Dole Queue Desire

The Jobcentre was purgatory with fluorescent lighting. Rows of plastic chairs, posters about "getting back to work," and a digital queue system that moved slower than a hungover sloth.

I was number seventy-three. The screen said they were serving forty-two.

Two hours minimum. Brilliant.

I slumped into a chair, prepared to waste my morning, when she sat down next to me.

"Seventy-four," she said, flashing her ticket. "Twins, yeah?"

I looked at her properly. Early thirties, maybe. Dark hair with burgundy highlights, winged eyeliner that could kill, and curves packed into skinny jeans and an oversized hoodie that somehow made everything more obvious.

"Guess so. You here for the usual?"

"Work capability assessment bollocks. You?"

"Signing on. Exciting times."

She snorted. "Tell me about it. I'm Gemma, by the way."

"Sean."

"Nice to meet you, Sean. We've got at least two hours to become best mates."

We did. Sort of. Talked through the misery of the queue—her story (redundancy, single mum, fighting the system), my story (restructuring, no dependents, also fighting the system). By the time we'd been there an hour, we were sharing a bag of crisps and trading dark jokes about universal credit.

"Honestly," she said, "this place makes me want to scream. Or drink. Or both."

"There's a pub across the road. Could always step out."

"And lose our place in the queue? Not a chance." She leaned closer. "But I know somewhere we could blow off steam without leaving the building."

"Where?"

"Toilet's round the back. The disabled one. Big, lockable, private." She raised an eyebrow. "If you're interested."

I should not have been interested. We were in a government building. There were security guards. This was insane.

"I'm interested."

The disabled toilet was surprisingly clean, which somehow made what we were about to do feel more legitimate. Gemma locked the door, turned to me, and smiled.

"Right then. Let's make this waiting time worthwhile."

She kissed me—direct, hungry—while her hands worked at my belt. I responded in kind, pulling down her jeans to reveal a burgundy thong that matched her hair highlights.

"Coordination," I noted.

"Always." She kicked off her jeans entirely, hopped up onto the sink. "Get over here."

I dropped to my knees and buried my face between her thighs. She grabbed my hair, gasped, and ground against my mouth.

"Fuck—yes—been needing this all week—"

She tasted of everything forbidden, and I worked her like we weren't in a Jobcentre toilet with security cameras outside. Her moans echoed off the tiles, getting louder as she got closer.

"Gonna—shit—don't stop—"

She came with a shudder and a sound that was definitely too loud, but neither of us cared. Before she'd recovered, she was pulling me up.

"Inside. Now. Got a condom?"

"Yeah."

"Quick then. Our numbers might be soon."

I rolled it on, positioned myself, pushed in. We both groaned—her tight, me desperate, the situation completely mental.

"Fucking hell—yes—"

I fucked her against the sink, the mirror shaking, the paper towel dispenser rattling. She wrapped her legs around me, her hoodie riding up to reveal the soft curve of her belly.

"Harder—we haven't got long—"

I gave her harder. She bit her lip, then my shoulder, muffling the sounds she couldn't contain.

"Close again—touch me—"

I found her clit, rubbed fast, felt her tighten around me.

"Cumming—fuck—"

She came with a shudder that nearly took us both to the floor. The sight and feel pushed me over—I came hard, buried deep, gripping the sink for support.

We stood there, connected, panting.

A tinny voice drifted from the waiting room: "Number seventy-two to window four."

"Shit." Gemma was already pulling herself together. "One more."

We cleaned up in record time, checked ourselves in the mirror, and slipped back to the waiting room separately. No one seemed to notice.

"Number seventy-three to window seven."

That was me. I looked at Gemma, who gave me a little wave.

"Don't be a stranger," she mouthed. "Facebook me."

I nodded, collected my stuff, and walked to window seven feeling considerably better about the day.

My appointment was the usual bollocks. But at the end, the adviser asked if there was anything else.

"Actually, yeah. My email. Changed it recently." I gave them a new one—one that Gemma could contact me on.

She did. That night.

That was the most productive Jobcentre visit I've ever had.

Same. Next signing on day?

Wouldn't miss it.

Unemployment had never been so enjoyable.