DIRTY LAUNDRY

Threesome

When you are young and your whole life moves, it moves. When you're older, your life can seem stuck and static. Poppy was stagnant and knew it. This was a shame at nineteen; at that age life should be dynamic and a buzz of action and new experiences.

As a primary school-aged youngster, the adventure was all there. Poppy moved to a home with the strange name of Rendell Creek Junction. The water part of the name sounded great. Poppy always liked swimming. The creek mainly meandered permanently dry. Rendell Creek was two thousand clicks from the sea. A desert stopover for fuel, food and rest. A family-run roadhouse business with a basic two-star rating. A 'welcome' strategic break in any person's journey where the main north-south highway met the only sealed route east. To the west, a less used, harsh, dusty, corrugated four-wheel drive adventure desert track.

Poppy bubbled 'okay' through the years while her older sister was still home. Her three years away studying at university and having a boyfriend to boot meant the sisters drifted apart. Her parents had only two days ago taken the long drive south for Melanie's graduation and their first break in years.

Poppy indicated she was fine running the small business alone. Besides, there was Dave, retired, who was a general maintenance and fix-anything man. He hung about and lived in a trailer on the roadhouse site. That was till yesterday when he had headed off to help a mate fix a bloody leaking roof. A leak was the last thing you wanted as a rare low wet trough came through the desert, making Rendell Creek look like a stream for the first time in fifteen years.

So Poppy was alone. Alone with herself. Alone in this unexpected muggy, out-of-place sub-tropical rain. No one stopped at the shop or for accommodation, it was so frickin wet.

The rain drummed and lashed incessantly hard on the galvanised roof. Drumming and pelting down non-stop. The water tanks brimmed full for once and soon overflowed.

Poppy, however, had a backlog of cabin washing to do. It would have to be done in the campsite laundry. The only place with dryers. The day approached eight o'clock in the evening before Poppy got the washing in the dryers. She would collect it later. It was time for her dinner.

Poppy heard the microwave beep and knew her meal was ready.

Staring at her was a 'solo frozen diner cheater' in action when the tinkle of the late reception bell reverberated repeatedly.

Damn late arrivals in the bloody rain. Has to be tourists. The roads will be closed in all directions if it keeps pissing down like this for a couple more days.

Poppy realised her pasta and veg dish would end up getting cold:

"Oh well; let's see the grey nomads", she said aloud.

The two guys drenched to the skin outside the locked door looked like limp pricks.

Poppy let them into a drier space where they both pooled puddles on the thinning lino.

"By Saint Patrick, I thought this bloody outback was a hot desert", said one.

Poppy detected the clear Irish accent.

He had a cute chiselled jawline, she thought. He was taller than his mate.

"It is normally," said Poppy, then added, "Do you want a caravan or a cabin?"

She had been left to run a business.

"Core by Saint Anne, we can't afford those, Miss. We have our tent and gear on the back of our bikes," said the slightly shorter one, who had three days of rough facial hair gracing his manly chin.

"Are you going to set the tent up in this downpour? It could rain for hours or days, you know?"

"No choice," said the taller, "So it's fifteen dollars for a tent site."

The rates were on a board behind Poppy's head.

"There you are," he said, placing a tenner and fiver in Poppy's extended hand.

Poppy didn't hesitate: "No look; take a cabin for fifteen; okay; there's no one else on site. It's fine."

"Cor, thanks, Miss," said the one with the emerging beard.

"Look, bring your bikes around the back of this building, and I'll let you garage them," added the young lass.

Once the bikes were in a dry place, the guys headed off.

Poppy returned to her cold dinner and the heavy, incessant rain on the roof. So loud you nearly couldn't think. Let alone sleep. She still needed to get the dude's surnames in the register, but she realised this too late.

....

"Did you check the sweet butt on that 'Colleen' Shamus?" said Patrick, the taller, to his mate as he stripped off his wet jeans.

"Mate, " said Paddy, scratching his stubble, "I didn't get past her hooters; that's a stacked rack, man", as he removed his sodden shirt and t-shirt.

"Anything else to go in the washer? Let's make this load worthwhile; not many two-dollar coin washes around, mate."

"Yeah, here's my jocks, that's it."

So, two male cheapskate travellers sat naked, washing everything they had while reading old magazines. Their kit got the whole wash cycle while the rain continued incessantly tumbling outside.

....

Poppy was in her skimpy pj's when she remembered the bloody washing:' Crap; the dryer.'

She grabbed an umbrella, put on her thongs, and headed to the laundry next to the ablution block.

The path epitomised slippery and puddly. Poppy hurried and went the 'big slide' straight onto her pretty buttocks, which were instantly soaked. Her PJ's were drenched from head to toe and covered in slimy, tacky red earth.

Shit…shit…shit, the summation of her thoughts.

The umbrella spread busted. Prongs poking in all the wrong directions.

….

Shamus and Paddy were now teamed up in the laundry. Patrick tossed the washing to Shamus, standing farther away at the only available dryer. The rest were full of dry sheets; they looked like cabin linen. Best not to remove them, they thought.

Both guys paraded in their birthday suits, focused on wet clothes for the dryer.

Poppy entered the laundry door, only intent on quickly getting her wet PJ's off and drying herself with one of the sheets she was collecting. The lass was quickly naked, full frontal, full dark bush.

Both guys became aware of the reception girl, starkly stripped and holding dirty, dripping mud-red PJ's.

Poppy became aware of the guys, full frontal and both well-hung dudes.

All eyes in the laundry suddenly descended below the waist for a decent lingering perv.

"Fuck," said Poppy.

"Certainly, "said Shamus.

"Here?" said Paddy.

"Fuck it. Yes," said Poppy.

Shamus didn't give a rat about his wet washing. He grabbed the nearest sheets from the closest dryer and spread a lumpy pile on the floor. He kept one for the girl, who introduced herself quickly, as did the guys with their first names. Still, body heat and triple friction dried our Poppy much quicker. She didn't bother with the sheet. Her hands were both full anyway. She had prime Irish meat massaged up very quickly. No handshake introductions here. It was hello cocks.

Paddy was rapidly occupied with her incredible melons, rubbing his face right between them and then getting deliriously happy with a temporary nipple fixation.

Shamus was exploring her cute rear end and its adjacent butt hole. One finger nestled nicely in her warm tight arse. The bitch was murmuring. She liked it rapid and prodding in her bum.

Patrick's face headed south, and his tongue caressed Poppy's cute crimpled cunt lips after parting her fur garden.

Poppy literally popped like the pop in her name. The Irishman's seemingly clairvoyant tongue speedily struck her erect, engorged, exposed clit. The delight rapidly roller-coated through her bliss-filled body, making her heart race, her breath extend deeply, and then fully exhale. Pleasure swayed through her mind in searing, implosive, and explosive self-happiness as trill, spiky, warbly quivers of intense pleasure built. She was ready for an indecent shagging.

Before she could control anything she wanted, though beyond cock now, Poppy didn't actually think or plan; cock sounded right; cock in her now; that was the agenda: cock. Shamus had the country girl half bent over with his pecker ready to probe her exposed willing cavities.

Patrick's dick head occupied her mouth, and Christ, she was good. She sucked deep and teeth-free. Her tongue worked a special treat every now and then as a delightful, pleasurable surprise to his pink engorged glans.

Shamus took in her equally glistening pink expansive revelation resting on its fur carpet between her legs. In its eye-opening natural beauty, her coochie promised immediate pleasure. In touching her lips, they delivered ego delight in two ways. In the promised delivery of direct and continual delight of shared pecker penetration and pussy embracing, it took them both to a promised land; the refuge of a soul, the haven of self really discovered and the guarantee of our human capacity. Or, put crassly, they jointly fucked themselves senseless.

The gradation of the pleasure momentum for Poppy was built in two ways. Here she was doubled cocked. No cock for six months, then it was multiplied just like that in a goddamn instance in their family's fricking laundry. Her head and pussy were in a complete rhythm of body fulfilment. She felt the tenseness in the cock in her mouth. Paddy's cum exploded in her gob and dribbled out. Her mouth spluttered full, but it tasted great. She felt great.

Paddy got out: "Orrgh; fuck". It was a wad release to remember.

Shamus had more control and creamed her over her butt cheeks. She felt the warmth seeping and soaking around and between her legs.

Shamus had that blank, satisfied male look. The basic: 'fuck, that was good.'

The big wet outside was drumming away on the roof as they cleaned up. The dryer was tumbling away with the guy's gear. Poppy and the Irish pair were now folding sheets except for the one demurely wrapped around her body and the folded ones tucked around the guy's loins. There was a lot of dirty laundry still, and the small talk descended into smutty jokes and sexual innuendo.

Poppy thought, 'What the hell' and checked out goddamn cock again; as his sheet unravelled quickly in her hands.

His virile meat hardened like a lightning bolt, and Poppy was on her knees, enjoying his fleshy taste and sucking over his ridge.

Her butt was suddenly raised up and off.

Paddy burrowed into her arsehole with two fingers, the filthy bastard. Poppy worked Shamus' cock with speed and energy. She was excited. She was an anal virgin, but Paddy fixed that immediately.

…..

What followed was a long, wet night. The steady, heavy rain did not help anyone to sleep. Well, three young people weren't intent on sleep as they fucked the night away in Poppy's parents queen sized bed. The last thing on Poppy's mind as the sheets were repeatedly cum stained was washing more dirty laundry.