The Intern

The knock interrupted Angela’s reading, and she looked up from the file folder. Jeannie stood in the doorway.  I’ve put him in number two.  Amanda is making the final preparations.

Angela rolled her eyes.  “Amanda–again?”

Jeannie laughed.  Give her some time, Ms. St. Lawrence. It takes some time.”

“It didn’t take you much time, Jeannie,” Angela smiled, “and knock off that Ms. St. Lawrence crap.”

“Yes ma’am,”  Jeannie teased.

Angela closed the file and moved it to the corner of her desk.  “But you’re good at whatever you do,  Jeannie.  It didn’t take you any time to become the best AA in this building either. But I miss you in the chamber.”

“Thank you, Angie,” Jeannie smiled, accepting the compliment. Her promotion to Angela’s administrative assistant had brought more money, but it was also a job that she enjoyed very much.  Now she assisted with the details of so many different aspects of the correction and punishment of so many prisoners, and it was something she felt she had a great aptitude for.

“Amanda’s just a kid. She has potential. And she wants this job.”

“What she wants is inconsequential, Jeannie,” Angela scowled.  “Tell her to be ready for me in ten minutes.”

Jeannie closed the door and crossed the hallway to her office. One thing that was for sure–what mattered in this department was what Angela St. Lawrence wanted. That’s what made her so good at her job. Something the unfortunate gentleman she had just escorted to holding cell two was about to find out.

She picked up the phone and dialed Amanda’s extension.

****

Ten minutes. A good thing she had noticed that a new prisoner had arrived, and had already stoked the fires. Now all she needed to do was get the prisoner in place.

Amanda walked to the forge that was built into the chamber’s far wall. A brick shelf extended from this wall at a height of about 36 inches.  The center of the shelf formed a basin, in which a mound of coals glowed brightly. She had added a fresh layer of charcoal, and had pumped the bellows of the forge until these new coals were now almost a homogeneous scarlet with the rest.

There were three small tools that Ms. St. Lawrence seemed to favor, so she made sure that these were embedded in the coals. Next, she turned to inspect the brazier. The forge was at the foot of the large wooden table that occupied the center of the room. Instead of a perfect rectangle, a large V notch had been cut out of one end. This was the end where prisoners’ legs were spread, allowing the Facilitator easy access to the genitalia.

Just to the right of the head of the table was a large brazier. To this, Amanda had added several pieces of split-oak firewood. Removing a poker from the flames, she pushed at these burning pieces, breaking them up and forcing them deeper into the existing embers. The poker was then jammed back into the fire, next to other handles of other tools, the business ends buried deep in their fiery container.

“She has to be happy with that,” Amanda thought, watching the newly stirred embers flame. This was only the third time that Amanda had assisted Ms. St. Lawrence. The last two times hadn’t gone well. In fact–the first time–Ms. St. Lawrence had sent her out of the chamber.

***

She had been through one year of Pyro-Correctional vocational study at the community college; and now almost six months of internship here, but this was the next level, and she was perhaps not as prepared as she could have been for what happened in these particular chambers.

But she knew that she could adjust, she could learn. She wanted to, so much. There was something that she could not really describe that had always appealed to her about working here.  And she had been an A student in her classroom training.

In the first three months of her internship she had been assigned to the Misdemeanor department, observing and assisting with light to moderate tortures. The last two months had been spent in Interrogations, but prisoners’ rights limited the seriousness of the torture that could be administered. Supposedly. She learned that there were ways around this. In institutions like this there always were. But in many of those cases she was asked to leave the room or sent on some trumped-up errand, while the interrogators did their work behind closed doors.

Now she was in the Corrections department, where there was no reason for secrecy. These prisoners had been duly tried, found guilty, and sentenced. This was where those sentences were carried out. And the Facilitators–women like Ms. St. Lawrence–carried them out in ways to which Amanda had never been exposed.

The first time she assisted, the time that Ms. St. Lawrence dismissed her, involved a prisoner that had been convicted of attempted rape. Ms. St. Lawrence had explained to her that according to the transcript, the rape had not been successful, but that men disposed to this behavior were likely to attempt it again. It could not be tolerated. She had asked Amanda to go to the forge and pump the bellows to make sure that the implement she intended for the prisoner was heated intensely.

So Amanda did as she was told, even though she could not see anything but the coals themselves, and pumped as she watched Ms. St. Lawrence pull the prisoner’s pants down to his ankle shackles. She smiled as he explained his innocence.  “I know, you’re all innocent,” Ms. St. Lawrence had answered, sounding sympathetic.  She’d then turned and opened a drawer in a small cabinet, and removed a ball gag.  “But I certainly don’t need to hear about it, now do I?”  After gagging the prisoner, Ms. St. Lawrence stood between his legs, and began to massage his penis.

Amanda was not surprised. She knew that an erection was usually a prerequisite to torture. “You like young women,” Ms. St. Lawrence said rhetorically, since he could not respond. “So I’m sure you’ll like Amanda.”

“Why don’t you play with his cock?” Ms. St. Lawrence had a calm determination in her voice, as she motioned for Amanda to join her at the table. “I understand that the young lady you accosted was just about Amanda’s age? The prisoner shook his head violently in protest as Amanda approached.  “So enjoy!”

Ms. St. Lawrence had moved out of the way, and Amanda, knowing from her training exactly what to do, began to caress his penis.

Raised a good Catholic, Amanda, now 19, had managed to remain a virgin. But she was an expert in hand jobs and blow jobs. In high school and college she had actually intimidated a few boyfriends, because she had so aggressively made them orgasm. It was like their cocks — and their semen– were hers to control. And when they came, it wasn’t them giving it; Amanda was taking it.

So manipulating him, like so many others, was easy. And Ms. St. Lawrence actually seemed to be impressed as Amanda quickly made him rock hard. By this time, Ms. St. Lawrence had moved to the forge and had begun stroking the handle of the bellows.

“Dicks get men into a lot of trouble, just like you’re in right now,” Ms. St. Lawrence explained, oblivious to his protest and panic. “Look at you. Wanting to stick that thing where it doesn’t belong.”

“Even though you were sentenced once before for trying to do the same thing to another woman,” Ms. St. Lawrence said as she picked up a pair of tongs and started to dig into the blazing coals, “you just haven’t learned.”

She found what she had been searching for in the coals and removed a gleaming red cylinder, clenched between the tongs.

“If you want to put that thing into some place it doesn’t belong, Mr. Man,” she smiled, “why don’t we put it in here?”

That was when Amanda made her mistake. “Oh my GOD!” She almost thought it had come from someone else. But she had said it. She stopped stroking his cock. She was mesmerized by the red-hot iron sleeve that Ms. St. Lawrence brought towards towards the cock in her hands. “Oh, Jesus.” Had that come from her again?

“If this is too much for you Amanda you can leave now,” Ms. St. Lawrence said, matter-of-factly. The glowing cylinder of iron was just above his erect penis. Amanda could feel his pulse in his cock, hear the protests despite the gag, actually smell the heat of the burning iron. She didn’t know if she was excited, or nauseated, or both.

“Leave the room, Amanda. I don’t think you are ready for this,” Ms. St. Lawrence commanded, “leave now!”

Amanda let go of his cock, and walked towards the door. Embarrassed and humiliated, she didn’t look back. She desperately want to stay for what would be next. Ms. St. Lawrence had made that perfectly clear. But she knew better than to ask. Instead, she went straight to the closest ladies room, locked the stall, and masturbated.

***

This time, Amanda knew she’d get it right. This time, maybe Ms. St. Lawrence would be so impressed with her professional execution of her duties that she would even allow her be the one to put the offender’s penis in that burning hot cylinder. Just as she heard the click click click of Ms. St. Lawrence’s heels coming down the hall, she felt a gush of wetness between her legs.

It was going to be tricky. But she just knew she could do it. She had to, because someday she was determined to be a Facilitator, just like Ms. St. Lawrence. They had all the fun.

 

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**** NOTE: This story (STARRING ME!) was written for me (0nly for me, he said.) by a client. Having your penis burned is a rare fetish, so I though you might like a voyeur’s peek. Of course, the client shall remain anonymous.

 

FYI: NO PENISES WERE HARMED DURING THE CREATION OF THIS FETISH FANTASY.