Madison loved to masturbate. Via a combination of YouTube, porn, and conversations at school she’d learned to get herself off with the shower head, with her fingers in bed, with certain vegetables and, her favourite, when no one was around, the washing machine. She’d strip naked and sit on the big shaking box fingering and stroking herself until she felt the climax building, and then she’d stand on tiptoe, pressing her vulva against the hard corner of the vibrating beast. She’d fantasised that she was being taken roughly from behind by her volleyball coach, and she’d let the rhythmic rattling top loader take her all the way home.
Today, she was looking forward to being used in the utility room. She took the dark laundry from the basket, loaded it in with the little capsule of detergent, and set the controls. Once it was working, she stripped, boarded the love bus, and spread her legs. She squeezed a nipple as she started to enjoy the shaking going through her buttocks, through her cunt.
A finger stroked her labia open, and she was already wet. She slid moisture to her clit as the machine made its own weird music and pulsed its rhythms through her. Her own sounds were urgent little cries of pleasure and knowing the house was empty allowed her any volume she pleased.
She pressed down onto the little towel she’d placed and scrunched it so the different pitches of the washer’s symphony piped directly to her clitoris. She moaned and hummed her physical joy as the machine changed gear and her tits jiggled a little more. Full of water now, the drum spun faster and she responded with a tiny scream. The motor whining, the drum beating its allegro rhythm, the flesh of her thighs being made to quiver all in time to the mechanical melody.