28. Cum dancing.

On the last day before we broke up for Christmas, we’d all have sneaky drink in the morning, a fuddle.
Then at half past one it was off to the pub.
It was the only time in the year that the office staff and the factory workers mixed.
Something usually happened.
In repro, you’re neither office staff nor factory worker.
More like some crap hybrid.
Scruffy clothes and shiny hands.
Everybody would still talk to you, but in terms of ‘us’ and ‘them’, we were ‘them’ to both camps.
A bit like U.N. observers.
We stood at the bar of the pub, observing.
Cleopatra was a suit.
She was no stunner, but she thought she was.
Blokes gave her attention at work because she was one of the only half decent women there.
In other words, she was under fifteen stone and she wasn’t a lesbian.
For a factory, that’s a stunner.
She had curly hair that she like to flick about, a pretty good figure, and big green eyes.
She obviously thought her eyes were her best feature, because she caked her eyelashes in mascara, and batted them at anyone who might be interested.
They ended up looking like two spiders that had been dipped in Hammerite and were having an epileptic fit.
On this particular Christmas she thought it would be fun to flirt with some of the shop floor lads.
They bought her drinks.
She liked that.
The spiders spasmed.
They bought her more drinks.
God help anyone with arachnophobia.
Flint was chatting her up.
He was fifty, a rogue.
He had a glint in his eye and a ‘tash on his lip.
He must have had a dozen kids to various different women.
Cleopatra was twenty five, and thought she knew it all.
She didn’t.
Not by a long shot.
“Bloody Hell, Lucifer,” murmured Genuflect. “Have you seen Flint? He’s well in with Cleopatra!”
“No wonder. Have you seen how many vodkas she’s had? It’s my round, Genuflect. Another pint of Moosehead?”
“Please. She wants to be careful, you know. All the gaffers can see her. They don’t like that sort of thing.”
I got the beers.
I tried to give Genuflect his pint, but he didn’t notice.
He was looking at Cleopatra.
Everyone in the pub was looking at Cleopatra.
Flint had his back to the wall.
Cleopatra had her arse pressed against his groin.
She had her face turned to Flint, and they were kissing, really going for it.
There was more tongue than Morrison’s meat counter.
Flint had his hand up her blouse, and you could see him tweaking her nipples.
His other hand was down her skirt.
“Bloody Hell,” repeated Genuflect, his jaw slack.
I looked around the pub.
There must have ben fifty people watching, all with there mouths open.
Flint started strumming away down Cleopatra’s skirt, and she began to moan.
His hand was going like George Formby’s, only instead of a ukulele, he was playing a tart.
Faster and faster went his hand, then Cleopatra started to shudder.
“I don’t fucking believe it…” murmured Genuflect.
She came.
Buttons popped off her blouse, her legs trembled and danced like a washing machine on a spin cycle and the spiders on her face were having a gran mal seizure. She howled like Scooby Doo with his tail caught in the door of the Mystery Machine, and Flint had to stifle her cries with his tongue.
When she had finished, the pub exploded into applause and cheering.
She straightened her skirt, finished her drink, and with a small smile on her face, staggered to the ladies.
On the last day before we broke up for Christmas, we’d all have sneaky drink in the morning then go to the pub.
It was the only time in the year that the office staff and the factory workers mixed.
Something always happened.

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One Response to 28. Cum dancing.

  1. Pingback: Reprographics... - Page 7 - London Fixed-gear and Single-speed

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