“Dorothy’s Domestic Bliss” has moved to Amazon and Kindle Unlimited; it’s available exclusively on Amazon.
This story grew out of the current dungeon crisis facing erotica authors who publish on Amazon. I wanted to make the sweetest, most un-dungeon-able cover possible, slapped on top of the filthiest, nastiest story I could imagine. Just try to hide this one when I publish it, Amazon!
The smell of freshly washed linen drying in the sun is one of the most magically sensuous scents I know. It's warm and clean and sweet, and when the gentle breeze blows off the field of wildflowers between the farmhouse and the creek at the edge of our property, carrying with it the perfume of the blue and yellow blossoms scattered through the long grass, I think I'm in heaven.
Also, the breeze feels awfully nice blowing up my dress.
I'd been putting off doing laundry until I was pretty much out of clothes: no panties, no shirts, no shorts, just a couple of long linen dresses and an old black skirt from my last job in the city. The farmhouse Calvin and I moved to this spring needs serious upgrades, not least to its laundry facilities: there's an old washer and dryer in the dank and dingy basement, with an ancient mangle squatting in the corner and frayed drying cords stretched along the low cobweb-laced ceiling, and the thought of spending any time in that dungeon-like space sent a chill down my spine.
But today, when the sun rose in a cloudless sky above the copse of ash trees between the house and the dirt road to town, the air filled with the sounds of buzzing bees and singing birds and the yellow light warm on my shoulder as it poured through the bedroom window, I got a sudden hankering to wash everything and hang it out in the sun. It feels like the first real summer day, not yet hot but hinting that heat was coming. The clothesline out back is sturdy, and I found a basket of wooden pins tucked in the linen closet, so as soon as Calvin heads off to catch the train to work, I swing into action, stripping the bed and dragging the overflowing hamper down to the cellar.
I haven't done my own laundry for years. In the city, we had a service for our clothes — I left a hamper of laundry outside the condo door on Wednesday, and it came back folded and fluffed on Thursday — and a maid for the towels and bedding. Calvin and I were simply too busy for the daily domesticity. But now I'm out of a job, Calvin is taking the train to the city every day, and it's time for me to get back into rhythms that I long ago forgot. And maybe — and this is the plan beneath this whole move — I'll find a new kind of bliss in the daily patterns of running a house.
And except for the dark little room in the basement with the washing machine, the process of doing the wash isn't bad at all. There's a quiet meditativeness to sorting by color and fabric, and the washing machine makes a pleasant swooshing sound as it churns our clothes in its suds-filled barrel. While the machine chugs and rumbles in the basement, I sit on the porch with a pot of tea and relax in a beam of golden sunlight.
Calvin has hired a bunch of local services to get this old farmhouse updated and presentable, and today appears to be the landscapers' day to work. There are four or five men working on the front and side yards, clearing brush and raking weeds and hauling big bags of mulch on their shoulders. Three look like college boys, young and broad shouldered, their shirtless skin kissed a burnished bronze by the sun. And one, a little older, appears to be the foreman, equally broad in a tight white t-shirt with "Randolph landscaping LLC" printed across the front, his skin a rich shade of mahogany and his smooth-shaved head gleaming when he takes off his billed cap to wipe the sweat from his forehead. They are delightful to watch, sweat trickling over sculpted muscles, as they work.
Not that I'm just idly staring at the delectable man flesh on the lawn, though; I'm hard at work myself, carrying the dirty clothes down to the basement in batches and then lugging the heavy wet washing up the rickety wooden stairs and out the back door as the machine does its job. I started with delicate light-colored clothes, so it's mostly panties and bras and t-shirts swaying in the breeze at the start of the morning. I see the foreman round the corner with a shovel slung over his shoulder while I'm taking down the first batch to carry inside to fold, and he flashes a smile and looks quickly away at the sight of me giving a frilly pair of not-quite-there panties a shake before dropping them into the basket. I give him a grin, too, running my tongue wetly across my lips, but I don't think he saw me. His ass is gorgeous — round and high and tight — as he makes his way toward the side yard, whistling tunelessly in the sunshine.
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