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, but instead of mushrooms 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. I was 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 to do 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 their hands.
So even though he’d 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 look too eager about him leaving, but when he was finally gone, and I’d made sure to hear him head down the stairs and slam the door, I did a little dance of glee before racing over to the now obscenely piled sink.
I first 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 my dishes hands on.
I then went to fetch my shoes; at my height, I wanted my heels so I could reach everything more easily. Also, something about this act just calls for heels, it looks much nicer than balancing on the tips of my toes. I felt almost like I was being filmed and wanted to look the part. Some of the plates and utensils needed soaking, so I let the sink fill up with 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 his soft lips sipping the steaming brew, then probably slamming it down on the counter before rushing off to work. I lifted the mug 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 sinkful were left.
In another mug, I found fresh remains of hot chocolate, and smiled. How adorable. I dipped my index finger into the sweet sludge, then slowly ran it across my tongue. I felt the first shiver pass through my cunt at the taste. Mmm . . . I took many more dips before plunging the mug under the water, erasing all remaining traces of chocolate.
As I got to the dishes, mostly steel pots, at the bottom, I really got 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 then 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.
Then all of a sudden, he 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 all 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 tightly 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 as he stroked me over the wet fabric of my panties.
“Yes, it does,” I said, leaning back with my arms on the 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 went slowly, savoring each dish. I rinsed the bowl we’d used for the salad, removing traces of oil-covered leaves. I found the knife that could only be hers (I only use forks and spoons), and slipped it into my mouth, feeling the ribbed edge and 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 with a towel atop her head. I could feel her stop 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 walked closer, dropping the towel to the floor. She walked right up behind me and pressed herself to 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 tighter against me. She led the knife down the ridge of my back, slowly, while I tried to stand perfectly still. As she reached closer to my ass, I couldn’t help but move, and I spread my legs a little wider. She was now standing a few inches away, 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 into the air to give her better access, but she was past that. I felt the knife about to enter the place of my fantasy from moments before. She’d turned it around, but I could feel the heavy end of the knife slowly entering my slick pussy. I moaned and gripped the edge of the sink tightly.
She slid a finger in alongside the knife handle and I felt like I would explode. She didn’t move the knife too much, just a slow back and forth, but the whole experience pushed me over the edge. My body shook and I had to hold on to the sink ever harder as well as pressing my feet firmly to the floor.
She handed the knife to me 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 this act in favor of watching it splash off the silver metal. She reached around me and fondled my nipples. “Keep washing, remember,” she reminded me as she twisted my nipples. I kept the water going, moving slowly, not in any hurry to have her torments end. She kept on twisting my nipples, occasionally rubbing my clit as I did my best not to drop the dishes. Then 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.
About a year later, my dishes fetish had gained me quite a reputation. I was frequently asked over to friends’ houses after dinner parties, and they’d covertly imply they wanted me to wash their dishes or outright ask me.
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’d before now seemed totally aloof and unapproachable. But even while she whipped several other girls into nicely streaked creatures, their marks proudly shown off for any interested bystander to see, she kept sneaking looks at me, and I could feel them even across the room. I couldn’t even look at anyone else, just kept crossing and uncrossing my legs and wondering if my mid-thigh length black leather skirt was too short. I drank so much soda that I started to get jittery and had to keep passing by Alex to get to the bathroom. Finally, near the end of the night, she grabbed me on my way back from the bathroom. “Are you coming home with me tonight or what, you little tease?” Then, I don’t know what came over me, but in response I kissed her, pushing my nerve-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.” I gathered my things in a fog and waited at the appointed spot.
We drove silently to her place, with 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 to get some relief. After the longest ten minutes I could remember experiencing, we pulled into a driveway. I didn’t really take in the scenery, just followed her up some stairs and into a large living room filled with a thick white carpet and plush leather couch. I moved 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 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 this room, on every possible surface. It was like some surreal art exhibit, with honey and chocolate sauce and spaghetti sticking to each item. It looked like a food fight had erupted amongst the foods 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 from watching me at the club. And as much as that hot little body of yours definitely 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, because as she’d been talking she’d been kneading my pussy in a way that brought me oh-so-close to orgasm, but then she took that fist right with her up the stairs. I stared longingly behind me for a minute, before trying to figure out how to tackle this mess. Well, the first thing to do was strip. I threw my clothes into the only clean corner of the place I could find, and set to work. I brought all the dishes over toward 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. Well, that’s never worked with me. The silverware is like foreplay. I can go quickly, stacking the shiny spoons and surprisingly sharp forks, and I get to hear 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 in excitement. But her voice would brook no argument, and truth be told, that’s why she made me wet. She started marching closer to me. I felt like we were at boot camp or something when I noticed she had a miniature alarm clock. She set it for five minutes. The sink still held an overabundance of dishes, plus 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, next 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 more firmly. She meant business. My tongue lapped and lapped, wishing it was her pussy, working frantically to get through even one dish. I did somehow get 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. She took pity on me, reaching up to a shelf and pulling down 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?), and eager for her next strokes. This time, I went at it with gusto, and the more I licked, the harder she spanked me. Then she slipped her fingers inside me, not starting with a delicate single digit but pushing three fat fingers inside me. 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.
Avril’s Name
Thomas S. Roche
I thought I had her figured out. I thought she’d be an easy fuck, a casual lay to rinse from my mouth the too-fresh taste of a broken love. I thought we’d fuck, I’d go home, I’d forget her. And she’d forget me. No harm, no foul, no long goodbyes.
“Once,” she told me, leaning against me in the bar. “I’ll sleep with you once.”
I’d seen her so often, looked at her body with lust in my eyes. She tended at Markers, the bar I frequented, a hip bar filled with young tattooed punks and staffed entirely by women. She knew what all the other bartenders knew – sexy clothes spelled big tips. But she didn’t go the route the other girls did – tight, low-slung jeans showing off their hips and the fact that they wore no underwear; short skirts and knee-high leather boots that made their thighs more tantalizing than a pair of high heels ever could have; belly-baring T-shirts showing off sexy tattoos and pierced navels.
Instead, every inch of Avril’s flesh was always covered, except her hands, her face, and – just occasionally when she bent forward within sight of me – the small of her back. Her tattoos were dense, indistinguishable; they adorned the small of her back so tight and finely woven that I couldn’t make them out. The tight leather pants she always wore kept them hidden most of the time; her long-sleeved, tight black turtlenecks forbade any real view of her slender arms, her flat belly, or her ample tits. But that didn’t make her any less sexy; on the contrary, the clothes she wore were so form-fitting that no contour of Avril’s body was unfamiliar to anyone who went to the bar. She was a frequent source of discussion among male patrons, speculation often cent
ering on how the hell she could have gotten into pants so tight they looked sprayed-on, how she managed to make her breasts stand so firm like that when it was clear through the tight, stretchy material of her turtlenecks that she wasn’t wearing a bra. Nobody knew, but it titillated them to speculate. It titillated me, too; it made me want her more than I already did.
The bar girls at Markers were notoriously slutty, most of them recently out of college and moved to the city to be hip and be seen, to get high and get laid. A joint, a hit of E, or a baggie of Ketamine tablets, it was said, would get you pretty far with one of these girls. But Avril was different – no older than the others, probably, or at least no more than a few years. But her reputation was pristine despite her provocative clothes. Rumor had it she’d never gone home with anyone. Not men, not women – not anyone.
But she flirted with me. When I dropped in for a drink near closing time, when she was the only bartender on duty, she would kick everyone out, lock the door and chat with me while she cleaned up. She wanted to know about me – my interests, my dreams, my desires. She avoided all the like questions I sent her way. Even after a month of regular flirtation, I knew only a few things about Avril, all of them relevant but none of them terribly illuminating. She was straight. She was single – had been for some time. She was from Nebraska, but had lived in dozens of towns since running away from home at an early age. She was of mixed Italian–Dutch parentage. And she never, ever showed off her skin.
But I knew one more thing, just a rumor, murmured by one of the bar girls I’d taken home one night: Avril’s mother had been a tattoo artist, had died young, of a broken heart.
As she finished counting out her drawer one Thursday night, I sat at the end of the bar watching her, smoking cigarettes – another testament to the fact that she liked me, for the health department could have fined them even while the bar was closed. She glanced over to me between stacks of ones and clanking rolls of quarters, her eyes hungry, her lips full and red with lipstick.
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