John went to sleep feeling pretty good about himself. After a long day at work, and making dinner and walking the dog, he'd found enough energy and initiative to write a story for Lush. It was, to him, an interesting tale, involving a buxom MILF and a dishwasher repairman. John thought the scene involving a number-four Phillips-head screwdriver was especially compelling. As he drifted off to sleep he had the image of his heroine begging for cum at the feet of an overall-clad repairman who looked remarkably like himself.

Sometime after midnight, John was awoken by four men, masked and dressed in black, bursting through his bedroom door. Before he could utter a single word of protest, he was gagged, bound with duct tape, and then wrapped from head-to-toe in plastic. A small hole was ripped open for his nose.

For the next several hours, John fell in and out of consciousness. He sensed that he was carried downstairs and tossed into the back of a lorry. He smelled diesel exhaust and felt his head bounce against an uneven metal floor, and then blacked out. Sometime later he could sense that he was moved via a small, noisy airplane before he drifted off again. Eventually, he had the distinct impression that he was being transported by boat. He forced himself to stay awake and could make out fragments of what his captors were saying.

“Go past Lambeth Bridge”

“There’s the Tickler building.”

“Look for the signal.”

“There — there’s a gate.”

His captors grunted as they lifted John out of the boat and carried him for three or four minutes before they, unceremoniously, dropped him.

“Whoops,” a London-accented man said, followed by some laughter. He heard an automated voice call out, “Basement level eight,” felt a sinking feeling in his stomach, and realized he was in a descending elevator.

~

Priscilla nervously adjusted her tight pencil skirt as she scurried upstairs. She was rarely called from her lowly station in the Artifacts Room. Above her was one of the most spectacular buildings in all of London, a glass spiral dome building filled with natural light. None of that light penetrated down to her on Basement, Level Eight, however. She had nothing but yellow LED bulbs to illuminate her work, tending to Lush's historical documents and museum pieces.

Until Lush launched as a website, it was a secret society dating back hundreds of years. Though Priscilla's workspace was visited only by the most senior Lush executives, the artifact floor was filled with objects and documents that would have interested scholars and the general public, alike. There were dildos of polished granite, ivory, and gold, dating to the Knights of Templar. Queen Victoria's collection of strap-ons was astounding, in and of itself. There were various devices of restraint and discipline and even some steam-driven machines of an apparent auto-sexual nature.

There were also shelves and shelves of erotic literature. There was a memoir from Winston Churchill, "How I Buggered My Way Through the Boer War." And, a collection of erotic fiction from Margaret Thatcher, "The Orgy at Number 10 and Other Stories." There was Christopher Marlowe's "One Hundred Erotic Sonnets and a Dozen Nasty Limericks." As well as Shakespeare's bawdy first draft of, "The Tempest" in which Caliban was the erotic love interest of Ariel, Miranda, and Prospero. All of these, among many others.

On her breaks, Priscilla would often take one of the thousands of erotic manuscripts at her disposal to a dark corner, hike up her skirt, and satisfy herself, sometimes with her fingers and sometimes with a borrowed ancient dildo. Ah, how many times had she rubbed one out to the self-described scenes of Maggie Thatcher taking it up the arse from a line of miners? So hot.

Priscilla emerged from the elevator into the brilliant light of the giant Lush atrium. In the center was a circular spire made up of thirty stories of office floors. It was difficult to see from the perspective of the atrium floor, but as countless photos from the air made clear, the office tower looked like a spectacular black penis, culminating in a swollen tip pressing against the top of the twisted glass outer shell. It was sometimes called "The French Tickler" building, but only by those who could appreciate neither fine architecture nor a good schtup.

The atrium floor was bustling with dozens of people quickly moving to and fro’ with dedicated purpose. They were all dressed in provocative costumes as their Lush avatars. As an intern, Priscilla was not so lucky; she was required to dress in normal business attire. She so hoped her application for full-time employment would be accepted, at last. Priscilla longed to work above ground, and dress as her own Lush avatar: an eroticized Violet Crawley from Downton Abbey.

Priscilla crossed the atrium, a handwritten note held tightly in her fist, to take the large glass elevator to the top floor. Priscilla was in the middle of sorting the anal plug collection when her supervisor had told her to drop everything, thrust a note into her hand, and ordered her to bring it to the top floor immediately. She had stolen a glance at the note, though she had been told not to. All it said was, "He's here."

As the elevator rose, Priscilla could take in the full view of the atrium. At the far south end was a ten-story sculptor of a well-trimmed vagina. As she looked upon it, she heard the bells of Big Ben across the Thames strike the hour. At this same moment, the vagina sculptor released thousands of gallons of rose water that fell in a glorious cascade to the reflecting pool on the atrium floor. Priscilla felt herself moisten at the sight. She felt her cheeks redden and turned toward the offices so as not to arrive at the twentieth floor flushed with lust.

She passed floor after floor of workers. Lush employed nearly six thousand employees in this location, alone. She passed the programming and administration floors, followed by many, many, many advertising sales floors. Then she passed the research and development floor — the moans were a clear giveaway. The author badge floor was notably dark and abandoned. Something terrible must have happened there, she thought.

The chat moderator floor was sparsely populated, and those that were there seemed quite harried. And then there were several floors of the private offices of the story moderators. Priscilla could peer into a few as her transparent elevator continued to rise. They were huge. She guessed two-thousand square feet, apiece, and each was filled with beautiful designer furniture. Someday, she thought to herself, someday.

At last, she reached the top floor. Priscilla was greeted by security guards, who scanned her badge and squawked on their radios. As she waited, Priscilla took in the spectacular view, with everything from Greenwich, to St. Paul’s, to the glory of the Queens Park Rangers football stadium, within sight. At last, the security guards wordlessly directed her toward a pair of ornate doors. When she entered, her breath left her. Arrayed around a large, elevated circular table sat thirty-five people, among the most beautiful people she had ever seen. All of them were in their avatar outfits, like an anime Knights of the Horny Round Table. At the head of the table, a gorgeous woman in a Little Bo-Peep outfit paused with irritation.

"Yes ... young lady," Bo-Peep said to Priscilla. "To what do we owe this ... honor," she said disdainfully.

Priscilla started to stammer an answer, but when no real words came out, she just handed the note up. Priscilla studied Bo-Peep’s face as she read the note. Quite stern at first, Bo-Peep’s face broke into a smile and she threw her head back in apparent joy. She then addressed the other moderators with a serious gaze.

"I’ll be doing this one, myself,” she announced as she stepped down from her perch and strode swiftly out of the room.

“Come, Little One,” she said to Priscilla as some of the moderators muttered their disappointment.

~

A tall, gaunt man who appeared even taller in his top hat and long-coat costume, directed a couple of security guards to cut John out of his plastic and duct tape bounds and strip him of his pajamas. They then strapped the now nude John to an ancient-looking iron and leather bench once commissioned for Edward VII and used extensively by his heirs until its donation to Lush.

The top-hat man waved off the guards and manipulated the old contraption with apparently practiced expertise. John’s legs and arms were spread wide while his pelvis was elevated, such that his head and legs angled down, but remained at table height. He was completely exposed and vulnerable. All the while John protested in vain, as the gag in his mouth did its job.

“Ah, SteamRod,” Bo-Peep said as she swept in, with Priscilla in tow, “Our sexy, little intern here, brought me the news. You’ve landed BigBalzac!”

“Yes, Miss. I’m afraid he submitted another lazy effort before we were able to secure him,” SteamRod said apologetically.

“Mmhmmm,” Bo-Peep acknowledged, “We were just reviewing it. But no matter, we’ll have our friend back on track soon, I’m sure. Isn’t that right BigBalzac?”

John had quieted. Looking up from an inverted position at the beautiful, sexy shepherd girl and her gorgeous assistant, he lay naked before them, immobilized. Or, it left him mostly immobilized.

Bo-Peep reached out with her staff and drew it along John’s stiffening member. The touch of the relatively cold wood was enough to spur John’s cock to its full turgid potential of five inches. Bo-Peep chuckled.

“Is that it?” she asked. SteamRod tilted his head inquisitively. “I mean,” Bo-Peep continued in her Ox-Bridge accent, “One would think that his memoir stories had some basis in reality.” She then remembered that SteamRod lacked any sense of humor.

“I took the liberty of making a few selections, Miss,” SteamRod said, waving at a table covered with a collection of leather straps, riding crops, strap-ons, lubes, candle wax, metal clamps, and various other erotic sundries.

“Excellent work, as always,” she said, “I think I have everything I’ll need.”

SteamRod took the cue, and stepped away, subtly gesturing for Priscilla to join him.

“She can stay,” Bo-Peep said. “I might have a use for her.”

SteamRod allowed a fleeting arch of his brow. “Of course, Miss.”

Priscilla’s pulse quickened with excitement.

~

“Now, BigBalzac — I’m going to call you Mr. B, for short. Your writing surely causes the real Balzac to spin in his grave, and your balls are…well you know what they are,” Bo-Peep said with a humiliating laugh.

“Where was I…? Yes, Mr. B, as you can see, I am a shepherd. A shepherd to writers, rather than sheep. I’m a guide, a helper, and I keep writers — and readers — safe. I keep them safe from misspelling, bad grammar, bad syntax, and unfortunate comma usage. And I, and at least thirty other Lush moderators, have attempted to help and guide you, and keep readers safe. For years. And it hasn’t worked. Hence, you are here with me, now. In our time together, I’m going to give you some very specific instructions. And, I’m going to underline my instruction so that we can be sure that you understand. By ‘underline’ I mean I am going to inflict pain and humiliation. That’s what we call … a metaphor.”

John struggled to process the combination of fear, confusion, and arousal that was overtaking his mind, and body. The curvy shape of the shepherdess’s body under tight gingham, and the cleavage escaping a popped button on her young assistant’s blouse, were all that calmed him.

“I’m going to remove this gag. You are going to remain quiet. And you are going to listen, intently, to what I have to say. Do we agree?” Bo-Peep asked. John nodded.

Bo-Peep picked up a riding crop from the table, spun slowly and pensively, and then whispered in Priscilla’s ear. Priscilla bit her lip and then she, too, stepped to the table, where she picked up a pair of long, black rubber gloves and a bottle of oil.

“I think we’ll begin with your latest effort, Mr. B.., ‘Suds and Cum.’ Do you realize that story is your eighth in which a lonely, sexy housewife succumbs to the charms of a repairman, meter man, delivery man, or tradesman in her kitchen?” Bo-Peep asked.

“It’s just for a wank, what difference does it make,” John answered in his thick Northern accent.

Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Bo-Peep rained the crop down on John’s chest and stomach.

“Wanking is not the issue Mr. B. We at Lush are all for a good wank. Auto-erotically generated boy and girl cum is the veritable lifeblood of this organization. Indeed, we give very generously to the International Consortium of United Masturbators. But variety is the spice of life, Mr. B., and boring repetition does not get cocks or clits full. Am I clear?” Thwack! “Your next story should, at a minimum, take place in a different room.” Thwack!

“Do you have a sitting room? A garage, perhaps?” Thwack!

“Yes, Miss. I have a back garden, too, I could do something by the old coal chute.”

“That’s the spirit!” Bo-Peep exclaimed as she looked at Priscilla and gave her a nod, indicating it was her turn. To Bo-Peep’s pleasant surprise, Priscilla had altered her dress while Bo-Peep was distracted with her monologue. Priscilla had arranged her long, strawberry-blonde hair into a tight bun, and she had stripped off her skirt and blouse to reveal a delightful patterned stocking, thong, garter-belt, and demi-bra combination.

Priscilla acknowledged Bo-Peep’s curious smile: “Things might get messy,” she said in her East London accent, “I’m an intern. I only have two skirts and three blouses.”

Bo-Peep took in Priscilla’s twenty-two-year-old, athletic body, barely concealed in black nylon lace, and nodded her approval. Priscilla pulled on the opera-length, black rubber gloves, gave John’s hard, little cock a few squirts of oil, and began with tentative strokes. John started with surprise, then groaned in pleasure as his eyes rolled back in his head.

“Do you see, Mr. B? When you say the right thing, and I believe you, then we can replace my crop with sweet Priscilla’s latex-covered hand on your diminutive tally-wacker,” Bo-Peep explained. John nodded in ecstasy.

“Now let’s talk about fragments and run-on sentences. People think of them as opposites, but they spring from the same ignorance, or, perhaps in your case, arrogance.

A sentence requires a subject, a verb, and a predicate. It’s really that simple, Mr. B. Missing any of those is a problem. And too many of those, is also a problem.” Thwack!

“But what about O’Henry? Or Fitzgerald? Or Dos Passos? They used fragments. And what about William Faulkner? He only wrote in run-on sentences.”

Thwack! The crop came down on his groin. Thwack! The crop smacked his inner thigh. Thwack! John saw stars and his body contorted in pain as Bo-Peep swung the crop against his tiny ball sac.

“If you ever put your rubbish in the same company as John Dos Passos or William Faulkner again, I will gut you, tie a cast-iron pan around your miniature cock, and dump your body into the Thames, myself.” Thwack!

“Yes, Miss. No more fragments.” Thwack!

“I mean, I won’t use fragmented or run-on sentences, again,” John groaned with tears running down his forehead. Bo-Peep gave Priscilla a nod and she resumed her ministrations.

“Let’s talk about hyphens, shall we?” Bo-Peep asked rhetorically. “Have you spent any time with the grammar and style guides we recommended to you?”

“Yes, Miss.”

Thwack!

“Lies! Surely, you know that we can measure who follows the Hyperlinks and who doesn’t. Let’s leave lies behind, shall we? Let’s return to hyphens,” Bo-Peep continued.

“I…I just don’t see why they…they matter,” John stammered. “And the rules for usage seem almost arbitrary.”

Thwack! The crop came down on his right nipple.

“If it weren’t for that Manchester accent, I’d think you were American with that attitude.”

That comment stung John more than any whip. It seemed to turn him. For nearly an hour, Bo-Peep reviewed his grammar, punctuation, and spelling errors in the same punishment and reward cycle. After being accused of arrogant American habits, John was a noticeably more engaged and sincere student the entire time. Indeed, the rewards were frequent enough that Priscilla had to switch hands from fatigue.

When John correctly completed the last of his exercises, spelling out irresistible “i-r-r-e-s-i-s-t-i-b-l-e” with uncomfortable precision, Bo-Peep let John rest. He was sweating, breathing hard, and covered in bright red swatches. Priscilla took the opportunity to flex her tired hands. Bo-Peep waved Priscilla over and whispered some final instructions. SteamRod appeared, as if on schedule, and stood at attention a polite distance away.

“Mr. B, we are going to finish our session now. I’m sure you now understand that we can find you at any time. And we will, should you return to lazy writing habits,” Bo-Peep said, sternly.

John nodded his head vigorously, “Yes, Miss!”

Priscilla returned to John’s side and re-grasped his firm, little member.

“Mr. B, please count down from sixty,” Priscilla said, her eyes fixated on Bo-Peep. As John counted down, Priscilla gradually increased her grip and pace. At twenty, John was thrusting back against Priscilla’s quickly moving hand, and groaning out his numbers. At ten he was barely holding on. His eyes were clenched shut as he imagined the young assistant sitting on his face whilst the shepherdess pegged him, and he was very close to the brink of the most explosive orgasm of his life.

“Six…five…four…three…”

At that instant, Bo-Peep held up her hand and Priscilla pulled her hand away. John opened his eyes in pained confusion as a ruined orgasm dribbled down his glans.

“In the end, BigBalzac,” Bo-Peep said, “you have to do the work yourself.”

In anguished longing, John saw just a flash of Bo-Peep’s long legs and gingham-clad ass, followed by the firm bubble-butt cheeks of the assistant, and then they were gone. He was quickly surrounded by the top-hat man and his security guards.

~

Bo-Peep turned to Priscilla as they stepped away. “I think you may have a future with us, Little One. Let’s have a chat about your career path.”

“Oh my, I would love that!” Priscilla answered with excitement. “I’ll just grab my blouse and skirt.”

Bo-Peep scanned Priscilla’s lithe form with more hunger than was appropriate.

“Let’s consider this ensemble your avatar outfit, for the moment, and spend some time in my office — right now.”