Interns 1

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On the stroke of two I heard the sharp click of heels coming along the corridor, and I opened the door in smooth co-ordination so that not a beat was missed as she swept into my flat. I dropped to my knees and stared silently at the gleaming shoes in front of me.

I felt her fingers running through my hair, the slight scrape of her carefully manicured nails on the back of my neck. Her caress turned to a grip, a grip that tightened and twisted. I gave a small cry as the insistent pull brought me up as far as I could stretch and the weight started to transfer from my knees to my hair.

She moved off out of the hallway and through to the bedroom with my head casually caught by the hair and my body crawling, stumbling and whimpering behind. She dropped me at her feet and stood silently, flexing her fingers, while I resumed staring at the floor, now shaking my head slightly to restore the circulation in my scalp.

After a moment she heaved me up and threw me roughly face down over the end of the bed. She grasped my left wrist and stretched my arm splayed out forward. I gasped involuntarily with the tension as, still pulling, she pressed my wrist hard down on the bed and held it there momentarily. The instruction to leave my arm precisely where she had placed it was as clear as any spoken command.

When my right arm was similarly arranged to her satisfaction she stood astride me, unbuttoned my blouse and pulled it open. With one sharp movement she pulled down my bra at the front, leaving my breasts uncomfortably free, pressed down into the bed and pushed up by my bra at half mast.

I felt her breath on the back of my neck as, she bent over and pushed her hands under me. I lay docilely in position as she squeezed and kneaded my breasts: clenched my fists to fight the discomfort as her nails dug into me and finally cried out as she clamped each nipple in an iron grip. A faint snort of satisfaction ghosted across my cheek as she stepped back and I carefully released a little tension from my aching shoulders.

Her nails rasped on my tights as she reached up under my skirt and pulled tights and briefs down to my knees. I clung to the bed covers to hold my position as she tugged them free of one leg, leaving them rucked up around my left knee. She pushed at the inside of my knees with the toe of her shoe and I reluctantly spread myself apart.

There was a momentary pause as she unzipped the long lightweight case she had brought with her and I heard the quiet hiss of a cane being lightly sliced through the air. In three quick movements she tapped my forearms with the tip of the cane and flicked it at the hem of my skirt. I waited no more than a second or two before the gestures were repeated, but this time with two slow sharp slaps of the cane on each forearm, followed by some insistent prodding with the cane at my skirt.

I received the message and the momentary change of position was a welcome relief as I reached back and tucked my skirt out of the way. As soon as I was exposed, however, the cane was back with its stinging taps jockeying me back into my former pose.

Then came the ominous, the queasy, stomach loosening sound of the cane being vigorously whipped through the air: an audible taunt and proclamation.

I felt the tip of the cane stroking the inside of my thighs, tracing the crease of my buttocks. More air cuts and slices and then shaft sliding gently to and fro between the lips of my sex, lubricated by my own dampness. The muscles in my arms, shoulders and legs began to shake with the tension of holding one position.

The sound coming of the cane slicing down and, Oh God, I felt the swirl of the air as it passed by, a tiny chilled droplet of my own juices flung out to kiss my flushed skin.

Then the gentle touch again tickling at that spot between the shoulder blades, where sensuous itches are produced to order to be wiped out in an orgy of scratching. I was beginning to shake all over, a cocktail of mixed tensions and releases. Two more close air strokes and the voice echoing inside, crying 'For God's sake, DO it' fought to be broadcast out.

As if in answer she took two quick steps back and with a smooth sliding step forward whipped the cane through a long, howling arc that ended squarely across both cheeks, shunting me hard into the end of the bed, my half cry strangled into a deep gutted grunt by the breath expelled on impact.

Even as I drew breath a second landed, then a third and fourth: each beautifully measured and smoothly delivered. Twenty seconds of perfection in pain delivery in which I floundered and gasped for air.

Again I felt the shaft of the cane insinuating itself in me, sliding slowly back and forth in a slick of my own making. I wriggled as the pleasures of the carefully applied pressure and easing coaxed the burning pain in my rear into the background.

She was bending over me, pulling my blouse off and removing my bra altogether, and as my own gasps came under control I heard her breathing, coming deeper and more ragged than before. Hands grasped my shoulders and kneaded out the muscle knots and I felt the waves of her breath push out in time with the deep push of the massage.

The grip of the massage was abruptly released and she unclipped and removed my skirt and freed me from the last embrace of my tights, to complete my nakedness. I felt her fingers probe deeply and I flexed my hips to the suggestion of satisfaction. She withdrew and changed to running her fingers over and around, feeling each part between thumb and fingers as if evaluating the sensuous feel of some fine material.

By now I was flushed,sweating and sinking in a sea of conflicting sensations. She responded by delicately wiping her fingers on my thigh and picking up the cane once more.

As the cane slapped at my arms and pushed at my hands, compelling me back into a taut stretch I moaned, not at the bite of the flicking rod, but at the overwhelming frustration deep, deep inside. Harder cuts on the inside of my thighs stretched me out further and further until I thought I'd split under the tension. My knees racked off the floor, lifting my butt off the foot of the bed, higher and more welcoming.

The cane stroked, encircled and caressed me: tapped once, twice, four times like the metronomic tapping of a finger on my back. I felt the four raw welts on my butt stretching and searing. Heard the quick dull sound of her footsteps moving back. The thud of her rapid step-jump back. Pulsating hiss in the air.

Something exploded behind me, on me: I tried to yell while replacing the breath knocked out as the force of the blow cannoned me into the end of the bed. All that emerged was an asthmatic whoop, choked off in its own turn by the exhalation as the cane sliced across my buttocks again.

Even as I gathered my breath to scream my head was tilted back by the tip of the cane under my chin and I froze, rabbit like, mesmerized. She held me while I steadied and then -- two sharp taps on my back dropped me back down and set the limits for me. Two more: two more while I clawed the bed-clothes and bit my lip to keep myself from howling at the fire and pain.

The curve of her hand glided over my rear, soaking away a fraction of the heat as it passed over. Her fingers touched me lightly below and released another torrent of sensation shuddering through me.

She pushed my briefs, folded into a pad, hard against my wet and open crotch and I pushed back instinctively, ignoring the jags of pain in my rear as the welts stretched and moved. With her other hand under me she eased me fully onto the bed and I cried out with the joy of relaxing my overstretched muscles, the pleasure of the insistent pressure below and the agony of my cuts twisting and moving.

She sat beside me as I lay prone, stroking and brushing my hair, running her hands over me, caressing and squeezing me intimately, driving the fog of sensations away in the clearing heat of rising excitement. I turned my head towards her and she delicately placed the hairbrush down in front of my nose. I stared wide eyed in disbelief. It couldn't be, no.

In a smoothly coordinated movement she pulled the damp pad of my briefs from under me, prised open my mouth with her other hand and stuffed them in. I gagged on my own aromatic tang and bit down hard to dampen off my tasting. Staring into the dark and private cave formed of folded arms, I forced myself to breathe steadily, communing with the close scents of my body as my near climax drained steadily away.

I felt the cold back of the hairbrush stroking the raw welts and the sweat prickled on my back. I felt the beautiful, tender caress of her fingers again and the sweat rose in drops, and seemed to boil. Her fingers probed deeper and deeper and the climatic waves roared back, my thighs trying to crush her hand to a pulp, my back arching in jerky motion.

The hairbrush landed square across the cane's tracery and I bit and screamed. The probing, squeezing interrogation between my legs rolled on remorselessly and a dreadful uncontrollable shuddering grew within me and cried for its freedom. Another howling outrage from the hairbrush set me kicking and jerking: another..another?

I don't know. I was lost in a hall of sensory mirrors, reflecting, distorting, unreal, until I broke through in a shattering, liberating eruption to some tranquil point beyond.

Her hand smoothed and caressed from head to toe but I viewed the actions from afar, felt the sensations only vicariously. The pain was someone else's: I had no body just thoughts adrift carried into a welcome oblivion on the dancing ripples of a stream of pleasure.

After the passage of an eternity or two I heard her come back into the room and I turned to face her, the bringer of these sensations.

"Well I'm off now, I'll see you next week."

I stretched, yawned and murmured lazily "Mmmmmmm, yes. And just you wait and see what I've got in store for *you*."

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This story continues with Interns 2

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