What I Discovered in My Flatmate’s Laundry

My name is Gabriel and I’ve just turned forty-three. I’ve also just gotten divorced.

Put like that, it sounds cold, and the truth is longer. The process started more than a year ago, but the papers were signed three months ago, on a Tuesday afternoon, in the lawyer’s office. Elena and I shook hands on the way out. After fifteen years together, we at least managed not to tear each other apart.

We have two children: Hugo, thirteen, and Lucía, ten. For their sake we chose the nesting arrangement. The kids always stay in the family flat and the parents take turns by the week. One week I live with them; the next, I have to find somewhere else to stay.

The problem, as usual, was money. I cover my share of the mortgage, the kids’ expenses, the nesting setup. I have a wine shop with a partner, Daniel, and we do well, but without luxuries. A whole flat to myself, to use only half my life, was beyond my means.

I spent two months sleeping at my parents’ place during my off weeks. They’re good people, but they have their same old routines, set in stone. I put up with it as long as I could. Then I started looking for rooms to rent.

The idea disgusted me. At my age, sharing a flat again like a university student felt like failure. But the more I thought about it, the more sense it made: I only needed a place one week out of every two.

After weeks of ads I ruled out, I found a different one. Three bedrooms in a quiet area, one room for rent. They were looking for a responsible, clean girl, no parties. The photos showed a bright flat with a terrace full of plants. The ad was signed by a Nadia.

I spent two days mulling it over before I called.

“Hello?” she answered on the third ring.

“Hi, I’m calling about the room. My name’s Gabriel.”

“The ad says I’m looking for a girl. Did you read it?”

“I did. That’s why I’m calling. Just give me two minutes to explain my situation.”

There was a long silence. I told her about the divorce, the nesting arrangement, that I’d only need the flat one week on, one week off, and that the rest of the time it would be empty. That I wasn’t looking for party vibes or to bring anyone over, just a quiet place to be.

“I wasn’t expecting that,” she admitted at last. “But come see it on Saturday at eleven. I’m not promising anything.”

***

On Saturday I showered, shaved, and arrived five minutes early. Nadia opened the door before I could knock. Early thirties, chestnut hair to her shoulders, barefoot. She looked me up and down without hiding it.

“Come in.”

The flat was better than in the photos. Bright, tidy, it smelled clean. She sat me on the sofa and brought me a coffee. I repeated my story in more detail: Hugo and Lucía, the shop, the tight numbers. I proposed a trial month.

“If you see it doesn’t work, I’ll pack my things and leave. No drama.”

We talked for a long while. She told me she came from a long relationship, that the flat had been both of theirs and now she kept it going alone. In the end she showed me the room: small but enough, with a window facing the inner courtyard. Quiet.

“I’ll think about it and call you,” she said. “I’ve got two other girls on the list.”

On Wednesday she called me. She’d decided to take a chance on me. A trial month, clear rules from the start, and the first month up front.

***

The move was quick: one suitcase of clothes, another of things, my laptop and not much else. That first week I set myself the goal of being the best flatmate possible. On Monday, when the shop was closed, I stayed alone in the flat and cleaned the whole place. Living room, kitchen, bathroom. I didn’t go into her bedroom or her study; that was her space and I had no intention of crossing that line.

When Nadia came back in the afternoon, she stopped in the doorway.

“What have you done?”

“Cleaned. Can you tell?”

“Of course I can tell. You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to. As a thank-you.”

Something in her loosened that evening. Good start, I thought.

The first month passed, then a second and a third. Before I knew it, I’d been sharing a flat with her for half a year and the initial tension had evaporated completely. She’d greet me on Fridays with a cold beer and a “how was your week, mate?” We’d end up chatting on the terrace until late, talking about her work at the pharmacy, my kids, the shop, and Daniel’s random ideas.

We kept our distance out of habit, out of respect. But we were, without a doubt, friends.

I had a fixed laundry routine. Coming and going between houses forced me to stay organized, and on Saturday mornings, if it was my week at her flat, I washed clothes. One Saturday, seeing that the washing machine wasn’t full with just my things, I stuck my head into her study.

“I’m putting on a dark wash. If you’ve got anything, I’ll do it and take care of hanging it up.”

“Really? What a luxury having you here.”

She came back with a small mountain of clothes. I put them all in, added detergent, and set the cycle.

With the summer heat, the clothes dried in a couple of hours. In the afternoon I went to collect them. My clothes first; then hers: dark T-shirts, pajama bottoms. And then, among everything else, a black lace thong.

I held it in my hand a second too long. It was delicate, small, with embroidered flowers along the edges. I thought she must have slipped it in by mistake. Up to then she’d been very discreet with her underwear. I folded it, left it at the bottom of the basket, covered by the rest, and didn’t think anything more of it.

When she picked up the basket that night, she smiled.

“You’re a saint.”

I found myself thinking that in six months it was the first time I’d touched her underwear. I wasn’t quite sure what to do with that information.

The next day I repeated the operation with the white wash. This time Nadia took longer to bring me her things, and when she came out she wouldn’t meet my eyes.

“Yesterday… one garment got mixed in by mistake,” she said. “If it bothered you, I’m sorry.”

“It didn’t bother me at all. It’s clothes, part of daily life.”

She seemed to relax. But when I hung the washing out I found another thong, this one cream-colored, and a matching bra, and then another. It wasn’t an accident. It was deliberate.

My flatmate loved delicate lingerie. And she was becoming less and less shy with me every time.

Over the following weeks it became a tradition. Every weekend I discovered new pieces: thongs in every color, matching sets, lace that looked like silk. I stopped hiding them when I collected the wash. I folded them normally and left them in her basket. And I loved that strange intimacy we’d built without a single word.

***

One Thursday I got home late, after watching Hugo’s match, and found the living room full of laughter. Nadia was having dinner with three friends: Cristina, Marta, and Bea. Bottles of wine, half-finished plates, the atmosphere of a girls’ dinner. Four pairs of eyes fixed on me.

“Sit down, have a drink with us,” Nadia offered.

“Thanks, but this is your thing. I’m going to my room.”

The next day, while she was cutting tomatoes for a salad, she let it slip:

“My friends were absolutely charmed by you. They wouldn’t stop praising you when you left.”

“That’s silly. I’m an old man, I’m out of the game.”

She set the knife down on the board and looked straight at me.

“You’re forty-three, not eighty. You’re in shape, you’re attractive, your life’s in order. I don’t know where you get that from. My friends thought you were gorgeous. And I think so too.”

She held my gaze for a second too long and went back to the salad as if she hadn’t said anything important. I didn’t know what to answer, so I said nothing.

From that night on we started sharing much more. I no longer locked myself away after dinner; I stayed with her until very late. We discovered we agreed on almost everything. I’d bring her bottles from the shop and we’d drink them on the terrace, almost in the dark, our feet bare.

We loosened up at home. She came out of the shower in a towel and crossed the hallway without thinking twice. I did the same. She ate dinner in a long T-shirt, legs bare; I wore shorts and no shirt on hotter nights. Neither of us said anything. And every weekend her lingerie kept passing through my hands, shameless now, like a conversation we were having without speaking.

***

One night I came home with a Japanese whisky a client had given me, a good twelve-year single malt. Nadia’s face lit up and she hugged me a second longer than usual.

“This is a gem. We’re opening it right now.”

She poured two fingers into each glass, no ice. We sat on the sofa, feet on the table, and talked for hours. We laughed a lot. Then she turned to me, legs crossed.

“Let’s play. Honest questions. I ask, you answer truthfully. Then vice versa.”

She started innocently: first kiss, biggest fear. The whisky went down and we both loosened up more. Then she looked at me hard.

“What do you think of my lingerie?”

I could have dodged it with a joke. But we’d agreed to tell the truth.

“That it’s some of the sexiest stuff I’ve ever seen. That every time I clip one of your thongs to the line I get hard thinking about how it looks on you.”

“I’m glad,” she said with a slow smile, biting her lip. “I like that you like it. I like imagining you hard while you hang my knickers.”

She changed the rules of the game.

“Let’s make a wager. Rock, paper, scissors, best of five. If I win, tomorrow you make me breakfast without a shirt on.”

“And if I win?”

“You decide.”

“If I win, you show me your entire underwear drawer. No waiting for the laundry.”

She stared at me for several long seconds.

“Deal.”

We played. It ended two apiece and came down to the last round. I threw scissors; she threw paper.

“You win,” she said.

She went to her room and came back with two pull-out drawers full of lingerie sorted by color. I started taking pieces out. I recognized the black lace thong.

“I’ve hung this one out.”

“Three times.”

I pulled out a navy set with embroidery, another red one with ribbons, a pale pink silk one. I made up absurd labels for them—“this one’s for robbing a bank,” “this one’s for a royal wedding”—and she laughed and added her own. Until she went quiet.

“You realize that now, every time you see me, you’re going to imagine me in underwear, right?”

“I already did that. Every time I hang your clothes, I imagine you without them.”

“You’re an asshole.”

“You wanted to play.”

I suggested one last drink before putting everything away. I asked her when and why the lingerie thing had started.

“The first time was an accident,” she confessed. “I was horribly embarrassed when I realized. I thought you’d think I was coming on to you. But you didn’t say a word, you hung it up like it was just another T-shirt. I liked that. So I tried it. I wanted to see what I felt if you looked at my underwear. And I liked knowing you saw it, that you touched it, that you knew things about me no one else knew. Feeling desired again, even if only in my imagination.”

She took a sip.

“I’ve bought clothes thinking only that you’d see them. Tried them on in front of the mirror wondering what you’d think when you hung them out. And I’ve touched myself, Gabriel. I’ve put my fingers in my cunt thinking about you hanging those knickers, smelling them, imagining myself inside them.”

“Fuck, Nadia.”

“I know it’s madness.”

“No, it isn’t. I’ve jacked off thinking about you too. More times than I dare say.”

I set my glass down and turned toward her.

“I think I can guess which pair you’re wearing right now.”

She went very still.

“Oh yeah? Which ones?”

I mentally ran through everything I’d hung out over the past few weeks, thought of her, thought of how it was Friday and she was home with me.

“The navy ones. The elegant ones, the date pair.”

“Almost. It’s navy, but only the knickers. The bra’s the black lace one, the one you said was your favorite.”

I was speechless.

“You know what the worst part is?” she said. “Now you know it, and I know you know it, and we’re going to keep sitting here like nothing’s happening. With my knickers soaked and your cock hard under your trousers.”

“Do you want something to happen?”

The question hung between us. She talked about how safe this was, about what we could ruin if we crossed the line. Then she stood up.

“I’m going to bed. Good night, Gabriel.”

She went to her room. This time she didn’t quite close the door.

***

I stayed on the sofa finishing the whisky, wondering how much longer we could keep this up. I could feel my cock hard against the zipper, my mouth dry, my pulse pounding in my temples. I decided to be brave. I got up and went to her half-open door. I knocked with my knuckles.

“Yes?”

I pushed it open a little. She was standing by the bed, putting clothes away, in a long T-shirt and barefoot. She turned slowly, knowing perfectly well what I’d come looking for.

“I want to know one last thing. Which pair are you wearing now?”

She sat on the edge of the bed, hands on her thighs.

“Which ones would you want me to be wearing?”

She started stroking her thighs slowly, fingertips climbing to the edge of her T-shirt and back down again, letting me watch. I guessed wrong twice on purpose. On the third she shook her head, smiling.

“Then come in and close the door.”

I went in. I closed it. She kept stroking herself while she spoke, lifting her shirt a little higher now, letting me catch the edge of lace.

“I’ve been thinking about this moment for weeks. About whether you’d dare come in. I’ve bought clothes thinking about you, touched myself in this bed thinking about your hands, your mouth, your cock. I’ve come with my mouth shut so you wouldn’t hear, two fingers inside me and the other hand squeezing one breast, imagining it was you.”

She slowly lifted her shirt, centimeter by centimeter. Her thighs appeared, her hips, a pair of completely sheer white knickers showing the dark mound of her pubic hair, the trimmed hair, and a wet stain in the center of the fabric. The ones she’d said she’d wear tomorrow. She’d put them on today.

“Do you like what you see?”

I couldn’t speak. I just nodded, eyes fixed between her legs. She took off her shirt completely and let it fall. The matching bra, white, transparent. I could see her hard nipples through the lace, swollen, dark, pressing against the fabric as if asking to come out.

“Come here.”

I took two steps and we were face to face. She reached out and squeezed my cock through my trousers, never taking her eyes off mine. A gasp escaped her when she felt how hard I was.

“Fuck, Gabriel. You’re like a stone.”

“Are you still scared?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Me too. But I want you to kiss me. And then I want you to do everything you’ve been thinking about for months.”

I kissed her. It started shyly and in a second turned deep, wet, urgent. Our tongues tangled hungrily, biting each other’s lips, breathing through each other’s mouths. Her hands wound into my hair; mine slid to her waist, to the edge of the lace, where the fabric was so thin I could feel her heat underneath. I squeezed her ass with both hands and she moaned into my mouth.

“For weeks you’ve been putting lingerie in front of me,” I said against her mouth. “Knowing what it did to me. Knowing I was jerking off thinking about your thongs.”

“I expected it. I wanted you to. Every time you hung up my knickers I’d go into the kitchen to see which ones you’d touched, and I’d imagine your fingers there, and my panties would drop.”

I slid one hand down her belly, over the sheer lace, and rubbed her cunt through her knickers. The fabric was soaked, slippery. She spread her legs wider and rested her forehead on my shoulder, panting.

“You’re dripping, Nadia.”

“I’ve been like this since the rock-paper-scissors game started.”

I laid her on the bed and kissed my way down her neck, nipping the hollow at her collarbone, sucking her nipples through the lace until the sheer bra was soaked with saliva, pressing them hard against the fabric. I unclasped the bra and pulled it off. Her breasts fell free, white, with nipples reddened from all the sucking. I kissed them one by one, bit them slowly, tugged with my teeth until she arched her back and dug her fingers into my nape.

I kept going down the valley between her breasts, over her belly, biting the skin of her lower stomach. I knelt between her legs and ran my tongue over her sheer knickers, long, tasting the soaked fabric. She tasted of herself, of salt, of hot woman. She let out a long moan and lifted her hips against my face.

“I’m not taking them off yet,” I said. “They look too good on you.”

I kissed the inside of her thighs slowly, inching closer without quite getting there, biting the soft skin until little red marks showed. I could see the wetness through the sheer lace, a bright line running down her groin.

“You’re cruel,” she whispered, writhing. “Eat me already, please.”

“How do you ask me?”

“Eat my cunt, Gabriel. Eat it all.”

I pushed her knickers aside and buried my mouth between her legs. The first touch of my tongue against her open lips made her arch until her ass lifted off the bed. I licked her slowly, bottom to top, tracing the whole slit, savoring the thick slick that soaked her. I found her clit, swollen and hard, peeking out from the hood, and stroked it in circles with the tip of my tongue. Then I sucked it, trapping it between my lips, tugging gently, letting go, sucking again.

“Oh fuck, fuck, fuck,” she moaned, gripping my hair, rocking her hips against my face.

I slipped in one finger, then another, never stopping with my tongue. I curled them upward, searching for that rough spot on the front wall, and started fucking her with my fingers while I ate her clit at the same time. She shuddered with every thrust, her thighs squeezing my head, panting harder and harder.

“Don’t stop,” she gasped. “Don’t stop, keep going, I’m going to come.”

I didn’t stop. I sped up with my fingers, sucking her clit harder until I felt her tense all over, thighs trembling on either side of my face, her belly contracting in waves. She exploded with a long, hoarse moan, unable to hold back, clenching around my fingers, soaking my chin with hot fluid. I stayed with her until she relaxed, slowly licking her swollen lips while she melted into the sheets.

“My God,” she murmured, still trembling. “Now it’s my turn. Lie down.”

She laid me down and took off my T-shirt and trousers slowly, brushing my skin with her fingertips, kissing my chest, my navel, the line of hair that ran down to my boxers. She stroked my cock through the underwear, squeezing, measuring it with her hand.

“You’re so hard. Huge.”

“I’ve been like this since I walked into the living room this afternoon. Since I saw you cross the hallway in that shirt of yours that goes sheer.”

She yanked my boxers down. My cock sprang free, hard, pulsing, the tip already wet. She licked her lips, tucked her hair behind her ear, and lowered her head. Before taking it into her mouth she gripped it with her hand and ran her tongue along the full length, from balls to glans, slowly, looking me in the eyes. Then she trapped the tip between her lips and sucked hard, drawing out the pre-cum.

“I’ve spent months imagining what you’d taste like,” she said.

She took it in all the way, as far as she could, until I felt it hit the back of her throat. She started sucking me slowly, taking me with her whole mouth, helping with her hand at the base, twisting her wrist on every downward stroke. Her tongue curled around the head every time she came back up, and on each descent I heard her throat make that wet, tight sound. She slipped one bra strap down—she’d put the bra back on for a moment, teasingly—and left one breast exposed, the hard nipple brushing my thigh while she sucked me.

“Fuck, Nadia, you suck so good.”

She sped up. She took me all the way down, gagged, pulled back coughing a little with watering eyes, and came right back for more. A string of saliva hung from her chin to my balls. With her other hand she stroked herself between her legs, never taking her fingers out from inside the sheer knickers. I had one hand in her hair, guiding her without forcing her, the other gripping the sheets.

“If you keep going like this, I won’t last. I’m going to come in your mouth.”

She pulled back, her lips swollen, shining with saliva.

“Not yet. I’m not done with you. When you come, I want to feel it inside me.”

She stood up, took off the bra and the soaked knickers, and stood naked in front of me. She ran her fingers through her parted cunt, brought them to her mouth and sucked them slowly, watching me. She stepped out of the room for a moment and came back with the whisky bottle.

“One last test?”

She straddled me, my hard cock pressed against her belly, and dripped a few drops onto her chest. The whisky slid down her skin, over her nipple, to her stomach.

“Taste it.”

I sat up and licked every drop from her nipple, sucking her whole breast, biting her slowly. She panted and ground her wet cunt against my belly, leaving a damp trail. Then she tipped the bottle over me; the cold liquid fell onto my cock and drew a gasp from me, and her hot mouth soothed it immediately, licking me from balls to tip, sucking every drop mixed with whisky and pre-cum.

She set the bottle aside, positioned herself over me again and guided my cock with her hand to her entrance. She rubbed the head against her lips, soaking me, tapping it against her clit until both of us let out a moan.

“Are you sure?”

“Completely. Put it in.”

She sank down slowly, centimeter by centimeter, impaling herself on me. I felt her open around me, tight, hot, drenched, swallowing my cock until she settled all the way down, her ass resting on my thighs. We stayed still for a moment, looking at each other, breathing hard. She bit her lower lip.

“I can feel you so deep. You’re filling me completely.”

She started moving. Slowly at first, almost in circles, finding the rhythm, hands on my chest and breasts swaying in front of my face. Then she began to ride me faster, harder, as if she’d been rehearsing it mentally for months. My cock slid in and out shining with her juices, making a wet sound every time her ass slammed against my thighs.

“I’ve been imagining this for months,” she said without stopping. “How you’d fuck me. Whether you’d be gentle, whether you’d give it to me hard. It’s better. Much better.”

I grabbed her hips with both hands, helping her drop harder, driving up on every descent. Her breasts bounced with every thrust. I caught one in my mouth and sucked her nipple until she screamed. She dug her nails into my shoulders, leaning forward to grind her clit against my pubis with each stroke.

“Like that, like that, give it to me like that, Gabriel.”

“Fuck my cock, Nadia. Ride me like a slut.”

“That’s what I am, right? Your little slut. The flatmate who left you her knickers so you could jack off.”

The whisky and the pauses had delayed me; I could hold out a little longer. I savored the sight of her: her breasts moving with each thrust, her hair falling over her shoulders, her mouth open, a strand of saliva at the corner of her lips. She was sweating. So was I.

“Don’t stop,” she moaned, changing the angle. “I’m close. Again, fuck, again.”

“Come for me. Come on my cock.”

I watched her go under, back arching, mouth open in a silent cry, her whole cunt clamping down as she came. I felt her milking me from within in waves while she trembled all over and scratched my chest. She collapsed onto me, my cock still inside, trembling, panting against my neck.

“You’re still hard,” she said, surprised, pushing herself up a little. “Incredible.”

“I’m almost there. Get on all fours.”

She obeyed without a word. She eased off slowly, pulling my cock out of her cunt with a gasp, and positioned herself face down, ass raised, face on the pillow, looking at me over her shoulder. I could see her cunt open, swollen, shining, and the tight eye of her ass right above it. I knelt behind her and ran my whole cock along her slit, up and down, soaking myself.

“Put it in now, please.”

I drove in with one thrust, all the way to the hilt. She screamed into the pillow. I grabbed her hips with both hands and started fucking her from behind, hard, deep, without mercy. Every hit pulled a moan from her; every withdrawal left my cock shining to the base. I could see her ass trembling with each impact, my fingers going white where I held her.

“Like that, like that, harder, break me,” she panted, pushing her ass back, seeking me out.

I let go of one cheek and slapped it. She gave a sharp cry and clenched even tighter around my cock. I slapped the other cheek and the mark turned red. I bent over her back without stopping my thrusts, grabbed one breast from underneath, pinched the nipple. With my other hand I found her clit and rubbed it in circles while I pushed in all the way.

“I’m going to come again,” she gasped. “Fuck, Gabriel, don’t stop, don’t stop.”

“Come with me inside. Again. Come on.”

She came with a hoarse cry, gripping me so hard I could barely move. I held on, kept rubbing her clit until she herself pushed my hand away, saying she couldn’t take any more. I laid her flat, face down, legs slightly apart, and lay on top of her to fuck her like that, crushing her against the mattress, entering from above, tight, impossibly deep.

“I can’t hold out much longer.”

“Then don’t hold back. Come inside me. I want to feel you fill me.”

Her words almost finished me right there. I pushed faster, deeper, rougher, feeling my balls rise and everything build at the base. She moaned with every thrust, the pillow bitten, whispering filthy things into the fabric:

“Yes, yes, come inside, fill me, fuck, come in my cunt.”

A few more thrusts and I came, hard, endless, my cock contracting inside her, shot after shot, emptying me down to the last drop while she clamped around me, milking every pulse. I collapsed onto her back for a second, breathing into the nape of her neck, still inside her, feeling my cock pulse in her until it began to subside.

I pulled out slowly. A thick thread followed me and dripped down the inside of her thigh. She let out a long, satisfied gasp and turned her face to look at me, a lazy smile on her lips.

“You filled me completely. I can still feel it inside.”

I lay down beside her. Both of us breathing hard, sweaty, sated. She turned over, pressed herself against me, and ran two fingers over my stomach, playing with the sweat.

***

She turned toward me and rested her head on my shoulder. I felt her cum and mine running down her thigh, wetting my leg. I didn’t mind.

“Why did we wait so long?”

“Because we were scared.”

“I’m not scared anymore.”

“Neither am I.”

She kissed me softly, her lips still swollen.

“Stay tonight. Don’t go back to your room. And tomorrow, when I wake up, I want you to fuck me again before breakfast.”

“Done.”

I pulled her close and she curled up against my chest.

“Nadia. This changes things.”

“I know.”

“Is that okay with you?”

“It’s perfect.”

I kissed her hair. We stayed like that until sleep took us. For the first time in many months, I slept through the whole night without waking once.