The Intern and Other Stories Read online

  Title Page

  House of Erotica Presents

  THE INTERN

  and Other Stories

  Publisher Information

  Published in 2013 by Andrews UK Limited

  www.andrewsuk.com

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  The characters and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.

  Copyright © House of Erotica 2013

  The right of the authors to be identified as authors of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  The Intern

  By Alexe Andrewes

  The intern wasn’t very good. In fact, he was more of a liability than an asset in some ways, Djamilla admitted to herself. He wasn’t engaged by his work. She thought he was a writer or something similar, a bookish type. She often saw him stooped over the review page of a newspaper in the office between assignments. In a year or two he would have left the City and found something closer to his true interests.

  She was sitting on a bench in one of the small lawns near Chancery Lane, the legal district of London, eating her lunch. Usually she ate at her desk but today she wanted some fresh air and she had just seen the intern walk past, not noticing her because he was reading a book while he walked.

  Last week she had noticed him in the yard behind the office, seated on a pipe eating his sandwiches and reading a book. She could see the book was of poems. Poems. Who reads poems, she wondered. He does, apparently. But he was always polite and helpful, never got involved in office politics. He didn’t possess any competitiveness. That made him pleasant to be around. He was like a panda, sweet but ultimately doomed to extinction. She had caught the intern looking at her figure, but then there were few men in the office who didn’t look at her figure.

  Djamilla’s face was pretty rather than distinguished, hair black, skin not dark for a Sri Lankan. Her figure was individual and attractive. Her legs were shapely and her butt firm. She had a bit of a belly but that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. Djamilla knew her tits were superb: large enough to jiggle when she walked, pointing apart. She often came to work with a camisole rather than a bra under her blouse, to allow her breasts movement. They felt spring-loaded, bouncy and pert. Men (and women) couldn’t help noticing her breasts. In such a stuffy, restricted environment as the law offices, men could hardly say or do anything inappropriate (at least, in general situations) but she could see their eyes. She knew that her bust fascinated men and she enjoyed the attention. The only thing she didn’t have was height but high heels brought her to the lower range of average female height.

  She was pleased with her voice, as it had a distinctive husky timbre, especially when she was ovulating. She had narrowed her accent and widened her vocabulary to a conventional Oxford graduate’s, putting behind her the broader vowels of her school days in the north of England.

  Now here she was in this melting pot of the metropolis, where all races, types and classes mixed. You could find anything you wanted, if you knew where to look. A lover had once taken her to a sex club. He had tied her up a few times in bed and she wasn’t averse to this, though she preferred to be in control. They had walked about watching people have sex, being filmed (Djamilla had taken care that she hadn’t been captured on video), being debased. She hadn’t done anything that night, just watched. She had split up with the man the next date, no particular reason. She thought it was connected to the club visit but she wasn’t certain. She hadn’t been repulsed by what she had seen but neither had she been excited. She liked power games but she liked them to be private.

  Sexually, she was quite adventurous. Djamilla thought her sex drive was more than normal and it sometimes pushed into risky or opportunistic sex, as if she had to balance her consummate professionalism and hard study with crazy gambles and wild acts. One night while still an undergraduate, she had given a blowjob to a policeman who was on duty. The memory sometimes stirred up a sick excitement and shame in her, just as the time when her tutor had caught her being fingered by a fellow student while they waited outside his study. Petrified, fearing that her academic career was ruined, she had cried with remorse in his study and her tutor had handed her tissues, his anger grudgingly turning to sympathy. One good thing about being dark-skinned was that the tutor couldn’t see her blushes every time she met him for the endless year before her graduation. As for the boy, she had cut him dead thereafter. She had a fierce joy in her heart when she discovered he had dropped out the next term.

  Now she had Sam, a regular boyfriend. Having a boyfriend had slowed her down a little. The main difference was that now her transgressions tended to be more sporadic, to the extent that her encounters were ones where she felt compelled. For example, there had been an evening of extended social drinking and she had begun heavy flirting with a colleague called David. She didn’t know him well. Well, the drink and the devil in her had wanted to call his bluff, to see if he was serious. At two o’clock they had staggered out of the bar together. She was leading them to the nearest taxi rank and had taken them into one of the courtyards off Holborn and there she had given him a handjob. He swayed above her, unsteady, as she pumped his semi-erection. The arc of his semen had landed on the damp flagstones. The next morning, six hours later after barely any sleep, Djamilla, head tight from a terrible hangover and legs shaky, had deliberately walked past the place on her way to the office. The traces of his semen were still visible. She was a little disgusted but also proud. That lunchtime - for the only time ever - she had masturbated in a toilet cubicle at work and came very fast, remembering the jet of semen spurting from her fist in the moonlight.

  That led her to thinking about something that had happened a few weeks ago. She had been with David in an office of a client. They had been working late and a third colleague had just left for the day. This was the first time David and her had been alone since the handjob, two months earlier. Their paths hadn’t crossed for a couple of weeks after that and when they had been together they hadn’t mentioned the incident. She wondered if he had forgotten it. They had both been very drunk at the time.

  David started talking about his weekend and a row with his girlfriend over something he had said. She claimed she never got to do sex the way she preferred. “I know how to oral perfectly well. I just prefer other stuff,” David said, a touch petulantly, leafing through a file. “Men always think they are good at oral,” said Djamilla. “I am,” he returned. She laughed. “Okay. Prove it.” “What?” “Go down on me,” she told David, and he had, as soon as he had understood she wasn’t joking. She allowed him to pull off her panties and he gave her oral as she sat in a creaky old leather office chair. She put her hands out to steady herself against the stacks of archive boxes. She liked that he had to kneel, make himself smaller than her, to perform the act. She lifted her grey suit skirt over his head so that she couldn’t see anything, just hear his heavy breathing and the sound of his lapping at her pussy. As the office was toured by a security guard once an hour, she had gone faster than she might. She forced out her orgasm, digging stiletto heels into his shoulders.

  Power was exciting. She felt it sometimes when she encountered the Head of Chambers or a senior judge. It wasn’t an issue of appe
arance; it was one of aura. Although relatively junior, she was moving fast up the career ladder, helped by her attractiveness as well as her sharp mind and experience. She knew that clients sometimes asked for her because men wanted to see her around. This didn’t bother her. She was good enough at her profession to get to the top on results alone, her appearance merely accelerated things. Already she had some power of men because of her job and still more because of sex appeal. In fact, while Djamilla masturbated, rather than thinking about certain men or particular acts, at the moment of climax, more often than not she found herself thinking about the power she had over men.

  Desire was a strange thing, Djamilla thought, standing up to brush the crumbs from her skirt.

  The meeting that afternoon dragged on, the solicitors and the clients fighting a polite battle over the amount of work that would delegated to solicitors (highly paid) and paralegals (lowly paid). Feeling bored and redundant, Djamilla excused herself and went to the kitchen. As she was reaching up for a cup on the shelf the intern came into the kitchen, stopping at the door. She followed his eyes and saw that her blouse had opened. It was her tightest blouse and one of the buttons had come undone with her stretch, revealing her generous cleavage cosseted in a pink camisole. Of course, her natural reaction was to pull the blouse closed her but she didn’t. She looked at him looking her bust. Eventually, he cleared his throat.

  “Can I help you?” He said and came over to take out a cup for her. “They have put the shelf rather high, haven’t they? It must be very inconvenient for you.” His voice was even but his face was flushed. He had a good heart, even if his archiving left a lot to be desired.

  She noticed his musk. He was clean but didn’t use any cologne and now they were close she could smell his skin. Djamilla had always been sensitive to smell and his proximity and natural odour started a small fire in her crotch.

  He was looking down into her eyes, which were very dark brown.

  “You have beautiful eyes,” he said, unselfconsciously.

  “That’s not all,” she said, dipping her eyes to the open blouse.

  Quite unexpectedly, he reached forward and pushed the undone button through its hole.

  “Sorry. I shouldn’t have done that,” he said.

  Before he could say anything more she stood on tiptoes and kissed him lightly, then turned to make the tea. After a few seconds, the intern left, but Djamilla noticed out of the corner of her eye how he looked over her figure before the kitchen door closed behind him.

  The next day there was a problem with the archive boxes. Someone had mislabelled a box and one of the staff had to go down to the storage to sort out the error. Impatient to be out of the building with her document so she could get to the gym, Djamilla went to the basement. When she got there, she saw the intern stacking and restacking boxes. He had stripped down to his t-shirt in the warm and windowless cellar. She watched him work on. His torso was trimmer than she had thought. Engaged in hard work, he had lost that indecisive look. He looked very manly.

  He stopped, having noticed her.

  “Sorry about all this,” he said, gesturing to the list on his clipboard.

  She stood with her hand planted on her hip.

  “Come here.”

  He did so and stood much taller than her. She could smell his odour now and his sweat. He came close, put a hand on her ass. He squeezed and massaged. She stared into his face, expressionless, then undid her blouse. She tossed it aside then pulled down her camisole, exposing her chest. Her breasts stood proud, the large nipples dark.

  “You’re beautiful,” he said. Then held one of the tits and stroked the nipple with a thumb. The nipple wrinkled and became hard. He repeated on the other side. He fell to his knees and buried his face in her breasts, massaging them with dusty hands. This new unfamiliar mouth sucked and licked at the tits, strong movements making them jiggle. She felt that rush that a new man gave her. She had conquered again. She wasn’t a short Asian girl born in the suburbs of a northern mill town anymore but a goddess who could humble men, make them beg and crawl and pleasure her in any way she commanded. When she pulled their strings the men jumped and fell. She could lift their cocks with a flash of her brown skin.

  She turned her back on him and he lifted her skirt. His hands were all over her ass, exploring buttocks and thighs, then touching her pussy through the black panties. As she expected, he was sensitive and careful but surprisingly confident. The fingers worked the groove of her labia, occasionally fondling her arsehole. Hot kisses were raining down on her smooth ass cheeks. He was getting more energetic, pushing the panties up into the line of her pussy, soaking them in the inner wetness. Then he slapped her ass playfully and nipped with his teeth.

  He took of the panties and fingered her, using one hand to spread her cheeks and the other to jab two fingers into her hot pussy. The fingers turned back and forward, back and forward, the knuckles thumping into her pelvic bone. Djamilla smiled and bent over the archive boxes, liking the feeling of the dusty cardboard pressing into her sensitive nipples.

  She heard a zipper being opened and next thing, the intern’s hand was opening the labia, separating her coffee flesh to show her rosy red flesh. The other hand was at the base of the cock, readying it for entry. The head of his cock rubbed up and down her lips before he pushed it into Djamilla’s pink flesh. Penetrating her, he held her ass at the sides. His cock was downwards curving a little, which meant it touched her erogenous point inside in this position. Once he was inside he fucked her fast. She hadn’t expected him to be this fast. She orgasmed quickly and let him continue to screw her as the pleasure washed through her body.

  She pushed him back and turned to him. She gripped his cock tightly and began to jerk him off. She was fascinated by cocks. How many had she handled? Fifty or sixty maybe. She loved the different sizes and shapes, the textures under the skin, the thick veins standing out. She tried to memorise each one. Yes, she appreciated handsomeness and good looks and a toned physique but she couldn’t help but enjoy the excitement of handling a new dick. The intern’s erection was slippery with her fluid and her fist slid deliciously over his hard-on.

  “Come!” She commanded and he did, squirting a stream of cum on to the floor. She ran her fingers over the still-stiff member, discovering it shape before it began to soften.

  “More,” she told him. She lay back on the archive boxes, her lower legs hanging over the edge. Thighs apart, the intern set to work on her to give her what he must think was her first orgasm. That was her secret, she thought, staring up at the girders and air-conditioning ducts along the ceiling. He licked her clitoris to greater hardness. He placed his open mouth over the clitoral area, then he took it way and blew a gentle jet of cooling air over the hot wet nub of pink flesh. The contrast was shocking. It was relieved when his lips again warmed the clit. Then he blew, making Djamilla shiver and clench her toes inside her stilettos. He repeated and repeated until he commenced vigorous licking and sucking which drove her to come. The muscles in her vagina contracted and expelled some of her fluid on to the intern’s chin, adding to the wetness there. That was her favourite, to have the man’s face between her legs when she came. She reduced him to a submitter, a worshipper or a worker bee serving the queen.

  Djamilla rested, looking upwards, lost in a maze of wires and pipes, wondering if the intern had done that before or had learned it from books. She decided not to ask him. After all, even men are allowed some secrets.

  Paula - The Jazz Hotel

  By Carla Croft

  Paula loves jazz. She spends most of her spare time in various jazz clubs around the capital. She often calls me up late and badgers me to go with her to out-of-the way clubs because someone or other, from some place or other, is in the city playing a set. Although I’m not such a great fan, I enjoy the evenings. It’s something different, and gets me out of the house. The jazz fans who Pa
ula mixes with take their music seriously. Whereas you may go out on a regular night with the girls and it’s all talk, talk, talk, you can get shushed at if you dare whisper at a jazz club. I can therefore indulge my passions of writing and people watching. It’s odd; when I write, I prefer to have complete silence, but when the jazz is in free flow, it sharpens my literary observation and the audience gives me an endless variety of characters to draw on. So as a writer, I get two benefits for the price of one entry ticket. When it comes down to it, I suppose I love jazz as well.

  I once asked Paula why she loved jazz so much.

  “Easy,” she said as if it was a dumb question,

  “It’s been with me all my life. My parents loved jazz. My mum went to jazz clubs when she was pregnant with me, so I’ve always been surrounded by it. It relaxes and energises me at the same time; it resonates with my soul. If there was a lift up to heaven, the background music would be jazz.” It may have been a dumb question, but it was a great answer and his given me enough literary material to compose a number of stories.

  It was one of those weird coincidences. I was in the office one day thinking why Paula hadn’t called in a while and the next minute Paula called me on my private line.

  “Okay, who, when and where is it this time?” I wedged my phone into the crook of my neck reaching over for my mobile to set up a date on my calendar. It had been a hard week and I decided that some jazz in my soul was the best remedy.

  “It’s not a who this time, it’s me” she replied cryptically.

  “You’re the who? You’re the who, who’s going to do what?” My grammar was as fuddled as my brain.

  “I took part.”

  “You took part in a what? A jazz session?” I asked shaking my head to try to get it straight.

  “Better than that,” she replied going all cryptic again. For Paula to say something was better than jazz meant it had to be Good, with a capital “G”. The penny dropped