As casually as though we were old friends meeting up in the street, my Master had invited the stranger to join us, to sit with me while I lay naked and spreadeagled on the picnic rug. My heart was pounding and I hoped, hoped, prayed and hoped that she would decline, would consider the scene too strange, make her apologies and politely walk away. But to my horror she smiled and said she would be delighted. Her dog waited patiently on its lead, a passive observer of this curious scene, and the woman paused for an instant before slowly bending and falling to her knees on the rug beside me, close enough to my thigh for me to feel her breath whispering across my nervous and responsive flesh. Fishing in his bag, my Master pulled out a third glass. He caught my eye and smirked momentarily, and we traded glances, mine one of outrage and his a mask of imperturbable calm: this was confirmation, of course, of what I had known all along: that he had planned the entire scenario, that he had deliberately engineered my latest public humiliation. I had been set up. Again.

"Harriet, pour our guest a drink," he said. His eyes were on me, intense and probing, and I knew that beneath that simple instruction he was silently imparting a deeper, more important command. With a rush of understanding which caused my heart to pound for an instant, I sensed what he wanted.

"Yes, Master," I replied. The woman looked up at me, taken by surprise by my reply.

From my own mouth, then, the confirmation to the stranger of my position. This was mental self-exposure laid on top of my physical nakedness, a self-revelation compounding my humiliation. As ever, my Master had orchestrated events so that my most intimate shame came from my own words and actions: I was complicit in my own abasement. The stranger observed me curiously, and I could sense her trying to work out what was happening. Now that my status was established, I complied with my Master's order and poured the woman a glass of wine. With a shaking hand I passed it to her.

"Thank you," she said in an affectedly polite manner. The upside of this exchange was that I was now sitting forward, with my legs closed and the deeper recesses of my body hidden from view. I knew it wouldn't last, though, and for as long as I could I avoided my Master's gaze. I could feel his eyes burning into me, however, and finally, resignedly, I looked up at him. He frowned and shook his head. I transferred my look from him to the woman, back to him, and to the woman again, and instantly the air was thrumming with electric anticipation. This was a pivotal moment. My breath caught in my throat and my ears were ringing with excitement. This was even worse than the initial exposure. It was like exposing myself all over again, but this time the humiliation was far deeper, more ingrained because I was sitting in front of her, and I was about to deliberately open my legs just inches from her prurient gaze.

And that is what I did.

I leaned back, my eyes locked on hers, and slid my legs apart, parting them, revealing my cunt, hot and damp, to the stranger. An intoxicating shiver of emotion skidded through my body, excitement, shame, horror, delight, all massed into one thunderbolt of overwhelming sentience. Stretched back and stretched apart, vulnerable, open and defenceless, my privacy stripped from me, I felt the most extraordinary surge of sexual excitement. My heart was high in my chest, booming its arousal with almost physical resonance and my hands were cold and tingling. Deep inside me, my excitement was churning and whirling, flitting down my thighs and up my torso, pounding my nerves and flaying my senses. All around me was a blur. All I could see was the woman staring at my open pussy and all I could hear was the steady drumming of my humiliation.

"You've got a lovely body," she said. "I'm not surprised you like to show it."

"Thank you," I replied, parting my legs further, compelling myself to exact the maximum from this encounter.

She turned to my Master. "So you're the "Master", then?"

"Yes, and Harriet is my slave girl."

"Weird."

"We both enjoy it. Don't we, Harriet?"

"Yes, Master." Did I enjoy it? My mind screamed no, but my body, flushed and roused, proved otherwise. odi et amo, odi et amo.

The woman stared at my face for some moments, trying to read me, trying to understand. I knew she couldn't - few can - but she seemed to satisfy herself that we were genuine, and I saw her visibly relax.

"And you do this sort of thing all the time, then?"

"This, and other things. Whatever takes my fancy."

"So, what," she continued, still staring at me while she spoke to my Master, "you make her do stuff, right? And she's a slave girl, so she does it?"

"Yes, pretty much. Harriet will do anything I tell her."

"Anything?"

"Yes, anything."

"Prove it."