Inspiration: Washing machines…ohonhonhon lolol
There was nothing particularly special about folding clothes. Nothing even remotely interesting in doing laundry. Or so you thought. Because when you happened to have a Frenchman living in your house, the mundane didn’t stay that way for very long.
Two arms curled around your waist and another body cuddled up behind you. Francis was often in an amorous mood and you were used to these sudden, bold displays of affection. Also used to the other displays, the displays that shared a border with lust. And he could mix the two together without even trying.
“Mademoiselle~ I’ve been looking all over for you!” he pushed his nose into your hair and nuzzled you, hands creeping over your thighs as if silently commanding the fabric to disappear. You rolled your eyes.
“Get off of me,” you snapped, not in the mood for his antics. In fact you were dreading them, because of one reason: it was Valentine’s Day. And Francis on Valentine’s Day was a force to be reckoned with.
He didn’t let go. If anything, he tightened his grasp around you as a snake would around its prey and held on for dear life. So much so that you really couldn’t help but feel the hard, telltale sign of an erection burning into your rear. At once you stiffened, sighed, and asked in an almost resigned voice, “Are you hard?” You weren’t surprised. He wasn’t either.
“Does it make you uncomfortable, mon amour?”  he wondered with a chuckle. It obviously wasn’t making him very uncomfortable – he never was when it came to sex and all things related to it. You rolled your eyes again and struggled to get out of his hold, not realizing until it was too late that the movement happened to be very much appreciated by your ridiculously ardent lover.
“Mmmm…I love it when you struggle,” he purred into your ear, nipping at the flesh and rubbing his groin against your butt. And, try as you might, you couldn’t help but feel the stirrings of desire shoot through you at his touches. You frowned and reached down to snatch his hands away from their intended path over your inner thighs. But even as you locked your slender fingers with his larger, calloused hands, you felt that desire pool inside you and fester, growing into something indiscernible in its power. You loved his hands. Loved them laying flat against you. Loved how they were quick and steady and wicked, and so it came as no surprise to find that you were aroused by having them so close to your core.
“France!” you cried, trying to sound indignant. But your voice was more lustful than annoyed, something that certainly did not go amiss. Francis chuckled and suddenly his hands were everywhere, twisting out of your grasp and splaying out over your naval, up to playfully squeeze your breasts, back down over your sides. And as he generously touched you, he murmured, “Let’s get some of these clothes off, hmm? I need to see you naked and wet.” His hand lightly slapped at your butt as if to annunciate his words and you opened your mouth to berate him –
But found that mouth suddenly pressed against the top of the washing machine as Francis suddenly pushed your upper body down against it. The scolding words on your tongue died almost immediately, and with good reason. For laying flat against the top of that thrumming machine was stimulating your breasts in ways you couldn’t even begin to describe. You bit your lip and held back a moan that would have no doubt made him very amused indeed, not that it mattered all that much. Francis was no sexual novice: he knew when a woman was aroused and hiding it.
“Ohonhonhon~ I had a feeling you liked vibrators, mon moineau. Don’t worry, I’ll have the rest of you throbbing soon enough,”  he half chuckled-half purred, and you scowled against the trembling machine, lifting yourself up to give him a real tongue lashing (and not the kind he obviously wanted, mind you).
But once again, your words died on your tongue. Because standing behind you with his hair casually tied back and his eyes sparkling with mirth and lust, Francis had begun to remove his own clothes. His shirt was already on the floor. His trousers were half gone, and his hard cock was in plain sight. Yes, your words were lost, because at that moment you decided that you’d rather not scold him. You’d rather just fuck him.
He raised an eyebrow at you and kicked his pants away, tilting his head as he studied your eyes carefully. After a moment he smirked, “You’ve finally given in, I see. And all it took was the sight of my cock~ I’ll remember that for future reference.” The way his eyes crinkled up was nothing short of wicked.
“Shut up and touch me,” you ground out, turning back around and struggling to get out of your shirt in your rather haphazard position. After watching the battle for several brief moments, Francis stepped in to assist. His large hands eased around your front and he pulled you back, admiring the way you whined when he did. As he turned you around the face him and began undoing your shirt, he commented, “Your chest is already so sensitive…I don’t know why I haven’t thought to do this earlier.” Thrusting you against a working washing machine that is.
With a luxurious grin he tossed your shirt away and immediately went in for your bra. It came off so quickly that you barely had time to blink before his mouth was descending on your hard nipples. And then you were falling back with a loud moan, and the only reason why you didn’t just fall to the ground was because Francis was holding you tightly to his chest. Oh yes, your breasts were sensitive, even more so after that lovely washing machine escapade.
“Oh God,” you sighed, tangling your fingers into his hair and dragging him closer. It felt amazing. That clever tongue of his thrust against your nipples, followed by teeth that scraped lightly, bit gently. And when his mouth wasn’t occupied with his oral ministrations, his hands certainly were.
You pressed your hips against his and rubbed at his cock, which sprang up between you hard and hot. The action made him stiffen, then moan, and when he looked up at you his eyes were dark and dangerous. His fingers were at your jeans before you could draw another breath, tugging them down hurriedly as if he could barely stand another moment of their existence around your hips. The moment they were gone, he was pushing you up against the machine and nipping playfully at your bottom lip, his hands squeezing at your breasts, his knee sinking between the both of yours.
“Shall we use the washing machine for better purposes, mon amour?” he huskily asked, and when you moaned a response, he chuckled and said, “Get up. I want to taste you.” And you thought you would die from the anticipation before you got all the way up, for the way he clutched and lifted you up made you feel like you were burning. And that was nothing compared to how you felt after you were situated.
Immediately, Francis dragged your legs apart and prodded at your clit with two fingers. He leaned in to press a kiss against your inner thigh, smirk up at you, and murmur, “Mmm…you’re already wet.” He lifted his fingers to his lips and licked your juices from them, moaning as he did. The sight made you pant, so overcome by desire that you could scarcely think.
“How do you like it up there?” he asked after a moment, drawing his fingers once more over your clit. You shivered from both his touch and the heady vibrations of the washing machine, which were thudding through you like tiny earthquakes, making your arousal spike into levels unknown.
You leaned back on your hands and spread your legs wider, raising an eyebrow at him. He smirked in interest at the move, obviously aroused by the rather shameless display. When he leaned in to drag his tongue over your clit, tasting you for real, you shivered and honestly replied, “It feels amazing. But you know what would feel even better?” He paused, looked up at you, and asked, “What is that, mon amour?” He wanted – needed – to know.
You smirked and shifted to the side, patted the spot next to you, and purred, “If you come up too and we start fucking.” Your words made his eyes flash lustfully. He chuckled darkly and straightened, studying you for a brief moment before nodding slowly and pulling himself up onto the machine. Immediately he had to swallow back a harsh wave of desire, for the vibrations made his cock absolutely rigid. He paused to catch his breath but his voice still suffered and clenched with arousal. “Ahh…it does feel good.” Then he gave you a sideways smirk and said, “You said something about fucking?”
You were in his lap a moment later, sliding your legs around his and pressing your clit to his member. The vibrations of the machine traveled all the way up his cock and right against your core, making you both gasp as you struggled to get closer. Then he was slipping inside you and the feelings only intensified.
“Oh, mon dieu!”  Francis gasped, leaning back and grinding his hips against yours, as much as could be allowed in the current position. You moaned and followed him back, feeling his fingers curling around your waist and hip as you thrust against his cock. “That feels…!” your exclamation died as Francis reached down to blindly turn the power higher, making the washing machine jolt faster as it reached a faster setting. “Mmmmmm…” you moaned, burying your face against his shoulder as you continued to spear yourself against him.
“Oui!” he breathlessly panted in response to you, “C'est incroyable.”  And it really was. You weren’t sure why you’d never thought to do this in the past.
His fingers cupped your face and he brought you close, kissing you with a passion that let you miles behind. And then he smiled and breathed, “Your cunt feels like it’s vibrating all on its own…Il me rend fou…” 
You just kissed him harder, too aroused to be bothered by his offensive wording. You were flying, pushing ever closer to an end that you knew would leave you breathless and amazed. And that end did make you breathless, and amazed, and many other things when you finally reached it. You moaned and threw yourself against him, hips bouncing into his as you took that throbbing cock as deeply into yourself as you possibly could. And it was breathless and amazing in a staggering, stifling way.
“Oh oui…oui!” he mumbled, for the clenching of your core and the vibrating waves from the machine were enough to make him follow soon enough. He watched you come with a cry that made him see insanity in a new light, for surely he was corrupted with it. As he thrust upward and emptied his seed into the vibrating mess of your core, he certainly felt delirious and crazed, like a rabid animal still ravenous for more.
He would get more, much more, but for now he was content with sitting atop the washing machine with you in his arms, lower bodies throbbing and dripping, ricocheting with gratification.
 Mon amour … My love
 Mon moineau … My sparrow
 Mon dieu! … My God!
 C'est incroyable … It is incredible
 Il me rend fou … It makes me crazy