"I go out for ten minutes to pick up our guest from the station, and what do I find when I get back?" he roared magnificently. "What kind of way is this to greet Nadia after all these years?"

I stared at the ground morosely, deeply ashamed of myself and unable to bring myself to look at her. A tear welled in my eye as I contemplated my situation. However much I suspected my Master had manufactured this scene, I was still being paraded in front of a long standing and much loved friend in this humiliating manner: I was being exposed to her in the most base manner possible, naked after having given a blowjob to a complete stranger in my own living room. I would never be able to face her again.

"Well?" thundered my Master, his towering rage showing no signs of dissipating. "Have you nothing to say for yourself."

"I had no money..." I started, and then faultered. There was no point trying to explain, I knew. "No, Master," I whispered, "I'm sorry."

"Well sorry isn't good enough. Not by a long chalk. Over here, girl." He stormed past me and strode towards the seat by the window. "Well?"

I was too scared to move, my limbs frozen solid in terror. I stared at my Master, observing the blind fury in his features. Mechanically, not fully in control of my actions, I edged towards him, cowering.

"You're going to get the worst thrashing of your life for this," he said, his voice moderating slightly but still full of edgy menace. I didn't doubt it.

"Ah, sorry, I think I should go..." said the pizza man. He, too, had an expression of sheer terror on his face. He gathered up his trousers and made to leave, probably fearful for his life. At least I knew my Master was not completely serious: the poor pizza man thought this scene was totally genuine, and must have thought he had stumbled into something from Pulp Fiction.

"You're going nowhere, sunshine," my Master said coldly. He rushed across the room towards him and the young man flinched, thinking he was about to be struck. Instead, my Master grabbed his belt and yanked it hard, pulling it loose from his trousers. Nadia, who had been a silent observer until now, moved towards the terrified young man and fixed him with a vice-like grip, forcing him down onto a chair. I looked on in astonishment, wondering at how deftly she managed to force him into place. Brandishing the belt, my Master turned back to me.

"Over," he yelled. I knew not to argue and bent myself over the chair in front of the window. I was in front of an open window, and anyone passing would get a clear view of my punishment. I braced myself, gripping the legs of the chair and trying to ignore the discomfort of the chair-back biting into my stomach. It would be nothing compared to what was coming, I knew.

And it wasn't. Without warning my Master let go and swung the leather belt down on my upturned backside. Despite myself, I let out a yell of agony as the fiery pain erupted on my skin and flashed down my legs, up into my stomach and insinuated itself into every crevice of my body. It was excruciating, a livid, seething streak of flame bursting across my naked flesh. My Master tore down on me again, the belt thwacking against me with an almighty crack. He misjudged the length of the stroke and a fraction of a second later a secondary, much sharper sting snaked across my thigh and round into the soft area beneath my pussy as the belt hooked itself around me and flashed down onto my skin. Again, I let out a wail of protest as every muscle and sinew in my body reacted against this torture.

My Master hit me a third time, this time much harder than before, and before I could stop myself I stood up and clutched my aching buttocks, whining in pain.

"Harriet!" he roared. "Another five for that." I whimpered impotently and resumed my position. It wasn't fair. I knew I had to maintain my bent posture at all times during a punishment, but this was different: I had never known anything like this before, and the pain was overwhelming. Another five was too much. Tears racking down my face I awaited the resumption of my punishment. My Master struck up again, planting a fourth stripe across my tormented backside. I could taste the pizza man's sperm in my throat, tormenting me, goading me for getting into this situation, and no matter how much I tried to swallow, it remained there, bitter and salty in my mouth. My ears were ringing with the sound of the belt cracks and with the pain they were inducing. I was dizzy and a hot flush blew over me, turning me instantly clammy and sweating, and I feared I was about to pass out. Concentrate, Harriet, I told myself. I stared glassy-eyed at the carpet in front of me.

My Master pressed on, lashing me again and again, seven, eight times, nine, ten, each blow as hard as the one before, each landing crisply on my reddened and bruising flesh, each lancing a fearsome burst of pain throughout my body. He continued to get the length of his blows wrong, and the tail flicked round me, grazing me on the stomach, the inner thigh and on my bush, and those blows, instant and fleeting, were considerably more painful than the full force of the belt on my upturned rear.

I sank lower and lower, unable to keep upright, pressing myself hard into the chair, now oblivious of the discomfort from the chair-back. After about twelve blows I lost track of what was happening: my arse was so aflame, so utterly churned up and in agony that any further blow merely spread the area of pain wider, rather than making it any worse. The blows melded into one another, and I began to lose grip of reality, finding myself floating into a parallel world, my physical and mental bodies separating but, paradoxically, becoming more in tune. The physical pain became abstract, no longer a suffering but a condition, a way of being. It eased throughout my body, gradually taking over all my senses until I knew nothing but pain: I could taste it, and hear it, and smell it, and touch it. Nothing else existed, and I gave myself over to it, I crossed the threshold, I embraced the pain. It is a wonderful moment, when pain turns to pleasure, and pleasure to pain. Sometimes it can come easily and cheaply, like too-hot water in the shower; at other times it takes more effort and exacts a greater price, but affords a greater thrill. My Master thrashed on, and I squirmed under his control, knowing what I was feeling was not agony but ecstacy. I've no idea how many strokes he gave me: more than twenty, probably, fewer than thirty, and by the end I was floating in a world of my own.

Finally, my Master came to a halt and told me to stand up. Tenderly, I did so, my whole body alive and on fire. My Master wiped the sweat from his brow and turned to the white-faced pizza man.

"Now then," he said menacingly. "Your turn."