Woefully uninspired...

“You may stop typing, Mademoiselle Vivian, when you have put down two hundred fifty suitable words.”

His tone was flat; cold. Her incessant whining hadn’t fazed him. Her excuse of being at a loss for inspiration to complete his assigned task fell on deaf ears. He knew that she could produce something, if she wanted to. She was merely being a brat by resisting.

He ignored her as she worked; purposely keeping his gaze from her big brown puppy dog eyes. Her long lashes batting silent pleas--her lower lip poked out in an adorable little pout--she had ways of melting resolve.

Frequently he reminded himself that he had given her a whole week to start and finish the story. In fact, she had squandered a good deal of that time masturbating without his permission. On Wednesday, he had caught her furiously strumming her clit while she was supposed to be drafting ideas. Any sympathy he might have felt for her faded with that recollection.

A full hour passed before he sauntered to the rolltop desk to inspect her progress. Her creativity never disappointed. The careless typos he noticed right away were a different matter.

Calmly he took her hand, guiding her up and away from the quieted Royal Portable. He stripped her of slip and petticoat; leaving her naked, save the pretty bowed ribbon around her neck. He sat, turning her swiftly over his knee. Perhaps a firm spanking would re-center her focus on precision and time management.