The Intern

  • Grey short trench coat, seamed fishnet tights, neat little boots, insolence and a sunshine grin. That’s what I saw, nothing else. Not the mundaneities of the gate pillar she leaned on, or the hedge on either side, or the pub across the street or the bright blue late spring sky. Just her and the giggle I could see rising from just above the tight-cinched belt, the way the tops of her breasts shimmered in the v of her coat, the way she grinned around the chuckle.”Good morning,” she said. “I’m your new hire, remember?”Fuck. She was doing it. We were doing it.

    “Shall I come in?”

    Everything tightened from the roots of my hair to the tops of my toes. Everything seemed suddenly brighter and my ears roared as if underwater.
    I stood aside and let her past. Smell of her – clean hair, soap, crisp laundry. Hint of sandalwood. Jesus.

    “Perhaps you could show me your office?”

    She stood in the hall, surrounded by the usual wreckage of kids’ stuff and half hung up coats. Yes. The office. The front room was a comparative oasis of calm. My office at home. So I grunted something and opened the door for her. Caught her eye as I looked down the neck of the coat at the swell of her bosom, down her back at the swell of her arse.

    I shut the door. And she undid her coat. Slowly. A button at a time. The weight of her tits pressed against the stiff gabardine. Other pressure answered this as I filled with blood, uncurling. Uncomfortably tight behind buttoned flies. Then she reached the belt and unlashed it. Holding the coat closed, she looked paler behind the tan, serious big eyes. Insolent mouth now vulnerable.

    I stepped up to her and took her wrists, stood over her. Her face tilted up to mine. I took her wrists and she let the coat fall. She was naked beneath it. Glorious. Well not completely, of course. There were those tights. Snug around the notch of her waist and tight to her hips and her thighs. Beneath them no hint of knickers, just the blaze of her tan lines and the dark of her muff. I dropped her wrists and took her face in my hands. Heard the faint rasp of callus on the skin of her neck. We kissed.

    It would forever be clumsy, that kiss. At first the tentative stuff, the unsure not-quite-meeting kisses of the new, the uncertain. Little collisions of noses and teeth. Slow growing confidence. A peak at which we were wholly in rythmn and then, frantic, hungry, agricultural. Bruising each other, biting, plundering.
    My hands slid from her face, her throat, to the undiscovered country of her bosom. Hers were at my crux. Fingers fluttered through my fly buttons. Fingernails raked and her fist squeezed. I squeezed her too, in answer.
    Remarkable things, her breasts. They filled my hands and more. Smooth as silk and hot, with long hard nipples surrounded by wide circuits of rough and puckered skin, now dark with blood, and need. I took each one between finger and thumb and rolled them, cruelly. She gasped and we pulled apart, our hands now searching. Our gazes taking each other in. Our bodies close and trembling, each thrumming to the lead of the other.
    She threw her head back, the rich barley-sugar hair tumbling down. Her throat was pale, and I kissed it, as I tugged and tortured. Undone by want and wonder, I spoke thickly.

    “Your tits. They’re… incredible.”

    She raised her head again and looked down at my hungry fingers at their work.

    “They’re certainly fucking big.”

    And her fingers parted my buttons and her whole, neat  right hand slid inside. Her left cupped me as she continued to speak around little hitches in her breath and swallowed cries.

    “We have a strange relationship. Me and The Tits.”

    She had entirely freed me from my boxers, threading my cock through one leg-hole so she could have all of it.

    “They’re heavy and hot. Boob-sweat and back pain. Nothing fits.”

    But her left hand did. Fitted perfectly into the space behind my balls. Her deft fingers found the hidden length of cock that strained there. With thumb and firm fingers she stroked, while her right hand slid down the free end, gripped me tight. I could feel the need spilling out of me. First hot, and then cooling brightly on the straining head.

    “Sometimes, they’re hateful. People see them first, not me. Like I’m The Tits. It’s shit. But…”

    She stood on tiptoe and pushed herself into me. I felt my slippery cock glide on the warmth of her belly. Catch on the ridges of net. Felt the heat of her bosom blazing on my skin. Her mouth moved on my throat, nipping and breathless.

    “… other times. Other times I love them. Sometimes they feel so good. Like now of course, and all through this morning. They fill with weight, you know. There’s a tightening, a music. Sometimes, if I’m very lucky, and I have the alone time and the head space, I can come from touching them alone. My nipples, I think: I think they’re my aerials. They download messages from the cosmos.”

    She drifted down me until she was on her knees, and let my cock rest against her face, curving alongside her nose, from chin to eyelid.

    “And the message is ‘Nadia. It’s time to come.”

    “Actually, Nadia” I said firmly, “it’s time to get up on the damned table.” And I pulled her to her feet, somewhat roughly, while an inner self delighted in the loll and jiggle of her bosom, the slightly spanked expression on her face.
    She sat on the table edge, scooting backwards to the music of the fishnet knots catching on the lip, breathing a little roughly through parted lips.

    “Better,” I said, “now pull at your nipples. Harder, really tug them. Get them fat. And long” And while she gasped and grunted and stretched herself, I ruffled through the embroidery box, my wife’s embroidery box, selecting thread.
    I came up with three options, all around the lavender/pink range. I compared them to her reddened, fattened nipples. Chose the accurate shade. And proceeded to tie each of them up.
    “This is a blood knot, Nadia. It’s a long sleeve-knot used in fishing, to make a stop on the line. It can be pulled very tight.”
    I ran the thread along the length of the left one first, cradling the weight of her breast, and concentrating deeply while she made deep noises in her throat and trembled slightly. A long length of thread along the top of the nipple and then wide loops around it and my guiding finger. My breath was coming hoarsely now and I could feel sunlight shimmering in my thighs. Laying the long loops along the length of it, I slowly drew on the free ends, and slipped my finger free. Her nipple was encased in a sleeve of embroidery silk from tip to base, neat, ridged and firm. Nadia was holding her breath. One fierce canine dug into her lip. I could smell her cunt.

    With both sleeved, I took one spare end in each pinched forefinger and told her to do the same.

    “Pull,” I said. “Harder. Until you can’t bear it”.

    Nadia whimpered and muttered as she did so. The silk thread narrowing, squeezing, her nipples stretching, spilling dark and stiff out of their silk prisons. Her eyes were shut. Her face slack. Her breath shallow and rough.

    “Now kneel. On the table.” She clambered up and, without bidding, stretched forward on her elbows. Her stiff nipples hung just above the polished wood. Her forehead rested on her outstretched arms. She shook.

    I took my wife’s embroidery scissors and stepped up to her, bending to her upraised backside. The net spread tightly, cupping her buttocks and thighs, cutting deep into the hinges of her hips and cupping her mons, the threads tight, the flesh puffing. The dark slit was glossy, slippery, fragrant. She flinched at the cold touch of the scissors, the snip, snip, snip of her release.
    I bent to her cunt. I tasted along the run of her inner thighs, feeling the salt brighten, the marine earthiness deepen as I licked inward. Her outer self was warm and vibrant, her inner folds searing, salty sweet, already wet before my tongue. I revelled in the palette of pink and cinnamon, and my palate thrilled to her varied flavour. The deep sours and the high tangs, the summer and the sea all rubbing together, sliding, slippery. I dug deeper with tongue and tooth and she pushed her arse higher, her face down. I heard her silk-bound nipples tap and scrape and flutter on the wood, felt her flinch and stretch, felt her sink into the warm sea of our arousal. I dove and found the pearl under tented skin and rolled it along my teeth, teased it out with my tongue, and played while she grew wetter, while she grabbed the table and growled

    “For Christ’s sake,” she grunted, “cock.”

    “I want all the cocks, all of them, everywhere, up inside me. Choking, filling, God…”

    She arched her back and tilted her head back, and snarled and chuckled as I wrapped my fist in her hair, pulled her back, and rested the my cock against her lick-spread yearning lips. I nudged a litlle, felt her heat spread, felt her engulf the head.
    Now it was my turn to mutter and twitch.

    “I won’t last long.”

    “Doesnt matter. Just fuck me. If you had two I’d suck you too. Three, you could fuck my arse -”

    My cock slid steadily in. She stretched around me, her heat burning my last threads of self away, like mist in late morning and we were locked together, no boundary between us, just slippery heat and the tight band of hair around my fist. I watched her curves against the deep brown wood, watched her pulling the silk thread tighter, reflected in the polish as if underwater, while we moved faster and our breath came faster, our voices higher.

    The light and pressure built behind me. At first a steady trembling, a light throb, it built, engulfed me, rose in the roots of me and bloomed and blooming, burst.

    My fingers had dug deep bruises in the meat of her hips, the fishnet crosshatched her like branding where it tore, her hollow back glistened with her sweat and she hung on me, tortured by the thread, her need, pinned on the still-hard hook of my cock. I embraced her then and felt the silk bound nipples on my arms. I reached up and found the threads, rolled and unhooked the freeing end to her inchoate cries and bitten yelps. I tugged them each together and the threads fell away and, on that sudden freedom, that sudden rush of blood, she wailed and cried. Hot tears spilled over my enfolding hands and she shook and jumped and twisted, her cunt pulsing around me, wet running down my legs. She shuddered and wept against me, completely undone by her release.

     

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