I had no inkling of what was coming when we arranged the dinner party. We were having three friends round for a meal and some drinks. These were regular occurrences, and they tended to slide on late into the night as the alcohol and conversation flowed. John and Andrea, who both worked in industry, and Mark, a solicitor, were friends from way back, over ten years. We had grown so close over the years we were completely comfortable in each other's company, instinctively knowing how each would react in certain circumstances, sensing when good natured banter was about to strike a raw nerve and reining in the conversation to avoid confrontation. The parties took place about once a month, rotating between our three homes, so I had no reason to believe this was going to be anything unusual.

My first shock came on the evening of the party, after I came home from work. "There's an outfit for you to wear tonight lying on the bad," my Master told me, not looking up from the potatoes he was peeling.

"What?" I asked, not understanding. It wasn't normal for my master to dictate what I wore for these occasions. In our private world he would dress me as he saw fit, of course, and I was accustomed to wearing sexy outfits with no underwear for him, but that never happened for these events. He made no reply, but continued with his preparations for the forthcoming meal. Confused, I wandered upstairs.

What I saw on the bed took my breath away. "I'm not wearing that!" I exclaimed, as I stared at a cheap maid's outfit laid out on our bedspread. It consisted of a black nylon top which was a size too small for me and would be bursting at the seams if I were to wear it; a micro sized flouncy black skirt which would barely cover my panties; a crass black apron, likewise tiny, and edged with white lace; black bra and suspenders with fishnet stockings; and a pair of shoes with the highest stilettos I'd ever seen, certainly higher than anything I'd ever worn. Tears welled in my eyes as I looked at the outfit and, biting my lip, I turned and ran downstairs.

"You must be bloody joking!" I exlaimed. "Not in a million years!"

My Master was still at the sink, peeling carrots now. On hearing my outburst he stopped, dropping a carrot into the bowl and stood stiffly for a moment, making no movement. And then he turned, facing me with a terrifying glare I had never seen before. I was shocked and frightened, and took an involuntary step backwards.

"How do you address me?" he said coldly.

"We're not playing just now," I replied as bravely as I could. Still, it came out nervously.

"That's where you're wrong, Harriet. As of now we are ALWAYS playing. For too damned long I've gone along with this public and private arrangement because you have always been appropriately behaved when we are alone. But no more. In the last couple of months you've been getting above yourself, forgetting yourself, neglecting your Master. Too many nights out with friends. Not enough tending to my needs. You don't seem to realise that you are my slave, and your sole purpose is to satisfy me. You've grown too independent and it has to stop."

I stared at him aghast. It was true I had been out a lot recently, mostly because of a new contract we were tendering for at work, and we had been playing our games less frequently than before. I muttered that I would make it up to him, and would look after him better.

"Enough!" he roared. "You don't seem to understand, Harriet. This isn't a game any more. It's time to make your choice. Either you are mine, in which case you do exactly as I say, or you can go. Stay here, as my slave, or get out, now. Make your choice. It's perfectly simple. I'll call for a taxi if you choose to go. There's a suitcase in the spare room." With that, he headed down the hallway and picked up the telephone.

"No," I pleaded. "I don't want to go." I was sobbing now, tears rolling down my cheek.

"Very well," my Master replied, "then go upstairs and put on your outfit."

"But I can't!" I exclaimed. "John, Andrea and Mark will be here soon. What will they say?" My Master pressed the first couple of digits on the telephone, staring at me as he did so. I tore my eyes from his gaze and fled upstairs, hurling myself on the bed beside those clothes. I couldn't believe it. He expected me to wear it, that nasty little outfit, in front of our oldest friends. I just couldn't do it.

"Taxi'll be here at half past," my Master shouted up the stairs. I could hear him return to the kitchen. My heart was pounding. I looked around the room, at our possessions, my possessions. I couldn't give all this up. I had nowhere to go. I didn't understand what was happening or what I could do. There wasn't time to think. Panic stricken, sick in the pit of my stomach, I looked at the maid's uniform and considered my options.

Tears streaming down my face, I slowly undressed and stood at the foot of the bed. I looked at myself in the full length mirror of the wardrobe. I looked crushed, beaten. Mascara had run down my cheeks, my eyes were red-rimmed and empty. Picking up the ridiculous black bra, I popped my arms through, adjusted it on my breasts and reached behind to fasten it.