A body-wracking punishment that made her survival of Fantasy 12 appear a piece of cake. What she had actually received was nothing. Absolutely nothing, except the mental and physical anguish of only being able to look on as Mark eased down the zip at the front of Clara’s catsuit. The dart of desire that coursed through Anya’s frustrated frame heightened in the presence of her girl’s beautifully succulent breasts. Taking hold of Clara’s hand, an unusual act of affection for Mark, he led the housekeeper to the door of the office before addressing Anya. ‘Finish your work. Do not pleasure yourself. The cameras are on, and I will know if you do. Then, at five o’clock, you will go to the dressing room and pack. We are relocating to the flat in London for a while.’ Clara didn’t look at anything but the floor as she allowed herself to be led away; but Anya could tell from the uneasy scuffing of her feet that the physical contact of Mark’s palm in hers was as confusing to the housekeeper as it was to the PA.
