"Okay," said my Master at length. "Up you get now." I rose unsteadily to my feet, trying to avoid looking at the football field. Shrill blasts from the referee's whistle alerted me to the resumption of play, and I felt a small twinge of relief that I was no longer the sole focus of their attention. "I'm taking the long way home," my Master continued. "I don't much fancy walking past the footballers."

Quite, I agreed silently. It would be simply unbearable to have to walk past them, knowing what they had just witnessed. Footballers tend not to be the most subtle of people, and I could only imagine what variety of coarse comments would follow.

"Yes, Master, a good idea," I replied.

"You haven't got time for that, though," he continued, ignoring me. "You have to get back to prepare tea, so you can take the shortcut, across the fields." I said nothing. He couldn't mean it. He simply couldn't: it was inconceivable that I could walk past them. "And you'd better get your coat on. If you don't get arrested you'll get pneumonia." Coat? What about the rest? I was becoming distinctly alarmed by now. I had presumed that my humiliation for the day had reached its zenith with my public spanking, but the drift of my Master's conversation made me realise that the worst was yet to come.

"Coat, Master?"

"Yes, coat."

"And the rest?"

"You don't need them. I'll take them home for you, save you carrying them."

"Thank you, Master." I couldn't believe what I was saying. I was thanking my Master for taking my clothes away and making me walk home naked. I was becoming distinctly cold though, apart from my buttocks which were still throbbing, and I slipped speedily into my coat. Again, I agitated over its length: it was bad enough standing in the launderette, but the movement as I walked would surely lift it over the curve of my backside, revealing my arse to anyone watching. Vainly, I tugged at the hem, trying to pull it further down my thighs.

"I want you to go straight past the football pitch."

"Master, they all saw. They are sure to make comments."

"Well, if they do be sure to reply politely." That wasn't quite the answer I was hoping for, nor the approach I would have adopted for this predicament. "And as you do, I have one final task for you today."

My God, what a day this was turning out to be. Hadn't my Master tested me enough? I had stripped off in the launderette and sat virtually naked while my clothes were washed; caught in the act, I had been forced to perform on a smelly old Italian to get out of trouble; later, I had been made to strip in the middle of the park and play with myself; and once more I had been caught and was forced to give a blowjob to a complete stranger; then finally, topping all of that, I had been splayed over my Master's knee and spanked in front of a field of footballers. And now my Master was ordering me to do one final task. It was cruel beyond belief.

"Yes, Master," I said dolefully.

"As you pass them, I want you to get a telephone number from one of them."

"Master?"

"I think you heard. Get someone's telephone number. I don't care who. You choose."

I nodded incomprehendingly as my Master gathered up my clothing, kissed me lightly on the cheek and sauntered away in the direction of the nearby golf course. I was alone, facing the next, impossible task. Hunching my shoulders in an attempt to lower the hem of my coat, I walked gingerly onto the grass and cut across towards the football pitch.

The game was in full flow again, and at first my approach was unnoticed. One by one, though, the players started to notice me, and their concentration slipped from the game. One of them whistled and I was aware of myself blushing again.

"Hey, get your tits out for the lads," one shouted, and they all guffawed.

"Go on, give us a flash."

"Let's see that arse. It must be red raw."

The heckling continued as I walked the length of the pitch, burning into my mind and sweeping across my consciousness, the humiliation of the moment overwhelming and the desire to flee almost irresistible. I still had my task, however, and I was at a loss as to how to approach it. I wondered what my Master would do if I returned without having achieved it. The likely repercussions were too severe to contemplate, and I searched frantically for a likely candidate.

None of the players would do, as they were still, albeit distractedly, involved in their match. That left people on the touchlines. Apart from the linesman, there were only a couple, trainers or managers, I presumed. Both were mid-forties or early fifties, both sporting comprehensive beer bellies and neither what you might call great catches. I walked unsteadily past the first, my heart pounding, my hands shaking, and I feared that I was going to chicken out. There was only one chance left, the second of the two men who was standing near the corner flag and gesticulating to the players.

I approached him slowly, willing myself into action. Looking up, I fixed his gaze and smiled broadly. Surprised, he returned my smile with one of his own, a wide, friendly grin which made his eyes twinkle appealingly.

"Hello," I said.

"Hi," he replied nonplussed, still with half an eye on the football match.

"I suppose you saw earlier?" I continued, indicating with a nod of my head the bench where I had been spanked.

"Yes."

"Bit embarrassing."

"I'll bet."

"My bum is red raw."

"I'll bet." He was no conversationalist, that was for sure. I took a deep breath and plunged in.

"Want to see?"

He looked as though he had been smacked between the eyes by a three foot salmon, and gulped so long I feared he was going to run out of breath. I turned my back to him and raised my coat, revealing my red arse to him. I heard his intake of breath as I rummaged in my pocket. Finding my pen, I handed it to him.

"Write your phone number on it," I told him. I had to repeat the instruction to the amazed man before it sunk in. Bending over, I thrust my arse towards him, and he knelt down, resting on one knee, with his face right next to my buttock. Laboriously, he began to write his number on my right cheek. As he finished, I bent forward, touching my toes, and giving him a worm's eye view of my slit. Rising, I took the pen from him, brushed my hand over his tented crotch, smiled and walked home to my Master.