My Master demanded only obedience. He knew my ways, knew what I craved, knew what I needed to give me satisfaction. As a person who had always been in control, who had needed to be in charge, who didn't like surprise or embarrassment, the ultimate sexual thrill for me came through being forced into a position where I could control nothing; where every act, every word, every gesture was calculated to inflict on me excruciating and abasing indignity; a sense of shame would overwhelm me as I faced my humiliation and a concomitant surge of sexual excitement would fire through my brain and set alight every nerve ending, every synapse, every fibre of my mind and body. Sex is a mental act more than a physical one, and being used in this way turned me on more than anything I had ever known. All this my Master knew.

Consequently I was seldom punished. Ours was a relationship based on humilation rather than bondage or SM; ours was a mind game. This, of course, made the infrequent punishments, when they happened, even more humiliating.

It was a warm June day, a blessed release after a spring which had limped pathetically into early summer, dispensing tedious showers and irritating morning frosts, with barely a hint of rejuvenating sun. Accordingly, we took advantage of the moment by picnicking in the garden, with a desultory and probably disease ridden barbecue of chicken wings, a variety of dips and, of course, a couple of nicely chilled bottles of wine. It was all deliciously pleasant. Over the fence we could hear the noise of our neighbours, too, availing themselves of the warm weather. The couple next door did not speak to us much. He had been in business, and had taken early retirement in his late fifties; she was in her early fifties, I suppose, and somewhat snobbish, with one of those ludicrously posh English accents which went out of fashion in the fifties, apart from the upper classes and the aspirant middle class.

They had company, I could tell, with waves of laughter and excitable chatter rolling over the high wooden fence which separated our gardens. Among the voices I could make out other neighbours: Sue and Norman from two doors up, solicitors and very wealthy, were speaking in those familiar, brash tones; old Tom from over the road was there, a nice old chap in his early seventies whose wife had died some years before; and Pete and Barbara too, which would mean that their brat son, an insolent and charmless youth of sixteen or seventeen would be lurking as well, saying nothing but watching everything. As usual, we hadn't been invited.

My Master was in charge of the barbecue, deftly turning the chicken wings, ensuring they were cooked without being charred beyond recognition. I sat and swirled my wine in my glass, enjoying its vanilla aromas as they wafted beneath my nose. He said something to me which I didn't catch, and I turned to hear. As I did so my leg swung out and caught the wine bottle resting on the grass, knocking it over. I lurched to retrieve it, but not before a couple of glasses worth of the precious wine had spilt onto the lawn.

"Harriet!" my Master, roared. "Look what you've done."

Crestfallen, I looked at the nearly empty bottle. "I'm sorry," I said. "I'll fetch another bottle."

"That's not the point," he replied tartly. "It's the principle. You should be more careful. Shouldn't you?"

"Yes," I whispered.

"What? I can't hear you."

"Yes, Master," I replied morosely.

"Well it's not good enough. I think you should be punished." He said this in a loud, crisp voice, which must have been clearly audible on the other side of the fence.

"I'm very sorry, Master," I repeated.

"Well, not enough, Harriet. You shall have to be punished. You need to be taught not to be so clumsy. Come over here."

He strode to his chair and sat, waiting for me. Next door, which moments before had been a bustle of activity and noise, was totally silent: they had obviously heard everything. I was resigned to the punishment, but not out here, I thought, surely not out here. Not with the snobs listening, not with Sue and Norman, or old Tom, or Pete and Barbara; and surely not with that surly son of theirs...

"Can we go inside?" I whispered hoarsely.

"No!" he roared in a voice loud enough to be heard two streets away, far less next door. "Come here now! Take off your skirt and panties." Dumbstruck, I did as I was commanded, stripping off my light summer skirt and peeling down my panties. The light, fresh breeze lapped delicately at my exposed pussy and bum. I couldn't believe this was happening.

"Over my knee."

My face beetroot, shame and humiliation pulsing through me, I swung myself over my Master's knee and lay facing the grass, which was still glistening with golden drops of the spilt wine which had precipitated this latest degradation. "You will count," my Master ordered. The high wooden fence concealed our garden from view, so we would not be overlooked as I endured my punishment, but our neighbours, partying next door, were going to hear every blow on my bare bottom. And they would hear me thank my Master after every stroke. I would never be able to show my face again.

My Master's hand landed squarely on my bottom, striking the first blow. The noise echoed around our small close like a rifle report, signalling to the world the start of my humiliation. "One, thank you, Master," I sobbed.

"Louder," my Master warned, and swung the second blow. Again, it echoed around the close.

"Two, thank you Master," I shouted. There was complete silence from next door. Crack! Crack! My Master continued my punishment, and I thanked him after each blow. I was in turmoil, the depth of my humiliation only just sinking in. Until now, our neighbours had had no real idea of our private lives, no idea that I was my Master's slave girl. They may have had suspicions, but no more than that. Now I was going to be the talk of the close, Harriet who was spanked on her bare bottom in the garden, in full hearing of everyone. I would never live it down.

Crack! Crack! My punishment went on. "Seventeen, thank you, Master; eighteen, thank you, Master" My bottom was red raw and stinging mightily, but that seemed insignificant compared to the maelstrom of emotion spinning round in my head. They know, I thought, everyone knows now. Old Tom, who always watches out for me and has a chat; Sue and Norman, those smug solicitors with their fancy cars and expensive holidays, they'll be telling everyone about it at work tomorrow; and that kid, the sullen brat who ogles me every time he sees me. He has heard me being spanked. Oh My God, I thought, he's listening right now as I thank my Master for spanking me. This was the most humiliating thing I had ever known.

"Twenty, thank you Master,"

"And that will do for now." I hope that has taught you a lesson, Harriet."

"Yes Master, thank you,"

"Hmm, we'll see. For the rest of the day, you will not wear your skirt or panties. I want that reddened bottom to be exposed all day, as a reminder of what happens when you're clumsy. No matter what happens, or who arrives. Do you understand?"

"Yes Master," I replied. I understood. And so, I suspected, overhearing from next door, would my neighbours.