"Now we start playing for Harriet's body," he said, and that familiar jolt thundered me, that beautiful sensation when, for an instant, my whole body shuts down, my heart stops, my eyes fail to see, ears can't hear and brain won't process any information. What did he say, my body screamed. What does that mean, my mind continued. What next? What next?

Now we start playing for Harriet's body. My body. Mine.

"Each of us starts," my Master explained, "with one hour of Harriet time, one hour when she is ours to do with as we wish. We will be gambling with minutes of Harriet time."

So I was transformed into a mass of betting chips.

Pete looked at me with undisguised lust. He had seen me naked first thing this morning, of course, and had had a second glimpse this evening. It was clear he was relishing the prospect of getting to grips with me, and the fact that they were gambling for the privilege gave it an extra illicit edge.

Barbara, too, appeared very keen to get started. She was in her early forties, and a bit plump; not obese, nothing that a regular fitness session wouldn't sort out. She had fattish thighs and a distinctly large bum, with small breasts which seemed out of proportion to the rest of her body. She was lightly made up, although she had fallen into the trap of many middle-aged women by wearing too much eyeliner. Her raven hair was cut short and neat, exposing a neck which was surprisingly smooth; it was particularly attractive, long and graceful,unblemished but for a couple of lines creased across it. I stared at each of them, these combatants for the pleasure of using me for three hours: which did I want to win? Did I want any of them to win?

I couldn't begin to understand what this meant, or how it would finish. As they began their game, I tried to figure things out. There were three of them, each with one hour of Harriet chips. That meant that there were three hours of my time, three hours of my life, three hours of dominance over me up for grabs, three hours of my existence the shape of which were reliant on the caprice of a deck of cards and a drunken poker game. People bet with many things: dollars, pounds, cars, clothing, matchsticks, pennies, you name it; my Master, Pete and Barbara were betting with three hours of my life.

The game progressed, and I observed minutes of my time being transferred from person to person. At one time my Master owned two and a half hours of my life, which I found amusing since he already controlled it in its entirity. Gradually, he was pulled back and Pete began to accumulate the most Harriet time. Barbara was seldom in the running, her Harriet time never rising above about thirty minutes and frequently plunging into single figures. I watched the progress of the game with a grim, dazed curiosity, scarcely able to believe that I was the stake.

Minutes of my life were casually tossed onto the table, reckless gambles, studied bluffs, surefire winners or misguided certainties, minutes of my life traded with nonchalant ease, as though they were insignificant, as though they were expendable, an acceptable loss. They continued to play for a couple of hours and it was well into the early morning by now; I was struggling to stay awake, despite the importance to me of the outcome. I knew my Master was a skilful poker player, and I was dubious at the way he was failing to dominate Pete and Barbara, neither of whom appeared to me to be particularly adept. I suspected my Master was deliberately losing. After all, as I said, he didn't need to win my time: he had it all.

My Master's losses got greater and greater, and I knew for certain he was trying to lose. Clearly, of the three hours at stake, none of them would belong to him by the end of the game. But to whom would they belong? That was the question which was exercising me now.

Barbara had the edge. She had one hour and fifty minutes of Harriet time; my Master was down to his last twenty minutes and Pete had the remaining fifty minutes. The next game would be important, as it could conceivably see my Master wiped out.

And true enough, it did. He didn't last very long at all before he folded, forfeiting his remaining Harriet time. He looked at me with a look which may have been sorrowful, or maybe curious, or maybe yet triumphant. With my Master it was never easy to tell. Whatever, I now knew the bald truth: for three hours I would be the plaything of either Pete or Barbara.

Which did I prefer? Pete was attractive enough, in a nondescript sort of way, the kind of person you pass in the street and wouldn't recognise five minutes later. Barbara had been very attractive in her youth, and still wore the vestiges of that beauty well. She had a dry, throaty laugh which revealed a good sense of humour. I was edging towards her.

Pete finally won the hand in which my Master was knocked out, and the kitty was evenly shared between the two of them, with Barbara having the slight edge. The next hand was dealt, and Barbara struggled to hide her contentment with her hand: she would never make a good player, I reflected. They began betting, tossing minutes of my time into the middle, trading, sparring, looking to bluff each other out of the game. Pete wore an inscrutable look, and I had a strong suspicion that he had a very good hand; Barbara, however, in her excitement at her own hand, seemed to have missed this. My Master, watching detachedly from the sidelines, seemed to pick up the vibes as well, and followed the action with a wry smile.

Barbara's incaution finally got the better of her, and she raised by forty minutes. Pete saw her and the bulk of the three hours of my time were now at stake. We were approaching a conclusion. I sat breathless.

Barbara, a triumphant smile on her face, revealed four aces and turned to face Pete. Without a flicker of emotion, Pete laid down a full house.

"Mine, I believe," he said.

Barbara looked downcast. She was reduced to about ten minutes of Harriet time now, and would be unlikely to see out the next deal. Mournfully, she picked up her five new cards and studied them. Pretty soon, all her remaining Harriet time was in the middle, and Pete raised her ten minutes.

"Guess that's you out, darling," he said triumphantly.

"Guess so," Barbara replied morosely. "Unless..."

"Unless?"

"Unless I bet some of my time." There was silence in the room, as we all took this in.

"What, you want to bet for your own time, like we have with Harriet's? Your willing to do that?"

"Yes," she said.

"You know what that means. If you lose, I can do whatever I wish with you?"

"Yes." Pete looked at his wife. She was clearly serious, and he gulped briefly, then nodded.

"Okay, let's play."

This was a curious turn of events, to be sure, adding an extra frisson of tension to the conclusion of the match. It made no difference to me, of course: my time was already safely in the bank, but Barbara was now playing for very high stakes. I wasn't sure if she knew what she was getting herself into. Again, she became reckless, and the betting began to escalate. I think she was light-headed by now, and within a few minutes the stakes had grown so high that as well as my three hours, there were two and a half hours of Barbara time in the pot.

"Okay," said Pete. "Let's settle this. Winner takes all. If you win you get all the Harriet time. If I win, I get it, and three hours of yours too."

"Agreed."

They stared at one another, and revealed their hands. Once more, Pete had a full house, and he sat back in his chair, hands clasped behing his head, a huge smile breaking out across his face.

"All mine," I believe. Barbara looked aghast. Things had not gone as planned for her. Instead of winning time with a little slave girl, she had somehow managed to turn herself into a slave for three hours. She looked, uncomprehendingly, at her husband.