She'd been warned when she signed on for the internship. Her classmates had warned her away with unfathomable looks and cryptic words, but she'd persisted, knowing that the recommendations she'd receive at the end of the summer would "make" her career for the next five years. After an extensive set of interviews with the recruiter, as well as lengthy and she thought, rather intrusive, questionnaires, she'd sat before the Director for a final conversation prior to signing the agreement that would, in the Director's words, "bind her in service for the summer."
An odd choice of words, that.
Ms. Harwood's mouth was pinched in a rather thin line. She was an older woman, slender and strict, her tone brooking absolutely no nonsense.
"Our clients have rather exotic tastes, my dear. You'll be expected to be ready to do anything, within the limits we've discussed, to keep them entertained.
"Make no mistake. You will not be devalued. On the contrary, you will be treasured...a prized piece of performance art...a very expensive playtoy, designed to bring hours of entertainment and pleasure...
"But you will be objectified...your will, your desires, your memories, your very self will be irrelevant, except as it brings amusement and satisfaction to our clients."
The contract was before her, a pen placed in her shaking hand. Her eyes had darkened, liquefied, torment swirling in their depths, but she'd signed the contract without hesitation. And now, she was standing nude before a roomful of clients, eight or ten of them, sipping wine and chatting among themselves while keeping one eye on her.
"She is lovely, isn't she?" Ms. Harwood's cool elegant hand lifted her chin, so all could feast on her flaming cheeks, her eyes snapping from person to person. The gazes in return were dispassionate, impersonal, and slightly sinister.
Her trembling became visible as Ms. Harwood lifted a nightstick, about an inch and a half in diameter, made of round, hard, smooth wood.
"For very light use, using extreme caution," the older woman's flat voice intoned to the gathering. It is a heavy instrument designed for 'day-after' tenderness and bruising..."
And with that, Her arm began to move, the nightstick whistling in to strike buttocks, backs of thighs. The strokes were light, measured, controlled...delicious and petrifying. She cried out and buckled as the thudding seemed bone-deep at times.
On a particularly heavy stroke to her hamstring, her knees buckled, soft weepy sounds filling the room. The group shifted forward in their chairs as two men approached her with a nod to Ms. Harwood.
They worked the shaft of the nightstick between her legs, nestling between her slick outer lips. One man positioned himself in front, the other behind, each holding one end of the nightstick. Holding it parallel to the ground, they began to rise, holding her taut, spread over it. She scrambled to her knees, then her feet, until she stood on tiptoe, crying out as her weight put enormous pressure on that tender pink inner flesh...inner lips, the nub pressed back under its hood...the wood biting into her flesh.
Ms. Harwood's voice was the only thing audible besides her cries. "Hold the bar above your head, girl, if you don't want to fall."
Blindly she grabbed for the overhead bar, just in time for the two men to lift her off her feet, suspended by her hands gripping overhead, and the pressure of the nightstick against her weeping sex, her legs helplessly swinging on either side.
