We were sitting at the breakfast table, my Master carefully spreading a sliver of butter on his morning toast. "So tell me," he said, reaching for the marmalade, "about Tom's blowjob."

I stopped in mid-gulp of my tea. I knew I had heard correctly, but I had no answer.

"I'm sorry, Master?"

"Tom's blowjob. I told you the other night you were to give him one, as thanks for not taking advantage of you on Sunday. I presume you've done it by now. Tell me about it."

"No, Master, I'm sorry, I haven't. I 3; I hadn't realised it was a firm instruction. I was awaiting further direction from you." Although this was the truth, it still sounded lame to me and, I felt sure, to my Master too.

"Good God, Harriet, do I need to spell everything out to you? I give my orders, and I expect my slave to obey without question, or delay."

"No Master." I stared into my teacup. He couldn't meant this. He couldn't expect me to give a blowjob to a man in his seventies, our neighbour, whom I'd known for years. He couldn't.

"So, you have until Friday evening. I will expect to hear the full story when we go to the pub that evening."

"Yes, Master." My mind was abuzz. How was I going to get out of this? I couldn't give a blowjob to a wrinkly in his seventies. What could I do? Could I make it up, pretend that I had done it, invent some story for my Master? No, I knew it wasn't possible: he would see through it straight away. Tears welled up in my eyes as I began to contemplate what was happening to me. This was yet another humiliation to be heaped on me, another way for my Master to demonstrate his control over me. I knew I had no option; I knew I would obey. Whatever my Master ordained, I would accede. Resignedly, I began to formulate a plan to seduce old Tom.

He was a keen gardener, and despite his age had the best kept and most attractive garden in the close. In early summer it was ablaze with colour, a glorious cacophony of reds, yellows and violets, subtly structured, ordered without appearing regimented. He spent every morning watering, weeding, planting, perfecting, content with himself and his lot.

"Morning, Tom," I said breezily, trying to mask the trepidation I felt.

"Hello, Harriet," he replied warmly. He seemed genuinely pleased to me, but I detected a quizzical glint in his eye also: he had, after all, heard me being publicly spanked only the previous week. I complimented him on his garden, which he accepted with diffident good grace, pointing out the area at the rear with which he was particularly disappointed and which, in his opinion, let the rest of the garden down. It looked fine to me. We engaged in a polite conversation for quarter of an hour or so, ranging through the weather, the recent big football match (which meant nothing to me, but I pretended it did) and the forthcoming elections.

He was such a polite, gentle and old fashioned man I could see no way of achieving my goal. I couldn't envisage how I could swing the conversation round to a sexual nature without embarrassing or offending him, and desparation began to set in. Even if I wanted to do this, I doubted whether I could achieve it.

Finally, Tom stretched his back and emitted a low groan. "That's me for the day, I think. If I stop for any length of time my back goes all stiff and I can't do anything for the rest of the day." I apologised for disturbing him and spoiling his day, but he dismissed it immediately.

"Absolutely not. Been a pleasure to talk to you. Not often I get to chat to a pretty young thing, you know," he teased, his eye twinkling. "Now, when I finish in the garden I always have a mug of tea and look out the window at what I've done, while I decide what needs doing tomorrow. Would you like to join me?" He sounded almost coy, like a teenager asking the most beautiful girl in the class for a date, his eyes darting around, unable to hold my gaze.

"I'd love to, Tom," I replied. He looked surprised but pleased and led me into his house.

"Sorry about the mess, I don't get many visitors," he called as he headed to the kitchen. It seemed perfectly clean to me, a little musty, perhaps, but tidy and spruce. "I like my tea strong. Four tea bags. Hope that's okay for you." Ideally, I would have preferred a quadruple gin and tonic to help me conquer the nerves that had my hands shaking and my heart throbbing, but I figured that wasn't an option and concurred.

I sat in his living room and waited until he appeared, bearing a large wooden tray with a gaudy formica cover. He set it down and settled himself into the sofa beside me.

"We'll wait a few minutes for it to refuse," he said, laughing gently at his joke. I wondered how often he had used it; probably, I reflected it had been an in-joke between him and his late wife, one of those stock phrases with which couples populate their lives, a simple, gentle demonstration of their intimacy.

"My wife always used to say that," he said as he began to pour from the hefty, brown teapot. The brew was indeed a strong one, the colour and very nearly the consistency of treacle. I winced as I tasted its metallic tinge and tried to force it down.

We settled back on the sofa and Tom began to chat about himself. He had worked in the planning department of the local council all his life, sorting out planning disputes and vetting applications for extensions, patios or whatever the current fashion was. "Forty years," he said, "and what did I get at the end of it? A bloody clock!" He laughed, wheezing into his cup, betraying not a shred of bitterness in his voice. He truly was a very nice man. How was I going to do this? How could I do anything so sleazy to this charming old gentleman?

An hour or so passed very quickly, and I discovered Tom to be very good company, surprisingly relaxed and displaying a garrulousness which took me by surprise. We tend to assume that older working class men have few social graces, having relied on their wives for any dealings with officialdom or strangers, and get tongue tied easily with people they don't know well. Not Tom, though. He told me about his wife and his family. Mary, dead fifteen years, and three girls and two boys, of whom only the two eldest girls were still alive.

"Strange, that," he said. "All the youngest ones went first. And before me too. That isn't right." Unconsciously, I rested my hand on his knee, stroking his thigh through the coarse corduroy. It was a platonic gesture, though, I knew it was, and with a sinking feeling it dawned on me there was no way I could go through with this. Not today.

But I would do it tomorrow. For certain. My Master had ordered me.