"We're meeting her in the Ring o' Bells at eight," my Master said. "I've ordered pizza before we go out; it'll be here in about ten minutes. You'd better go and have a shower first." I rushed upstairs and ran the shower, stripping out of my clothes as fast as I could before jumping under the scalding water. I love the feel of slightly-too hot water on my skin, that initial, fleeting instant of relaxation as the water slides onto you, followed by the rising sense of unease as it impresses itself deeper and deeper on your nerve endings, hotter and hotter, the temperature rising and your breath catching in your throat, the billowing envelope of steam trapping you, the steady, rushing hiss of water cascading down your body in exquisitely painful torrents.

I soaped myself lavishly, stroking my hands languorously over my entire body, my mind flitting carelessly over happy memories. I felt a sweep of calm come over me as I slid my hand down my arm, watching the soapy residue catch against the fine hairs for a moment before being swept away by the fresh fall of water from the shower nozzle. I scooped a fresh handful of shower gel and rubbed it over my chest, sliding down and cupping my breast, my skin soft and slippery to my touch. I stroked round and round my nipple, feeling it harden and swell, glistening beneath the water then disappearing in a veil of soap, before re-emerging clean and stiff and tender.

I closed my mind to everything, metaphorically letting my cares slew off me just as the water was off my back. I gripped my thigh in both hands and rubbed up and down from my hip to my heel, dragging my nails upwards against the skin, feeling the heat of the water penetrate in a series of sharp, steely pricks. My hand roved towards my light bush and my fingers explored the scant brush of hair, bristling it upwards and feeling the skin beneath. I extended my index finger downwards and grazed it over my clitoris, sliding down and pressing against my lips. I was moist, not only from the shower water, but from my own excitement, and I stroked my finger over and over myself, slipping inwards and brushing the sensitised, puffy lips, before scratching my fingers up again towards my clitoris, crab-like, nails scuffing against my energised skin. I was in a reverie, given over to the moment, given over to enjoyment.

And yet. I was dragged from my self-pleasure by an insistent ringing. I was vaguely aware that it had been going on for some time, but only now was I truly conscious of it, and I realised that it wasn't happening in my head, but outside. I stopped and listened, not understanding what it might be. Finally, I realised it was the front doorbell. Must be the pizza delivery, I thought, and returned to my soaping, resigned to having to stop too soon; my Master would attend to the delivery, and I would be expected downstairs imminently.

But the ringing continued. I waited another minute before realising that it wasn't going to stop. Crossly, I slid open the shower door and stepped into the cold of the bathroom. Slipping a blue towel over my body and fixing it above my breast, I opened the bathroom door.

"Master?" Silence.

I padded downstairs, water dripping in my wake and leaving steady, even footprints on the carpet. Downstairs was empty and still. My Master was nowhere. Damn, I thought, where has he gone? The doorbell was still sounding insistently, and the presumably enraged pizza man had taken to leaving his finger permanently on the button, with the shrill sound ceaselessly ringing through the house.

"Okay, okay, goddammit, I get the message," I yelled and ran to the door. Checking my modesty and pulling the towel up higher, I swung open the door.

"At last," the man in front of me spat. "I get paid piece-rates you know. The longer I take delivering the less money I make."

"Sorry," I said. "I was in the shower. I thought my Mas... my partner was around, but he seems to have disappeared."

"£15," he replied, ignoring my comments but running his eyes greedily up and down my body. Insolent little swine, I thought. Ugly brat as well, with dense eyebrows and a low forehead; a local inbred, for sure.

"Yeah, okay, hang on," I said and returned to the living room for my handbag. It took me a moment to recover it, sitting on the settee. That wasn't where I left it, I thought confusedly, but in my relief at finding it I let it pass. The pizza man was standing in the doorway menacingly, his impatience making him more and more irritated, but the free show he was getting more than compensating. I realised that as I bent over for the handbag my towel would be rising up and he would be getting a free look at my backside. I tried to buckle my legs so that I was covered, but as I fumbled through my handbag I began to sense rising panic within me and I forgot about my modesty. Bending, with my arse on display, I searched and re-searched and re-searched disbelievingly.

My purse wasn't there.

"Hang on," I repeated. "It must be here somewhere." But it wasn't. There was no sign of it. Flustered, I scanned the room for it, knowing all the time that it had been in my handbag the last time I saw it, and there was reason why it should be lying around anywhere else. As I ran around the room, my towel was flapping about and I knew the pizzaboy was getting quite an eyeful. I skipped to the kitchen to check, but before I entered I knew it wouldn't be there. Helplessly, I returned to the lounge and faced the pizza man.

"I'm really sorry," I said. "I can't find my purse. I can't pay just now. My partner will be back in a minute..."