Summer Intern 2

I was 18 when it happened. After high school I had scored a great summer job at my dad's big office on an internship program they had for employees' children. At least it was supposed to be great. Actually I found life under florescent lights as boring as would any 18-year-old.

I had been a shy kid all through school and, in consequence, I was still a virgin. I thought I should be out trying to "get girls" (even though I still didn't really know how) rather than being cooped up in this stupid office.

Another minor detail about my virginity: I had a secret. It was a secret I had never revealed to anyone for fear of shame, humiliation, disgust. This was back before the internet--if I'd had the web back then I quickly would have found that I was not alone. But as it was, I to this day think I have some inkling what it might be like to grow up gay and in the closet, so great was my sexual desire, trumped only by my need to keep my preference secret. My deep dark secret? I liked fat chicks.

There was a woman in my dad's office that summer in whom I took a strong prurient interest. Her name (not her real name) was Linda Concepcion. Hispanic, maybe 35 years old--not more than 40--with long black hair that was something between curly and wavy, she was about 5'5" and could not have weighed a gram less than 200 pounds. And what pounds they were! I would guess, looking back, that she had a 44" bust and something above an F-cup. Her waist was probably 38 -- 40", a big, bountiful belly and generous love handles. And she was 50'' at the hips if she was an inch, with a ponderous teardrop shaped bottom. In short, she was a triple threat: A generally pear shaped woman with acres of ass and a bulging belly, but still managing to stack a well proportioned bust on that oh-so-lovely pedestal.

When she would sit down at my desk next to me to give me instructions in the spreadsheet software it would make me absolutely insane. Her trace of Spanish accent was musical and her perfume intoxicating, and periodically, when she really had to explain a particular entry, she had a habit of physically tapping that line-item on the screen, though this meant reaching past me to the monitor. Her shoulder would graze mine and she would be close enough that I could often feel errant strands of her hair graze against my face.

"You're listening, right?" she would sometimes ask, and even that couldn't snap me out of it because all I could think of was her enchanting accent. She had the faintest hint of that dialect of Spanish--what is it? Dominican? Puerto Rican?--that seems to turn 'y' into 'j': "Jou sure jou're getting all this?" I grew up in the southwest and was no stranger to Mexican accents, but this was different; this felt foreign, faraway, exotic.

When she would leave my desk I would be faced with an awful paradox. The boner she would leave me with was mystical, full, rock hard, tingling and itching to come. It was a boner I could never seem to reproduce at home at night in my bed, eyes closed trying to recreate the moment so I could jerk off. At home I almost always got a different boner: respectable, but lacking in the painful urgency that I so desperately wanted to relieve when Linda would depart from my presence at the office. The paradox? Before I could get up and go to the restroom I would have to let enough of the moment pass that I could at least get down to half-mast. I even thought about trying to stroke one off in my pants at my desk once but got cold feet. I wasn't sure how big of a mess it would make but it didn't seem worth the risk that it might seep visibly through my pants.

Then something strange started to happen. Linda started making extremely bold sexual advances at me. Or so it seemed. I recall clearly the first time it happened. It was a spreadsheet day, therefore also a boner day, and when she had finished showing me what was wrong with my entries she didn't stand up but instead remained seated beside me making small talk, asking about school, future plans, etc. But then we got to the subject of girls.

"You mean you've never had a girlfriend?" (Jou mean jou've never had a girlfrien?)

"Not really."

"Not really, what is that 'not really'? You've been on dates." (Jou've been on daiss.)

I shook my head.

"So you've never ...?"

She let the question hang there while my mind applied Occam's Razor. It didn't seem possible that this 35-ish female full-time employee was really inquiring about a male summer intern's virginity. But then there just didn't seem to be anything else the question could mean. What little ambiguity lay in her silent trailing off did not leave me with much wiggle room. If she was talking about what I thought she was talking about and I lied, claimed to be fully fledged as it were, she might need a story, a background, a who-what-where-when-why. (Well, okay, not 'why'.) I wasn't prepared to make up a story on the spot so I shook my head no and felt my face redden.

What she said next floored me, and still does to this day when I think about it. I was half-expecting some advice on how to be confident with girls but, instead, all she said was: "Too bad. One of these days me and you should go make whoopee in the ladies room." I'm sure my eyes widened in shock as I gaped across at her, stunned speechless. There was a twinkle in her eyes and a wry, knowing smile as she enjoyed my surprised confusion. She let the overture hang in the air exactly two beats before, back to business, "Here let me show you one last thing," pointing again at the screen. In her tone it was as though she'd said "just kidding."

But, as I was thinking about it later, I realized she never actually said "just kidding." That's what was bothering me. Was she serious? Or was it so obviously a joke that she didn't even feel the need to say "just kidding" because it was implied. Over time I (sadly) became more and more convinced it was the latter. Even the word she used, "whoopee," helped confirm it was a joke. If you're reading this 100 years from now, keep in mind that no one in the early 1990s called it "whoopee." Not seriously anyway. It was a way of sanitizing it; she made a dirty joke without using a dirty word. That was all.

But then it happened again. Maybe a week or two had passed and she checked on my status. "Still nothing?"

"Still nothing," I confirmed exasperatedly.

"Don't jou worry, one day we'll do the wild thing in an empty conference room." Here she put her hand on my knee, but only fleetingly, no squeeze, no suggestive move up the thigh. It was more like a friendly tap than anything else, and it occurred just as she got up to leave me riveted by the waggle of her gigantic heart-shaped ass as she strode across the office and out of sight, helpless to relieve my adamantine boner.

But I was still perplexed. "Wild thing" was about as tame and sanitary as "whoopee," and equally rare in the vernacular. It was as though Linda was going out of her way not to use an overtly sexual term. But why? Was this some elaborate CYA mechanism to defend against a sexual harassment lawsuit? I was more confused than ever. But on the upside, my nighttime boners were getting better. I was taking home great material.

Then one Friday the boss asked me to work the Monday of the would-be three-day 4th of July weekend: The IT department was pushing some kind of software patch and they wanted a skeleton crew--"just two or three people in each department," my boss said--just in case IT needed someone on the user end to run some tests. "Hate to do it to a summer intern but that's just how it worked out," my boss said. "Ms. Concepcion will be here too." He walked away.

"Ms. Concepcion" came by my desk almost immediately and--all business, not a trace of flirt--asked me if actually I wouldn't mind coming in an hour early that day, she had some things to go over with me.

Boy did she ever.

She was dressed to kill that morning in a simple white front-buttoning blouse and nice high-waisted, thigh-hugging charcoal pinstripe skirt that flattered her faint hourglass shape. It didn't occur to me at the time how unusual it was for her to be dressed to the nines on a day the office wasn't open for business. I was too busy fantasizing. My pulse quickened as I tried to imagine what those boobs, that belly, that big butt would look like, let alone feel like against my naked skin. Again, this was before the internet: I had grown up in a sheltered environment and had been, until very recently, too young to go to a porn store, so all the porn I got consisted of the odd Playboy, Penthouse or Hustler magazine I would get from a friend who'd swiped it from an older brother or something. And in those publications all the women were skinny. I literally had no idea what a nude fat woman would look like--but I was eager to find out.

It was more of the same again, her seated beside me, more maddeningly enchanting than ever, fresh from her morning shower when the perfume is the strongest and it mingles with the fainter scent of shampoo. As usual, she was pointing at the screen, I was nodding while not hearing a thing, and my boner was in rarest form.

After she finished explaining about the software patch, she settled back in her seat and said "I hope you finally got some fireworks for the 4th." And again, the "finally," and the brief hesitation before, and euphemistic vocal inflection on, the word "fireworks" were all I had to distinguish this comment from friendly but entirely sexless office chit-chat.

"No." I said, and then, absented-mindedly, added "not that kind."

"Well don't worry. Today is jour lucky day. This big mamacíta's gonna take you in the bathroom and pop your cherry."

All I could think to say--or, rather, what I said without really thinking--was: "Are you serious?"

Whereupon she rose from her seat without a word and extended her hand. I took it and she started moving briskly toward the hall with me in tow. I was concerned lest we encounter anyone in the hall; at this point I could not possibly conceal my boner, which was making a comical tent of my pleat-fronted Dockers. But we made it undetected.

She pushed open the door to the ladies room which still bore the fresh disinfectant scent of the Sunday night cleaning crew's efforts. It was obviously empty--the light was governed by a motion detector, and flickered to life as we came in. We went to one of the middle stalls (to this day I'm not sure why she didn't choose the more spacious handicapped stall) and she put her hands on my shoulders and positioned me with my back to the toilet.

"I would leave your underpants on so you're not sitting directly on the toilet, but here," grasping and unfastening my belt buckle with a slightly indelicate jerk "you should pull your pants down, otherwise they're gonna get really wet from my pussy." She smiled at this and bit her lower lip, blushing a bit at her own brashness, eyes all a naughty twinkle. "You'll be smelling like me all day." Something very strange happened when she said that. The reality of it all, the matter-of-fact way in which she implied the imminence of what was about to happen, that I was no-shit-for-real about to get "wet from her pussy"--my cock actually flagged a little, my dick had cold feet! But then she pulled my tightish pants down to my ankles, describing the leg chains used to transport prisoners, and she sat me down brusquely on the toilet; the plastic seat felt cold through the thin cotton layer of my boxers.

She reached down and shimmied her skirt up over her lush full hips. Doing a quarter turn--no doubt to give me a better view--she hitched her thumbs into waistband of her pantyhose an slid them slowly down her thick thighs, revealing, in the process, her giant ass now clad only in satiny white panties. Her ass was so big, so round, as she bent over I just wanted to fall to my knees in a posture of worship, throw my arms around her mighty hips and press my face against one great pillowy buttock.

In a maneuver that I missed she had somehow managed to get her pantyhose off and had stepped back into her shoes. She hung the hose from a hook on the back of the stall door before repeating the procedure with her panties, lowering them slowly (again, probably for my benefit) to reveal her sprawling brown bottom. At this point I'm pretty sure a small globule of pre-come had already formed at the tip of my boner. This was the first time I had ever seen woman's bare ass in person, the first time I had seen a bare fat ass at all. I had never been hornier in my life.

She let her skirt fall back down and then turned toward me in all my tumescent expectancy and looked me up and down as though re-examining a purchase she'd just brought home from the store and finding it to her liking.

Later experience would teach me how unusual it is to have so little foreplay. In fact we had absolutely none. But it makes sense. My 18-year-old virgin boner was hardly in need of a fluffing--indeed, probably wouldn't have survived one. And she was pretty worked up herself.

She moved in toward me until in a straddle position (so close!) and then instructed me: "Here, push your penis down, forward, like this." I obeyed; she was managing the logistics of this operation. Then she lowered herself further, steadying her stance with her hands on my shoulders. "Okay," she said, and I released my cock to spring up and find a bristly ceiling of pubic hair and warm skin.

She started gliding slowly back and forth, back and forth, her big bloused boobs in and out of my face in hypnotic rhythm, as she gradually but methodically shared her vagina's escaping moisture with the tip of my cock. Then, on what was maybe the fifth or sixth stroke, my now-lubed head popped up and caught something, a bit of outer labia. Instinctively I pressed, forward but she continued her teasing strokes. My shaft was beginning to collect her moisture. I it happened three or four more times, my head catching outer labia, and I began thinking: "So this is sex. Hmm."

But it wasn't.

It was on the fifth or sixth stroke I found myself plunged past her inner labia as she admitted about half my cock into her vagina. I remember it popping in suddenly, unexpectedly, and the experience was as startlingly different from the partial penetration I had seconds before mistaken for sex as dynamite is from a fire cracker. I literally gasped, surprised at the power of the ecstatic waves rippling through my body down to my toes. I was going to come.

But she pulled up for one more pre-stroke and, this time came all the way down on my shaft, fully immersing it in all her tight warm wetness. Somehow this actually helped; the threat of immediate orgasm and shameful two-pump-chump status passed, and she began a gentle rhythmic ride.

I think I said "Oh my god" and let my head fall back and my eyes close, barely aware of the cold hard chrome fixture poking into my arched spine. When I opened my eyes she was looking right into them, her own eyes gleaming above her flushed cheeks.

"See?" she whispered. "We're fucking."

Something about the throaty resonance of the word "fucking," or maybe something about the simple declarative announcement of what was happening (she was right--we were! I was! ohmygod!) prompted my second come alert. Fortunately it proved a false alarm or, more accurately, I took evasive maneuvers, promptly closing my eyes again and trying to think of something else and ended up thinking about how difficult it was to think of anything else--but it worked; I managed another delay. That was about 15 seconds in.

I threw my arms around her and began nuzzling futilely against her breasts, doubly protected by blouse and bra, while my hands explored the warm round jiggle of her huge soft ass. Responding, she freed a hand and deftly unfastened three or four blouse buttons, enough to enable her to scoop out her left breast, which was easily bigger than my entire head. Her areola was a deep chocolaty brown and probably the circumference of a tea saucer. I took as much of it into my mouth as could and this sent a whole new wave of ecstasy through me.

"Yes," she moaned. "Suck my titty like a baby." I obeyed happily but now confronted yet a third come alert. I tried to think of an actual baby, a crying infant in a diaper. It worked: I was three for three. This was about 30 seconds in.

She modified her stroke, backing up a bit and I caught a glimpse of my cock disappear into the pubic fold under the lower crescent of her luscious round belly, reappear, disappear, reappear. I closed my eyes and fought off another one, number four. It was about 45 seconds.

She changed her stroke again, something higher than before and I suddenly gave into an urge to grab her ass and thrust vigorously, almost frantically. "Yeah baby," she said approvingly, her own eyes closed now as she answered my hug by moving closer in. We were fucking hard and fast now, for maybe a dozen strokes as my hands moved up her hips, found her love handles.

Then something started happening I wasn't going to be able to stop. Suddenly my legs were sticking straight out in front of me, pants still pathetically bunched at my ankles. I stopped thrusting and pulled her in close in a big bear hug, my face pressed to her breasts. An almost unfamiliar ecstatic warmth began radiating from my core out to my toes again--I recognized it as the sensation that preceded my first orgasm all those many years ago.

Head back, I opened my eyes and once more she was looking straight into them. Her mouth hung breathily open in an unspoken 'O', her eyes had a focused intensity, like she was looking right through me. Then she said: "Are you going to climax, Baby?'

My God, the way this woman talked! Was it an ESL thing? I mean: who says that? In the lingo, among my friends, in the magazines, everyone said "come" (sometimes spelled "cum"). The word "climax" had that strange, dated, and sterilizing ring of euphemism that suggested nothing so much as a middle school sex education textbook. Also, it seemed unmanly somehow: Girls have climaxes; guys come. But maybe for that very reason--because I wasn't anesthetized to it by frequency of use--the word rang in my head became extremely real to me, pushed me over the edge. And I climaxed.

I was suddenly frozen except for the automatic motion of my hands on her ass pulling her hard against me and the involuntary pelvic thrust of my cock trying to find her cervix. She pressed her face to mine and--oddly for the first time--kissed me, her warm tongue engaging mine, and just then came a quivering, shuddering release as I expelled a geyser of semen high into her vagina. It was the longest, most powerful orgasm of my life, as jets of semen streamed out of me, the first few in a near-continuous flow, and the contractions continued until well after I was empty, as though my body was trying to wring out every last drop.

I can't be certain, but I'd like to think I hit the 60 second mark.

I was spent, although it had only been a minute's labors, and I leaned back against the cool tile and shut my eyes. She stood up and said: "There. You're not a virgin anymore." I smiled. "Are you too sensitive for me to clean you up?" She didn't wait for an answer and I did gasp when I first felt her tongue on my still buzzing shaft, but then I managed to relax until she was done. I closed my eyes again and heard her doing something with the toilet paper. I decided I'd just sit still for a moment.

When I opened my eyes, she was smiling down at me, holding a wadded up tissue. "I need to flush this. Boy, you came a lot!" I spread my legs slightly so she could drop the tissue in the toilet and just then noticed my boxers were soaking wet. "You were right," I said. "I got really wet from your pussy." She smiled brightly. "I hope you don't mind I took your flower."