We always let each other be who we were, or at least who we thought we were at that time, what is a shame is neither of us could admit to who we were, or wanted to be, we were still hiding crucial parts of who we were. He still let me be who as I was, scream, cry, act like raging crazy, throw a fit if I needed to throw a fit, fuck when I wanted to fuck. He accepted my truly horrible destructive sides–along with my sweet, creative, loving sides. But, when you are still in hiding, from yourself, it just isn’t enough.

There were times when I really felt married, when we were really two people in love. Those simple times when the mundane tasks are what made us happy, made us a couple. The grocery store, riding MUNI together before work, walking around the city on Sunday morning, and the laundry. These daily tasks, I still think about with a certain amount of simple pleasure. We lived right downtown, our laundry mat was right across the street from our apartment. He would help me carry all the laundry over and I would get it started, then he would come back an join me during the dryer period, we would talk, read, share a beer, people watch, and flirt, play house, play husband and wife. Then we would fold together.

For being right downtown San Francisco our laundry mat would be surprisingly barren at times. It would often just be the two of in there for hours, just sitting there watching the neighborhood roll by the big glass window. We were always a playful sort of couple, did not ever inhibit ourselves in public, either when fighting or having a good time. One dusky Sunday evening he came in, I was standing between the two rows of dryers–the only one in there, waiting on ours to finish, reading. We chatted, drank our beer, hung on each other. Between the two rows of machines, the view of our bodies were cut in half from the outside vantage point. As we nursed the beer, I stood in front of him, my ass to his dick and began to slow grind onto him, performing my version of a standing stripper dance, getting him sufficiently worked up, which was always easy. His thick cock would always answer my call.

Once straining against his jeans, visibly unable to contain himself any longer, I lowered my self toward his throb. I was gone from view; he looked alone in the laundry mat. I unbuckled the belt, undid the pants and got his nice big hard dick out, and began to work my lips all around it, with the smell of soap, bleach and cock filling my scent. I liked to slobber all over him and get him so super slippery. He was the kind of many whom like solid blow job, rough, with strong suction, I always obliged.

His knees began to fold a bit, I sensed he was wanting to cum. I gripped my hand around the base of his cock, cupping his balls, looked up and declared “No cumming for you!” My pussy was thumping by no and I wanted that fat cock in me regardless who might see. I yanked my own jeans down past my hips, down to my thighs and bent over one of the dryers, he wasted no time plunging deep into me. Whew….nothing like husband and wife fuck, no condom, no inhibition, no hesitation, it hurt every time he would first stab into me, that pain in pleasure hurt, as my wetness devoured every bit of him. He thrust further, I grabbed on the dryer accepting his cock, my ass up against his drive. When he was about to cum, he grabbed onto my shoulders and wrenched me even further into him, melding us, then shot into me, I clinched hard around his hard dick, making myself cum all over him, as our body spasm met. Such a good married fuck. As he pulled out I could feel our cum dripping down my thighs, I could smell it mixing with the scent of clean laundry.