"You are such a submissive, Harriet," he had laughed, stroking my naked bottom and tweaking my nipple. "The woman was begging for you to dominate her and you didn't see it." Well, I did see it, truth to tell, and throughout the episode, although I had comported myself in a submissive fashion I actually felt a surge of dominant power. Both Mary and I had known who was really in control. I had enjoyed that aspect, I have to confess, and I was slightly worried that I might be losing my submissive demeanour. That would pose considerable difficulties in my relationship with my Master.

But now he was calling me from the bedroom. At the sound of his voice my heart trembled, a liquid energy fizzing through my veins, and I realised that, whatever fears I may have momentarily harboured about losing my submissiveness, there was no prospect of me failing to be in thrall to my Master.

"Yes, Master?" I enquired, pointing my nose around the bedroom door. He had his back to me and he was fiddling with something on the bed which his body prevented me from seeing. He ignored my enquiry and I entered the room, approached the bed and stood demurely beside him with my hands clasped behind my back, awaiting his instruction. I was pleased by how instinctively I did this, pleased to see that Harriet was still the slave girl.

"I want you to go to the launderette," he said. The launderette? Why on earth would I want to go to the launderette? We have a washing machine in the kitchen.

"The launderette, Master?" I queried, nonplussed.

"Yes, Harriet, the launderette. I want you to get these items washed."

I looked down onto the bed, where my Master had laid out some of my clothing: all white, there was a bra, some skimpy panties, a foxy, almost translucent blouse and a very short, body-hugging lycra skirt which I particularly adored as it showed off my bum to great effect. It was a very nice outfit. But strangely, they were all clean.

"Why, Master?" I asked.

"Because I've just told you to," he replied in that infuriatingly calm, measured voice of his, as though the self-evident truth of what he was saying should have been apparent to me.

"Yes, Master," I replied as sullenly as I thought I could get away with.

"And don't speak to me in that tone of voice, Harriet. You'll be spanked for that later." Oh dear, I misjudged it this time. "Okay," he continued, his voice as placid as ever, "put them on."

"Master?" I queried again. Either I was being particularly dense today, or my Master's directions were unusually opaque.

"Put the clothes on," he instructed in an exaggeratedly enunciated manner, speaking very slowly as though to a foreign tourist. "Then go to the launderette and wash them."

My brain rattled through the implications of this. I was expected to wear the outfit to the launderette. Then I was expected to wash it. Which meant 3; which meant undressing in the launderette.

"Then tumble dry it and put it back on, and meet me in the park at three o'clock."

"Master," I pleaded, "what am I to do while my clothes are in the wash?"

"Read a book?" he replied facetiously.

"No, Master, I mean how will I cover myself?"

"You can take a jacket to cover yourself," he replied, and a sense of relief whirled through me. It was shortlived, however, as he indicated the jacket he meant. It was one of my favourites, a warm, cape-like coat with a large hood which always made me feel like Red Riding Hood; unfortunately, though, it barely extended beyond my upper thighs, and would scarcely cover any of me, particularly when I was seated.

"Thank you, Master," I said mournfully knowing better than to intimate dissatisfaction.

"And while you are waiting, you will have a task to perform for me." Oh, my Master. There was always more with my Master; he was never content with just a simple exercise in humiliation, but always needed to pile layer upon layer on top of me. Which is why, of course, I adored him so much, and why I acceded to his every demand.

"Master?"

"While you're waiting, I want you to play with yourself. You must make yourself come. I want to see the marks on your panties later." So, I thought, I have to wash a clean pair of panties, and as soon as that is done I have to dirty them. It was almost Shakespearean in its convolution.

But, I realised, my Master was instructing me to wank in public, with no clothes on, and no means of escape if I were to be caught. And, I thought breathlessly, I knew I would do it.

"What if there is anyone else waiting in the launderette, Master?"

"Then they'll get a free show, won't they? Now, I've asked you twice to put your outfit on. You've already earned a spanking later on. Do you want another one?"

Quietly, I slipped out of my clothes and into the white outfit my Master had laid out for me. I looked at myself in the mirror, a slave girl about to embark on a mission to humiliate herself in a launderette, at her Master's bidding. The thought appalled me, the idea of stripping naked in a public place and then playing with myself, regardless of who might be in there with me; and yet I knew I was excited, compelled to go along with the crazy notion because of the sensations it created within me. I was addicted to my Master, and to his endless plans for my body and mind. Whatever he commanded, I knew deep in my heart, I would always obey.