With no clothes you've got no business and they show you the door

The thought of anyone at all looking into the laundromat and seeing your naked form spread for the world to see makes your breathing speed up. The idea that Jacob might turn around and see you makes you pant and your clit engorge with blood.

'God, what kind of a slut spreads her legs for the world to see?' you wonder, forgetting that there are no hands holding your legs as far apart as they are.

"Damn, she must really get off on showing herself off," one of the boys says, snapping you partially out of your daze.

"No, I need clothes. Please," you beg in a breathy voice.

Paul chuckles, making you gasp - in surprise or pleasure? - as he runs his hand down your front, his palm travelling between your breasts and down the center of your body until his hand presses on the bare patch of skin your pubic hair would be. His fingers pause maddeningly close to your aching clit.

Shame wracks your mind as fight the urge to hump your body upward, to try and close that half-inch of space between his fingers and your clit.

"I think you need something else," he says, and the others chuckles.

A splash of light crosses the window, the sound of a motor surging and then fading, making you twitch.

"No no, I need to go," you gasp. "Please let me go."

"Well, maybe we will," George says with a smirk.

"No loitering," the proprietor says. "No service without shoes either," he adds.

"Yeah, you've got no business being in here now that your stuff is gone," a sandy-haired boy adds.

"Time to show her the door," the proprietor says, dragging you off the counter. With your arms still held behind you there's no way you can fight him off.

As soon as you're upright your eyes lock with those of one of the youths outside smoking. The other smokers have moved over to the window and are staring in at you, held in check by some unknown agreement between them and the laundromat owner.

They move along the plate-glass window toward the door, keeping pace with you and the man pushing you toward the exit, their eyes hungrily fixed on you as if you were a giant cigarette.

"Please. No, please don't. Give me clothes, let me go," you beg until you are in front of the door. The proprietor's hand presses against the bar of the door, and on the other side the pack of smokers wait patiently.