So I sat at my desk debating what he would and wouldn't do, what I could force him to do straight away, and what I would have to store up for later, when he was more entrapped, more malleable, more deeply under my spell. Damn, I wanted to get to that bit quickly: I had some grand ideas for little Graham. But first, I had to break him in, I had to ensure that he would develop as I wished. Tricky, tricky, it was really tricky.

I began with some non-sexual things, to try to set some context for our emerging relationship. For example, I hinted that I was thirsty, and suggested he might like to make me some coffee. And he did. Now, in an office, as any office worker will tell you, that is no small deal: there are hierarchies at large, and who makes coffee for whom can be a hot issue. For Graham to make coffee for me, technically subordinate to him, was unorthodox to say the least: and so it sent a shimmer of delight through my body when he returned that first time with a full mug of coffee and a chocolate biscuit. And the second time; and the third... I've never drunk as much coffee as I did in the days after that breakthrough. So much, in fact, that I was constantly running to the loo. That was something else little Graham could help me with in due course, I reflected wryly.

And then I commented one afternoon that I was too busy to prepare the powerpoint presentation for my talk the next morning, and perhaps Graham would like to do it for me. Again, office politics suggest that this would be a complete non-starter: no ambitious worker is going to devote time to something which will be of benefit to colleagues rather than themselves; they would sooner gargle with diesel than spend their time on such non-productive work. When Graham emailed me his powerpoint presentation, then, it was a delicious moment, an event which defined the next stage of our emerging relationship. Even if it wasn't very good. The framework of our association was building nicely.

I figured, though, that after all this demeaning treatment, Graham would require some attention to his little dick fairly soon, before he started to feel that he was not getting enough out of our arrangement. I know what men are like, and I know that everything is connected, somehow or other, to their pricks. He would require some attention soon, I knew that. But what to do?

This was tough, I had to admit. I examined and discarded various options: I considered allowing him a flash of myself to precipitate his climax, but immediately renounced that, vowing it would take considerably longer before Mr Loverman saw anything of me; I envisaged a reprise of the wanking episode, but thought that going over the same ground again was too tame; I imagined taking him out to dinner and inflicting serial humiliations on him, but reflected it was too early to take things outside the manageable confines of the office. So what to do?

My work was suffering, I have to confess. Not that this was a problem, of course: Graham could do it for me. Over the course of a week or so, I gradually began to offload chunks of tedious, repetitive work onto his receptive shoulders: a couple of evening speaking engagements, some financial reports to project sponsors, that sort of thing, the boring mundanities we all loathe and detest. Except me, because I no longer needed to do them, with my willing assistant to help me out. But what to do?

When inspiration strikes it's a wonderful thing, isn't it? I was sitting on the loo one afternoon, talking on the mobile to a client I hated. I reserve my most hated clients until I have to go to the loo: the unedifying surroundings help to make me feel superior to them, somehow, as though they are so unworthy I can only fit them in when I'm on the job. One shit deserves another, I always say.

"Yes, Mrs Abbott, I'm looking at your profile right now, as I speak," I said, looking between my legs into the bowl. "It's developing nicely. Pardon? What's the noise? Oh, somebody pouring a glass of water from the chilled water machine, I think. Yes, I know you have problems with your account, yes I know the server went down over the weekend. I think you tried to pull some stats from it without warning us and overloaded it... Yes, I see your point. I see exactly what you're saying." I looked in the bowl again.

"Look," said the foul Mrs Abbott, "I pay you lot to sort me out. I pay you to do everything I ask. I pay you to wipe my arse for me, I pay you to keep my house in order, I pay you to make sure I'm fed and nourished, I pay you to keep my shoes clean. And you're not doing it. Do you understand me?"

Well, she paid us for nothing of the kind, of course, the wizened, menopausal, old witch. She paid us, grudgingly and stingily, to maintain her godawful and little used website. But there, in reverse order, was a perfect plan of action for my little Mr Loverman.