And, of course, if walking was difficult, sitting was beyond the pale. Since we were at a conference, at which sitting is an occupational hazard, this was a pity for poor Mr Loverman. He affected an extraordinary pose, clearly trying to keep his weight off his backside, stretching himself elaborately backwards with his hand draped over the back of the chair and his legs thrust in front of him, his left folded over the right in an attempt to raise one buttock clear of the chair. Despite his attempted diffident air, the pained, preoccupied look of someone with a lump of plastic shoved up his backside never left his face, and he looked like a bizarre cross between Oscar Wilde in louche repose and Bette Davis reclining drunkenly on a chaise longue in some Civil War drama. I was biting my cheek to stop myself from laughing.

Over lunch I sought him out. He was standing at the back of the room, nibbling at the buffet. Making sure no-one was looking, I slapped his backside vigorously, causing him to choke on his vol-au-vent and cross his legs in pained surprise.

"Alright then, Mr Loverman?" I cooed. "How's the plug? Does it need adjusting?" He shook his head in alarm. "It's okay," I continued, "I'll give it a good twist later on." Again, an agonised look crossed his face as he tried to deduce whether I was serious. I looked down at his crotch. "Have you got an erection?" I said crossly.

He shook his head. "No, Miss."

"Well get one. Immediately." He looked as though he were about to argue, but I licked my lips seductively and, with my back to the rest of the delegates, ran my hand surreptitiously over my breast, dragging my fingernails across the sheer fabric of the blouse. I knew that would be enough to set him off. "Just think about me standing over you, falling to my knees and sitting on top of you. Think about my beautiful bottom on your face." I could tell from his expression that Mr Loverman was doing just that, and within a minute his cock was rigid, tenting his trousers and sticking out prominently in front of him.

"Stand upright," I ordered him. He obeyed, and his erect cock was thrust further forward, the crotch of his trousers stretched obscenely.

"Now then," I continued. "There are toilets in the hall at the front of this room. I want you to go to them now. It'll mean you have to push past people, because it's busy in here. When you do, every time you have to say to them 'excuse me, I must get to the toilet immediately'. Is that clear?" He nodded mutely. "And walk upright all the time. Stand proud, my little man, for all the world to see."

Realisation dawned on him, and he looked panic-stricken.

"When you get to the toilet, I want you to make yourself come. It shouldn't be too difficult, with that thing stuck up your backside. Just wiggle it about a bit. You are not to go into a cubicle to do it though, you have to do it standing at a urinal. Have you got it?"

"What if there are people there?" he replied animatedly, his distress evident. I snorted derisively.

"Well either do it in front of them or wait till they've gone. I don't bloody care. Use your initiative, fool. Now, this is the important bit. I want you to come in your hand and bring it back to me. As proof that you've done it."

For an instant he looked as though he was going to defy me, but I undid the top button of my blouse and slid a finger in towards my breast, once more licking my lips. It's all it takes, really it is. I saw an expression of resigned submission on his face and nodded in satisfaction. I gave a final check on the state of his tackle, satisfied myself that it was prominent, gave him a slap on the rear and sent him into the melée. Delightedly, I watched as he attempted to squeeze past the delegates who were milling around eating the buffet. I noticed their curious looks as he relayed the message I had given him. Some made no comment and simply moved aside. I knew, though, that before long someone would respond to his request by looking down at his crotch: it is human nature, when given some news, to seek out its root, and I was convinced that any mention of needing to go the toilet would make some people automatically look at his crotch. And I was right. On a couple of occasions, one by a lone man and the other by a group of two women and a man, Mr Loverman's request was followed by obvious glances downwards, where they would see the unmistakable sign of his arousal. The animated chatter after he had passed left me in no doubt what they were talking about.

I waited impatiently for about five minutes for his return, and was about to storm back to my room in disgust to prepare a suitable punishment when I saw him reappear through the throng. He was red and flustered, an agitated look on his face, and I was satisfied that he had done as I had bidden. I noticed with considerable amusement that the group which had earlier spotted his tumescent state were pointing and staring at him and laughing animatedly.

"Well?" I asked.

"Yes, Miss, I did it."

"And did anyone catch you?"

"Very nearly, Miss. I finished about two seconds before someone came in." From his breathless state, I believed him.

"Splendid, you've done very well," I replied in my most patronising tone. "Let me see, then."

He held out his left hand and unclenched it to reveal a viscous grey mess in his palm. Triumphantly, I stretched forward and deposited a handful of peanuts in it.

"Excellent. You deserve a reward, so here's some nuts I saved for you from the buffet. Now eat them up, Mr Loverman."