It was a useful training device, and Mr Loverman was now firmly under my control. Our relationship had spiralled from the initial teasing and playing at work, through a series of increasingly severe initiations, until he was now my permanent slave. I had moved into his house, appropriating his bed and leaving him on the dog basket on the floor; I had assumed control of his finances, granting him an allowance of £3 per week which he had to earn by licking me to a climax each evening; and I had selflessly taken his physical well-being in hand. He had been on the lardy side when he committed himself to me, but after three weeks of a lettuce diet and strenuous working out, he was well on the way to turning flab into muscle. Watching his body change and develop was a source of great pleasure. And, of course, his grimaces on the exercise bike as his cock cage flew around and ground into him afforded an extra frisson of satisfaction.

So, all in all, he was developing nicely. I felt it was time to move to the next stage. His servile state had, of course, already been revealed to Susan, the cleaner from work: and, delightfully, she had revealed an imaginatively perverse nature, inflicting considerable and ingenious torment on her erstwhile superior. But what would really establish Mr Loverman's new role would be his introduction to Pamela.

Pamela, his nemesis.

Pamela was the reason for his cock cage. His ill-considered refusal to service her, as I had instructed, had led to the draconian punishment currently inflicted on him, and he was well aware that liberation would not come until he succumbed to my will and presented his body for the unreserved delight of Pamela. Unfortunately for him he had displayed a level of choosiness unbecoming of a slave, finding the idea of servicing Pamela distasteful: she was fat and - to his prejudiced eyes - unattractive, and definitely not Mr Loverman's type. All the more reason, I decided, to ensure that Pamela was not denied his undoubted charms.

And so, on Pamela's return from holiday, I instructed Mr Loverman to invite her to dinner. It would be a déjeuner à trois, he was to tell her, to allow her to relate her holiday adventures. Pamela was surprised by the invitation, but readily accepted: however much Mr Loverman may have abhorred the thought of sex with Pamela, the feelings were decidedly not reciprocated, and Pamela's passion for the poor man was plain to see.

It was to be a normal dinner party, I explained to Mr Loverman. Poor soul, he even believed me. A look of relief crossed his face as I instructed him to dress casually.

"Just normal clothing, Mr Loverman. No underwear, of course, but other than that perfectly respectable. This is an ordinary dinner date." He smiled palely. "And you can call me 'dear', rather than Miss."

He looked surprised by that: no-one knew of our relationship, of course, and my instruction caused him to assume this was a "coming-out" party for the two of us. Poor, misguided fool, I was happy to leave him to his erroneous assumptions - leaving me to plot the true course of events.

And so the evening of the party arrived, and Pamela rang the doorbell at precisely 7.30pm. I despatched Mr Loverman to greet her, busying myself by pouring a glass of wine ready to hand her when she was escorted into the living room. She was a vision in pink, in a dress far too short and tight for her: unfortunately, the woman had no dress sense, and instead of longer, body flattering clothing, she insisted on outfits which only a waif or an emaciated shop dummy could carry off with style. The art of make-up, too, was beyond her: lipstick, blusher, eyeliner, everything was plastered on as though she were about to appear on stage.

"Pamela, welcome, you look fabulous. Doesn't she Graham?" It felt strange, calling Mr Loverman by his own name: I hadn't done so for weeks. He nodded gamely and sat beside Pamela on the settee, while I oversaw proceedings from the armchair.

"Yes, dear," he replied meekly. Pamela started, her eyebrow rising comically as she took in what Graham had said.

"A few things have happened while you've been away," I purred. "Graham's been slaving away all day, haven't you Graham?" He shot me an anguished look, fearing I was about to reveal all. "In the kitchen. Preparing our meal. I didn't realise what a good cook he was. Did you know, Pamela?"

"No, I had no idea."

"A man of hidden talents is our Graham."

We continued in this vein for some time, and I took delight in teasing little Mr Loverman. He was deeply uncomfortable. Of course, he knew the ultimate outcome: I had made it perfectly clear that his future lay in submitting to Pamela, but he had no idea how this was to be effected, or if it were to happen that evening, and I enjoyed playing with his uncertainty. We drank a couple of large glasses of wine each, and Pamela was becoming more relaxed, settling comfortably into the settee and telling us tales from her holiday. It was nearly time to eat, and nearly time for the revelation. I prepared myself.

"Actually, Pamela, before we eat there are probably some things you ought to know. Like I said, a few things have happened." She looked at me expectantly, a confused smile on her mouth. Mr Loverman sat, open jawed, the realisation that his world was about to be shattered etched bleakly on his face. He shook his head pathetically. I smiled and continued. "Yes, indeed, things are a bit different. You may have wondered why I was invited here as well as you tonight?" Pamela nodded. "Well, the thing is, I live here now."

"You two are an item? Congratulations."

"Not exactly, no. What I mean is, I live here now. This is my house, not Mr Loverman's."

"Whose?"

"Mr Loverman. Graham." Mr Loverman's face was white. He gulped continuously, his hands clenched. "The thing is, Pamela, Mr Loverman is my slave. I own him."