When I reach the workshop, it feels like weeks since I was last here. Walking to my seat with a toy in my pussy produces an odd, but pleasurable sensation — though I have to wonder what I’m missing. If this is some kind of punishment, it doesn’t strike me as a very harsh one.
Then the work begins, and the old routines come back. Throwing all my pent-up energy into the sewing, I promise myself we’re making quota today; the girls aren’t going to get punished on my behalf. Looking around, I can tell the others are uncomfortable, seated on ravaged backsides. My ass hurts too, still sore from keeping in that plug for so long. The toy in my pussy makes me fidget a little, but mostly I can ignore it.
At least, that is until it starts to vibrate.
I knew it!I think to myself, letting out a short gasp. Stirring in my seat from the waves of warmth spreading through my body, I try focusing on my work.
It’s fine, Quinn. You can do this.
Scanning the room, I see no one is paying me any attention. The device makes no noise, and as long as I keep sewing, no one will be the wiser. It’s a pretty good plan, and for a while it succeeds: I finish a half dozen shirts, doing my best to keep my breathing calm and level.
However, my plan falters when the toy’s vibrations start intensifying. Panting and trembling, I try to ignore the pleasure surging from my core, but it’s overwhelming. Before I know it, I lose my concentration, wrapped up in bliss, and foul up a shirt, sewing a seam so crookedly it looks like a mountain range.
“Quinn, what the fuck?” shouts Jacqueline.
Shook from my trance, I look up at her, shaking my head. “I’m sorry, it’s… it’s not my fault.”
“What are you talking about?”
I don’t want to tell her about the device; it’s too humiliating.
“I’m… I’ve got a… oh shit!”
The vibrations get even more powerful as I speak, and I can’t help turning to Reed. He pretended not to know my condition before, but now he’s watching me, not even concealing an amused grin.
“Is something wrong, Harris?” he asks, sauntering over. “You were doing just fine a minute ago.”
“It’s nothing,” I reply, grabbing more fabric so I can get back to work. “I’m fine.”
He winks and pats my shoulder. “Then watch what you’re doing.”
Grumbling, I obey. I know Reed is doing what he has to for both our sake, but does he have to be enjoying himself so much?
Sweat drips down my brow as I work, and occasionally I can’t help moaning. When I do, I hear snickers from the other women. They must have some idea about what’s happening to me. In fact, they probably know exactly what’s going on.
As far as punishments go, this one isn’t painful, but it is extremely frustrating. I have to slow down my sewing to make sure I don’t ruin another shirt, but if I don’t get enough done and we miss the quota, everyone’s going to blame me. Also, it’s one thing to get whipped in front of the entire prison — I’ve had that happen more times than I can count; to be this close to orgasm, unable to control my arousal and need for relief while everyone watches — I feel like an animal at the zoo. When I look around, none of the women seem sorry for me; despite everything I’ve been through, seeing them laugh at my predicament still hurts.
Forced to press on, I keep working. When I finally finish a shirt, I allow myself a second to relax. I realize immediately that was a mistake, as an orgasm I hadn’t known I was holding back erupts. Rocked by bliss, I bend over to cover my mouth, trying to suppress my deep groans. Squirming and bucking, I try shifting my thighs to somehow escape the powerful, unflagging sensation in my pussy, but the device refuses to turn off. By now everyone must be watching, but I can’t stop. I scream into my palms, quivering with euphoria until I’ve expended every last drop of energy.
Finally, the toy stops. I lay my head against the table, trying to catch my breath, exhausted from the experience.
“Harris!” Reed yells, startling me out of my afterglow. “Who said you could take a break?”
“Sorry,” I mutter, fumbling for more fabric.
However, before I can resume working, he strides over and grabs my wrists. “That’s too many interruptions,” he says, working me free of my handcuffs. “Take off your shirt.”
“What?”
“I can’t just give you a whipping. You enjoy it too much. Now do it.”
Scowling, I pull my top over my head, baring my breasts for all to see. Exposure to the cool air hardens my nipples, making them extra sensitive when Reed pinches them. I swipe at his hands, so he grabs my wrists and cuffs them back to my work table. Once I’m restrained, he squeezes my nipples again. The pain makes me wince, but like a whipping, I feel an intoxicating sense of relief when he lets go.
“Are you enjoying yourself, Quinn?” he asks.
“No.”
“Liar.”