Book 5: Gap Year
Copyright© 2026 by Plumbr
Chapter 3 - Internship: Honey Pot
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 3 - Internship: Honey Pot - Book 5 of "The Year She Looked Nineteen," Claire's Age 18 Gap Year prior to attending the university. A mission trip to Senegal to take advantage of her A+ A-level in French, followed by an internship at her uncle's Manchester law firm.
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
Gap Year (Internship): Honey Pot
The meeting with Javier Ruiz should have been anticlimactic.
It wasn’t.
He was courteous to Uncle Vincent, deferential to Daniel when Daniel was talking law, and fascinated by me whenever nobody was talking at all. The fascination had been there the night before, but in daylight I could see its practical effect.
He explained things to me.
Not because I needed them explained, but because he liked explaining them to me.
A corporate structure that had taken Daniel six clipped sentences became a ten-minute story when Mr Ruiz addressed me. He named people who had not appeared in the correspondence. He supplied motives the file had only hinted at. Twice Daniel asked a follow-up question without looking away from his notes.
The second time, I understood.
Daniel wasn’t annoyed that Mr Ruiz was talking to me.
He was listening.
I asked one question about the sequence of the Spanish approvals. Mr Ruiz answered it, then answered three questions I had not asked. The answers were more detailed than anything in the file. He watched my face while he spoke, as if the act of telling me was itself a form of contact.
On the flight home, Uncle Vincent sat across from me with his tie loosened. “You enjoyed that.”
“The meeting?”
“The effect.”
I looked down at the file on my lap. “I enjoyed being useful.”
Uncle Vincent smiled, but it wasn’t Sophie’s father’s smile.
“Those aren’t mutually exclusive.”
That sentence followed me back to Manchester.
Mr Ruiz was still in the city the next evening. Uncle Vincent arranged a short follow-up and told me to attend. The message was phrased as routine. I understood it was not.
We met in the same private dining room. The air smelled of polished wood and the residual heat of the kitchen. Uncle Vincent left after twenty minutes with a vague excuse about a call. Mr Ruiz watched him go, then looked at me the way he had in Gibraltar: interested, unhurried, already certain of the outcome.
“You listened very carefully yesterday,” he said.
“I try.”
“You do more than try.” He refilled my glass. “Upstairs.”
I followed him.
His room was large, curtains drawn, the air already carrying the faint scent of his cologne. He closed the door and turned the lock without looking at me.
“I want the dress on the floor. Knickers in my hand.”
I stepped out of the dress. The knickers were already damp. I placed them in his open palm. He closed his fingers around the fabric, felt the slimy wetness, and smiled without humour.
“Turn around. Hands on the windowsill.”
I did. He came up behind me, pushed my feet apart with his shoe, and ran two fingers between my legs, collecting the slickness there. He wiped it across my lower back.
“You walked into dinner already like this.”
He opened his trousers. The head of his cock pressed against me, then he pushed in with one continuous thrust that forced the air out of my lungs.
No pause. My pussy was well-used; he sunk right in.
The window was cool against my palms. Below, ordinary traffic moved. The contrast made the stretch inside me feel sharper. He kept the same pace until my thighs started to shake, then reached under and pinched my clit between two fingers, pulling my hood ring hard enough to make me jolt.
The orgasm hit without warning, a hard, involuntary clench that made him curse under his breath in Spanish. He kept thrusting through it, forcing the contractions to continue until the pleasure turned over-sensitive and almost painful. Only then did he pull out, turn me by the hair, and push me to my knees.
He finished across my tongue stud and the inside of my cheeks, holding my jaw open so I couldn’t swallow until he told me to. When he finally allowed it, the taste was thick and salty.
He cleaned himself with my discarded knickers, then dropped them in my lap.
“Keep those. I want you wearing them to the office tomorrow, still wet. Change the nipple rings to barbells. I’m sure you have both...”
I did.
At the office the next morning the knickers were cold and stiff against me. Daniel put a file on my desk as if nothing had happened. I found the inconsistency in the witness statement.
“Good,” he said.
The two things—being used the night before and still being able to see the dates—sat side by side without cancelling each other.
The invitations kept changing.
Uncle Vincent asked me to stay for a difficult client. I wore another short dress, no stockings, the same soft lipstick. Under the table the man’s hand found my bare thigh within minutes. By the time he left he had told us more about his cash position than the written instructions had ever disclosed.
Uncle Vincent only said, “You worked.”
The next one was a property developer with holdings on both sides of the Irish Sea. Dinner. Private room. His hand was under my dress before the main course arrived, two fingers already inside me while he discussed planning officers in a normal conversational tone. I kept answering his questions. My cunt made soft wet sounds around his fingers under the tablecloth.
He knows exactly what he’s doing. And he knows I know.
In the hotel room he didn’t bother with preliminaries. He pushed me face-down onto the bed, dragged my hips up, and shoved in hard.
He fucked me like he was angry at the paperwork. One hand twisted in my hair, pulling my head back so my spine arched. The other reached under and rubbed my clit in rough, inelegant circles that matched the pace of his hips. The wet slap of skin filled the room.
When I came the first time he simply kept going, using the way my cunt fluttered around him as something to fuck through.
The second orgasm was forced out of me while he was still talking about a joint-venture partner who needed quiet pressure. He finished deep and held himself there, breathing hard against the back of my neck, then pulled out and wiped his cock clean on the inside of my thigh.
“Details to Vincent by Friday,” he said while he dressed. “And next time wear something that doesn’t already smell like cunt when you sit down.”
I walked back to the office with his come leaking into my knickers and the information already ordered in my head.
The shipping client was worse.
Uncle Vincent was called out of the private dining room after coffee. Mr Ruiz looked at me the way he had in the hotel room, certain proprietary.
He didn’t tell me to kneel. He simply pointed at the floor beside his chair.
I knelt.
He opened his trousers and rested the weight of his cock against my cheek while he finished a sentence about transit times. Only then did he turn my head and push into my throat.
He used me slowly at first, deep enough that my nose pressed to his belly with every stroke, while the other four men in the room watched. Spit ran onto the sheets. My eyes streamed. He kept talking in the same calm voice about routes and prices and the difference between girls who still looked fresh and those already broken in. He never once called me inventory. He called me the pretty one who had walked in on her own.
When he was ready he pulled out, wiped my chin with his thumb, and said, “Table.”
I stood, stripped, and bent over the polished wood. The surface was cool against my nipples. Mr Ruiz kicked my feet wider and shoved in hard. Mr Ruiz fucked me a lot that month; I really did grow to love Spanish cock.
He fucked me with short, heavy strokes, one hand braced on the small of my back, the other occasionally striking the side of my arse hard enough to leave heat. The wet slap of it filled the room. When I came he simply kept going until the pleasure turned over-sensitive and I was making small, helpless sounds against the wood. Then he pulled out, turned me by the hair, and finished in my mouth. I swallowed.
The others stepped closer.
“You’re coming with us, pretty cunt,” Mr Ruiz said. “ScarlettHammerXX doesn’t walk out of a room like this once she’s already opened her legs.”
I could have made a scene. I didn’t.
I went.