Spin Cycle

by Sue Margolis

  “Oh, by the way,” he said, “I thought you’d better have these back.”

  He slipped his hand into the pocket of his khakis and took out a crumpled paper bag. Perplexed, she took it from him.

  “I don’t remember lending you anything,” she said, frowning. She peered into the bag. It contained a white lace G-string. Her white lace G-string.

  “How on earth did you get hold of this?” she said, feeling herself redden.

  Matt said nothing. He simply finished pouring the wine. Finally he turned to face her, holding two glasses. He was smiling what she took to be a cryptic, knowing smile.

  “Oh my God,” she said slowly. “Last night . . . I, that is we . . . I mean we didn’t, did we?”

  He carried on smiling.

  “Look, I know I was pretty slaughtered, but I’m sure I would have remembered if we’d . . . you know . . . And I’m certain that when I woke up I still had my knickers on.”

  “Rachel,” he said finally, “it’s OK. I’m just teasing. I found the G-string in my toolbox this morning. It must have fallen in when you chucked all that washing into the sink.”

  “That was very cruel,” she said, trying her best to sound put out, but unable to stop herself giggling. “I mean . . . for a moment there, I thought. . . .”

  “What?” he said, clearly still teasing her.

  “C’mon,” she said, casting her eyes down to the floor. “You know.” The wine was starting to go to her head.

  Matt put down his glass and moved toward her. Then he took hers and put it down too. Placing his hand under her chin, he lifted her face so her eyes were level with his. A knowing glance passed between them. After a moment he pulled her toward him and kissed her on the mouth. For a second her body froze as she thought about Adam and their committed relationship based on mutual trust and honesty. But she couldn’t help herself. She found herself wrapping her arms round Matt’s neck and kissing him back.

  “You have no idea how long I’ve been wanting to do that,” he said afterward.

  “How long?” she whispered, aware that her heart was racing.

  “Oh, ever since you behaved like an imperious bloody cow that time at Xantia’s.”

  “Really?” she said, blushing.

  “Really.”

  He pulled her toward him again and began tracing the outline of her lips with his tongue. He tasted of wine. As he parted her lips and his tongue came deep inside her, she felt a delicious shuddering inside her belly. She put her arms around his neck and moved her pelvis toward him. She could feel his erection against her. He carried on kissing her, probing her. She imagined his tongue between her legs. As he started running his hand over her bottom, she could feel herself getting more and more wet. She couldn’t remember ever wanting anybody as much as she wanted him at that moment. Again she found herself thinking about Adam. She knew she should put a stop to this now. But she didn’t have the strength to fight it.

  As their kissing became more and more urgent, she was aware of him half pushing and half guiding her across the room. Eventually she realized her back was leaning against the cold metal of the washing machine. Still kissing her, he pulled up her dress and slid his hand underneath the skirt.

  “Oh my God,” he whispered, running his finger over the wet patch on her pants. She let out a tiny whimper. He forced her legs apart with his hand and touched her a second time, tracing the outline of her labia. Her heart was beating even faster, her breathing slow and deep. He ran his tongue the length of her neck. The next moment he had found her mouth again.

  “Blimey,” she said, pulling away in panic, “what about my lamb in Shrewsbury sauce?”

  “I told you,” he smiled, “I’m all shrewsburyed out.”

  She reached out, just about managed to locate the oven dial and turned down the meat.

  * * * * *

  Somehow he managed to lift her onto the washing machine and at the same time pull her dress up round her waist. She couldn’t tell if it was his idea of a joke, or whether it was pure coincidence. Whatever the answer, she was far too turned on by now to stop and ask. He could pleasure her with the roller ball dispenser for all she cared.

  As he began stroking the insides of her thighs, she leaned back onto the tiled wall, gripping the edge of the machine for support. He pulled the crotch of her pants to one side and allowed his fingers to brush over her skin. She let out a long soft moan and lifted her bottom as he tugged at her tights and pants. When they were off he simply stood staring at her.

  “Bring your legs up,” he whispered.

  She lifted her feet up onto the top of the machine. She couldn’t help thinking she must look as if she were about to give birth. Finally, when the ache between her legs was becoming unbearable, he gently pushed two fingers inside her. Deeper and deeper they went, feeling her, exploring her, but he made no attempt to touch her clitoris. Just as she was about to cry out and beg him to touch her, he bent down and began trailing his tongue over her swollen, aching clitoris.

  She arched her back and whimpered.

  “Bloody hell, washing machine man,” she said, “I think you may just have found my Hotpoint.”

  He looked up briefly and smiled.

  Time after time when she thought she was about to come, he reduced the pressure on her clitoris to a featherlight touch. Every so often he stopped completely. Then he would push his fingers back inside her. She felt open, exposed and utterly helpless.

  Glorious as his lovemaking was, she eventually became aware that her position on top of the washing machine wasn’t ideal and that her back and legs were beginning to ache. As if reading her mind, he brought her legs back together and lifted her down onto the floor. She looked at him quizzically.

  “Turn around,” he said.

  She turned and he made her bend over the machine. She was aware of him moving away and looking round for something. Eventually he found it. Once again he pulled up her dress. A few seconds later she cried out in delight as she felt him squirt cold hand lotion onto her buttocks. He began massaging it into her skin, occasionally running his finger between her wet bottom cheeks and over her clitoris. She was just beginning to feel the quivering and shuddering building up in her vagina, when he stopped.

  “I want to undress you, properly,” he whispered.

  He turned her to face him and reached for her dress.

  “No,” she said, brushing his hand aside, “you first.”

  She kissed him and began tracing the outline of his erection with her finger. After a few moments she started undoing his belt and fly. He took off his sweater and tossed it onto the floor. His upper body was muscular, a can short of a six-pack, maybe, but she detested overworked male bodies.

  She tugged at his khakis. After he’d stepped out of them she did the same to his boxers. His thick erection sprang forward. She cupped his balls in her hand and began to stroke them. She watched his stomach muscles quiver, felt his fingers digging into her shoulders. She knelt on the floor and ran her tongue over his belly and down through his dark hair. A tiny seed pearl of sperm appeared on the tip of his penis. As she rubbed it away with her finger, he gasped. She began licking the top of his erection.

  “Christ, that’s good,” he groaned, digging his fingers even harder into her shoulders.

  She carried on like this for a couple of minutes until finally she took the entire length of his penis in her mouth. His whole body shuddered as her mouth went back and forth over the shaft.

  “I think my legs are about to give out,” he whispered urgently.

  “C’mon, let’s go to bed,” she said.

  “Now will you let me take off your dress?” he said as they stood by the bed. She nodded.

  He pulled her dress up to her belly and held it there with one hand. The other he placed between her legs. A second later his fingers were probing deep inside her again. She lowered her head and let out a long low breath. Eventually he removed them and began spreading her juices over her stomach.

>   The dress off, he started biting and nipping her shoulders and the tops of her breasts. At the same time he managed to unhook her bra.

  “You are so beautiful,” he said, staring at her breasts. He took each nipple in his mouth in turn until it was fully erect.

  “Come here,” he said, taking her hand. He led her to the bed, took two pillows and placed them one on top of the other in the middle of the bed. She knew what he wanted her to do. She lay across the pillows, on her front and kneeling—her arse raised. She reached for another to put under her head. She was aware of him on the bed behind her. He stroked her oily buttocks again, occasionally flicking her clitoris, occasionally pushing his fingers inside her. She took a sharp breath.

  He began to concentrate on her clitoris, rubbing it with firm circular strokes. She could feel herself beginning to drift away. She had no idea how long this went on. But by the end she was begging him to come inside her. But time and again he ignored her. When he did finally push himself into her it was almost unexpected and she cried out both with surprise and glorious delight. His thrusts were slow and deep. Occasionally they verged on painful, but all the time he kept stroking her clitoris, not leaving off for a second.

  By now the pleasure was so intense that she was almost praying not to come. For the second time she felt the quivering buildup inside her. At the same time, his thrusts became slower and even deeper. She was aware of him taking long gaps between each breath. Even then he didn’t stop touching her. She came a moment or two after him, as he lay gasping, his head resting on her back.

  When it happened, wondrous as it was, she couldn’t help thinking how much it reminded her of a washing machine in the final shuddering throes of its spin cycle.

  * * * * *

  “You know when I first realized you fancied me?” he said, putting down his knife and fork.

  “When?” she asked, trailing her finger over the freckles on his nose.

  “Last night, when you called me Rinse Charming.” He started to laugh.

  “But you said . . .” She leaned across the table and punched him, not altogether playfully, on the arm.

  Just then the phone rang in the hall.

  “I’d better get that,” she said, getting up. “There might be something the matter with Sam.”

  She tightened the belt on her dressing gown and dashed to the door, closing it behind her.

  * * * * *

  Shock and black guilt descended the second she heard his voice. “Adam,” she said as quietly as she could. “It’s you. . . . No, don’t be daft, of course I’m pleased to hear from you. No I am, really. You just caught me at a bad moment, that’s all. What was I doing? I was, er . . . I was loading my shoes into that shoe rack you bought me . . . and a sneaker rolled under the bed. I crawled after it and when the phone rang it startled me and I bashed my head. Look, I’ll speak to you tomorrow. OK. Night, bye. . . . Yeah, me too.”

  She walked back into the kitchen, head down, hands in her dressing gown pockets. She’d just had the most mind-blowing sex she’d experienced in years. But at the same time, she couldn’t believe what she had just done to Adam.

  “Rachel,” Matt said, looking at her quizzically, “what on earth’s up? Is there something the matter with Sam?”

  “No, no,” she said, forcing a smile. “It wasn’t anything to do with Sam.”

  “Something you want to talk about?”

  “No. Just my neurotic Jewish mother phoning to see if I’m OK, that’s all. You get used to it.”

  “But it’s half eleven,” he said, looking at his watch. “Does she always phone so late?”

  “Oh, sometimes she phones at one in the morning—just to check that I’m asleep.”

  It was only then that it registered with her that he was up and dressed.

  “God, you’re not going, are you?” she said.

  “Rachel, please don’t take this the wrong way. I’ve had a wonderful time tonight, and dinner was fantastic. But it’s late and I have to be up at five.”

  “Why so early?”

  “Oh, I’ve been working on a design for a cheap washing machine that would cost virtually nothing to run—something I think might be really useful in the Third World. A mate of mine who works in engineering has agreed to help me build the prototype from bits and pieces of old machines. I’ve managed to get the government of Burkina Faso interested and a couple of chaps from their embassy have agreed to come and see it. I promised it would be ready before Christmas, and we haven’t even started assembling the damn thing yet.”

  “God, just imagine if it worked out. I mean with an invention like that, you’d be really famous. . . .”

  “Maybe,” he said, smiling. “Anyway, look, I’m really sorry.”

  “That’s all right. I understand.”

  He pulled her toward him and kissed her.

  “I’ll phone you tomorrow,” he said.

  “OK,” she heard herself say.

  CHAPTER 11

  “So has he?”

  “Has he what?” Rachel said vacantly, picking a tiny Mothercare Babygro up off the shelf and holding it in front of Shelley.

  “Phoned you.” Shelley looked at the Babygro and screwed up her nose. “Powder blue? Yeah, right. See if they do it in lime.”

  Rachel groaned and put it down. Shelley’s ex, Ted, had sent her £500 to buy baby things, and she and Rachel had spent the afternoon trailing up and down Oxford Street in the freezing rain, failing to spend it because of Shelley’s insistence that no baby of hers was about to make its debut in pastels.

  “C’mon, you still haven’t answered me,” Shelley persisted. “Has he phoned you?”

  “Two or three times,” Rachel said, “but I let the answer machine pick up. I feel like such a coward not speaking to him, but what can I do? I mean, wonderful as the other night was, it was a huge bloody mistake.”

  “I’m not surprised you did it though,” Shelley said, grinning.

  “You’re not? I bloody am.”

  “Just look at the pressure Adam’s been putting you under to give up the comedy, when he knows how important it is to you. Maybe at some level you’re having second thoughts.”

  “Don’t be daft.” Rachel laughed, utterly unaware of the lack of conviction in her voice. “You know how much I love Adam.”

  Shelley didn’t say anything.

  They carried on down the aisle, toward the sterilizer units.

  “So the sex was good then?” Shelley said eventually.

  Rachel reddened.

  “Thought so,” her friend grinned.

  “I swear,” she continued, “there’s nothing like treating yourself to a bit of rough from time to time.”

  “Hang on,” Rachel came back at her. “For your information, Matt is not ‘a bit of rough.’ He’s got a degree in engineering as it happens.”

  “Jackpot—a bit of rough with brains.” Shelley picked up a packet of rubber nipple shields, grimaced and put them back. “Did I ever tell you,” she went on, “I used to date this fireman called Terry? Two years I went out with him. God, the hours I spent stroking his helmet.”

  She headed off toward the strollers. Rachel followed.

  “You know, from what you’ve told me, Matt sounds like a really great bloke.”

  “He is, but I’m in love with Adam and I intend to marry him.”

  “Oh yeah?” Shelley said provocatively. “When?”

  “Soon. In fact I’m going to phone him in Durban tonight to discuss dates. I thought about Valentine’s Day. It would be incredibly romantic.”

  Shelley simply raised her eyebrows and began wandering down the line of strollers. “Rache,” she said, stopping to pose beside one, “does this buggy make me look fat?”

  “Don’t be daft,” Rachel said. “How can a stroller possibly make you look fat?”

  “It’s floral. Florals always make me look heavy.”

  “Shelley, it’s a stroller, not a Laura Ashley puffa jacket.”

  Shelle
y moved on up the line, stopping occasionally to scowl at the twee teddy and bunny rabbit motifs.

  “Look,” Rachel said eventually, “we’ve been everywhere and you’ve seen absolutely nothing you like. Maybe it’s time to accept that you are not going to find lime Babygros and a Cadillac-pink, rhinestone-encrusted stroller with a detachable zebra skin hood.”

  “I don’t want rhinestones, just something a bit more stylish, that’s all. A bit less Croydon.”

  “But when it comes to baby stuff,” Rachel said, “people don’t want style. They want Croydon. They feel comfortable with Croydon. They feel safe with Croydon. They do not want to be seen on the streets pushing a vehicle that looks like it was plundered from Elvis’s tomb . . . come on, you’ve been on your feet all afternoon. You know you should be resting. I promised your mum I wouldn’t let you overdo things. How’s about we go and get a cuppa and something to eat? My treat.”

  * * * * *

  It was dark outside now. The rain had turned to a fine drizzle, brilliantly illuminated by the streetlamps and cheesy Christmas lights. It was like walking through icy gossamer threads of tiny, twinkling beads.

  Rachel put a protective arm through Shelley’s and steered her round the puddles, past a crowd that had gathered in front of a bloke flogging foam rubber antlers and Santa hats from a suitcase, and guided her across the road to Selfridges. They headed for the coffee shop on the second floor. Like Oxford Street, it was mobbed with Christmas shoppers.

  “They really should,” Shelley said once they’d finally found an empty table, “think about having Christmas when the shops are less crowded.” She broke the seal on her bottle of mineral water and began pouring it into a plastic cup. “Hey, and I still can’t get over your news about the comedy competition. It’s wonderful. Absolutely wonderful.”

  Rachel blushed and smiled.

  She’d called in at the Channel 6 offices the previous day, after she’d finished at Xantia’s, and filled in the registration form for the comedy contest. It was the final day for entries, and they were holding the last of the auditions that afternoon. They squeezed her in at four and told her on the spot she’d qualified. She was still reeling with shock—both at how quickly it had happened and that she was in.