It took me five minutes to get back into gear and stop my nipples throbbing, so I was a little worried, on his next visit, that I might not have hit my target. I’d scraped through, though, and he rewarded me this time by making me stand up so he could take off my jeans and kiss and caress my bottom. It was still a mite sore from the caning, so this turned me on in a nanosecond, lighting me up like a Roman candle, so that I had to support myself on the desktop and moan.
He kissed and stroked me into a state of quivering helplessness. I couldn’t go back to writing about the antiques marts of the south coast after this … there was only one place I could go and that was the destination marked ‘orgasm’.
But he took away his tongue and his lips and gave my bereft bottom a hearty smack before growling at me to get back to work.
He took my jeans with him.
I collapsed hard on the chair, forgetting that this was an unwise move until the cane welts reminded me. I was soaking wet. If I looked down between my thighs, I could see a kind of mist on the racing-green buttoned leather.
It was crazy. Earlier on that morning, I’d been ready to hand in my temporary resignation from the world of sex. Jasper had incapacitated me with the intensity and extremity of his demands upon my body. Yet here I was, gagging for more. He was a witch. Or should that be a warlock? A wizard?
My brain was as tired as my body.
I stared at my article, which was almost half-done, and wondered what language it was written in. All I could think of was sex, sex, sex.
If only my hands were free, I could …
I tried to wrench them downwards but they could go no further than the edge of the desk. Jasper had seen to that.
Was there no other way? I tried to grind myself against the leather. It hurt my sore bottom, but I didn’t care. My knickers tightened and bunched up a bit between my pussy lips, which seemed to help matters at first, but it soon became clear that the best I was going to manage was a slow, frustrating journey to the lower slopes of pleasure. It would wreck my already over-strained thigh muscles too.
I wanted to sob with need, but it was clear that there was nothing for it but to try and dismiss my arousal and get on with my article.
I’d wasted time, though, and when Jasper came back in, I was under my target.
‘Oh, dear,’ he said. ‘You’ve been frittering your time away. What have you been doing? Daydreaming?’
‘If you didn’t keep coming in and –’
‘Oh, so it’s my fault, is it?’
‘Yes.’
‘I see. No more rewards, then. Up on your feet.’
I was rather dreading what might follow. Another spanking on top of what I’d already had from him might just kill me.
But nothing happened – no smart and salutary smack on the backside was forthcoming.
‘You can sit down when you’re at fifteen hundred words,’ he said, and then he left.
Typing standing up is no joke, something I’d never realised before. It was hard on the legs and thighs and tough on the spine too. I dashed off the next five hundred words as if I was being chased by a legion of editors with spears and arrows.
They were probably rubbish, of course, but at this rate I’d have a bit of time left over at the end to improve the sense.
Jasper let me sit down again but there was no reward for my productivity – rather the opposite. He lifted my top up over my breasts, pulled down my bra cups, then fixed a pair of nipple clamps to my poor sensitive nubs. Not the worst kind – the pressure was gentle at first – but it was made clear that they would not be removed until the article was two thousand words long.
I had never typed an article so quickly in my life. The clamps weren’t terribly painful but the tightening was inescapable and my nipples throbbed, then numbed. When you added the itch between my thighs and the way my bottom stuck to the chair, I was a hot-faced mess and I knew it.
Jasper’s final visit was a triumphant one.
‘Twenty minutes to spare,’ he said, impressed, removing the clamps. My nipples flooded with sensation and I gasped.
‘I’m not sure it’s my finest work,’ I panted.
He massaged my shoulders, reading the words on the screen.
‘Looks all right to me,’ he said.