Graham looked at me, his face a contorted mixture of terror and anticipation. He sat at his high-backed chair, hands clearly visible on the desk - hah! I thought, too late for that, sunshine - and looked as though he were ready to cry. Poor dear.

"So, Graham," I purred, affecting my low, gravelly, seductress voice, "you'll do whatever I want, will you?" He said nothing. "That's quite a commitment, you understand. Do you understand?"

He nodded.

"Oh good," I trilled, forgetting myself in my excitement and losing my huskiness. I was going to have to concentrate. "Good," I murmured. "Now, what were you doing earlier?" Rule number one, make them admit to something humiliating for starters; it shows them who's boss.

"Look, Harriet, I don't think..."

"Shut up, Graham, you dickhead. Answer my question." I revelled in this non-sequiteur. Rule number two, don't let them relax. Graham looked like he was trying to shit a lobster which, I suspect, he would rather have been doing right now. "So?"

"Harriet, I... I was having a wank." I burst into laughter. This was the funniest thing I had heard in many a month: Graham, the most boring, trite, tedious person in the company, was telling me that he had been masturbating. Somehow it was so ridiculously, ludicrously surreal I could barely contain myself. My lack of seriousness seemed to add to his perturbation, and he squirmed unhappily in his chair.

"And did you finish?"

"No, you interrupted."

"And you didn't carry on after I'd gone?"

"God, no, I thought you were off to get the Boss."

"Well then, Mr Loverman, let's get on with it."

He stared at me, immobile. I stood at the side of his desk, hands on my hips, trying to look like an exasperated parent or teacher with a recalcitrant child.

"Come on!" I chided. "I haven't got all day. Don't tell me you're not already hard?"

He shook his head.

"So get it out, Mr Loverman." He couldn't drag his eyes from me, and seemed to have fallen into a state of stasis. I began to wonder if he would go through with it, and debated what I would do if he didn't. And then, slowly, mesmerically, his hand fell to his zip and, shaking, he began to slide it down. He unclasped his belt and eased open the button and stopped. My mouth was dry, and I stood staring, trying to persuade myself that this was really happening. He pulled his trousers wide apart and I could see the outline of his cock in his knickers. Sliding his hand under them, he grasped it and pulled it into the open, and I found myself staring at his erect penis. I really don't think either of us could believe the turn of events, but the afternoon had built up a momentum of its own, and in a way we were both uncertain players in an unstoppable drama.

Graham's hand was gripped around his cock and hid most of it. I wanted to see. "Take your hand away," I told him, and he complied immediately. He wasn't very big, but it was quite fat; a most curious shape, in fact, totally out of proportion, as though it had been squashed. "Well that won't trouble the scorers," I said scornfully, borrowing, without understanding it, a quote from cricket. It just seemed to fit, somehow, which is more than could be said for Graham's cock. "Okay, Mr Loverman, get on with it."

He looked at me pleadingly, but I returned his stare blankly. I hitched my skirt up slightly, revealing a tempting inch or two of thigh, and perched on the edge of his desk. Hands folded across my chest, I watched and waited. And god help me, he started. I watched, rapt, as he started to wank himself in front of me. Vindication for all those moments of boredom he had inflicted on me, I thought. His eyes flitted uneasily from me to the door, and I knew he was terrified of being interrupted. So was I, come to think of it, because I would have as much difficulty explaining my part in the episode as him, but I was determined not to show it. Archly, I licked my lips like a downtown tart and laughed aloud.

Graham continued to wank himself in front of me, and after a couple of minutes I could see he was getting close to coming. He was leaning back in his chair, and I could tell that he was beginning to ponder what would happen when he came. He began to readjust himself in the seat, sitting more upright. I wasn't having that.

"Lean back, Mr Loverman, enjoy yourself." I crooned at him, edging closer as we came towards the dénouement. Graham looked discomfited, but did as I said. "Now faster," I ordered. "I've got work to do you know. Get on with it."

"Ah, I'm... I'm going to come soon," he panted.

"That's the idea, Mr Loverman."

"I need a hankie."

"Nonsense, just lie back and let it all out."

"No, it'll go on my shirt."

"Never mind." I smiled sweetly and arched my eyebrow. Crooking my finger at him, I gestured to him to get on with things. "Come on, Mr Loverman, last few strokes now, nice and hard, nice and fast, pump that little cock for me..."

That was enough. Graham grunted, closed his eyes and grimaced. He looked like a gargoyle with earache, truth to tell: I'd have to coach him out of that pretty soon, I figured. His podgy fingers tightened around his cock and he began to pump faster and faster; with a start, he expelled a large spurt of come, and it arced over his paunch, landing on his shirt and tie; another spurt, and another, and another erupted from him, each one landing progressively lower down his shirt, turning it shiny grey for an instant before it melted into the dark blue fabric and turn it a livid purple. He was going to have some difficulty explaining this away for the rest of the day, to say nothing of when he got home.

I watched until I was satisfied that he was spent. "Well done," I said patronisingly. "You've done very well. Now wipe yourself up a bit, there's a good chap. I've got work to do now, but I have a feeling, Mr Loverman, that you and I are going to be seeing quite a bit of each other in future." I paused, watching his face intently. "You'd like that, wouldn't you, Mr Loverman?"

"Yes," he said.