Noncholantly, he grabbed another bag of service washes and disappeared into his back office. He knew I was going nowhere and was prepared to wait. The volume of his execrable whistling rose a couple of notches and seemed to me now to have a jaunty, self-satisfied air. Time either crawled by or sped past, I'm not entirely sure which: both, it seemed to me, were that to be possible. The clothes went through their main wash and rinse, then secondary wash and final rinse and then the machine wound itself up for the final spin, its furious hum rising in pitch to a manic wail, while the whole machine began to bounce around the floor in a demented jig. The sound, as I expected, alerted Rollo, and he strolled back into the launderette, another cigarette hanging limply from his mouth.

My machine groaned to a halt, swinging slower and slower until what had been an unrecognisable white mass inside gradually took form again and revealed itself to be my white outfit. Rollo stood opposite me, about five yards away, grinning contentedly, and waited. I sat for perhaps a minute or two after the click of the safety release told me I could open the door. I felt rooted to the spot, too nervous to move.

Finally, agonisingly, I raised myself from the seat, hunching my back to ensure the coat didn't slide open and slithered across to the machine. Rollo said nothing but continued to stare openly. I unhooked the catch on the door, pulled it open and reached inside for my garments. The machines were industrial size, their drums cavernous, and as I did so I had to bend forward quite some way, poking my head inside the machine. Of course, this action immediately raised my coat and as I stood bent over the machine, grabbing my clothing, my arse was clearly exposed. Unabashed, Rollo moved a few yards to the side so that he was standing directly behind me, and I felt his eyes boring into me. I knew he could see everything, and the knowledge stabbed through me like a scalpel. This hideous, middle-aged man, who usually got his kicks from looking at girls' knickers in the wash baskets, was copping an eyeful of my naked backside, and I could do nothing about it.

And worse yet, at some stage I had to take my coat off and get dressed.

And then, with a stab to the heart, a pumping, adrenalin-charged burst of dread, I realised the worst: at some stage, I had to make myself come.

I tried to shut these thoughts from my mind as I proceeded with the task of emptying my machine. I scooped up the clothing and balled it into my chest. As I headed for the tumble-dryer Rollo followed my and in an exaggeratedly gentlemanly fashion he opened the door for me. Gratefully, I thrust the pile inside, but in my haste my bra fell from my grip and landed on the floor.

"'Low me," Rollo said chivalrously, and instantly he bent down and picked up the bra. On his haunches, his eye was just about in line with my coat hem, and he delayed, crouching where he was for a few seconds, gazing up inside the coat. There was nothing I could do about it: I could hardly complain, having put myself in this position in the first place. And what was worse, Rollo knew that and took advantage. He didn't content himself with a quick, stolen glance, but brazenly remained in position, openly ogling me. Finally, after what seemed like a lifetime, he rose to his feet again and handed me the bra, rolling his fingers quite unnecessarily over the inside of it.

"Thank you," I whispered, my breathing shallow with humiliation.

"Pleasure," he beamed. I'll bet, I thought.

I fed the coins in the slot, enough for ten minutes drying time, and went back to my seat. Rollo returned to his perch directly opposite me and struck up some idle chitchat. My mind was racing. Somehow, in the next ten minutes, I had to make myself come. I could always cheat, I knew, and after I had retrieved my clothing go to a public toilet to bring myself off and wipe the evidence onto my panties, but I had no intention of lying to my Master. That would be dishonourable and unworthy. I had been given my task and, somehow, I had to effect it.

I rested my hand on my lap, my palm pressing against my crotch, and tried as surreptitiously as possible to apply some pressure to it. The tension of the moment was getting to me, the shame of the situation I had manoeuvred myself into burning itself into my mind, sending shivers of abased excitement down my spine and into my vagina. I pressed hard, the ball of my palm pushing directly on my mons and sliding slowly and, I hoped imperceptibly, onto my clitoris.

My excitement was growing, a reluctant desire to satisfy myself which I couldn't deny, which I couldn't prevent. I looked away from Rollo, adopting the ostrich approach, subconsciously and ludicrously telling myself that if I couldn't see him he wouldn't see me. Carefully, I crossed my legs and as I did so I slid my index finger inside my coat between the two lowest buttons and felt around. Adjusting my posture, I managed to settle the finger directly on my slit and felt, already, a slick moisture oozing from it. I began to stroke slowly, effortlessly, and looked up guiltily at Rollo.

He was staring at me, a look of undisguised amazement on his face.

Crossing to the door, he turned the sign to closed and locked the door.

"Tha's lunch time," he said. "No-one else allowed in."