4. Laundry Room (2)
I open the door and step inside, but since no one can see me in this hidden space, it doesn't feel satisfying at all. No matter how much I rub, that delicious pleasure from before doesn't come.
"Wh-why... why not...."
No matter how hard I squeeze my breasts or stroke my pussy, it doesn't feel as good as earlier. I've become completely addicted already? It's only been a few days, and I'm turning into a total pervert. Pleasure is so addictive—when it doesn't fill me up properly, withdrawal symptoms hit hard. My chest feels empty, like there's a gaping hole. My mouth is bone-dry and rough. The constant stimulation keeps building my sensitivity, but it doesn't feel good; instead, it's faintly unpleasant, irritating. Not enough, not enough...!
The washing machine. I'd been vaguely hearing its hum from before, and now it's winding down, so if I go grab my laundry, I can fill this aching void perfectly. Without hesitation, I open the door and step into the hallway. Luckily, no one's there. The moment I emerge, even without touching myself, a sharp thrill shoots through me—totally different from before. Lewd juices trickle down my thighs from my pussy, and my nipples tingle. To get aroused just by this... I feel like such a cheap, worthless pervert, but I can't stop. I can't even tell what expression I'm making anymore.
Stroking my quivering pussy, I walk slowly, so slowly down the hall. Legs spread wide, pussy thrust out at the perfect angle for my hand. My knees naturally bend a little, turning my posture awkward and clumsy. I must look ridiculous. But I can't hold back. Stare at me however you want—I don't care. No, curse me out instead. That would feel good too. Call me a failed woman, a mere animal. Fresh marks from my dripping juices stain the hallway floor, already dry from the drops I left earlier. And now I'm leaving even more, over and over.
"Ngh, ahh, haaah...."
The hallway isn't long, so I reach the laundry room quickly, but it doesn't matter. I can touch myself on the way back. As I enter, the paused washing machine roars back to life with a loud rumble. Wasn't it done...? Checking the timer, exactly 10 minutes left. I must have mistaken the brief spin-cycle pause. Do I go in and come back out? The thought of traversing the hallway again makes my hand slick with wetness. That doesn't sound bad. Or I could wait here in the hall. If someone comes, I can just hide—no problem. My hazy mind decides quickly. A little risky, but just for a moment, it'll be fine. Let's try stepping out, it whispers.
The instant I place my foot over the threshold, ding—the elevator opens. Excitement vanishes in a flash, cold reason crashing back like a bucket of ice water. I jolt in panic and slip back into the laundry room. This place has a door that's always open, so anyone in the hall would see me for sure. But closing it would make a huge noise like last time. Clack, clack—shoe heels echo from the elevator. What if I get caught? Suddenly, terror grips me. When lost in arousal, I spout nonsense like look at me or curse me, but I don't actually have the guts to show myself to anyone. It's just flavoring, like seasoning. Fantasizing about something that doesn't exist and shouldn't—a spicy kick. If I really got insulted, I'd hole up in my room for days, maybe forever. I love the pleasure, but not enough to risk my whole life for it. I won't ruin everything over a mere hobby.
My racing mind spits out a solution. Carefully, without a sound, I squeeze my body between the washing machines. Shoving in butt-first, I manage to wedge myself in. My slipper slips off and clatters to the floor. I quickly stretch out, pull it back toward me. Now I'm crouched tight between them, completely jammed in. Uncomfortable pose, but as long as I don't get caught...
Now my heart pounds for a different reason. "Hngh." I clap both hands over my mouth. They smell like dirt. Even my breathing feels loud enough to summon someone. My heartbeat won't calm down. The heels stop midway down the hall. Amid the sudden quiet, only the washing machine's frenzy roars. Why isn't it moving? Did they spot me? But they haven't even come into the laundry room... I wait forever, but the shoes don't recede. They shift slightly in place, always the same faint sounds. Every nerve focuses on my ears, tuning out pleasure for raw audio intel. Then—fabric brushes the wall. Standing right in the middle of the hall? Why? What the hell?
An old complaint from somewhere floats through my mind: Some guards take twice, three times longer on patrols, but they don't even do it properly.Is he slacking off there? As the wait drags without the sounds fading, thirst creeps back, gnawing at my body bit by bit. My interrupted arousal still craves more. Doesn't seem like I'll get caught... Just a little touch wouldn't hurt, right?Are you insane? Touching now means getting busted.But it's so noisy—they won't notice. A few drips mixed in the machine racket? No big deal, right? One hand drifts to my pussy on its own. Nothing covering me, and someone's right nearby. Thickest, stickiest juices yet ooze out—heavier than ever. Rub too hard, and it'd make a wet schlick-schlick. So I just grind carefully, silently. Even that floods my body with incomparable sensation.
Feels so good. About to get caught, but it feels too good. There's someone right there. Revulsion and wicked guilt fill my head. I shove my hand deep into my pussy's soaked depths. Intense pleasure slams through me. Just one knuckle, two—I've never gone deeper. For me, that's plenty. "Mm, mmmph, nghh." Natural moans slip between my fingers; I press my hand harder over my mouth. I'll really get caught. No sounds allowed. My fingers devour my pussy. No noise, but they roam freely, stroking everywhere. I rake my nails near the clit. "Nghk." My legs go weak instantly. Uncontrollable ecstasy echoes inside me. Touching this feels so good. Like a switch breaking my brain. Each stroke floods my head with bliss. Legs slacken, tense, slacken again when I graze the clit. I want to spread wide and go wild right now. But the cramped discomfort between machines, mixed with terror of the person outside, pushes me higher.
This beats masturbating freely in my room. This is better. My trapped fingers awkwardly scrape my pussy. Pleasure builds drop by precarious drop, like water torture. More, just a bit more. I deliberately stroke the clit. Each time my legs weaken, I press harder, inching my fingers deeper, bit by bit. The single drops become a steady drip-drip. I'm getting addicted. My fingers won't stop. My mind screams danger, too rough! but they ignore it, relentless. I drag them from deep inside to the clit in one long stroke. My whole body tenses razor-tight, then snaps loose. That gap—pure bliss. I want stronger. Just a little more. Let me cum all at once at the end.
I pinch clit between thumb and forefinger, twist. Convulsions hit; my legs shake uncontrollably. They bang the washers, thudding the metal panels. Luckily, the adjacent machine's roar swallows it—no way it carries outside. My hips buck wildly, grinding my still hand for nonstop pleasure. "Mmmph, mm, mmm...."
Unblocked moans leak out. Couldn't hear that outside, right? No clue. Wedged still between machines, savoring the afterglow, the heels finally stir. I flinch instinctively. Footsteps fade away. Only then do I exhale in relief. That was close. Really almost ruined my life... I carefully withdraw my hand from my still-dripping pussy. The stimulation makes my body quiver lightly. Sticky fluids like this for the first time... White, foamy droplets string between my fingers in long threads. My convulsing body aches faintly. But it felt so good.