Gap Year Internship
Copyright© 2026 by Plumbr
Chapter 1
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 1 - Book 5 of "The Year She Looked Nineteen," Claire's Age 18 Gap Year prior to attending the university.
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Mult Consensual Drunk/Drugged Reluctant Romantic Heterosexual Fiction Farming Workplace Uncle Niece Humiliation Rough Group Sex Interracial Black Male White Female Hispanic Male Indian Male Cream Pie Oral Sex Squirting Voyeurism Big Breasts Prostitution
The Year She Looked Nineteen (Already a Whore Prologue)
A Claire Hammer Story
Book 5—Gap Internship: Ancillary Benefits
By Plumbr
By the summer of 2004, I was already eighteen since last September and had a few months to kill before starting at Manchester Metropolitan University.
I was back after a cut-short three months in Senegal that I’d began immediately after graduating from Parrs Wood sixth form, and back from the ineffective counselling afterwards [See Gap Year Senegal Mission Trip], and supposedly back to being sensible.
Dad had other ideas about how to keep me occupied.
His golfing mate was Aunt Hannah’s husband, and Mum’s ultimate boss once you reach the top of the ladder: Uncle Vincent. Vincent Hargreaves, my cousin Sophie’s father, had arranged an internship for me at his Manchester law firm, while Sophie went on to the University of Manchester after graduating from MHSG.
Sophie and I had gone from rivals to best friends at Manchester High School for Girls, before my pregnancy and everything around it pushed me out of the school where, in another life, everyone expected me to end up Head Girl.
The derailments had a pattern. Couldn’t stay at MHSG, so I went to Parrs Wood. University of Manchester withdrew their offer, so Manchester Metropolitan University. On my first morning, I wore charcoal trousers and one of Mum’s blouses. It was too large across the shoulders and still managed to pull in the wrong places. Mum and I were not built remotely alike. If a blouse fitted my shoulders, the buttons became an engineering problem.
I had given most of my clothes to charity before leaving for the Senegal mission trip. I only had West African workwear (Lara Croft, eat your heart out... ) and the photoshoot apparel from the few weeks before I went abroad.
The platinum was back. Senegal’s sloppy, dark roots had disappeared under a fresh bleaching, and with the glasses on I almost looked like the sort of girl Dad imagined he had sent to a solicitor’s office.
I caught myself in the lift mirror.
Good intern, I warned my reflection. For once, just be the good intern.
Mr Hargreaves met me by reception. He was enormous beside me, six-foot-five, broad-shouldered, with the sort of physical presence that made every doorway look undersized. Probably why he married one of the tall Mercer girls. His wedding ring flashed when he held out a hand.
“Morning, Claire.”
“Good morning, Mr Hargreaves.”
He smiled. “Uncle Vincent in the office is fine, if you can manage it. ‘Mr Hargreaves’ makes me feel ancient.”
“Sophie calls you ancient.”
That made him laugh, and for the first few minutes he was exactly who Sophie had always said he was: her embarrassing but fundamentally safe father. He married Aunt Hannah, though, so he pretty already knew everything there was to know about me.
The conference room smelled of coffee, warm photocopier paper and printer toner. Six solicitors sat around a polished table. Vincent introduced me without jokes about my age, clothes or appearance.
“Claire’s with us for a few weeks before she starts at MMU. She’s here to observe, take notes and learn. Don’t mistake ‘intern’ for ‘tea girl’. Her exam results are better than most of ours were. Probably all of ours were.”
That produced a few smiles. One man did not smile.
Daniel Hartley sat nearest the window. Black, mid-twenties, immaculate suit, sharp Manchester accent when he finally spoke. “Four As at A-level don’t make you a solicitor.”
He was right, which was irritating. I had always found being underestimated easier than being accurately assessed.
“No,” I said before Uncle Vincent could answer. “That’s why I’m the intern.”
Daniel looked at me properly for the first time.
Not admiration. Not quite contempt either. Assessment.
That, strangely, was easier to deal with than being stared at.
The first day was disappointingly ordinary, which was exactly what I needed. I photocopied a bundle badly, learned the firm’s filing conventions, mistook an internal extension for a client reference, and spent forty minutes repairing the error.
No one died. No one called my parents. No one sent a letter about me to the UoM Admissions Tutor.
On the second day, Uncle Vincent gave me a stack of correspondence connected with a Gibraltar matter and told me to make a chronology.
NorthSea Energy appeared in three different sets of papers, alongside a proposed transaction involving a Gibraltar company and Spanish interests across the border.
It was dull enough that I loved it.
Dates. Clauses. Cross-references. Things that either agreed or did not. Problems that did not care what I looked like.
At half past four Daniel stopped beside my desk. “Why have you marked these?”
“The dates don’t agree.”
“They’re three days apart.”
“Yes.”
“Well, that can happen.”
“Not if this letter is responding to a filing that, according to the earlier letter, hadn’t been made yet.”
He took the pages from me and read them twice. “Who told you to look for that?”
“No one.”
“Then why did you?”
“Because the dates didn’t agree.”
For a second I thought he might laugh. Instead he carried the papers into Uncle Vincent’s office.
Ten minutes later they called me in.
Uncle Vincent tapped the chronology. “Your Aunt Hannah always said you were clever.”
“Aunt Hannah usually said I was unbearable.”
“She said that as well.”
Daniel remained standing. “It may be nothing.”
“It may,” I said. “But if the Spanish side is waiting on the Gibraltar filing window, the delay changes the leverage on the indemnity clause.”
Daniel’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve read the underlying brief?”
“You left it on my desk.”
“I left it there for you to file.”
“I filed it after I read it.”
Uncle Vincent laughed.
Daniel did not, but something in his face changed.
There. The precocious Claire. Still here. Still useful.
The week acquired a rhythm. I arrived early. I learned which secretary could rescue a mangled fax and which partner would talk for twenty minutes if you asked a question that required two. I proofread letters. I found a duplicated figure in a schedule. I translated a short French email no one had expected me to understand. Daniel corrected me twice and, on the third occasion, admitted I was right. The internship wasn’t all nepotism.
A triumph. Alert the Manchester Evening News. It should not have mattered as much as it did.
I had spent years being noticed before I opened my mouth. Daniel was the first person in the office who seemed determined to decide what I was only after I had.
On Friday Uncle Vincent put the Gibraltar file on my desk. “Pack a bag for Monday.”
I looked up. “Why?”
“Because you found the timing problem and Ruiz is going to ask about it. You should see what happens to something you spotted once grown-ups start charging money to argue about it.”
Daniel stood in the doorway, frowning. “She’s never sat through a client negotiation.”
“Then this will be her first,” Uncle Vincent stated. “Ruiz is a fucking shark, excuse my French...”
“That’s not French,” I looked from one to the other. “But I can stay quiet.”
Daniel said, “That remains to be seen.” But there was the smallest movement at the corner of his mouth.
Uncle Vincent looked thoughtful. “Maybe your marks in French will cross over into Spanish here.”
That’s not how languages worked, but I went home absurdly proud. Gibraltar wasn’t a reward for being decorative. I had earned the trip.
The private flight was the first hint that the rules might be less clean than the paperwork.
Daniel tapped at the trackpad of one of the firm’s white Apple iBooks beside Uncle Vincent, while I reread the file behind them. Sophie and I owned the exact same laptops at home.
Vincent asked twice whether I had brought something suitable for dinner with Javier Ruiz.
“A dress.”
“Professional?”
“That was the idea.”
“Good.” He hesitated. “Ruiz is old-fashioned. Very social. Don’t let him throw you.”
Daniel looked over the top of the screen. “That’s one way of putting it.”
“What’s the other?” I asked.
Neither answered.
Gibraltar hit me as heat, sea air, traffic and limestone. The business district felt simultaneously British and not-British: familiar signs and voices against a Mediterranean sky. By the time we reached the hotel, I was tired enough to stop wondering what Daniel had meant.
My very first autograph happened in Gibraltar.
I had gone downstairs for coffee because Daniel had developed the solicitor’s peculiar conviction that caffeine constituted breakfast.
I was coming back through the hotel lobby with two paper cups balanced in one hand and the NorthSea chronology tucked under my arm when a man near reception stared at me.
Not the ordinary stare. I knew the ordinary stare.
This was recognition.
He looked at my face, looked away, then looked back. “Sorry,” he said. “Are you Scarlett?”
I nearly dropped Daniel’s coffee.
Six months ago Scarlett hadn’t existed. She had been a name I used online after Jamal and the other lads at Parrs Wood called me that to make fun of the scarlet flush on my face, neck, and chest whenever I got embarrassed or excited.
Now apparently ScarlettHammerXX had reached Gibraltar before Claire had.
I adjusted my glasses. “I might be.”
His grin was instantaneous. “I bloody knew it.”
“Shhh!”
That made him laugh.
He was perhaps in his thirties. Brown Asian-UK. Probably of Pakistani descent. Expensively casual. No wedding ring, although by then, I’d learned that absence proved remarkably little.
“I saw you in—”
“Yes, I know where you saw me.”
Christ.
OnlyFans.
Four A-levels, years of piano, French good enough to get me through Senegal, and a week spent finding mistakes in documents prepared by people who billed by the hour.
He knew me from my OnlyFans account.
I hated how much I liked that.
I was wearing glasses, a blouse and skirt and carrying enough legal paperwork to destroy a medium-sized company, and somebody had still recognised me from my subscription fuck videos.
There was something perversely gratifying about that.
“Could I get your autograph?”
I actually looked behind me. “Mine?”
He laughed again. “Unless there’s another Scarlett standing there.”
There wasn’t.
“Well.” I shifted the coffees. “Obviously.”
He had a biro but nothing sensible for me to sign. Eventually he grabbed one of the hotel’s little cards from reception and handed it to me.
I put Daniel’s coffee down.
Scarlett Hammer
----
I added the kisses deliberately.
He stared at them.
Then at me.
I looked at him looking at me.
I knew that look too.
OnlyFans girl.
ScarlettHammerXX.
Available.
I should probably have been offended.
Instead I found myself thinking that he had lovely forearms and that I wanted them pinned somewhere while he used my mouth.
“Are you staying here?” I asked.
His eyebrows rose. “Yes.”
“Alone?”
His grin returned.
Oh, for fuck’s sake, Claire.
Somewhere upstairs there was an indemnity clause waiting for me. Daniel was waiting for his coffee. Uncle Vincent had brought me to Gibraltar to demonstrate that inviting me hadn’t been an act of temporary insanity.
I looked at the stranger again.
Then at the lift.
Good intern. Bugger that.
“Which floor?”
His room was on the seventh.
The door had barely clicked shut before he had me against it. One hand braced beside my head, the other already under my skirt, fingers sliding straight between my thighs. I was wet enough that two of them pushed inside with almost no resistance. He curled them and I made a small, involuntary sound against his mouth.
“Fuck,” he muttered. “You actually do it. You actually fuck the people who recognise you.”
“Only the big Brown or Black ones with nice arms,” I said, and shoved him toward the bed.
I dropped to my knees before he finished sitting down. His cock was already hard when I got it out, thick, cut, the head shiny with precum. I didn’t bother with teasing. I took him straight to the back of my throat in one continuous slide, eyes watering, nose pressed to his stomach. He groaned like he’d been punched.
I stayed there, throat working around him, until the need for air forced me up. A thick string of spit connected my bottom lip to the head of his cock. I spat on it deliberately, stroked the wetness down the shaft, then opened my mouth and took him again, slower this time, letting him feel every inch of tongue and the tight ring of my throat.
He gathered my bleached hair into one fist and held my head still. Then he started fucking my mouth properly, short, deep thrusts that made wet, choked sounds every time he bottomed out.
Spit ran down my chin and dripped onto my blouse. My glasses slipped halfway down my nose. I didn’t fix them. I just looked up at him through the lenses while he used my throat.
“Look at you,” he said, voice rough. “OnlyFans slut on her knees in an overseas hotel room, glasses still on, taking it like she gets paid for it. You love this, don’t you?”
I moaned around him. The degradation went straight between my legs. I reached under my skirt and rubbed my clit through my knickers while he kept thrusting into my mouth.
He pulled out suddenly, slapped the wet length of his cock against my cheek twice, then shoved it back in. The second time he held me down longer. My eyes streamed. When he finally let me up I was gasping, chin shiny, mascara already wrecked.
“Turn around,” he said.
I did. He pushed my skirt up over my hips, yanked my knickers to one side, and pushed the head of his cock against my entrance. One hard thrust and he was buried to the hilt. I made a broken noise into the duvet. He didn’t give me time to adjust, just started fucking me in long, deep strokes that made the wet sound of skin on skin fill the room.
One hand stayed on my hip. The other reached around and found my clit again, rubbing in tight circles while he pounded into me. I came hard and fast, clenching around him, thighs shaking. He didn’t slow down. If anything he fucked me harder through it, chasing his own.
When he pulled out it was sudden. He flipped me onto my back, straddled my chest, and pushed his cock between my tits. I pressed them together for him while he fucked the soft space, the head of his cock repeatedly hitting my chin and lower lip. Spit and precum made everything slick.
“Open,” he ordered.
I did. He fed the head back into my mouth and came almost immediately, thick, hot pulses that flooded my tongue and the back of my throat. I swallowed what I could. There was too much. He pulled out while he was still coming and painted the rest across my cheek, the bridge of my nose, and the lenses of my glasses. A few drops landed on my open mouth. I licked them off without thinking.
We stayed like that for a few seconds: him catching his breath above me, me lying there with come cooling on my face and glasses, skirt still rucked up around my waist, knickers twisted to one side.
I sat up eventually, wiped the worst of it from my eyes with the back of my hand, and looked at him.
“Autograph was free,” I said. “That one cost you a coffee.”
He laughed, still half-hard, still staring at the state of me.
I didn’t clean up.
Daniel’s first coffee was stone cold by the time I retrieved it.
I poured it away and bought another.
Thirty-seven minutes.
That wasn’t even particularly bad.
I hurried towards the lift, smoothing my skirt with one hand and attempting to repair my hair with the other.
The doors opened.
Mirror. I stopped. “Oh, bloody hell.”
My glasses were crooked and smeared. My lipstick had largely ceased to exist. My freshly bleached hair had acquired a distinctly post-hurricane quality around one side. And there, high on my right cheek and across the lenses, were drying streaks of white that I had somehow missed in the dark of the corridor.
I repaired what I could while the lift climbed.
Good intern, I told my reflection.
The reflection looked extremely pleased with herself. “Don’t start.”
The doors opened.
Daniel was reading when I entered the conference room.
“I brought your coffee.”
No response.
“Daniel?”
He looked up. His expression changed. Not dramatically. Daniel didn’t really do dramatically.
His eyes went to my hair.
My glasses.
My mouth.
Then stopped on my cheek.
He stared.
I smiled. “What?”
Daniel closed his eyes.
“What?”
He opened them. “Claire.” There was something about his voice.
I put down the coffee. “What?”
He reached into his pocket, removed a handkerchief and held it towards me.
I looked at it. Then at him. Then back at it.
“What am I supposed to—”
He pointed vaguely at his own cheek.
My hand flew to mine. Something was there.
Oh. Oh, God.
I snatched the handkerchief and wiped my face. “Why didn’t he tell me?”
Daniel’s face became completely blank.
I stopped. Perhaps that had been the wrong thing to say.
“Is it gone?”
“I am not participating in this conversation.”
“Daniel.”
“No.”
“Is. It. Gone?”
He looked despite himself. “Almost.”
“Almost?”
He pointed.
I scrubbed harder. “There?”
“Yes.”
I looked at the handkerchief and immediately wished I hadn’t. Thick, drying, unmistakable. “Oh, that’s disgusting.”
Daniel pushed his coffee several inches farther away from me.
I burst out laughing. I couldn’t help it.
The harder I tried to stop, the worse it became.
Daniel stared at me. “This is funny?”
I was still laughing. “Clearly. He wanted my autograph.”
That did it.
Daniel stared at me. “What?”
“My autograph.”
“Why?”
I stopped laughing. That was actually offensive. “Because I’m famous.”
“You are not famous.”
“He recognised me.”
Daniel frowned. Then comprehension arrived. “Oh.”
“Yes, oh.”
“Your porn...”
“OnlyFans,” I said grandly.
“And then?”
I smiled.
Daniel looked at the handkerchief.
Then at me.
Then at the clock. “No.”
“What?”
“No. I don’t want to know.”
“You asked.”
“I’ve reconsidered.”
I dropped into the chair opposite him. He checked the clock again. “You were gone thirty-seven minutes.”
“There was a queue.”
“There wasn’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I came through the lobby twenty minutes ago.”
Bollocks.
I opened the NorthSea file. “I was signing an autograph.”
“For thirty-seven minutes?”
“He was a very enthusiastic fan.”
Daniel rubbed both hands over his face.
I grinned. “Are you jealous?”
His hands dropped. “No.”
“You hesitated.”
“I was attempting to decide which answer would make you stop talking.”
“Jealous.”
“Clause seven, Claire.”
I looked down at the agreement. “You’re no fun.”
“I came to Gibraltar to work,” he said.
“So did I.”
Daniel looked pointedly at my hair, then at the stained handkerchief still in my hand.
“I worked very hard,” I added.
“Clause seven.”
I kicked him under the table. Not hard.
He looked down at his trouser leg. Then at me. “Did you just kick me?”
“No.”
“You did.”
“Prove it.”
For perhaps three seconds we stared at each other.
Then Daniel laughed.
It was the first time I’d heard him properly laugh.
Not the polite little breath through the nose solicitors used when clients attempted jokes. A real laugh.
It transformed his face.
“There,” I said triumphantly. “You’re human.”
“I wouldn’t go that far.” He pushed the marked-up agreement towards me. “Clause seven.”
I took the papers, still tasting salt at the back of my throat, still feeling the ghost of a stranger’s hand in my hair and the residual slickness between my thighs.
Good intern.
I picked up my pen. “Fine.”
“Preferably without disappearing again.”
“No promises.”
“Claire.”
“Fine.”
I bent over the agreement.
Daniel went back to his notes.
Halfway through the second paragraph, something bothered me.
I read it again. Then once more.
Six words. I circled them.
“Daniel.”
“What now?”
“This.”
He leaned across. His amusement disappeared.
He read the sentence again. “Bloody hell.”
“Exactly.”
He took the agreement from me and compared it with the earlier draft.
I sat back, enormously pleased with myself.
Daniel looked from the papers to me.
Then, despite himself, towards the handkerchief I’d abandoned on the table. “Thirty-seven minutes.”
“What?”
He returned to the agreement. “Apparently that’s all the time you require to disgrace the profession and correct its paperwork.”
“I’m not actually a member of the profession.”
“Thank Christ for that.”
I stole his coffee. “Get your own.”
“Mine went cold.”
“I wonder how.” I drank anyway.
Daniel shook his head and returned to clause seven.
I picked up my pen.
There was still an entire afternoon of work before dinner.
At the mirror that evening, I changed twice before settling on this dress. Professional on the hanger was not necessarily professional on me. The only dresses I owned were three evening gowns/party dresses I’d bought for my videos. I had spent the week proving I had a brain, and now I was standing sideways wondering whether the same people expected something from my body as well.
Those things did not feel mutually exclusive.
That should probably have worried me more than it did.
Mr Ruiz was already talking when I reached the table. He was older than Uncle Vincent, confident in the effortless way of men accustomed to having everyone wait for them to finish. His attention shifted to me immediately.
“This is Claire,” Uncle Vincent said. “Our intern. She’s the one who spotted the filing discrepancy.”
That introduction mattered. For perhaps thirty seconds I was not decoration. I was the reason a page in Mr Ruiz’s file had a yellow tab on it.
Then the tone changed.
“Welcome to Spain.”
“Gibraltar’s British.”
He stared at me. “What?”
“British Overseas Territory. You’d think someone doing business here would know that.”
That was probably not the sensible thing to say.
Mr Ruiz became overly familiar. He questioned my age, joked about what ‘intern’ meant, and treated my presence as though Uncle Vincent had brought an additional inducement to dinner.
Uncle Vincent tried to correct him without quite offending him.
Daniel repeatedly dragged the conversation back to the transaction.
I should have stayed silent. Instead, when Daniel mentioned Simon Croft’s numbers, I heard myself speak.
“The Gibraltar filing window closes on the fourteenth. If the Spanish side is already hedging, the delay is deliberate. They’re waiting to see whether the Gibraltar side will blink first on the environmental indemnity clause. Croft’s numbers assume a clean filing. They shouldn’t.”
Daniel’s mouth opened slightly. Uncle Vincent’s eyebrows rose.
There. Again. Claire Hammer, the clever one.
Daniel didn’t react. He just slid the NorthSea folder across the table toward me. “Show him.”
Two words. But this time Daniel wasn’t asking the intern to fetch something.
He was asking me to explain it.
There. Still here. Still useful. Still me.
Mr Ruiz smiled wider. “The intern has been reading the briefs.”
He didn’t look at Daniel. “You know what, don’t call Simon.”
His hand left the back of the chair and disappeared under the table. Warm, heavy fingers settled on my thigh, just above the knee, then slid higher.
When he touched me, I froze. Heat flooded between my legs in the same thick, familiar rush it had done since I was fourteen and a half. My cunt was already slick from my earlier rendezvous, already opening the way it had learned to open for thicker, longer things. I felt the automatic urge to reach back and push whatever he left inside me deeper, the same ritual I had practised for years in front of the mirror and later in the equipment shed. The shock was still there, but it was only in my head. My body had stopped being shocked a long time ago.
Don’t move. Don’t push him away. Just sit still while the grown man decides.
His fingers found the edge of my panties and tugged them aside.
The air hit my shaved vulva for a second before his skin did. He dragged one thick fingertip through the slick folds, catching the tiny titanium ring piercing my clit hood, my old silver purity ring threaded onto it after I left Senegal.
He grinned when he felt how slick I already was. The wet sound was soft but unmistakable under the table, slick, sticky little clicks as he rubbed. He tugged the ring just enough to make my thighs twitch. A thin string of clear fluid stretched from my hole to his knuckle and snapped.
The ring that once sat on my finger as a promise now clicks against a stranger’s skin while he uses me in public. Senegal didn’t save me. It just moved the jewellery lower.
When he tried to push a finger inside I put my hand over his and tried to hold him back. My cunt was already dripping and loose from years of this. The first knuckle slid in with almost no resistance.
Loose. Of course it’s loose. The pregnancy was five years behind me and my poor cunt never went back to tight. It only learned to open faster.
Daniel cracked a joke about something on the spreadsheet.
Mr Ruiz chuckled and forced the rest of his finger in. I gasped.
My cunt gaped around it, flooding his hand with warm, thick grool that ran down his palm and dripped onto the chair between my legs. The shame that rose was theatrical and familiar, the same flavour that had filled the changing rooms years earlier and, more recently, followed me all the way to Senegal, when the pregnancy test finally showed negative.
He’s inside me. At the table. In front of everyone. Catalogue it. Thickness. Temperature. Angle of the wrist. The way the purity ring clicks against his knuckle. Clinical. Detached. The only way to stay present. And even the measuring is a performance. Even the detachment is a kind of drama.
Uncle Vincent looked across at me. His eyes narrowed slightly, as if he could tell something was happening but couldn’t place what.
I stood up so fast my breasts bounced hard enough that the dress fabric rasped over my nipples.
“Excuse me. I need the bathroom.”
I left without looking at any of them. A wet spot the size of a fifty-pence piece stayed on the seat.
I did not go to the bathroom. I went straight to my room.
The humiliation was not that Mr Ruiz had desired me. Desire was ordinary. The humiliation was that I had come to Gibraltar because I had found something in a file and somehow, within an hour, the room had begun treating those two facts—my usefulness and my appearance—as parts of the same negotiation.
What Mr Ruiz had done under the table was different. I hadn’t invited that. What I chose afterward didn’t travel backwards through time and give him permission he hadn’t had.
I understood that perfectly well.
I also understood that wanting him afterward didn’t contradict it.
But now I knew something else.
ScarlettHammerXX had value outside a camera studio.
Uncle Vincent apparently knew it too.
When Uncle Vincent knocked, I almost did not answer.
He apologised before he sat down. Properly, at first. Mr Ruiz had misunderstood why I was there. Vincent said he should have anticipated it. He said I had done nothing wrong.
“I’m fine, Uncle Vincent. Honestly.” I gave him the smile that had been reassuring adults for years.
“He thought you brought me for him,” I said.
Uncle Vincent looked away. “Yes.”
“But you didn’t.”
“Of course I didn’t.”
I believed him. Then I asked the question that changed the shape of the trip. “Would it have helped?”
He stared at me. “What?”