by Mel Bosworth
(10/14/09)

"Why do you still do it, Harry?"

Harry had been caught again, this time with his cock penetrating a swirl of wet panties. Laura stood looking on, jug of detergent hanging limply at her side.

"I'm sorry?"

Laura stormed off. She knew as well as Harry that he wasn't sorry. He'd been fucking the laundry for years. Her footfalls in the kitchen came fast and loud, but Harry would be damned if he didn't finish. He was still a man with principles, no matter the work or fetish. With a few sudsy pumps, he emptied his load into the wad of fabric, then tossed it back into the machine. Laura wasn't in the kitchen by the time he made it upstairs, his belt loose and dangling.

"Laura?"

Since the children had gone, the need for discretion had dissipated as far as Harry was concerned. Laura might not agree, but she'd grown cold ever since menopause, which in turn fueled Harry's thread lust.

"Fuck it," he said to himself.

Harry looked out the window. Laura's car was absent from the driveway, the space offering a loud, prophetic echo of things to come. Shaking his head, he noticed his neighbor, Marla Johnson, hanging laundry on the clothesline.

With his belt already undone, getting his pants off was a snap. He jacked himself dry onto the window pane while watching her shake and clip, shake and clip, soppy jeans and white brassieres, her fingers well versed, her lipstick red. When Harry was spent, he slunk off to the bedroom and lay down, thoughts of stretched socks and ratty nylon ushering him to a peaceful mid-morning slumber.

"Wake up, Harry. I'm leaving you."

It was past noon, and Laura stood at the foot of the bed clutching a suitcase. Harry flopped around, cock caught in a soiled pillowcase, balls tucked into the sleeve of a t-shirt. Laura looked away as he gathered himself.

"Where are you going?"

"I'm going to stay with Heather for now. I'll be gone for two weeks, Harry. I don't want to see even a trace of you when I get back."

Harry sat up, absently pawing a pair of boxer briefs. He brought them to his nose, and sniffed. His cock stirred, rose, then whapped against his naked stomach. Laura's face twisted like a sheet in a tornado.

"This is exactly what I'm talking about, Harry. You and your fetish. It's taken over. I thought I could handle it, I thought I might one day be a part of it, but you're not interested in me anymore. You're only interested in fucking baseball caps and fleece jackets."

"I never really got into baseball caps, Laura."

Harry's attempt to defend himself only incited Laura's rage. She swung the suitcase wildly, the hard nubs on the bottom grazing Harry's forehead. He fell back, a girlish scream slipping from his lips. Laura laughed.

"You're such a bitch, Harry. If only the children could see you now."

"I'm having dinner with Cody tomorrow night," said Harry, suddenly remembering. He'd planned the dinner with his son the week before, immediately after he and Laura had come from the steakhouse. The tablecloths there were green, and rough like a seasoned whore. Laura had pretended not to notice him curling an edge around his pole. However, when he came, he came hard, and the table shook, inviting the curious eyes of patrons and waitstaff. Laura had nearly choked on her ribeye then, but Harry was too bent in his swoon to notice.

"Good," she said. "You can explain to him that we're separated. I'll tell Heather."

"Separated?" asked Harry. "You don't want a divorce?"

Truth be told, nothing less than divorce was what Harry had expected, and the fact that he was okay with this notion made the idea of a separation a bit of a disappointment. It's not that he didn't love Laura anymore, but he just...

"No," sighed Laura. "I don't want a divorce. Not yet."

Then her face went slack, eyes drooping.

"But look at yourself, Harry. You fuck our dirty laundry. You fuck our clean laundry. Why? Have you become so disinterested in sex with a real person that you'd rather roll around with a shit-stained towel?"

The image made Harry's rod pulse, and Laura shook her head disgustedly.

"Never mind," she said. "Don't answer that."

She leaned toward the door, and Harry could tell she was waiting for something, but what, he wasn't sure.

"I'm sorry?" he offered, but the words immediately fell flat, both knowing they were devoid of sincerity. Harry just wasn't ready. Laura cried, but she cried proudly, still strong and feminine.

"It's not all my fault," said Harry, and Laura hardened like dried mud on sweatpants.

"What the fuck do you mean, Harry, it's not all your fault?"

Harry recognized the tactlessness of his words, and melted.

"I'm sorry," he repeated, this time with real emotion. "But ever since your 'change,' Laura, you've grown distant. And I know I've had my...fetish for years, but..."

"But nothing, Harry. I've tried to enter into your world, I really have. Remember when I wore the same panties for a week? I asked if you wanted to play libertine? No, of course you don't remember. You were too busy humping the mattress cover to notice me. And I know I'm still sexy. Men hit on me all the time. But..."

Laura took a step toward Harry.

"...I still love you."

Then she took a step back.

"But you don't see that anymore."

Harry put his face in his hands, trying to ignore the scent of flowery detergent.

"Laura," he began, an exasperated breath filling and then leaving his lungs. "It's..."

But Laura was gone. Again.

Harry wept into the blankets for a time, thinking of all the years he and Laura had shared, all their joys and laughter. Then he grew hungry and thought about the steakhouse, then the tablecloths. He simply couldn't wait to have dinner with Cody.

"Cody? It's Pop. Can we push that dinner to tonight? I've got some news."

"Elastic pants, Dad? Really? Is that what you're wearing?"

Harry had opted for elastic pants for two reasons: they were comfortable, and they were practical.

If caught in a pinch, he could tuck away his meat hammer without anyone being the wiser, especially his bright-eyed son, Cody.

"I'm old," said Harry. "I can wear what I want. Am I embarrassing you?"

"No, you're embarrassing yourself. You've done it for years. I suppose I should be used to it by now."

Cody had always been a good boy, and Harry's unspoken favorite. It was not that he didn't enjoy Heather's company, but as she grew older, she began to take on the less desirable aspects of her mother, namely that she didn't enjoy his fabric fetish. It probably didn't help matters that she'd walked in on him plunging her prom dress two days before the prom. And it certainly didn't help matters that he'd finished himself off instead of stopping, and that Heather had stood watching, mortified. It was at times like those that Harry questioned his stubborn fortitude, but it was a fleeting hesitancy in commitment that had never merited a change of behavior.

"Turn away!" he'd barked to his pimpled and plump teenage daughter. She'd burst into tears as she got an eyeful of her father's furry ass squeezing and shaking. She'd refused the replacement dress he bought her, instead looking to her mother for support and, well...sanity. Their relationship became strained from then on. The only gifts he was allowed to give her were books. He made sure to line her shelves.

Cody looked over the menu.

"How's Mom?"

"Your mother? She's fine, I guess."

"What does that mean?"

"What?"

Harry's distraction had already begun. His wrinkled penis was out and flirting with the overhang of green tablecloth, teasing it as one would an old lover. Cody sat up straight, and leaned in.

"What are you doing, Dad?"

Mr. Ding Dong went back under wraps, the elastic waistband snapping loudly.

"What? Me? Nothing, Cody. Tell me about you. How's work?"

"Work is fine."

Cody's interest in his father's subterranean activities at the table had been piqued, and his eyes were narrowed and probing. Like his sister, he too had had his share of jarring experiences with the old man, but unlike his fairer sibling, he could empathize, somewhat. After all, he was a producer in the adult entertainment industry, a career choice Harry had applauded, and Laura had merely accepted.

"What news did you want to tell me, Dad?"

Harry squirmed in his seat, rattled. He called for a moment by raising his hand, then took a drink of water.

"Your mother and I are separated," he blurted.

"What? When?"

"As of today. She's staying with your sister for two weeks. I have to get out of the house while she's away."

Cody sat back, shoulders slumping.

"But...why?"

Then his eyes flickered with knowing, and became angry.

"Wait. Don't tell me why. I already know. You're un-fucking-believable, Dad."

"That's what they say."

"That's what who says? Who would say that? The clothes at the Laundromat? Are you dating a trophy pair of silk panties now?"

As Harry moved to point an irate finger at his son, he inadvertently knocked over a glass of water. The cool liquid seeped into the green tablecloth, conjuring images of bikini beauties washing cars, or young lovers fucking in the surf, or...a wet, green tablecloth.

Harry's patience and control suddenly met an abrupt and bitter end. Leaping from the booth, he ripped the cloth from the table, then sprinted toward the bathroom, leaving befuddled patrons, staff, and son in his panting wake.

Once inside the stall, he had trouble getting his pants down. Despite the easy access the elastic offered, his raging erection had become a nuisance, an uncooperative child, thickly hindering the lowering of his britches. Not to be outdone by his manhood, Harry tore the sides of his pants to free himself, then laughed maniacally as the garment pooled around his ankles.

"My cock!" he exclaimed. "My whore!"

Harry cradled the tablecloth like a dancing partner, and as he bent deeply in a convoluted dip of reverence and passion, the sheer joy of this union, as well as the rush of myriad broken mores, fired his cock with girth and life. Even his speech became antiquated, a cry to older times, a cry to the ageless libertine within, a cry of gluttonous whimsy.

"I shall now fuck thee, my luscious, whorish damsel!"

Then a cautious knock met the door of the stall, followed by an equally guarded voice.

"Dad? You need to come out. We need to leave. If you don't, they're going to call the police."

"But lo!" boomed Harry. "A true test of my will and resolve! I shall not be denied!"

"Um, Dad? You will be denied, or you will leave in handcuffs. The manager is here with me, and she's not happy."

Cody stooped to peer under the door. Harry looked down at his son's face. Initially confounded by the sadness it possessed, Harry's torrent of hedonist confusion thinned as he studied the boy's pained blue eyes and helpless lips. The boy resembled his mother in the cheekbones and chin, and for a calm moment, Harry could actually see himself, see what he was doing. Never before had he viewed himself in this way, never before had he witnessed himself mirrored on the face of his own flesh and blood. The portrait was crippling, and the green tablecloth slid from his hands.

"I've lost control," he whispered.

"I know, Dad. Come with me. Let me help you."

The rush of sobriety came quickly and candidly, and Harry blubbered like an infant.

"I'm so sorry, my boy. What an embarrassment I have become."

"It's okay, Dad. Just pull your pants up and let's leave. The manager has agreed not to phone the police. They know your wife just died."

"My what? Laura is dead? Tell me it's not so!"

Cody, still crouched, turned his head and winked up at his father. However, Harry, in his weakened state, missed the signal and crumbled to the floor. The toilet paper holder popped on his way down, spilling sheets and sheets of tissue.

"My Laura," he wailed. "My poor, poor Laura."

He flailed in the toilet tissue, then, struck with the oddities of grief, he began funneling it around his head. Once he'd successfully mummied himself, he pushed his tongue through the whiteness, and wagged pink, bawling. His hulkish erection settled on the tile, a broken soldier too long at war...with nothing.

Cody worked himself under the door and into the stall. Hooking his father under the armpits, he pulled him to his feet.

"We have to go, Dad." Then, hushed, "Mom is okay. I just told the manager that so they don't report this as some sort of sex crime."

Harry's limp body jolted with life, and he embraced Cody.

"My boy!" he said, mouth filling with frayed edges of toilet tissue. "My boy! I love you, my boy!"

The manager tapped an anxious shoe just beyond the door.

"Is everything okay in there? I'm sorry about your wife, sir. But you understand, we can't have outbursts like this at the restaurant."

"I understand," spat Harry, ejecting gummy white balls onto Cody's cheeks. "I understand that some things are best kept behind closed doors."

Then Harry laughed, blind behind the toilet tissue, limp cock rubbing against the belly of his only son.

Cody helped his father unravel, then, discovering that the old man's pants had been rendered useless, he worked out a deal with the manager in which a few bills were passed. Harry walked out of the restaurant with his face hidden on his son's shoulder. He walked past the slack-jawed staff and the snickering patrons, his gait broken, yet strangely proud. The tail of the green tablecloth, which had been fashioned into a makeshift skirt, swooshed elegantly behind him.

"So, you're like...Cody's father?"

"I am," said Harry.

Harry sat on the chair while the woman strutted and bounced around the room. She was tall and thick, tits squeezing out of a bra two sizes too small. She was the result of good breeding. Harry wondered what her folks must have looked like when they made her.

"Where are you from?" he asked.

"Texas."

She danced to a halt in front of Harry, then, curling her arms behind her back, she unclasped the bra. The straps trickled from her shoulders and down her arms, twin cups falling and displaying hard nipples and soft, soft skin. Harry wasted no time yanking his cock from his shorts. The woman grinned.

"Now listen, honey, Cody told me that you're not to touch me, and I'm not to touch you. Can we handle that?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Harry snapped at the bra as she dangled it in front of his face. His hands wrestled the socks from his feet.

"Give them here," she said.

Harry began balling them, but she asked him to stop.

"Leave them long, sugar," she cooed. Then she giggled and licked her lips.

"Why have I never met anyone like you?" asked Harry.

"Because you never looked," she said. She flicked her wrist, and the bra crashed onto Harry's face. Then she pulled down her panties, string-thin and black. Her pussy was clean and swollen, and when she kicked up a leg to wedge her heel onto the back of the chair, it threw enough heat to warm Harry's nose. He closed his eyes and inhaled.

"You smell so good," he said.

The woman smiled as she wiggled her hands into Harry's socks.

"You should smell my panties, you little bitch."

Harry leaned forward to retrieve them, fingers greedy.

"Watch your face now, sugar," she warned. "Don't you touch this hot snatch of mine. You know the rules."

Harry took care to avoid contact, his face curling with great deftness along the length of her toned thighs, his eyes never once losing sight of her pussy. Gripping the panties, he leaned back, and sighed.

"You okay, sugar?" she asked.

"Never better."

"Good," she said, hips rocking, pink lips inches from his face. "Let's do some work."

She pulled Harry's socks to her elbows, fabric groaning. Wearing the socks like filthy gloves, she began petting her pussy, at first with one hand, then two. The flow of her movements gave the garments grace, and Harry's horn surged upward, straining dangerously close to her oiled thighs.

"Put my panties in your mouth," she moaned, head back, eyes fluttering wildly behind closed lids. Harry did as he was told.

"You fucking bitch," he said, sucking the panties, tasting, biting, chewing. He knotted the bra around the base of his cock, trapping the blood, engorging the organ, creating a bottled symphony of power and come.

"You've helped me to be a man again," he said.

"Shut up, bitch."

"You've helped my family in ways you don't even know."

"Shut up, cunt," she snapped.

Her hands moved sensually, slowly, then quickly like a woodsman learning to love a tree. Her covered fingers were the tools, her pussy the soft cherry. She kept busy, pressing her clitoris and spreading the folds. Harry's leathery mitt cranked his cock forcefully, the clips of the bra chafing his balls. Their respective trees teetered, then picked up momentum. She fell as Harry fell.

"Bitch," they muttered in unison.

Her mouth opened, then locked. A trapped scream bled out in a staccato chirp.

"Uh Uh Uh Ah Ah Ah."

Harry spat out the panties, then wrung them around the head of his cock, bulbous and purple, true royalty once more, a rising Colonel.

"You whore!"

"Oh, sugar!"

Her leg bucked, and the chair rocked back. She tried to quell the gush with her hands, but the spray was determined, and those juices that didn't immediately saturate the dirty sock-gloves covered Harry's face.

"B-b-bitch!" he stuttered, himself a victim of orgasmic eruption, the seed discharging from his weapon like double-ought shot. Globs of gooey man-love stuck to the smoothed crease behind her extended leg, the place where thigh meets ass, the place where lips dote, and fingers lose themselves.

When the crack and splinter of the fallen trees had settled, the woman dressed herself in a robe and then stretched out on a velvet couch. Harry tied his shoes, lips fixed in a permanent grin.

Cody had told his father to wear a suit. After he'd parked the car in front of the home of his slightly estranged but always loving daughter, Harry stepped onto the sidewalk wearing his finest three-piece.

"Laura!" he waved.

Laura stood on the porch flanked by the children. Cody held his father in a steadying gaze. Heather, making no effort to mask her disgust, stared off in the distance. Laura, fresh from the beauty salon and wearing a green dress professionally stitched from the infamous tablecloth at her son's request, stood tall and open, eyes kind, if not a bit weary.

"It's great to see everyone together," said Harry, moving to embrace the children. Cody stepped up and accepted the arms of his father. Heather slid to the side and nodded.

"Hey, Dad."

"Hello, Heather. Is Rita here?"

"No," frowned Heather. "She's at a rally. I should be there too."

Harry had forgotten that his daughter's lover was extremely active in the lesbian/feminist movement. Now that he'd had time to reflect, after years of being clouded, he wondered if Heather might've liked the cock a bit more if she hadn't caught him plowing her prom dress way back when. Not that it mattered much to him, he wasn't averse to his daughter's lesbian lifestyle, but he simply wondered now if things would've been different if he hadn't been so selfish. He leaned in and kissed her cheek before she had time to pull away.

"Okay, Dad. That's enough."

Lastly, Harry turned to Laura, beautiful Laura who he'd neglected for far too long. With full eyes, blue and penitent, he knelt at her feet.

"I'm so sorry, my dear Laura. I've been so lost in my fetish that I've forgotten just how beautiful you are."

"Do we have to be here for this?" asked Heather.

Cody shushed her.

Harry kissed the top of Laura's hand.

"Our son has helped me, Laura. Our beautiful son. And you too, Heather. Your presence here today means the world to me."

"Sure, Dad. Whatever you say."

Harry's eyes climbed the curves of Laura's body, then nestled in her shaking smile.

"I love you, Laura. I always have, and always will."

"I love you too, Harry," she said, hot tears breaking the crest of her cheekbones. "And I want to be a part of your world. I want you to fuck me in this dress. I want you to fuck this dress after you fuck me. I want us to fuck each other while the whore you see fucks herself with our clothes. I want us to be whole again."

Harry buried his face in Laura's crotch, allowing himself to smell her cunt, still vital after all this time. That it was cloaked in the rough fabric of the green tablecloth made the experience even sweeter. The onetime bane of his existence had now, at last, become his boon.

Our permanent collection of erotic stories