Make her stand there for the rest of the day.

"Don't move," you say, returning to your chair. The leather groans as you sink into the seat and attend to the papers in front of you.

Gemma nods, biting her bottom lip as she watches you intently. Her fingers are still curled around the edge of your desk, her knuckles bone-white, skirt pooled around her waist. She doesn’t dare straighten. Her breath is shallow, her chest rising and falling in slow, even bursts. The clock on the wall ticks forward, each second stretching into eternity as you continue with your work, with Gemma standing there without even blinking. She's trembling - not from fear, but from the effort of holding still. Her body is already betraying her, with fresh juices dripping down her thighs, the scent of it so thick in the air.

An hour passes. Then two. She stays there, silently, her muscles burning, her skin flushed with the effort of obedience. Her fingers are cramping around the desk, and her legs shake from the strain of keeping her balance, but she doesn't dare adjust - she doesn't dare disobey. The only movement is the subtle clench of her thighs and the twitch of her hips as she seeks relief. Occasionally you glance over at her, watching the way her back arches as her ass presents itself in the air like an offering. Her breath pauses in hope and anticipation each time you shift in your seat, but you make her wait.

You attend to your work as best you can, distracted as you are. The afternoon comes, and the setting sun bleeds through the blinds, casting stripes on her skin. By the time the clock crawls towards five o'clock, her entire body is trembling, her skin slick with sweat. Her entire body is on fire from both exertion and arousal, her muscles stiff and tense and at their breaking point, straining to keep her balance. Finally, you stand, circling behind her, faint whimpers escaping from her lips as you do so.