The Bathroom


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


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 bar side 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


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 like

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 gray 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 gray slacks over his naked rump, no clean shorts. Slid his

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 washer mat,

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


George looked.

A tousled haired, undersized, gamin. Blonde curls spraying from her head,

tight Gloria Vanderbilt 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


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


"They aren'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 matches?"

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


"It's just something for men."

"Couldn'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

washer mat 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 molding 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


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

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 grapefruit.

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

Of course he wanted to do it. , 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 silky 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 cock.

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 gray slacks, while the cobra hood pressed against the confining

fabric, bulging out in a horizontal tent, and leaking the sperm

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 you."

"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'rye 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


His hand slipped faster and faster, oozing liquid beginning to run over the

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 sweet 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 tentative 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 sperm 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 centered at the crack, peering in nearsightedly, making out his fist

curled around his pounding prick, hand clutching as the liquid spurted in

strings from the end of his cock to splatter in the cement floor.

"You bastard, you're jacking off in there, aren'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 possessed me to jack off like that?" Silently.

George's mind backed up, rear bumper 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



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


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

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 screwing.

Dressed again, the washer mat empty, George 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.

?1997, 1998 Standard Internet Corp.

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