No, it’s not something filthy at all. In fact, it’s the opposite of filthy. I’m talking about doing dishes. I know, you’re thinking, How crazy is that? but please understand. I get off on doing dishes. I cannot pass by a sink filled to the brim, or anything but empty, and just keep going. I’m lured to it by some force that draws my hands under the water, into the depths of suds and spoons and discards. Sometimes I even do it with my eyes closed.
Just as with people, all dishes and sinks are not created equal. While I’m an equal opportunity dishwasher, only certain people’s dishes can affect me in that special way.
It all started with Alan. Before him, I was never much of a housekeeper and the furthest thing from a housewife that you could get. I reveled in my slovenly ways, thinking I was exerting some backwards feminist statement by being just as messy as the guys.
But in Alan’s apartment, something changed. When I saw that huge pile of dishes soaking in his sink, something stirred inside of me, and I was drawn to them, almost magically, like Alice—only instead of a mushroom, my intoxicant was dishes. They weren’t really soaking, most of them; they were piled so high that some spilled over onto the counter and stove. I could tell they’d been there for ages, and I just wanted to get started on them. I stared at them, entranced, ready for my first fix. But when I asked, he told me not to do them. “I couldn’t have you do all those dishes, there are three weeks’ worth there! Don’t go to all that trouble, I’ll just put them in the dishwasher.”
I didn’t bother to point out that if it was that easy, he’d have done it already, or that so many dishes wouldn’t even come close to fitting in his dishwasher. I didn’t say anything, just nodded, fingers crossed behind my back.
Now, if it were up to me, all the dishwashing companies would go out of business and start making microwaves or something. We could give everyone with a dishwasher a free microwave and be done with it. Who’d want a cold, impersonal machine doing this special, seductive job? Not me. In fact, anyone dissatisfied with the policy could come to me for a very personal dishwashing. And whoever invented the dishwasher should just be banished to some island and forced to eat only with his hands.
So even though Alan asked me to leave them, I ignored him. It wasn’t easy, let me tell you, to wait two whole days for him to leave the house. I didn’t want to seem too eager about him leaving—but when he was finally gone, and I’d made sure I heard him head down the stairs and slam the door, I did a little dance of glee before racing over to the obscenely piled sink.
First I turned the hot water on, holding my hands under the heated spray. I let it wash over my fingers for a few minutes, getting them used to the heat. I don’t use those icky yellow gloves either; they make my hands smell like rubber, and if I were going to do that, I might as well delegate the dishes to an evil dishwasher. No, I like doing my dishes naked.
I then went to fetch my shoes; I wanted to wear high heels so I could reach everything more easily. Also, something about this job just calls for high heels—especially for someone of my rather short height; it looks much nicer than balancing on the tips of my toes. I felt almost like I was being filmed, and I wanted to look the part. Some of the plates and utensils needed soaking, so I drained the old water, filled the sink up with new, hot water and poured the liquid green soap into the mix. I lifted one plate, relatively clean, and lightly ran his purple sponge over it.
I smiled when I noticed the days-old coffee in a mug next to the sink; he’d probably been in too much of a hurry to finish it. I ran the tip of my index finger around the edge of the mug, thinking of him sipping the steaming brew with his soft lips, then slamming the mug down on the counter before rushing off to work. I lifted it to my lips and gently licked the rim, wanting to stay connected to him for just a little bit longer. I’d been making progress with the dishes, and only about half a sink full were left.
In another mug, I found fresh remains of hot chocolate, and smiled indulgently. How adorable. I dipped my index finger into the sweet sludge, then slowly ran it across my tongue. A shiver passed through my cunt at the taste. Mmm… I took many more dips before plunging the mug underwater, erasing all remaining traces of chocolate.
By the time I reached the bottom, where there were mostly pots, I was really into it. For these, I’d have to work. I opened the cabinet under the sink, looking for a thicker sponge. I found a heavy-duty one, unopened, and ripped the plastic with my teeth. I attacked the first pot with as much vigor as I could. I had the water on full blast and was scrubbing away, so I didn’t hear the door open.
All of a sudden, Alan was in the kitchen doorway, a scowl on his face. “What are you doing?” he screamed.
“I know you said not to do them, but I just couldn’t help it. Please, please don’t be mad. Actually, well, I didn’t want to tell you this, but it turns me on. I’ve been doing your dishes for half an hour and now I’m covered in water and turned on. Don’t you want to come over here?”
He stared at me for a good minute, taking in the way my nightie clung to my chest in the many areas where water had splashed onto it. I still held the purple sponge in my hand. He came toward me and pressed my back up against the sink. The sponge fell to the floor but I didn’t care. He lifted me up so I was sitting on the edge of the wet counter. “So this gets you turned on now, does it?” he asked, stroking me through my panties.
“Yes, it does,” I said, leaning back with my arms on either side of the sink. I knew I’d be able to get him to see dishes in a whole new way, and I was right.
The next time, dishes helped me get the girl—at least that’s what I told myself.
We’d been having a pleasant enough date, but one that looked like it was going to end with a sweet kiss on the lips and an “I’ll call you soon.” She was going to drive me home, but said she needed to take a shower first. Well, that was a weird sign, but short of asking to join her, I couldn’t figure out how to spin that into her bed.
So while she turned on the blast of the shower spray, I turned on the tap. I rolled up my lacy long sleeves, knowing they’d still get a bit wet. I didn’t mind. I let the hot water run, no gloves, feeling its heat course through my body. I plunged my hands in, soaking them as I scrubbed. I thought of all the commercials I’d seen as a child, talking about “dishpan hands,” the dreaded disease of mothers everywhere. But I liked the way my hands felt after a good scrubbing—all wrinkly and used.
I worked slowly, savoring each dish. I rinsed the bowl we’d used for the salad, removing traces of oil-covered lettuce leaves. I found the knife I recognized as hers and slipped it into my mouth, savoring the tangy metal against my tongue. Finally I slid it out and washed it properly, wondering how it would feel inside me.
I was nearing the end when she stepped out of the shower, wrapped in a robe, a towel atop her head. I sensed her pause on her way to her room and just watch me, but I didn’t turn around. With the next knife I found, I again opened my mouth and slid it in, pushing it back and forth in a fucking motion that she’d have to be completely dense to miss.
She came closer, dropping the towel to the floor. She walked right up behind me and pressed herself against me. She reached for the knife and slid it into her own mouth, then pushed my head forward and trailed it over the back of my neck. I gave a startled jump, and she pressed it in tighter. She led the knife down the ridges of my back, slowly, while I tried to stand perfectly still. When she reached my ass, I couldn’t help but move, and I spread my legs a little wider. She was now standing a few inches away, her attention focused on her kitchen knife. She tapped it lightly against my ass and I moaned, and she did it again, harder. I lifted my ass to give her better access, but she was beyond that. The knife was about to enter the place I’d fantasized about earlier. She’d turned it around, but the heavy end slowly entered my slick pussy. I moaned and tightly gripped the edge of the sink.
She slid a finger in alongside the knife handle and I felt like I would explode. She didn’t move the knife to
o much, just slowly back and forth, but the whole experience pushed me over the edge. My body shook; I had to hold on to the sink harder and press my feet firmly to the floor to keep from collapsing in bliss.
She handed me the knife and steadied me against the counter. “Keep washing, we’re not done yet.”
I took a deep breath and turned the water back on. I held “our” knife under the hot spray for a moment, ignoring the ecological implications of wasted water in favor of watching it splash off the silver metal. She reached around and fondled my nipples. “Keep washing, remember?” she reminded me, twisting my nipple with her fingers. I kept the water going, moving slowly, determined to take as long as possible. She kept on twisting my nipples, occasionally rubbing my clit while I did my best not to drop the dishes. Occasionally she’d grab a utensil and fuck me with it, making a never-ending cycle of dishes that I was more than happy to play my part in washing, and getting dirty.
I smiled happily. Maybe tomorrow I’d start on mopping the floor.
Within a year, my dishwashing fetish gained me quite a reputation. I was frequently asked over to friends’ houses after dinner parties, and they’d covertly imply that they wanted me to do their dishes, or they’d ask me outright.
But this time, I was caught off guard. I’d spent the night at a kinky party flirting shamelessly with Alex, a dyke top who until now had seemed totally aloof and unapproachable. But tonight, while she whipped several other girls into nicely streaked creatures, their marks proudly displayed for any interested bystander to admire, she kept sneaking looks at me; I could feel them from across the room. I couldn’t even look at anyone else, just kept crossing and uncrossing my legs, wondering how my ass looked in my black leather mini skirt. I drank so much soda that I started to get jittery, and had to keep going to the bathroom—which meant passing Alex. Finally, near the end of the night, she grabbed me on one of my return trips. “Are you coming home with me tonight or what, you little tease?” I don’t know what came over me, but I kissed her, pushing my nervously-bitten lips up against hers and rubbing the rest of me against her as well.
“I guess that’s a yes. Go wait for me by the door.” In a fog, I gathered my things and waited at the appointed spot. We drove silently to her place, her hand on my thigh for most of the trip. If we didn’t get there soon, I was going to have to move her hand up a bit higher for some relief. After the longest ten minutes I could remember ever experiencing, we pulled into a driveway. I didn’t take in the scenery, just followed her up some stairs and into a large living room filled with thick white carpeting and a plush leather couch. I went to sit down on the couch, but she grabbed the waistband of my skirt and steered me in another direction, to the kitchen. What I saw took my breath away. It was like the backup at Alan’s—but much, much worse. This woman owned more dishes than I’d ever seen in one place, ever. And they were scattered all over the room, on every possible surface. It was like some surreal art exhibit, with honey and chocolate sauce and spaghetti sticking to each plate, cup and spoon. It looked like a food fight had erupted amongst the edibles in her refrigerator, each one battling for the title of “able to do the most damage to a single kitchen.”
“I’ve heard about you, Missy, so I had some friends make a little treat for Miss Dishes.” She reached her hand under my skirt and pressed her fist against my cunt, the hard edges of her knuckles making me even wetter. “Now I know you’re just dying to have me beat the shit out of you; I thought you were going to pass out watching me at the club. But as much as that hot little body of yours deserves it, you’re going to have to make this kitchen sparkle before you get any of my treats. Do you understand? Now, I’m going upstairs to rest for a while. Don’t bother me unless it’s an emergency. When I get back I want this kitchen perfectly clean, okay?”
I sucked in my breath and nodded; while she’d been talking she’d been kneading my pussy in a way that brought me close to orgasm—but then she took that fist right with her up the stairs. I stared longingly after her for a minute, before trying to figure out how to tackle this mess.
The first thing to do was strip. I threw my clothes into the only clean corner of the room I could find, and set to work. I brought all the dishes over, close to the sink and stove, placing them in like order.
I started with the silverware, even though conventional wisdom says that with any major project you’re supposed to tackle the larger items first. But that’s never worked with me. For me, the silverware is foreplay. I can go quickly, stacking the shiny spoons and sharp forks, and listen to them jingle together. I like to build up the anticipation before I get to a really huge pot, one I can linger over and fondle.
But before I got anywhere near the pots, Alex came back. She stared at me from across the room, barking orders, telling me to work faster or to go back and redo a certain plate; how she could tell the state of its cleanliness from ten feet away I don’t know, but apparently she could.
As soon as she’d come downstairs, I’d started getting wet (again), and was nervous that some of my juices might dribble down my thigh. But her voice would brook no argument, and, truth be told, that’s exactly why I got so wet. She marched over, closer to me. I noticed her holding a miniature alarm clock—it made me feel like we were at boot camp. She set it for five minutes. The sink still held an overabundance of dishes, and the kitchen itself looked like a war zone. There was seriously no way I could get it all done.
“Bend over, right here,” she instructed, pointing to yet another pile of dishes. “Since you don’t seem to be doing too well the traditional way, I’m going to have you lick these plates clean. Go ahead, I want your tongue on that top one there.” No sooner had my tongue reached out than she lifted up my skirt and started spanking me, first with a light hand and then much harder. She meant business. My tongue lapped and lapped, wishing it was her pussy, working frantically to get through even one dish. I did, somehow getting it to look relatively clean—though who she’d get to eat on a licked-clean plate I didn’t know.
“Good girl, now, let’s move along.” She placed the clean plate in its own new pile and presented me with more. Some had chocolate sauce, but even that was hardening into an unappetizing mess. She took pity on me, opening the fridge to take out some whipped cream, then covering the entire plate with it.
“Knock yourself out.”
I plunged my face into the cream, not caring about making a mess (what difference did that really make in this environment?), eager for more strokes. This time, I went at it with gusto, and the more I licked, the harder she spanked me. Then she slipped her fingers into me, not starting with a delicate single digit but pushing three fat fingers inside. I could barely keep up with my whipped cream but I knew I had to if I wanted to keep getting fucked. Just as I was about to come, the alarm went off. Had five minutes already passed?
“Okay, darlin’, you’re off the hook for now.” She blew a whistle that had been hidden in her pocket and two sexy women in French maid outfits appeared out of nowhere. (I guess I’m not the only one with a cleaning fetish.) Alex led me upstairs and fucked me for the rest of the night, whispering dirty words about suds and sponges and silverware in my ear the whole time.
KALI
Maryanne Mohanraj
SO YOU’RE WALKING UP AND DOWN TELEGRAPH Avenue, up and down, trying not to look like the new dyke in town, trying not to broadcast that you’re fresh off the boat, innocent new meat just in from Indiana, come to the big city. Actually, the small city—to Berkeley in fact, because San Francisco is a little intimidating to start off with if you’re a twenty-two-year-old dyke who came all the way to California to get laid because you’ve been dumped by the only other lesbian in Franklin, Indiana, and you just can’t take it any more.
The women certainly are pretty, in Berkeley, in the springtime. Campus chicks in blue jeans and T-shirts and bandannas; skin in shades you’ve never seen on a TV set. Lots of skin—they don’t seem to feel the cold that’s prickling your skin. You are det
ermined not to pull the sweatshirt out of your backpack, not to shiver in this dark-green tank top with the scoop neck that shows your ample cleavage for the benefit of any cute chick who might happen to like tall redheads who probably still look like farm girls.
You’ve been cruising Berkeley for weeks now. Days working over on Shattuck, over at the games store whose owners seemed surprised to have a woman actually want the job. Boys and their toys! Evenings on the street, up and down, occasionally smiling at a woman with short dark hair and long legs, the kind of legs that could reach back and wrap all the way around your neck as you bump and grind, oh yes. Smiling at her and she smiles back and your heart does the thump-thing and then she keeps going down the street, or asks you if you have the time and then keeps going and you’re back to walking the street again wondering where the hell women go to get laid in this town.
Up past the hippie chicks, up past the man who tries to sell you beads for your hair at three times what it would cost in Franklin, all the way up to the campus, turn and start walking down again. Maybe it’s time to get up the nerve to go into San Francisco, find one of those girl-gyms, those dyke-diners you keep hearing about, uh-huh. You walk down past Cody’s Bookstore, hover in the window of the poster shop, scope out the new new age books at Shambhala.
It sure would be a lot easier to walk into one of those diners with a beautiful woman on your arm, a pretty little thing like that dark-skinned girl behind the counter, the one with the long black hair braided down her back, with the tight white shirt that outlines breasts the size of softballs, the one walking over to take something out of a window, the one smiling at you through the glass. Right. And now she’s going to turn away or come to the door and ask if you wanted to actually buy anything or were just planning to hang out there and scare away the customers. You brace yourself, and then she stares at you real serious, and then she winks. Long and slow, and you can’t believe what you’re seeing, and you check to make sure you’ve got your pink triangle earring in where she can see it and oh yes, it’s there, and then she’s coming to the door and it’s “I get off in fifteen minutes. Want to buy me coffee?” and you are stumbling over yourself to say yes.
Best of Best Women's Erotica Page 25
