusts, she started to orgasm. Her primal groans culminated in a near-hysterical, breathless sort-of-laugh. He felt and saw her pleasure too, through the rhythmic grab and release of her pussy that was mimicked by her clenching ass. He had come too, of course, in a series of disabling and gratifying spurts that felt so fucking good.

They remained frozen, amorously exhausted—a woman and a man bowed, one over the other, in mutual hedonistic worship.

Their laundry remained forgotten for the rest of the day.