I rose early and prepared breakfast for my Master, taking it to him and feeding him in bed. I was tired, stiff and sore from the previous night, but did my best to meet my Master's early morning requirements, sucking on his cock until he was hard and lying on my stomach so he could take me from behind, which he proceeded to do in short, furious motions, riding me hard for a few minutes until he came hard inside me.

Later, after I had finished my chores, I heard my Master call me. I rushed up to the bedroom where my Master was waiting. "We're going to the shops now," he said simply, "Put this on."

My eyes dropped to the outfit to which he was gesturing, laid out on the bed, and I emitted an involuntary gasp. My Master stared at me inscrutably, seemingly defying me to create a scene like I had the previous evening. Biting my lip and trying not to cry I picked up the most miniscule black skirt I had ever seen. It would never cover me. Beside it was a more or less see-through blouse. And beside it was a collar and a pair of teetering black high heels. Nothing else.

"Underwear?" I breathed, hopefully.

"Only what is on the bed."

I began to undress, my eyes never leaving the outfit in front of me. It was obscene. I would be arrested. I quickly pulled on the blouse, which at least fitted better than the one I had worn last night. It was almost sheer, however, and in the mirror I could see my nipples quite clearly through the thin fabric. They began to rise as I considered my humiliation, making the effect even more pornographic. The skirt, too, fitted properly, but was unbelievably short: I couldn't bend without revealing huge acres of my backside, and if it were to ride up by only a fraction I would be flashing my pussy at anyone coming along. Stepping into my heels, which were much higher than I was accustomed to, I passed the collar to my Master. He quickly attached it round my neck, this symbol of possession.

"Ready," he said.

My legs were shaking as I left the house and headed for the car. "Don't rush," my Master called. "There's no hurry." With my head down I made for the car and waited by the passenger door for Master to unlock it. I hated to think that any of the neighbours might see me like this, dressed in a transparent blouse and skirt no thicker than a belt. My Master deliberately took his time, sensing my discomfort, making me wait. Finally he unlocked the door and I slid in, bum first, trying to raise my legs into the car together, knees firmly pressed against one another. The motion of slipping onto the seat had the inevitable result of rucking my skirt up slightly under me, and as I looked down I could clearly see my slightly puffy pussy lips peaking out from under the hem. Pulling the seat belt across me merely emphasised the transparency of my blouse, drawing it tightly against my chest, causing my nipples to be etched unmistakably against the flimsy fabric. Oh my God, I thought. I'll never get through this.

Once we reached town Master parked the car in the multistorey and we set off for the shopping centre. As I walked my skirt was riding up the whole time, and my Master wouldn't let me pull it down. I was conscious of hundreds of pairs of eyes fixed on me: embarrassed looks from young men, savage glares from older women, curious glances or undisguised ogles from nearly everyone we passed. I could scarcely breathe; I had never felt more self-conscious in my life, never felt more of a public spectacle, never felt more vulnerable. The collar round my neck felt like a dead weight, this obvious manifestation of my servile state. The wind wafted against my virtually exposed pussy, exciting me and tormenting me, adding an extra, physical, frisson to this intense moment.

We went into a lingerie shop which I had been accustomed to frequent in my previous incarnation, before Harriet the Slave Girl. One of the assistants recognised me and I saw a look of amazement as she spotted my attire.

"Something sluttish," my Master told me. "No place for subtlety." I was led to the far end of the shop, where the more outré gear was displayed. "You may choose," Master said, "but make sure it is something I will approve of."

I looked through the racks and displays at the array of outrageous material. This was stuff I wouldn't purchase in a million years, over-the-top and sleazy. That my Master was letting me choose was a cruel masterstroke, making me face up to my situation, accept my fate, take responsibility for it. Whatever I wore from now on, no matter how sluttish, it would be something which I had selected.

My face crimson with humiliation I began to select a few items. I was conscious of the staff watching me and realised, too late, that as I bent over to pick up a thong which was displayed near the floor that I had just given them a comprehensive flash of my naked bum. Trying to carry on as nonchalantly as possible, I motioned to my Master that I had made my selection and he looked at my haul: a couple of peep-hole bras and a selection of thongs and split crotch panties, mostly in red; a few suspender belts and accompanying fishnet stockings; a luscious green basque and a low cut corset; a little maid's cuffs and frilly maid's knickers; and finally a small rubber selection, with a cross strapped bra and roll-on girdle. My Master nodded his approval and indicated that I should take them to the counter.

The shop staff were used to this, of course; this was their stock in trade, it was their job; it was me who was embarrassed and uncertain, doing something totally unaccustomed. Quickly and efficiently they started to wrap up my purchases and ring them up on the till. I was beginning to compose myself, the racing of my heart subsiding to a mere flutter, my cheeks losing their reddened hue. I can get used to this, I told myself. I'm already conquering it.

"And we'll need this," my Master said, coming behind me, "in case you cause me any more trouble like you did when you got home last night."

And he laid a whip on the counter.