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Archive-name: Solo/laundry1.txt


Archive-title: Laundomat Encounter - 1

  George didn't look like a young Paul Newman, or even like

Robert Redford. George just looked like George.

  Not bad looking, but not good looking either. His face was

not one to turn a girl's head from across the room. But then

again, it was a nice face. Nothing extraordinary, but at least

it didn't stop clocks.

  George was no Rudolph Valentino either. His love life sucked.

Not that he didn't try, he did. He tried all the time. But his

success with the female gender usually approached zero.

  His body was fair, tending to put on an extra pound, but not

to the point of being chubby, yet.

  George's problem was meeting the fair sex.

  He'd tried everything, and nothing seemed to work for him.

Everyone else he knew was screwing left and right, and George's

only fucking was his handy right hand. Not that he minded

jacking off, as a matter of fact, he loved it, was good at it,

practiced at least twice a day, and built some very good

fantasy's while pulling on his cock. But it was still not near

as good as a girl.

  George was an automotive sales clerk at a national parts

chain, and didn't meet any ladies where he worked, not counting

his boss's wife, the bookkeeper, who's name was Thelma and

weighed at least 350 pounds. Thelma had rolls of fat standing

on top of rolls of fat and also had two hairs growing from a

mole at the side of her jaw that wiggled when she talked.

  Thelma liked George, and liked to bend over showing him the

cleavage between her pillow sized breasts, but George wasn't

interested in fucking her. Too dangerous with her husband the

boss, and too much fat.

  George spent his time in the shopping mall book stores,

looking at the shelves of the self-improvement books, buying

those that caught his fancy, hoping to find the secret of

meeting and fucking girls.

  Most of the books were a waste of his money and time, but

George had a lot of time.

  The books said that if you wanted to meet girls that were

interested in doing what you wanted to do, then go to the

places that shared a mutual interest. George was interested in

fucking, and he didn't know where to go to find the girls that

were also interested in fucking, too.

  The bars and cocktail lounges made George feel very ill at

ease. Everyone there seemed to have more than a normal mouthful

of teeth, and they laughed and smiled at nothing and every

thing. Everyone else seemed very confident that they belonged

in the lounges, and George was well aware that he didn't


  George was also shy. No small talk to speak of, unable to kid

his way through a conversation with a new lady, his bright

remarks just sounded silly when he finally opened his mouth.

His female barside companion would loose interest and turn to

talk to the football star looking fellow on her other side, and

George would watch them leave the lounge arm in arm.

  George knew they were off to a rousing sexual encounter,

while he sucked on his scotch and water, hating the taste,

feeling it lay there in his belly, fumes rising. The worst part

was the going home alone, drunk, room spinning until he put one

foot from the bed to the floor to stop the spin.

  George went to concerts, football games, the dog races, horse

races, flea markets, and any place else that people gathered,

to meet that special someone that would take him home and fuck

his brains out.

  George didn't want a relationship, George wanted to fuck.

In a relationship, George would have to take his girlfriend out

sometimes, and buy her presents on her birthday, and remember

the anniversary of when they met and all that crap, and all he

really wanted to do was fuck.

  He even stooped so low as to ask Thelma if she knew a nice

girl he could meet.

  Thelma said he didn't need a nice girl, he needed a girl to

screw, and the hairs wiggled when she laughed at him, deep

shadows between the huge breasts shaking with her laughter.

Thelma was a bawdy bitch.

  George hated the weekends, Sunday being the worst. Except for

the fat paper, he had nothing to do on Sunday, and worst of

all, nobody to do it with.

  Saturday night late, almost Sunday morning, George was bored

with the TV, feeling cabin fever setting in.

 Saturday night was shit night for TV. Nothing but old movies,

seen many times, and the comedy's with canned laughter, and

George didn't feel lke laughing, he felt like screwing. He

wanted his dick deep into some warm hairy snatch, wet up to his

balls, his face pressed deeply into a pair of firm breasts,

fucking his brains out.

  Moving from the shower, drops splattering the bathroom floor,

hunting for a clean towel, then into the bedroom closet to find

a clean shirt.

  Of the three hanging on the closet bar, all worn before,

George sniffed at the armpits. Sour, old perspiration odors.

  "Jesus, that takes the cake," George muttered, "Before I can

find something to fuck, I've got to wash clothes."

  Not that George had ever found anything to fuck when he went

out looking for pussy.  On the contrary. The only fuck George

had ever had in his life, was paid for. A prostitute that had

propositioned George in a bar, and had complained bitterly

while he was fucking her that he was taking up all of her

time, and wasn't he done yet because she had other customers.

  He had never had a girlfriend, unless you counted Liz, who

in the seventh grade asked George to go steady. It had lasted

three weeks, and then Liz asked some body else to go steady.

  Digging through the overfilled hamper, George knew every last

piece of clothing, except his grey slacks needed washing.

  Filling a plastic garbage sack with the soiled clothing,

picking up the old socks scattered around the bed, clutching

the garbage bag in one hand, George wandered through his

apartment gathering shirts from the living room, shorts from

the dining room, and dish towels from the kitchen, stuffing the

garbage bag full.

  House keeping wasn't really George's thing. Hell, nobody ever

came over to see him anyway, so why keep the place neat?

  He pulled the grey slacks over his naked rump, no clean

shorts. Slid his sockless feet into his leather jogging shoes.

  Pulled his only clean tee shirt (the one with Mickey Mouse

holding up one hand, purchased at the flea market, and one size

too big for him) over his shoulders and head, George filled his

pockets with change, a comb, car keys, wallet, and reaching

into the drawer, added a pack of rubbers, just in case, to his

shirt pocket.

  George was on his fifth pack of rubbers, had never used any,

but wore out the packages carrying them around, until the

contents became gummy in the Miami heat.

  George glanced at his watch as he pulled into the lot by the

washermat, calculating time. A half hour if he used three

washers to clean his clothes, another half hour to forty five

minutes to dry. It would be after two a.m. when he finished.

   George fed dollar bills into the changer, quarters into the

soap machine, and quarters into the washers, stuffing his

clothes into the three white machines carelessly.

  "You really ought to wash the white's in one machine and the

dark's in another."

  George looked.

  A tousled haired, undersized, gamin. Blonde curls spraying

from her head, tight Gloria Vanderbuilt jeans and a lumber jack

plaid shirt smiling with her mouth but eyes frowning, standing

with one hand casually on her hip, was inspecting the contents

of his washers.

  "You work here?"

  "No, but I wash here when my washer at home is on the blink,

and it is tonight, and your clothes won't come clean if you mix

the dark's and the white's."

  She didn't look like she had any tits at all, but then again,

with that lumber jack shirt that was way too big for her slight

body, it was hard to tell. But, her face was pretty.

  George resigned himself to pulling his clothing from the

machines and piling up whites and darks in two piles, and the

ones he wasn't too sure about in the third pile.

  "If you're going to wash that shirt, you'd better take the

matches out of your top pocket," indicating with feminine

pointed finger tip, the packet of rubbbers.

  "They arn't matches, I don't smoke."

  Her head cocked, "They look like matches, the pack is the

same size as matches, whatever could it be if it's not


  George's adam's apple moved, wondering if she knew what was

inside the packet.

  "It's just something for men."

  "Could't it also be something for women too, with lubricated

tips?" She giggled, flirting with him and then moved away.

  George watched her body sway, ass moving fluidly as she

walked across the washermat to another washing machine,

wondering if she really had guessed the packet's contents.

  She bent over, stiff backed, across the tiled floor, putting

her clothes into the front loading washer, jeans moulding to

her trim ass. Almost heart shaped, an upside down heart, her

ass waved at him across the room. George's cock jumped inside

his loose slacks. Raising like a cobra seeking a victim, head

flaring like a cobra hood, throbbing in his slacks, demanding

to be let loose.

  George had visions of standing behind her, sliding his prick

into the sweet wet cavern, holding on to those slim rounded

hips as he slipped his pounding prick up her cunt.

  He turned away, fantasy building, his cock leaping to his

heart beat, almost feeling her softness surrounding his prick.

Sorting clothes aimlessly while he visioned the sweaty feel of

her buttocks pressed to his groin, his hands cupping her ass

while he plunged and dug his hefty cock between the clefted

cheeks of her ass.

  "You want to put yours in with mine?"

  George's head whipped back. Visions of her soft voice asking

him to slip his prick up inside her soft snatch.


  "I said, do you want to put your clothes in with mine? I

have a light load here, do you have a heavy load?"

  George's mind spun, his lips tightened. His mind wanting to

tell her just how heavy his load was, and that it was any

heavier, his balls would be hanging to his knees, the size of


  "Well, do you want to do it, or not?"

  Of course he wanted to do it. Gawd, how he wanted to do it.

His cock thudded inside his slacks, seeking freedom.

  Head nodded weakly as she pulled a small batch of very female

lingerie to pile it on top of the machine.  Lace around the leg

bands, wisps of material that wouldn't hide anything. Panties

sprawled over the antiseptic white top of the washer.

  "We'll put our things together, and they'll be done at the

same time."

  George's eyes devoured the soft pile of panties, brassiere's,

and other very female silky, wispy scraps of clothing that had

hidden her very secret places.  A soft curly hair, light brown,

almost blonde, clung to the crotch band of one pair of panties,

woven into the sliky fabric like some perverse weaver had spent

a pleasant moment sliding the curly spring to engage the warp

and woof of the silkworm's product.

  His initial thoughts of no tits, changed. Her tits were very

obviously there, and the still rounded brassiere's pouches of

lust lying next to his shorts, implied the fullness.

  She flipped open the top of the washer as George gathered his

shorts with her lingerie.

  Her head turned away, and George moved his head to sniff the

fragrance of her panties, heady aroma of healthy female. His

cock lurched and George felt the beginnings of a juicy flow of

lubrication juice slipping from the hole in his flare headed


  Dumping the lingerie into the washer, George watched her

bending to add the soap, her lumber jack shirt splitting down

the front, swelling breasts and dark cleft between almost

exposed at the angle his eyes used, even standing on tip toes

to peer further down the secret opening, glimpsing, or thinking

he was glimpsing the beginning of a soft pink nipple until she

closed the gap by straightening up.

  George fed his quarters to the machine, which burped, and

ground into motion. Thumping away in sexual rhythm, mixing

George's boxer shorts with the wispy lingerie.

  "We didn't introduce ourselves, I'm Linda."


  George felt her soft palm snuggle into his as she shook his

hand briefly, the contact bringing his cobra into spitting more

venom on the inside of George's grey slacks, while the cobra

hood pressed against the confining fabric, bulging out in a

horizontal tent, and incidently leaking the spermy liquid

oozing through his trousers in a spreading circular stain.

  "Anything else to wash?" Her eyes noting the tent.

  "I can't wash these, they're all I have on."

  "Nothing under?" her eyes moving to the front of his

trousers, noting the spreading stain and the material moving

with thudding heartbeats beneath the thin fabric.


  "I don't suppose you'd like to go in the restroom and take

them off, and I could wash them for you?" 

  "I'd have to stay there until they were dry."

  "You could go into a stall, and I could come in and talk to


  "I don't think so."

  "Now look here, you have a stain on your pants, and they need

washing, and you need somebody to take care of you, now go on

in there and take off your pants like a good boy."

  Inside the stall, George removed his pants, standing in his

shoes and shirt, feeling foolish as he handed his trousers over

the top to Linda.

  Moments later, sitting on the stool, George heard the door

open again and Linda's voice.

  "They're in the washer with my undies."


  George could see Linda through the crack by the latch, his

cock standing from his lap, straining to get at the girl.

Moving his head, George could see her slim figure moving, past

the narrow crack in the door jamb as she began talking about

her washer at home breaking down.

  His fantasy started building. Linda, overheated with lust,

desiring his body, wanting to jump on his bones, removing her

lumberjack shirt, breasts standing and bobbling on her chest,

nipples puckered at attention.

  Linda tugging and pulling at the tight jeans, drawing them

over the curves of her hips to bare the thatch of pussy hair

between her legs. His hand curled around his cock, slowly

masturbating as his eyes watched her, hearing only patches of

her voice as his fantasy of fucking her grew.

  "... thing went out again, and the repairman can't come out and fix it until........"

  His hand slipped faster and faster, oozing liquid beginning

to run over the clefted glans and make his fingers slippery.

He tuned out her voice, fantasy over reality, imagining the

feeling of running his fingers over the full curve of her

thigh, sliding into that sweel little honey pocket of her cunt.

  "... had to come here or else I wouldn't have any clean

panties for work Monday, and I have ....."

  The feeling of intense pleasure growing.

  ".. are you doing in there? You're breathing funny!"

  George stopped stroking, fantasy fading quickly.

  "Just listening to you talk, was all."

  "It didn't sound like it."

  "Well, I was."

  A couple of tenative strokes, and then back to a steady

movement up and down the length of his hard prick, jacking off

and listening to her voice, the fantasy building again, trying

to control his rasping breath.

  "... said that I ought to go out more, but it seems that

everybody that I meet is either ......."

  George's hand moved to slide the slippery oozing lubricating

juice to coat the entire head of his dong, so that his fingers

could slip over the swelling knob even faster.

  "I wonder what she'd do if I opened the door and invited her

in?" Fantasy at white hot energy level, warp eight.

  His balls swelled, George feeling the hot sperm shooting up

the narrow channel, as he leaned back harder against the raised

top lid of the toilet, his feet braced on the floor, body

stiffening as he readied his cock in one hand to shoot his hot

spermy contents.

  Freezing, seeing Linda's face pressed to the crack in the

door, peering in with one eye as his prick spurted hot silver

liquid in pulsing rhythm to his still milking movements.

  Her eye centerd at the crack, peering in neersightedly,

making out his fist curled around his pounding prick, hand

clutching as the liquid spurted in ropy strings from the end

of his cock to splatter in the cement floor.

  "You bastard, you're jacking off in there, arn't you?"

  "Well, just a little bit. You made me horny."

  "I was going to take you home with me and screw you, and you

bastard, you jacked off instead. You'd rather jack off than

fuck me?"

  George heard the bathroom door slam, sitting naked on the

pot, feeling very foolish, waiting.

  Unrolling six sheets of paper, George wiped the end of his

wet prick, annoyed when the paper stuck to his cock, cementing

the coarse cheap paper to the soft skin of his prick with the

sticky residue of his sperm.

  "Whatever possesed me to jack off like that?"  Silently.

  George's mind backed up, rear bumber lights flashing,

reviewing his action in the john, pumping his prick to orgasm

while Linda stood outside, talking. Thinking about what it

would be like to fuck her, instead of trying to fuck her.


 And she'd said she was going to take him home and fuck him.

  The bathroom door flew open with a bang.

  "Your goddamn clothes are in the dryer, here's your pants,

thanks for a nice evening."

  Anger and frustration in her voice as the door slammed again,

his grey trousers sailing over the top of the door, falling on

George's head, draping foolishly, still warm from the dryer,

but damp at the belt line.

  He didn't know what to say, sitting silent and miserable.

  He could almost hear her telling her girlfriends at work the

story of this guy jerking off in the toilet, and hearing them

laugh. Visualizing several pretty girls gathered around Linda,

giggling at the antics of a clod jerking off instead of


  Dressed again, the washermat empty, Gerorge gathered his

clean, dry, warm laundry, filling the crumpled garbage bag,

noting Linda's clothes, and Linda had both disappeared.

  Driving back to the apartment, his dick itched, irritated by

the still clinging toilet paper.


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