Novel & Cerita Dirty Laundry

“It’s hard to mind your business when someone’s sneaking around the backyard with a trash bag like a serial killer.” I turned, forcing a smile that probably looked more like a grimace. “It’s just laundry.” He raised a brow. “Laundry that needs to be set on fire?” “There were… stains.” I looked away, feeling a little heat crawl up my neck. Not from embarrassment—from irritation. “Bad ones.” His eyebrows lifted like I’d just told him I found a dead rat in my sock drawer. “Stains?” “Yeah.” “Let me see?” I didn’t want to. Not even a little. But against my better judgment, I handed him one of the shirts from the bag. One of the worst ones. The white one with that dried, crusty blotch near the hem

that's a red flag - he might like kids. LonelyGirl: 😂😂😂 you are bad. LimberJack: very. now back to the original question princess. LonelyGirl: I reread our chat...often. LimberJack: and... LonelyGirl: I had to throw away my panties. LimberJack: why? 😉 LonelyGirl: you're evil. it turned me on so much that I soaked them. 💦 💦 💦 LimberJack: now there's my naughty girl. that's so hot. so you worked camando. 🥵

I couldn't believe I fucking did that! It took about ten minutes under the cold water before I felt calmed down enough to get out. I was shivering, but thankfully, my cock was no longer straining against my sweats. I was a dripping wet mess, though. It took me quite some time to clean up. Tossing my clothes in the laundry, I avoided my daughter's panties for a long time, like they were a poisonous snake. They were still crumpled on the bathroom floor. But I finally grabbed them and then stuffed them in my sock drawer with the others. Maybe I really did need some therapy.

Death fingered my poppy red trench coat as if it were a spoil of war. “Second,” I said, pushing him off me, “I get all the laundry you haven't done in a century and toss it in the washer with pink dye and lavender detergent.” “You wouldn't,” he growled. “Fuchsia death robes, bitch. Wholesome and squeaky clean. You'll smell like a perfumed cadaver.” “Playing dirty, I see.” He wedged his knee between my thighs. I compared our combat boots and decided mine were cuter.

My grocery list, the one I scribbled yesterday, is pinned under the bag, every item checked off. My heart’s racing now, and I back up, bumping into the counter. The washing machine hums softly from the laundry room. I stumble over there, yanking open the door. My clothes... my dirty clothes, are spinning in a fresh cycle, the scent of detergent thick in the air. I didn’t start a load. I didn’t do any of this.

Before I can say anything else, he rushes out of my room. My sheets are sweaty and it looks like he may have thrown up on them. I pick up my mom’s clothes and my sweaty sheets and walk to the laundry room. The condo is quiet since it’s only eleven. I don’t think Will or Adam gets up before noon except for class—ever. My mother’s clothes smell like filth. If I didn’t wash them once a week they’d never get clean. Groaning, I divide her clothes into different piles and wash the whites first.

I realized that the person I was talking to was the only woman in the room who didn't participate in Vera's pranks. Knowing that the woman was only a little gruff but with no ill intentions, I replied. "Yes, I'm done here." She was thrashing a shirt still covered with soap bubbles, shaking her head. "These enslaved people are already dirty after wearing less than a minute. You don't need to waste time cleaning; make it look good." My hand hanging the shirt froze slightly; I stroked the faded bodice. Even though I didn't know how to wash clothes before, I still try to clean them today because my brother hates dirt; he loves cleanliness.

Didn't say another word. I changed in the corner. The boxer briefs were too tight. Everything on display. I couldn't look at myself in the mirror. Because if I looked, I'd see the guy who let his stepbrother use him. The guy who came in his hand and then came back for more. The guy who's about to strip for a room full of old men because he has no money and no options and no one who actually gives a shit about him. The red room was downstairs. Low ceilings. Red lights that made everyone look sick or sexy, I couldn't tell which. A stage in the center with a pole that shone under the lights. A handful of older men in booths around the edges, drinking whiskey, watching.

“Joke’s on you. We’re going to win. And when we do, these boys are taking off their clothes and skinny-dipping with us while you clean our dirty clothes with your tongue.” My brows lifted. “You’ve been watching too much reality TV.” “I have this crazy feeling one thing’s going to lead to another and I’m gonna get that hockey boy money.” “Sure, Molly,” I said, flashing a cold smile. “Keep those dreams alive. Meanwhile, I’ll be living in the real world where your team of girly girls has no shot at beating a professional hockey team.” Something flickered behind her smug mask. A tremor. A flash of what if I’ve messed up.