Laundromat Tease: Her Husband Watches Her Burn

My name is Danielle, and I’m thirty-two, married six years to Felix, who has always been the quiet type with a filthy imagination he kept mostly to himself until lately. We’ve talked about his hotwife fantasy in bed more times than I can count—him stroking himself while describing some stranger bending me over, using me while he watches—but it stayed talk until that Thursday night at the neighborhood laundromat.

It was past eleven. The place was nearly empty, just the low hum of machines and the smell of detergent and warm fabric. Felix sat on one of those hard plastic chairs against the wall, phone in his lap, pretending to scroll. I was bent over a basket of our mixed loads—my lace thongs tangled with his boxers, a couple of my tighter tops—when the door chimed and he walked in.

Tall. Broad through the shoulders. Dark skin stretched over muscle that showed even under a plain black T-shirt. He carried a single duffel of clothes like it weighed nothing. Kofi, I heard him say later when he introduced himself, but right then he was just the stranger whose eyes dragged slowly down my body as I straightened up.

I had on a soft gray tank that clung a little from the residual heat of the dryers and a pair of cutoffs short enough that the pockets peeked out. No bra. Felix likes me like that when we’re alone; tonight I hadn’t bothered changing. Kofi’s gaze lingered on the outline of my nipples, then lower, and he didn’t look away when he caught me noticing.