I'm a poor student with a part-time delivery job.
I'm physically weak and frail, so my main task is putting items in mailboxes.
Deliveries to apartment complexes are easy when it's just mailboxes, but it gets tough when I have to deliver to individual door slots.
One day, I was assigned to deliver to each floor's door slots.
If the building had an elevator, I could start from the top floor and work my way down. However, this five-story complex only has stairs.
I always start on the first floor and work my way up, delivering in order.
Just as I finished the first-floor deliveries and was about to head up the stairs to the second floor... I had noticed the sound of water splashing and sloshing from the floor above, even while delivering on the first floor.
I thought maybe maintenance was cleaning the floors, so I didn't pay much attention to it. But when I stepped out into the second-floor hallway, I saw a woman squatting a few doors down in front of a large tub, scrubbing her laundry.
Wait—looking closer, she wasn't an old lady; she was a fairly young woman.
She was wearing a light blue, sleeveless dress with her hair tied back.
What she was scrubbing so vigorously in the tub were probably baby diapers.
It was a rare sight these days, and I felt like I was getting a glimpse of how tough the wives living in this complex were.
Pretending not to notice, I continued delivering mail to the mailboxes, starting with the ones closest to me.
When I reached the woman's door, she stopped washing, said, "Good work," straightened her back while still squatting, and silently signaled the unwritten rule, "Walk behind me!"
"Uh, sorry," I apologized timidly as I passed behind her, taking the opportunity to observe her from behind.
The shoulder straps of her dress strained under the weight of her voluptuous chest. She looked like a mother nursing an infant.
The hem of her skirt was bunched up like a ball between her thighs, hitched up to her knees.
Sweat poured from her forehead, soaking her completely, dress and all.
Was it from the wash water or her own streaming sweat? Probably both.
Inside the tub were a washboard and a white cloth covered in suds.
I continued my deliveries and reached the end of the hallway. Instead of taking the stairs right there, I started walking back down the hallway.
I wanted to see the laundry woman again up close.
She was still scrubbing away.
Seeing her from the opposite direction, I noticed that her right thigh was quite exposed.
She noticed me approaching, stopped scrubbing, straightened her back, and waited for me to pass her.
This time, she said nothing.
For a moment, she looked down to check if her hitched-up dress was showing anything it shouldn't.
"Excuse me," I said as I passed behind her, the only one apologizing this time.
Of course, I took another good, long look from behind.
What a vulnerable position: squatting with her legs wide apart while wearing a skirt and with both hands occupied in the water.
As I passed, I fantasized about reaching out and grabbing her crotch.
The woman was drenched, as if someone had poured water over her head—a mix of sweat and wash water.
I could tell that her panties were probably soaked too.
After making the deliveries up to the fifth floor and coming back down the stairs, the laundry woman was still washing.
Hiding behind the stairwell wall, I peeked and saw that her skirt was hitched up even further, exposing about half of her left thigh.
She was almost squatting over a Japanese-style toilet.
The pile of wrung-out white cloths next to the tub had grown, forming a small mountain.
When I saw the woman squatting there, washing, I had a strong urge to see her from the front.
When I got to the first floor, I parked my delivery bicycle right underneath her and stood on the saddle to peek through the gap in the windbreak wall.
There was a drain in just the right spot with a downpipe running up the attached pillar.
She was probably washing there so that she could dispose of the water directly into the hallway drain.
I leaned my bike against the pillar, used it for support to climb onto the bike, and wobbled as I stood up on the saddle.
Then, I cautiously raised my head slightly to the side of her position and peered at the woman through the gap in the wall.
The tub and bucket were right in front of me, and through the gap between them, I could see her kneecaps.
Her hitched-up skirt was bunched around her thighs like a wrung-out wet towel.
Thanks to her wide stance, I could clearly see her pure white thighs extending inward from her knees.
With each vigorous scrubbing motion of her arms in the tub, her knees splayed widely to the left and right, offering glimpses deeper into her skirt.
What I saw where her thighs met was a bundle of slightly soiled cloth.
Her originally pure white panties, thoroughly drenched in wash water and pulled up sharply into her bottom due to her intense movements, looked slightly grubby.
At first, I thought she might be wearing a fundoshi loincloth.
After all, if she's washing diapers in a tub, wouldn't it be strange for her not to wear a fundoshi?
Upon further reflection, however, I realized that it wasn't that she was dirty. Rather, the wet fabric of her panties revealed her pubic hair, making the area appear darker.
It wouldn't be wrong to say there might have been a little of that kind of dirt, too.
Her panties were riding up, tossed about by her fierce movements, and beginning to dig into not just her buttocks, but the cleft of her pussy as well.
As she moved her hands mechanically, the woman's face still held a touch of youthfulness, that of a young wife around twenty years old.
Occasionally wiping the sweat from her brow, undeterred by the flying splashes, she devoted herself single-mindedly to her handwashing.
Behind her, I could almost see the looming figure of a demon-like mother-in-law.
Lately, I've somehow felt a strange sense of pride for peeping at the wedgie of such a devoted, pure, and innocent young wife.
Oh dear!
Suddenly, an old woman's voice came from behind me, and I almost fell off the bicycle.
I looked toward the voice and saw an elderly woman who lived on the first floor approaching very closely with her walker.
"Ah! Um... I'm just checking if the hallway light bulb is burnt out..."
"Oh, thank you for your hard work."
I swiftly hopped down from the bike, straddled it, and sped away as if fleeing.
On days when I see the laundry lady, delivering to the door slots becomes a little more enjoyable. Still, I kind of want something more to happen next. Maybe I should try touching various places on her defenseless backside.