Humping the washing machine

I was in my last year of high school when the pandemic happened. This was a dark time for me, but I was grateful to have the company of my long-time best friend most days. I had no money and no real home at the time. He and I were the only two of our group of friends that went out at all during the lockdowns. Out of boredom, we created a skatepark in his father's basement, furnished with homemade ramps and second-hand furniture. Skating was a new hobby for us -- a cheap, but worthwhile project. His dad was gracious enough to allow it. We would spend a lot of time in that dusty, mold-infested basement just skating, listening music, and just hanging out. The days of isolation in 2020 seemed impossibly long and somehow packed with personal growth despite the boredom.

Despite the both of us being virgins at the time, we would talk about what sex would be like a lot, and how we missed seeing our respective opposite genders at school and out and about. We downloaded online dating apps just to browse, showing each other our matches and giggling. We would eventually end up antagonizing and pranking all the people we chatted with because we were too afraid to actually meet them. I remember, while we would browse these profiles, I would see his hard cock tenting his pants while he sat on the futon scrolling his phone with a concentrated face. I would watch him adjust it at times, sometimes flipping it up if he stood up (sometimes he didn't bother and just let it bulge against his pants, slightly to the side). A few times I saw him rub his cock briefly, through his pants. Never for more than a second. 

I, on the other hand, couldn't have cared less about these artificial-seeming profiles of men on my phone, and was more excited by the fact that he was visibly aroused. I used to recline in a chair across the room from him, absentmindedly scrolling my phone while my eyes would flicker up at him, looking at his bulge and his body, and the lustful, fixated expression on his face. I would put my hand in my pocket and surreptitiously rub my clitoris through my underwear. It started off as a few quick rubs, as I practically could not help it. My clitoris would throb and swell against my underwear and my pussy lips glided uncomfortably on the cotton with my arousal fluid -- a slimy, hairy mess in my panties. I began to rub myself for longer and longer, feeling covert enough in the dim-lit setting, lit with only party lights, and with him being entranced by his phone. He would look up and chat with me every now and then, but seemed not to notice what my hand was doing in my pocket. I tried not to stare at him. I would look at him for a few moments, then (while pretending to look at my phone) imagine all the possibilities, what his cock looked like, while I stimulated my clit. 

As I began to feel the tremblings of approaching orgasm, I intended to stop and finish myself in the bathroom, but I was so engrossed in my horny reverie and got carried away. I reached the point of no return and came in my pants quietly, restraining the natural bucking of my hips and my heavy breathing. I would begin to do this many times, almost every time after we rested after skating. He saw me rubbing myself a few times when I did not stop quick enough -- I could tell by how he glanced downward -- but he never said anything, nor did I ever sense this made him uncomfortable. I remember being embarrassed, hoping he thought I was rubbing myself because of what I saw on the dating app, and not because I was looking at him. Sometimes he would "go to the bathroom" for extended periods of time, implying that he needed to "relieve himself." While he was upstairs, I would put my hand down my pants and vigorously stroke my clit while imagining him jerking off in his bathroom, trying to finish before he came back downstairs. Sometimes I would finish quickly and he would be gone for close to a half hour! 

It was during one of these times that I humped his washing machine to orgasm. His father did the household laundry, being a single father of two sons, and would come into the basement with us sometimes to load the laundry. The vibrations of the machines were a loud annoyance to us, but on one particular occasion when I was left alone, I decided the vibrations would feel good on my pussy, and straddled the corner, almost on my tiptoes. At first I just leaned my clit on the corner, letting the vibrations stimulate my clitoris. Then I instinctively pushed into it, and rubbed my pussy up and down against the vibrating curved metal. I dry-fucked it until I came, pushing hard into it as my vagina leaked into my underwear. I was delighted by this discovery, but kept it to myself until the next time his father loaded laundry. After his father left, I told him to try it; a favor, I thought, since he taught me to use the pool jets to pleasure myself when we were much younger (an earlier story). I demonstrated, embarrassedly, showing him to straddle the corner. He laughed. I was afraid he would ridicule me for this, but he ended up trying it. I could see that his dick looked hard; a semi, at least.

"That just hurts my balls," he said.

He tried a few more angles, then gave up, and went back to sitting and scrolling his phone. I continued to hump the washing machine, way in the corner of the basement. He paid no mind while I did this quietly, and continued to pay no mind in the future, as I did this several times, all the way up until he left for the military over a year ago. He would occasionally glance up if he wanted to tell me something. Once, his father came down to retrieve something while I was in the midst of humping the washing machine. I had heard him come down the stairs, but did not stop because I thought it was my best friend. His father got an eyeful of this funny business before he made himself known by clearing his throat. I was mortified, but he simply said “Sorry. I was just looking for [his son]. Carry on, then” and left.

Sometimes when I was approaching orgasm, I would get carried away with my thrusting, and I would accidentally move the lightweight washer across the floor with the force of my pre-orgasmic bucking. He would watch and giggle when this happened. But alas, we never touched each other sexually, and paired up with different people after he left. I don’t think it was ever a thought in his mind. He was a tall, broad-chested, and lean young man at 18. I was a year younger, having just turned 17. He usually went after blonde white girls with pin-straight hair. I myself have brown, curly hair and a darker skin-tone, being biracial. Though I am the "whitest" of my siblings, with loose curls and lighter hair and eyes, I thought my race made me ugly, as I never received male attention in my rural town; only when I moved to the big city. We both eventually paired up with different people shortly after he left.