Laundry Overload

Jimmy walks into the laundromat looking completely lost. He pokes at one machine, frowns at another, scratches his head. Five women clock him immediately—Dees, Lolly, GoGo, Caitlin and Yaya—all doing laundry in skintight workout clothes and cheeky little smiles. They wander over like they’ve spotted fresh meat. “Need help, stranger?” Dee asks, already plucking a T-shirt from the basket in his hands. Jimmy mumbles that he’s never done his own laundry, that mom always handled it. The women coo and close in. Shirts, jeans, socks—all sorted with flirty efficiency while their hands brush his arms, his chest, his ass. Then someone grabs the hem of his shirt and tugs. “Everything’s gotta wash,” Caitlin purrs. Buttons pop. Zippers hiss. In seconds he’s down to his boxer briefs and five pairs of eager eyes eating him alive. GoGo shoves the pile of clothes into the machine while the others press in. Hands slide over Jimmy’s skin, squeeze and tease, soft giggles turning into low moans as they crowd him against the washing machine. He’s spun, stripped, touched, kissed—tongues, fingers, giggles swirling everywhere. The laundromat hums with cycles and now with the wet, hungry sounds of five women making sure Jimmy doesn’t stay lost for long.