The storm takes the power. The laundry overflows. Three soaked plumbers arrive, strip in the dark, and drag Maya under the pounding shower. Steam, slick skin, water hammering tile. Marcus worships her cunt, Justin fills her, Clyde steadies her and feeds her more. By the time the storm passes, she is left dripping, emptied, and overflowing.
Let them fit you… Read them all.
The storm hit harder than the forecast promised. Rain hammered the roof, thunder cracked so close the walls shook, and the power snapped out just as water began to seep across the laundry tiles.
Maya stood ankle deep, staring at the washing machine as if her glare might stop the flood. The air was humid, sticky, and the sound of the drip had become a steady rush. Her phone trembled in her hand as she dialled the number she swore she’d never use again.
Justin. Clyde. Marcus. For all your plumbing needs.
They arrived faster than she expected, the van’s headlights cutting through the sheets of rain. When the door swung open, all three piled out already soaked through. Their hi-vis clung to their bodies, plastered to skin and muscle, boots splashing as they sprinted for cover.
Maya flustered, rushing to the door, thunder rolling overhead. “Come in, quick—”
Justin brushed past first, water dripping from his hair, his grin sharp even in the dim torchlight. “Flooded laundry, yeah?” His eyes skimmed her wet tank top, the cling of fabric across her chest, and lingered.
Clyde followed, broader, drenched, jacket heavy with water. He peeled it off and hung it on the banister without a word, steam already rising from his body in the warm house. His gaze flicked down at the puddle spreading across the tiles and then up at her face, steady and calm.
Marcus came last, toolbox in one hand, torch in the other. He clicked the beam on, cutting a sharp circle of light through the darkness. His voice was softer, coaxing. “Show us the water, love.”
She led them to the laundry. The floor was worse now, water creeping toward the hall. Justin splashed straight through it, crouching low to check the base of the washer. Marcus swung the torch over his shoulder, the beam catching the sheen of wet fabric stretched over Justin’s back.
Clyde scanned the room, then unzipped his soaked shirt. The fabric peeled from his chest, leaving his torso bare, muscles slick, veins standing out in the light. He wrung the shirt once, water pouring to the floor, then tossed it aside.
Maya’s breath caught. She tried to hide it, fumbling for towels in the cupboard. “I—I can grab something to dry you off.”
Justin looked up from the water, his grin wicked. “Better idea. Point us to the shower.”
Thunder boomed. The drip kept time.
The torchlight caught the sheen of water sliding down Justin’s chest as he stood, dripping, shirt plastered to his ribs. He tugged it over his head in one rough pull, tossing it into the growing puddle. His tattoos glistened dark, rainwater tracing the lines across his arms.
Maya froze with the towel still in her hands. She had meant to be helpful, but now the cloth felt ridiculous, small, like a scrap compared to the heat of three soaked men filling her laundry.
Marcus leaned the torch against the counter, freeing his hands. He pulled his hair back, tying it quick, water dripping down his neck in slow trails. His eyes lingered on her, softer than Justin’s but just as heavy. “You’re soaked too, love,” he said. “Let us fix that.”
Clyde peeled his jacket away, the fabric sticking, then dropped it with a wet slap on the tiles. His chest rose slow, water running down over hard muscle, catching in the torchlight. He looked at her without a word, his silence pressing harder than Justin’s grin.
Maya’s breath grew shallow. Her tank top clung to her breasts, nipples sharp under the wet fabric, her shorts already plastered tight to her thighs from wading through the water. She opened her mouth, fumbling. “The shower’s upstairs. I can—”
Justin cut her off with a smirk, stepping closer. “No need to be shy. We’ll all fit.”
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