I thought working at the hospital would be boring until I met her. When I applied for the internship the job description included filling out billing statements and following a doctor around. I was basically going to be her servant. We were assigned our doctors to shadow the first day after training. I was given a map to her office by a nurse and told to meet her there in an hour.

I found her office late and ran in gasping for breath and more than a little flustered. She looked tall, beautiful and unapproachable in her long white coat. She coolly looked me over and with a small flicker of her eyes dismissed me as insignificant.

I followed her around this way for months and she always seemed so sure of her job. She gave me orders to fill out, and I tripped over myself obeying her every order. She never seemed to notice me as an individual, and I felt like an idiot because the very thought of her could make my skin turn red and my blood burn under my skin.

She didn’t seem gay; she didn’t seem sexual at all. She never talked about her home life or anything that didn’t pertain to hospital research. I assumed that she was straight and kept her husband and children separate from her job. At night I would think about her dark African skin against the white of her jacket before I pushed my fingers savagely into my cunt. I would think of her fucking me hard across her desk or on a patient’s empty bed while the hospital was busy around us.

Each time I saw her I felt foolish because the notions I entertained in my own bed seemed ridiculous in the starkness of her office. She remained distant with me, until one day when I made a small mistake on one of my billing statements. She paged me and sat me in the small wooden seat across from her desk. She was angry and pointing out my sloppiness; she yelled and seemed genuinely upset. This was the first time I ever saw her mask slip, and I secretly enjoyed watching her lose her calm.

After this encounter it was weeks before she treated me with anything less than indifference. I was sitting at the nurse’s desk gossiping with other interns when she walked up behind me. I didn’t notice her until it was too late, she grabbed my arm and asked the others exactly what we were discussing. The girls all giggled and told her all about my “little crush” on her; they thought it was harmless fun. My face turned bright red and I felt as embarrassed as humanly possible. She grabbed hold of my arm tightly and pulled me with her into the nearest on-call room. It was empty, and when she switched on the light I could tell that she was furious.

She screamed at me for embarrassing her in front of, “those girls” and not “acting professionally in the workplace.” I started to feel hot tears run down my cheeks as she berated me, and my breathing became irregular as I asked her what I could do, if anything, to keep my job. She calmed down a little and told me that I needed to be punished for my childish actions. I didn’t quite understand what she meant until she turned me around and pressed my face into one of the beds. She pulled down my light blue scrubs and spanked me as hard as she could. I pressed my mouth into the hard mattress to stop from crying out and being caught. Each of her stinging slaps made me feel justifiably punished, afraid and alive all at once. I had craved this attention from her for so long that the hurt of her hand striking my bare skin felt good.

After she was done, she stood there gasping for breath. She seemed more shocked than I as she stood by the bed staring at her hand. I wiped away my tears and smoothed my face with one hand and pulled up my scrubs with the other. We stood there in silence, both of us unsure of the other but both feeling an intense release of tension.

After the spanking she remained distant even though I did everything I could to garner her attention. I tried to be with her alone in her office as often as possible, but she never took the bait. After my internship ended we never spoke again, but I still imagine what it would be like to watch her lose her cool one more time. I wonder if she ever thinks about that incident when she gets angry, or if she remembers the sound that her hand made while slapping me. She was the very first woman to ever spank me, and she won’t be the last.

[box type="info"] Erotic spanking (also known as spankophilia) is the act of spanking another person for the sexual arousal or gratification of either or both parties. Activities range from a spontaneous smack on bare buttocks during a sexual activity, to occasional sexual roleplay (such as ageplay) to domestic discipline and may involve the use of a hand or the use of a variety of spanking implements, such as a spanking paddle or cane.Erotic spanking may be administered to bare buttocks or normally dressed. Erotic spankings are commonly combined with other forms of sexual foreplay, such as oral sex, sexual roleplaying and/or ageplay. The most common type of erotic spanking is administered on the bare buttocks in order to heighten sexual arousal and feelings of helplessness.

Many cultures describe pain as an aphrodisiac. For example, the Kama Sutra, in particular, goes into specific detail on how to properly strike a partner during sex. ~Wikipedia[/box]

I realized as I waited at the bar that I had never seen her face. I had been searching for her in the crowd, but I only know her by voice. Mandy and I had met on an online forum months before. She messaged me privately, and we slowly got to know each other. After we got past the awkwardness of our anonymity, we began calling each other. First for only a few minutes, but after a month of this our conversations could last hours.

I was attracted to smoothness of her voice and the way she always laughed at my jokes. I found myself looking forward to these calls all day. Our conversations sometimes became intimate, and I would place the phone on speaker beside my bed as I hurried to remove my clothes. Her breathing would turn rough as she and I both orgasmed, in separate beds across the state.

We were both afraid of meeting in person. I was secretly frightened that I would find her unattractive and her allure would be ruined. I am sure she felt the same, and perhaps she too was self-conscious about the imperfections she found in herself. Whatever our reasons, it was months before we broached the subject of meeting. After we finalized our plans, I couldn’t wait for the date. I nervously checked her profile a hundred times before deciding what to wear. She is a five foot nine brunette who loves to hike, and I am listed as a five foot four film enthusiast. I hoped she wouldn’t realize that I exaggerated my height a little, and to compensate I wore heels.

It took me three hours to drive down state to meet her at a bar we had decided on. I ordered a whiskey sour to ease my nerves, and the minutes crept slowly by while I contemplated buying another drink. A woman in black silk sat beside me and brushed her arm against mine as she beckoned the bartender. I turned away from her to let her know that I was not interested. The gay bar was just our meeting place, and I was not there to look for any other women but her, Mandy, my tall brunette.

I feel something cool against my arm and when I turned I realized a woman in black silk had pressed a whiskey sour against my arm, a replacement for the drink I had just finished. I leaned towards her and thanked her for the drink that I couldn’t possibly accept because I was waiting for someone. She asked me in that smooth, slow draw that I recognized, if she was as pretty as the date I was waiting on.

I laughed and felt my skin turn pink with embarrassment. I didn’t think to ask her earlier what she would be wearing because I just assumed I would know her instantly. The woman who was now standing in front of me was more gorgeous than I could even imagine. Her pale skin seemed to glow in the clubs awkward orange lighting, and her dark hair was piled in into a bun with smooth wavy curls escaping the clip. Her eyes seemed to do just as much laughing as her mouth when she held out her hand to mine. I reached out and grabbed that hand for the first time as she pulled me out onto the dance floor.

I slipped my hands around her hips, my fingers were smooth against the silk of her dress, and I pressed my body tightly to hers. I was insanely happy that I had worn heels to match our heights; I was at the perfect level to look into her dark brown eyes and kiss her perfect smiling lips. We didn’t need to talk that night. I was content to hold her and sway in the dizzying disco lights while crappy old music blared in the background.

We got into her car after the bar closed, and I held her hand against my thigh as I stared either directly at her or her reflection in the passenger seat window. Even the lights of the city night seemed as if they had been turned on as a background to her smile.

When we got to the hotel I felt my nerves return, Mandy seemed so much more confident than I. She held my hand all the way into the elevator, and when the door closed we fell into each other like we were starving. Her kisses tasted sweet and firm, and she melted into me like molasses. When the elevator slowed to a stop and the doors opened, we pried ourselves apart and stood there gasping with our hands entwined, like school children caught by a teacher. A man got onto the elevator as we rushed out, eager to get to her room and begin the physical relationship that we had craved for so long.

She fumbled with the electronic key to the door and I took it from her, scanning us into the room. I barely saw the beige room before I pressed her into the mattress and climbed up on top of her. I undid her hair and spread it around her. I asked her to lie still as I explored her body. I reached around to the back of her neck and undid the tie that held her dress up. I slowly pulled the dress down and her skin felt as smooth as the silk underneath my fingertips. The fabric slid down her collarbone and over her already firm nipples, I pressed each one into my mouth and lightly sucked until her breath turned rough. She jutted her hips forward, and I brought her dress down below her navel kissing my way down to her sex. I pulled the rest of her dress down around her toes and reached up with my hands to her underwear. I could feel the wetness of her need against my fingertips as I lightly grazed each finger against her. I pulled my body up on top of hers and kissed her deeply while my right hand pushed aside her thong and pressed its way deep inside of her cunt.
She moved and buckled against my hand; her noises not at all quiet in my ear. She screamed and pulled herself close to my clothed body as she came.

After she finished, she pulled off my clothing roughly and pressed my front into the bed. She straddled my back and reached her hand around my body to find my clit. She pressed her fingers into me and with her other hand she squeezed and rubbed my nipple. She bit onto my neck, and my orgasm came just as quickly and harshly as hers had.

She lay in my arms the whole weekend of her visit, and we never left that hotel room. We still talk every week or so, and I can’t help but smile when I hear her sweet low voice on the other end of the line. I can’t believe that the goddess in black silk is the same woman who listens to me chatter for hours on end.

I am a typical broke and starving college student in the United States. The economy is terrible and part-time jobs for high school graduates are rare. I am too lazy to serve fast food, and I doubt I will look good in a hairnet. I took these factors into mind when considering careers.

I had heard of “cam girls” from my job reviewing various sex toys from different websites. I was semi-accustomed to talking about toys and describing their use to an audience in my online video reviews. So why not go a step further, and not only describe the toys but use them on myself? From what I could tell, these girls made money by twirling their hair and masturbating in their bedrooms.
My thoughts shocked even myself; after all, I was raised in a small Mormon town where even the word “sex” is dirty. Even though I was raised outside the faith, this prudent behavior infiltrated my youth. I was taught that to be normal one must be with boys, one must get married, and one must have those three children while their grandparents are still young enough to hold them!

When I moved away to college I found myself questioning these beliefs, I didn’t like the boys I was supposed to. Instead, I was drawn to cute lesbian “boi’s” with punk rock hair and suspenders. I took a trip across Europe and slept with anyone who bought me enough drinks, and I learned that sexuality is not black and white.

I came back to the States ready to tote a rainbow flag with me to class and sit in solidarity with other protesters against Prop Eight. Strangely enough, it seemed like I had missed all the controversy and was stuck in a time where protesting is considered too extreme, but being out and proud just isn’t done.

I found an internship position at the local Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual and Transgendered resource center, and even though I loved working among people I felt comfortable with, the job was an unpaid position. I was getting calls from my parents everyday urging me to find a job, and with all the OCCUPY movements going on at my campus there was no work to be found.

I am a consummately lazy person, and I wasted away the last of my savings sitting around at home and eating everything in the fridge. When I finally ran out of money, (last week) I realized that I had to do something fast. I snooped around on the internet and asked a few close internet friends what the best ways to make money online are. The answers were all the same, sell your stuff on Craigslist or sell your body as a cam girl. I have crappy furniture that I have accumulated from various yard-sales over the years. They only hold a place in my heart because of the simple fact that they’re mine, the first furniture I have ever owned. No one would want my old moldy bookshelves or my couch filled, not with stuffing, but with Top-Ramon. I figured I had to sell the only thing I owned which wasn’t sagging or moth eaten; my breasts.

After a little research, I figured out that all that you need to be a cam girl is a lot of makeup, some signature moves, props, and a whole lot of sex toys. I watched some other girl’s acts, and after a lot of visuals of breast rubbing and lip biting I figured I was up to the job.

I created an account and was ready for my foray into the steamy sexual pit that is late night internet. I listed myself as “shaved, short nailed and brunette.” My account was live. All I had to do was add pictures to tempt the types of clientele I wanted.

After trying out many different poses and discarding the millions of pictures I deemed unflattering, I was stuck with a few pictures that I could use to tease and tempt online men. Posing in cheap lingerie in front of my shower curtain brought back old, stale memories of the risqué MySpace pictures of my extreme youth.

I was surprised by many things on my first venture into the online sex industry. First of all, those creepy, balding, middle aged men–although present–didn’t stampede my page in staggering numbers. Rather, the majority of the clients were semi-attractive men in their thirty’s who simply wanted anal sex and couldn’t get their girlfriend’s compliance. A few guys were sweet and told me they simply wanted to watch me make myself “cum”, while others were a bit more brisk and wanted me to put my toy whip to use.

I listened to Lady Gaga, danced around in lingerie, and masturbated. This is what I typically do anyways on a Saturday night, but with the addition of giant bowls of ice-cream and comfortable P-J’s. I stayed online for seventeen minutes and ended up making eighteen dollars. I made ninety-eight cents a minute, and men gave me tips for showing my tits.

I rubbed lube on toys and played with my leather whip, I felt powerful and sexy as men paid to see my body. I was in control behind the screen and these men knew it, they begged to see my feet, my back and my ass, and I reveled in the attention. When I closed my computer I expected to feel degraded and a tiny bit ashamed. My feminist side should have been clamoring for me to shower off the shame of being paid for, but honestly I can’t stop thinking of all the cheap noodles and coffee I can buy with eighteen bucks.