Bad Intern Page 3

  I take a sip and study his face. Good looking, almost pretty, Pete’s got this infuriating boyish quality that sends me straight to the red sometimes. Only, for some reason, it’s not doing that now. I’m gazing up at him. He’s a little tall. About six feet and an inch, maybe two.

  A moment more and I lift the bottle, take a larger swig, and don’t swallow this time. I leave it in my mouth. The liquor burns like hell, and I feel myself salivating, adding to the liquor, infusing it with me. When the pain’s almost unbearable, I lean forward, rise a few inches, and plant my mouth to his. His mouth adjusts to mine and he leans down, locking on, sealing us together in a fiery kiss while I pour the whiskey into him. A little spills down his chin right at the end when our mouths close. I quickly lick it up, lest it dribble down his shirt.

  His eyes are still closed, and he’s got that mocking smile I thought I hated but now think I loved all along. He smiles much wider when I reach for his belt buckle and tug.

  Six

  I feel the slightest buzz, but to me it’s more of a hum—a comfortable song that sounds like a river as we drift away in a boat called Now. He’s staring down at me in shock. Not what he expected at all—not in his wildest dreams.

  Pete’s bulge is like the big present under the Christmas tree: towering and mysterious and full of fun. His pants look painfully tight. I quickly pop his buckle and unzip him. He moans softly as his lovely cock makes a shy cameo, poking out the flap of his boxers.

  Holy shit. This is real.

  The blood rushes to my face at the sight of it. I’m always surprised by the real deal, as opposed to something in a picture or online. I’ve only fucked about ten or so guys, none of them anyone who mattered. My whole life, I’ve never had a boyfriend for more than a month.

  I blame my boyfriend woes on a set of painfully formulated rules I call “Jen’s Three Fucking Rules”:

  1) Never fuck someone sweet.

  2) Never fuck a virgin.

  3) Never let anyone fuck with me.

  I can’t be sure if Pete’s a virgin. I sure hope not. He’s a nice guy and I don’t want to ruin it for him.

  As I work his pants down lower, I see his hand out the corner of my eye. It’s actually trembling. He doesn’t know what to do with it. Hold my head? Cup my cheek and guide me in? I glance up: his face is flushed red. Not scared, no. His jaw is clenched in anticipation. Lips wet, eyes lidded. Yeah, he’s been here before, but maybe not that often. Maybe he has rules of his own.

  I rub his cock gently, turning it this way and that through the flap in his boxers, staring at it, admiring it. The way it responds, I swear it’s staring right back, admiring me. I gently reach through and lift out his balls. They clench at my touch, little hairs bunching together like soft fur as I brush my lips through their velvety texture. Pete tenses up, willing me to start, but I ignore him. I’m not ready for the whole thing yet. He definitely isn’t ready for me.

  I reach back, grab the bottle off the table, and twist loose the cap with my teeth. I spit it away like a pirate and take a swig, but leave a little in my mouth. This I slather up and down his smooth length from balls to engorged tip.

  Pete moans in sexual frustration. He wants to put it in me now. He’s all wires and electricity, his inner caveman warring with his outer intern, urging him to act, to take, to quash all resistance.

  The outer intern wins. He takes the back of my head gently in one hand. I like that. Some guys want to control it, force more than you’re ready for. They don’t let you dance and play, preferring instead to choreograph the act to death, turn you from a flesh-and-blood woman to a rubber love doll. Pete knows better, and I’ve learned another new and special thing about him.

  “Feels cool,” he whispers wonderingly.

  On a list of sexy things to say when someone’s going down on you, this one’s at the bottom. A second later, I realize what he means—the alcohol bath is chilling his cock more than if it was just water.

  I blow on it lightly, like that was my idea all along, and he shudders a little.

  “You like that?” I breathe.

  “Yeah … yeah, I do. Shit, Jen …”

  I take another swig and wet him down again. The alcohol is making me salivate to a syrupy consistency.

  Here goes.

  Taking his length in my mouth, I suck down to about the halfway point. My jaw pops a little at his girth. He’s long, though not ridiculously so. About seven inches. My mouth doesn’t go quite that deep, so I make up the difference with my hand, stroking while sucking in a steady rhythm. He’s so fucking smooth, and it feels so good to take him inside, to pleasure him, to give him that. The soft helmet is like a fat, juicy plum. I tickle the hole with my tongue and thrill at the faint, salty discharge. He’s way too close.

  Can’t have that.

  I give his balls a quick, light suck (because they’re fuzzy), then stand back up.

  “Wha … huh?” he says. His eyes are a bit glassy, and he’s breathing in quick pants.

  “I like it when a guy waits a little,” I say. “I like it when they explode so hard I feel it pop. You’re gonna do that for me, right? Make it pop?”

  He’s nodding. “Oh yeah. Pop. Whatever you want.”

  “Let’s explore some more,” I say, then grab the bottle and head back onto the office floor.

  Through my growing buzz, I hear a yammering sound from my conscience telling me to leave the poor guy alone, that I need to keep my focus on VP Brett and not the boy toys of the world.

  Shut up, conscience, I yammer back.

  I’m having too much fun, and it’s been way, way too long since I’ve had any fun. About seven months since I did what I did in Tom’s office just now—drunk at a frat party with a guy who’s name I never learned, and who’s face I no longer remember.

  I’m still not done with my MIS degree. Now I walk the campus apprehensively, worrying every moment that some loser will pop out of nowhere and say, “Hey, you. It’s me! Remember when you sucked my tiny cock at that party? Wanna do it again?”

  Thank God I hadn’t swallowed.

  “Jen?” Pete says, behind me.

  “Come along, boy toy,” I say, reveling in my sexual power.

  My clothes are stifling and hot. I pull off my blouse and toss it on someone’s cube, followed quickly by my bra. My B cups are perky and cute, and I consider them my best attribute. I turn around and show Pete, and flush tingly at the interest in his brown eyes.

  The next office is a corner unit with a great view. Not Brett’s. His is on the other side of the building, over in the government section everyone’s so worried about.

  “Jen, I know you’re having fun,” Pete says, “and believe me, I think it’s great—really great. But, uh … if you wanna head back to my place … I mean, do you wanna? Go to my place?”

  The nervous tremor in his voice excites the hell out of me. Will he risk everything for my sweet pussy, my greedy mouth? Or will he get all responsible and ruin the magic?

  Up the ante. Make it unfair.

  Not bothering with my belt, I clench my butt and slide my pants off, pulling my panties down with them. I step from the pile lying conquered at my feet and shuck my shoes in two quick motions.

  Wearing only socks and the suit I was born with, I say, “So what do you think?”

  He’s grinning ear to ear is what he’s thinking. He loves it. He starts for me and I wag a cautioning finger. “Not till we’re done exploring. And not till you’re as naked as I am. Otherwise, it’s not fair.”

  Pete looks fearfully around one more time, knowing how crazy this is, but too crazy with lust to stop himself.

  He begins to strip.

  Seven

  Okay, now I’m impressed: Pete does work out, and apparently he does all the exercises right. Not overly bulky like a roided-up meathead, but still seriously ripped. I’m talking abs, abs, abs. Nice shoulders, too, and no love handles or belly flub. My eyes follow the veins that spider across his shoulders and chest.
He has the perfect amount of hair—just enough to know he’s a man and not a gorilla.

  Pete looks a little uncomfortable standing there naked in only his socks. He manages uncomfortable rather well. More tolerable than when he’s smugly needling me.

  “Well, well,” I say, smiling archly before turning on my heel and strolling into another office. I don’t ask him to follow, I simply expect it.

  The walls of this office are covered in pictures and posters of cats, kittens, and even tigers. Kitty cat figurines crowd a fancy-looking hardwood desk. In case we didn’t know it already, a row of wooden blocks with letters reads, “I LOVE CATS.”

  Going by the kitty-cat coffee mug with the lipstick smudge, Director Ellis is a lady director. I know her name because, unlike the exec with the sailboats and booze drawer, her name’s on a placard outside, rather than just a room number.

  Good for you, sister, I think approvingly. You exist, and don’t let them forget it.

  I bump into Pete on the way out. Again, my conscience is poking me. Not about Pete, thankfully. The booze took care of that. But I can’t poke through Director Ellis’s office, whoever she is. I like cats too.

  I take a sip from my magic bottle. I’m feeling very, very good right now.

  “Where you going?” Pete says, peeking past me into Director Ellis’s office. He’s got his clothes and mine collected in a bundle under his arm.

  “You mean where are we going,” I say, stalling for time.

  Come on, Jen, where the fuck are we going?

  Swaying past him, I brush his semi-hard along the way and let it snap back like a branch in a forest. I strut confidently past the various cubes: the dev team, the project managers, the guys with all the sci-fi shit everywhere. Those guys are weird, but cool. Sys-admins, if I remember right. Most of them look married or undateable. I like them because, of all the guys on the floor, these are the only ones that don’t hang around the front desk trying to get the bimbots’ attention.

  Pete clears his throat, and I pause at the break room.

  “Wait,” he says. “We can’t just walk around naked. What if someone comes to work?”

  I glance back at him and snort. “On the weekend? Trust me, Pete. We’re the only ones stupid enough to fall for that. We’re just having fun. Where’s my old Pete gone to, hmm?”

  Something in him changes when I say that: a steely glint in his eyes, a tightening of his jaw, and he stands a little taller. When he smiles, it’s just a little bit vicious, and I briefly wonder what’s come over my little boy toy. Whatever it is, I approve.

  “I could totally eat something,” he says, smirking at me before stepping into the break room. Abruptly he stops, grabs the bottle, and takes a sip. I try to take it back and he leans in and kisses me hard, pressing in with his tongue and rubbing my ass. His hand rides down and underneath, probing hungrily. I kick up onto the doorjamb to allow easier access. His fingers rub my pussy hole, slicking up nicely before probing in and out. I’m so wet, there’s no resistance at all.

  With an effort of superhuman will, I lower my leg and take back the bottle for a sip.

  “Lunch first,” I say, pointing unsteadily that way. “Dessert after.”

  He tastes his fingers while watching me, his eyes taking in my tits, my lips, and finally parking steadily on my eyes … and I swear I just felt a little drip down my leg. I’m ready to come just looking at him, and it’s all I can do to keep from tackling him and ruining my dirty little plans. But then he turns around and heads to the fridge.

  Crisis averted.

  There’s a sign on the fridge warning everyone who can read that the contents will be thrown out every Friday, so I don’t feel like we’re actually stealing people’s food. Despite the sign (written in red ink, with exclamation points and underlines all over it to show they mean business), the office fridge is packed with lunch bags, plastic containers of food, half-full bottles of soda, and a two-high stack of pizza boxes on the bottom shelf.

  Pete and I are a team. He microwaves the pizza, and I rummage the cabinets looking for cups to pour us both soda spiked with whiskey.

  Keto shmeeto, I think.

  I take a sip, smack my lips, and add more whiskey. The bottle’s almost empty. Bummer.

  “Bon appetit!” Pete says, serving me a paper plate piled high with delicious-smelling pizza. Lots of meat and no olives, thank god.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  I’m about to choose one of the folding plastic seats when Pete steps in, pulls it out, and lays down a paper towel with a fancy flourish.

  “How romantic,” I say, and bat my eyes demurely.

  Pete grins. “As a motherfucker.”

  I sputter in surprise, spraying the table with soda. I start to apologize but he’s laughing. He grabs more paper towels from over the sink and wipes up before sitting down.

  Hungrier than I’d thought, I tuck in like it’s a contest. The whiskey—it does it to me. That and other things, both good and terrible.

  I glance up and see that uncertain look in Pete’s eyes again. No-no-no, can’t have that.

  Reluctantly, I shove back my plate after a few bites, stand up, and head back to the fridge. I poke through it briefly, then pull out something I’d seen the other day.

  “Come on, bitch,” I say, strolling unsteadily from the room.

  Toward the reception desk.

  Eight

  I snag my cellphone along the way.

  Again, I’m amused by the bimbots and their collection of papers and pens. There for show, I’m convinced of it. More than ever, I hate these women. They’re so nice and sweet to everyone but me. When I’m around, they go overboard with the hello and goodbye act. I know this because of the puzzled reactions from the people they’re nice to: raised eyebrows, embarrassed looks as if waiting for the punchline, that kind of thing. People aren’t stupid, but the bimbots think they are, and that’s the biggest insult of all.

  If simple rudeness was my only issue with them, I could live with it. It’s not.

  Occasionally, I run into one or the other in the bathroom. An uncomfortable experience for me, and probably for them, too. They cover the shame of their awfulness by ramping it up to almost hostile levels: loud snorts of disdain, curled lips, eye rolls. One of them even went so far as to snag the stall I was reaching for. After that humiliating incident, I now make sure they’re both at the front desk before even thinking of using the restroom. If one of them is missing, I take the elevator to the lobby and use the one down there.

  I may not be dating these women, but the third rule of “Jen’s Fucking Rules” applies: Never let anyone fuck with me.

  Standing in their evil lair has me so consumed with rage I’ve momentarily forgotten about poor Pete. He startles me when he comes up from behind and kisses my neck. A good startle—it snaps me back to where I’d rather be anyway.

  “Maybe we should go find a room, hmm?” Pete whispers. “In case someone comes up.”

  He’s right to be afraid. The elevators are twenty feet away just waiting to open. What a hoot that would be. Oddly, I’m not worried. I’m not paying for a mortgage with the piddling money I make from this internship, and he isn’t either. Being naked in an office building is hardly something to call the cops over. If someone did, we’d have our clothes on faster than we could say, “I don’t know what they’re talking about, officer.”

  But all I say is, “Do you wanna fuck or do you want to stay a pussy your whole life?”

  Okay, no … I don’t say that. I’m still angry, dammit. Best not to say anything at all.

  I grab his now soft dick and lead him behind the desk. Like Tom, the sailboat guy, and Director Ellis, the bimbots have made it their own: photos of boyfriends and families, cute little embroidered cushions for their cute little asses, their special coffee mugs, and two sets of fancy chopsticks for when they order sushi.

  I poke through various drawers and pull out a set of earrings, which I immediately put on. Afterward, I take t
he can of whipped cream snagged from the fridge and spray a little on my left nipple.

  “Dessert,” Pete says with a greedy smile on his face. He leans down and suckles gently.

  I’m intrigued by this and spray the other one. He moves to it like a dog after a liver treat. Though not glass-cutting hard, he’s long enough now for me to spray a generous portion on his cock. I then grab one of the nice cushions for my bare ass and lean back on the desk.

  I’m here to do damage.

  “You can stick it in now,” I say. “Just a few pumps. No more.” He raises an eyebrow and I give it right back. “You’ll do as you’re told!”

  “Yes, Mistress Jen,” he drones, making me purse my lips to keep from smiling.

  My breath catches when he fucks me. His sugary cock sliding in and out is almost more than I can bear. Twenty-two and going through a dry spell with men, I’m quite tight. Pete feels massive after so long with nothing but my fingers for comparison. It even hurts a little—in a good way, the best way.

  “Push harder,” I say. “Deep as you can.”

  He pushes and I wince against his girth.

  “That all you got, little boy? Don’t worry, I won’t break.”

  He grunts and shoves harder, and yes, it hurts. My body responds the way I knew it would—with a wave of sensation and pleasure so strong it’s all I can do to resist it. But I do. When I let him come, it’ll be glorious and messy and we’ll arrive together.

  I lock him there, unmoving, and stare into his lovely brown eyes. He tries to pull back for another thrust but my legs are strong and he can’t.

  “I like it right here,” I say. “Just a little bit longer. Let it build.”

  The tension in Pete’s face is hard to look at—lips pulled back in a snarl of frustration. But he’s liking it, me being in charge. The feeling has me dripping again, this time onto the cushion.