Intern and Other Stories , livre ebook

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.