to stick it up her arse. The lights were on, and her arse, which he parted to oblige her, hadn’t looked that inviting.
He’d done it anyway and it seemed to satisfy her. The noises she made excited him and within a few strokes he came.
‘Ooh, it feels like I shit misself,’ she’d said, laughing as he pulled out. She turned over on her back and joked about the spunk running out of her arse on to the sofa.
Later she’d talked about sex until he overcame his disgust and became hard again. This time she sat astridehim and rubbed herself to screaming point. He’d scrubbed himself clean as soon as she’d gone and slept for two hours before getting up to go to town – on time. His balls ached as he walked.
Beauty stuffed the small rucksack she had bought in a camping shop under the table, and sat down next to a black-haired lady with no front teeth. The attendant had looked at her suspiciously when she’d come out of the changing room with the newly-purchased bag bulging with the layers of clothes she’d taken off, but he hadn’t challenged her.
No one appeared to take much notice of her arriving late. Colin was talking, and the clients, fewer in number than the day before, looked tired and bored. Beauty was glad to be there. At least she had somewhere to go.
‘… and we need to co-elate this information and cascade it back up to the Jobcentre so they can interpretate it.’
What the fuck was he on about? Mark closed his eyes and wondered if his other bitch might be pregnant. Titan had been in the kennel with her for three days. She should start showing soon if she was.
‘… so if you’d all like to diarize your Jobsearch dates, that’ll be that, all done and dusted.’
Colin Bushell sat back, satisfied he had got through this part of the morning without the usual whining interruptions.
‘How are we supposed to look for work if we godder come yur every day?’
There were murmurs of support from around the room for the speaker: a pale, middle-aged, tracksuited man in a checked Burberry cap. Colin knew how to deal with this scrounging git of a Welshman.
‘If you’ve been claiming benefits for more than sixmonths, and actively seeking work, which is part of your New Deal agreement, you’re obviously having difficulty finding a job. Hence why you’ve been referred to us by the Jobcentre for training and support.’
He’d have to watch this one. Perhaps send a note to his facilitator. The man might be a troublemaker, try and whip up the others. Colin had seen his notes. Four or five kids, and he hadn’t worked for six years. Well, Colin had him by the balls now. The rules were clear. If they didn’t turn up they’d lose their dole money, housing benefit, council tax benefit and whatever else they were screwing out of him from the taxes he paid.
Colin shuffled his papers to show he was ready to continue with the morning’s programme. He still had to get their CVs done, the Equal Ops quiz and the Learning Styles Initial Assessment and Diagnostic. He’d tell them about their permitted absences later. The scum didn’t deserve twenty days’ sick and holiday over six months. That was more than he got.
‘It’s not that there aren’t any jobs. They just don’t pay enough.’
The room agreed again. A Jamaican man in ironed jeans and a checked shirt pointed to the Welshman and addressed Colin.
‘Dublin’s right. Jobs don’t pay enough in this town, gaffer.’
The black guy who had sat next to Beauty the day before began to laugh.
‘Shut your nose, George. You never worked in your life!’
The forty-five-year-old George Taylor leapt to his feet in indignation and cursed his accuser in a stream of patois and teeth-kissing,
ya’ras
,
blood-clart
and
bumba-clart
. When he had finished he pulled a Guinness bar towel from his back pocket, wiped his brow and satdown. But the two men were friends and he wasn’t angry. And it was true, he had never worked.
Beauty stopped listening and picked at
He’d done it anyway and it seemed to satisfy her. The noises she made excited him and within a few strokes he came.
‘Ooh, it feels like I shit misself,’ she’d said, laughing as he pulled out. She turned over on her back and joked about the spunk running out of her arse on to the sofa.
Later she’d talked about sex until he overcame his disgust and became hard again. This time she sat astridehim and rubbed herself to screaming point. He’d scrubbed himself clean as soon as she’d gone and slept for two hours before getting up to go to town – on time. His balls ached as he walked.
Beauty stuffed the small rucksack she had bought in a camping shop under the table, and sat down next to a black-haired lady with no front teeth. The attendant had looked at her suspiciously when she’d come out of the changing room with the newly-purchased bag bulging with the layers of clothes she’d taken off, but he hadn’t challenged her.
No one appeared to take much notice of her arriving late. Colin was talking, and the clients, fewer in number than the day before, looked tired and bored. Beauty was glad to be there. At least she had somewhere to go.
‘… and we need to co-elate this information and cascade it back up to the Jobcentre so they can interpretate it.’
What the fuck was he on about? Mark closed his eyes and wondered if his other bitch might be pregnant. Titan had been in the kennel with her for three days. She should start showing soon if she was.
‘… so if you’d all like to diarize your Jobsearch dates, that’ll be that, all done and dusted.’
Colin Bushell sat back, satisfied he had got through this part of the morning without the usual whining interruptions.
‘How are we supposed to look for work if we godder come yur every day?’
There were murmurs of support from around the room for the speaker: a pale, middle-aged, tracksuited man in a checked Burberry cap. Colin knew how to deal with this scrounging git of a Welshman.
‘If you’ve been claiming benefits for more than sixmonths, and actively seeking work, which is part of your New Deal agreement, you’re obviously having difficulty finding a job. Hence why you’ve been referred to us by the Jobcentre for training and support.’
He’d have to watch this one. Perhaps send a note to his facilitator. The man might be a troublemaker, try and whip up the others. Colin had seen his notes. Four or five kids, and he hadn’t worked for six years. Well, Colin had him by the balls now. The rules were clear. If they didn’t turn up they’d lose their dole money, housing benefit, council tax benefit and whatever else they were screwing out of him from the taxes he paid.
Colin shuffled his papers to show he was ready to continue with the morning’s programme. He still had to get their CVs done, the Equal Ops quiz and the Learning Styles Initial Assessment and Diagnostic. He’d tell them about their permitted absences later. The scum didn’t deserve twenty days’ sick and holiday over six months. That was more than he got.
‘It’s not that there aren’t any jobs. They just don’t pay enough.’
The room agreed again. A Jamaican man in ironed jeans and a checked shirt pointed to the Welshman and addressed Colin.
‘Dublin’s right. Jobs don’t pay enough in this town, gaffer.’
The black guy who had sat next to Beauty the day before began to laugh.
‘Shut your nose, George. You never worked in your life!’
The forty-five-year-old George Taylor leapt to his feet in indignation and cursed his accuser in a stream of patois and teeth-kissing,
ya’ras
,
blood-clart
and
bumba-clart
. When he had finished he pulled a Guinness bar towel from his back pocket, wiped his brow and satdown. But the two men were friends and he wasn’t angry. And it was true, he had never worked.
Beauty stopped listening and picked at
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