My Teacher Found Me Stuck in the Laundry

"I'm heading out for a bit, sweetheart. Something came up." Mom's voice drifted through the humid air of the laundromat, half-swallowed by the rumble of a dozen spinning drums. "There's a load in number seven. Can you run it for me before I get back?"

I looked up from my phone. "Number seven? Where's that?"

"Back room. The old one." She was already halfway out the door, keys jangling, purse slung over her shoulder. "Just toss it in and start the cycle. Easy."

And then she was gone.

I sighed and pushed myself off the counter.

I'd never actually been in the back room. Mom kept it for storage mostly, and I'd always assumed the machines back there were dead weight. When I pushed open the door, the smell hit me first, damp concrete and old detergent. A single bulb flickered overhead. And there, wedged between stacked crates and forgotten shelving, sat number seven.

The thing looked ancient. Its enamel was chipped, the control dial worn smooth, and the door hung open like a yawning mouth. A tangle of wet clothes sat inside, half-loaded, as if someone had abandoned the job midway.

"Great," I muttered.

I crouched down in front of the machine and started sorting the clothes, pushing them deeper into the drum so they'd sit right.

The load had bunched up near the back, out of reach. I leaned in further, my shoulders slipping past the rim of the door, my whole upper body swallowed by the dim interior of the drum. My fingers stretched toward the far edge of the fabric.

That was when I felt it.

Something along the door frame shifted. A dull metallic snap echoed against my ears, and suddenly the opening tightened around my waist. I froze.

"Okay," I whispered. "Okay, don't panic."

I pushed backward. Nothing moved.

I pushed harder, planting my hands against the inside of the drum, but the old rubber gasket had folded in on itself and clamped down around my middle like a set of jaws. My upper body was trapped inside the machine, my arms pinned awkwardly against the curved metal, my head bent forward into the dark.

And my lower half, I realized with a rush of heat to my face, was left sticking out into the open room. Knees bent, hips raised, my too-short sleep shorts riding up.I knew it must be a very embarrassing posture. Just like...

I twisted, but the more I struggled the tighter the gasket seemed to grip. My breath came fast and shallow inside the enclosed space, the sound of it loud in my ears.

"Mom?" I called, my voice muffled and small against the drum. "Mom, are you back?"

No answer. Just the distant churn of the machines out front.

Then the bell above the front door chimed.

Footsteps. Slow, unhurried, moving across the tile.

"Hello?" a voice called. Warm, low, unmistakably familiar. "Olivia? I came to pick up my order."

My stomach dropped.

I knew that voice. Every girl at college knew that voice. Mr. Bennett. Matthew Bennett, the history teacher with the kind eyes and the easy smile, half of the girls in his third-grade class had a hopeless crush on despite the gray threading through his hair.

And I was stuck here, folded into a washing machine with my rear end on full display.

"Anyone here?" His footsteps drew closer to the back room. "The sign said pickup was ready…"

I clamped my mouth shut. If he found me like this, if he recognized me, I would never be able to look at him again. I would never be able to walk into his classroom, never sit through another lecture without wanting to sink into the floor.

The door to the back room creaked open.

I held my breath and prayed to become invisible.

"Huh." His voice shifted, curious now. "What's this?"

I felt the air move as he stepped closer, and I squeezed my eyes shut in the darkness of the drum.

Please, I thought. Please just walk away.

But he didn't walk away.

"Is this some kind of mannequin?" he murmured, and then I felt it, his hand, warm and solid, landing on my thigh.

My entire body locked up. I bit down hard on my tongue to keep from making a sound.

His palm slid higher, fingers pressing lightly against my skin. "Wait, that can't be right. Mannequins aren't supposed to be warm."

Oh God. Oh God, no.

There was a pause, and I could practically hear him thinking. Then his voice came again, quieter, almost amused. "Maybe someone left behind one of those dolls, the realistic kind."

His hand moved upwards again, fingers trailing upward along the curve of my leg.

Holy shit, I even felt his hand reach into my short sleep shorts!