Fucking machine

I drift awake, fighting to stay in the dream. I dreamed I was fucking Heather—many of my dreams have ended up that way over the years . . .

Where am I? I don’t recognize this bed . . .

I look around wildly, totally disoriented, before my mind clears and I know where I am. I’m alone in the bed, but I can hear the washing machine going in the laundry room across the hall. It’s an older machine that vibrates a fair bit—I’m a little surprised Heather’s folks haven’t replaced it by now, since they typically keep their stuff up to date. I slip out of bed and pad out into the hallway to see if Heather is in the laundry room; I find her leaning over the washing machine, apparently lost in thought. This is too good an opportunity to pass up, I decide.

I walk up behind her quietly, grab one of her legs and lay it along the front edge of the top of the washer. She squeaks in surprise, then gasps when her swollen pearl comes into contact with the machine. She moans and starts grinding on it. While she’s ecstatically humping the washer, I flip up the hem of her shirt and drive my shaft to the balls in her hot body with one convulsive thrust.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!” Heather yowls at my abrupt invasion, her spine pulling taut, her head coming up and back, her hands scrabbling frantically at the metal top. One of her big, deliciously squeezable melons is easily accessible, so I seize it, kneading it in my hand and pinching its dusky-rose tip. I pull back until only my little purple helmet is inside her, then slam my rod home again, earning myself a shriek. I fuck her steadily, keeping myself under control so I don’t bruise her against the unyielding appliance. “So—fucking—intense,” she moans. “I love your big mommy-maker—so good in my hot, wet pussy—and the world’s biggest, hottest vibrator—fuck that’s so fucking good on my clit . . . Fuck that pussy, lover—fuck that tight little pussy—rock my world, baby . . . rock my fucking world . . .”

Feeling the washer vibrating both our bodies as I pound Heather’s sweet honeypot is deliriously good; I know I won’t last long, and I doubt she will either. “Can’t even—do the fucking—laundry,” she breathes. “Can’t bend over without—mmmmmmm, yeah, squeeze my tit, squeeze it just like that—ooooh, I love your big fucking cock—without getting fucked—so fucking good—so fucking good . . .”

“I’m serious, love,” I tell her huskily, “every room in the house.”

“That’s—so—hot—” Heather moans brokenly, “so—fucking—” With that, her nerves overload and she screams loudly enough to drown out the washer as her climax lights up her body like a lightning bolt. Her cunt gives my prick a hard squeeze and I follow suit, ramming it home one last time and blowing hard in her molten depths. I lean forward and embrace her as best I can as we cum and cum and cum together, the shaking of our bodies amplified by the washing machine.

When we feel like we can move, we straighten up; Heather turns in my arms as my deflated prick slides out of her well-fucked pussy, and our mingled cum drips from her hole onto the floor. She embraces me and gives me a long, satisfied kiss. “You’re incredible, baby,” I whisper. “I think I love fucking you almost as much as I love you.”

“You say the sweetest things, lover,” she murmurs back, then kisses me again. After a moment, she adds, “I think I agree.”