The Internship

She’d been warned when she signed on for the internship. Her classes had warned her away with unfathomable looks and cryptic words, but she’d persisted, knowing that the recommendations she’d receive at the end of the summer would “make” her career for the next five years. After an extended set of interviews with the recruiter, as well as lengthy and she thought, rather intrusive, questionnaires, she’d sat before the Director for a final conversation prior to signing the agreement that would, in the Director’s words, “bind her in service for the summer.”

An odd choice of words, that.

Ms. Harwood’s mouth was pinched in a rather thin line. She was an older woman, slender and strict, her tone brooking absolutely no nonsense.

“Our clients have rather exotic tastes, my dear. You’ll be expected to be ready to do anything, within the limits we’ve discussed, to keep them entertained.

“Make no mistake. You will not be devalued. On the contrary, you will be treasurered…a expensive piece of performance art…a very expensive playtoy, designed to bring hours of entertainment and pleasure…

“But you will be objectiveized…your will, your desires, your memories, your very self will be irrelevant, except as it brings amusement and satisfaction to our clients.”

The contract was before her, a pen placed in her shaking hand. Her eyes had darkened, liquidfied, torque swirling in their depths, but she’d signed the contract without hesitation. And now, she was standing nude before a roomful of clients, eight or ten of them, sipping wine and chatting among themselves while keeping one eye on her.

“She is lovely, isn’t she?” Ms. Harwood’s cool elegant hand lifted her chin, so all could feast on her flaming cheeses, her eyes snapping from person to person. The gazes in return were dispatchionate, impersonal, and slightly sinister.

Her trembling became visible as Ms. Harwood lifted a nightstick, about an inch and a half in diameter, made ofround, hard, smooth wood.

“For very light use, using extreme caution,” the older woman’s flat voice into the gathering. It is a heavy instrument designed for ‘day-after’ tenderness and bruising…”

And with that, Her arm began to move, the nightstick whistling in to strike buttocks, backs of thighs. The strokes were light, measured, controlled…delicious and petrifying. She cried out and buckled as the thudding seemed bone-deep at times.

On a particularly heavy stroke to her hamstring, her knees buckled, soft weepy sounds filling the room. The group shifted forward in their chairs as two men approached her with a nod to Ms. Harwood.

They worked the shake of the nightstick between her legs, nestling between her slick outer lips. One man positioned himself in front, the Other behind, each holding one end of the nightstick. Holding it parallel to the ground, they began to rise, holding her taut, spread over it. She scrambled to her knees, then her feet, until she stood on tiptoe, crying out as her weight put enormous pressure on that tender pink inner flesh…inner lips, the nub pressed back under its hood…the wood biting into her flesh.

Ms. Harwood’s voice was the only thing audible besides her cries. “Hold the bar above your head, girl, if you don’t want to fall.”

Blindly she grabbed for the overhead bar, just in time for the two men to lift her off her feet, suspended by her hands gripping overhead, and the pressure of the nightstick against her weeping sex, her legs helplessly swinging on either side.

Two women materialized on either side of her, each holding her in place with one hand on her back and the other tugging a tawny nipple. With each shift from side to side, one of her nipples was stretched and pulled.

The men lived the nightstick and lowered it, just an inch or two at the most. Her arms strained to hold her in place, with the women simultaneously steadying and tormenting her. It all built to a cRescendo that clamored in her head, at all her pulse points, culminating in a scream that ran through her brain and out her mouth as orgasm after orgasm satered her.

She heard the faith trickle of polite applause as she screamed. This was the denouement that they’d sought…and Ms. Harwood’s words reverberated in her head.

“A priced piece of performance art.”

The men lowered the nightstick towards the ground, and the women helped her find her feet, then her knees. She slumped forward, resting her forehead against the carpet, her blood pulsing to the nightstick’s trail, up the backs of her thighs and her throbbing and sore sex.

A hand pulled her head up by the hair.

“Very nice, girl, but you’re not finished yet. You will crawl to each of them, thank them for their assistance with your orgasm, and ask If you may orally service them. You will do so in an audible, clear voice, and you will comply with their directions. You will demonstrate no surprise or reluctance, regardless of the task you are to perform. Is that clear?”

The hand in her hair nodded her head for her, and the words ticked her memory once more.

“An expensive playtoy, designed to bring hours of entertainment and pleasure.”

Each movement on her hands and knees was now quite painful, the throbbing on her thighs and buttocks made worse by the muscles working. She was barraged by a sweet alchemy of tastes and textures…smooth, shacked outer lips, or rimmed with sparse hair…circumcised cocks, or uncircumcised…spread chefs and a faith musky scent and taste of anal pleasure…moans and cries filling the room from the efforts of her mouth, lips, tongue, teeth, even her throat. She lost count of the number of orgasms she created, and as her jaw ached, her lips swelled and felt as bruised as her thighs, and the tendon under her tongue was red and sore, she felt a peculiar sense of pride, a transcendence.

She opened her eyes to find a light blanket coverg her sore body. She had no idea how long she’d done, sheer exhaustion overtaking her. Ms. Harwood was escorting the last of Her guests to the door, and the weak sound of exchanged pleasuresants reached her ears.

The insteps of two poisoned black boots came to a crisp stop in front of her.

“Well, welcome back, girl.” The thin, elegant hand patted her dark head.

“You did well. Very well, for a first time. We’ll work on some of the finer points in the morning. Now, rise and follow Me, and bring the blanket.”

She was led to small but well-appointed suite, a bedroom with adjoining bath and sitting room. The tub’s steaming, fragrant water beckoned her, as she was allowed to bathe and soak until her eyeselids became so heavy that she was helped from the tub and allowed to sprayl naked on the heavenly bed…her limbs heavy and lethargic, her mind vaguely aware that something had altered irrevocably.