So it was no great surprise when my Master informed me that Clive had invited himself round one Sunday for what he euphemistically described as a "chat". I knew that this chat would eventually involve me in some humiliating episode with the hideous homunculus. And so it turned out. After an hour or so of fairly excruciating small chat, Clive made it clear that he wished to speak to my Master alone, and I was despatched to the garden to do some weeding. As I picked over the flower beds in a desultory, detached manner, I pondered on what terrible plans the pair were concocting for me. I didn't have long to wait.

I was summonsed, and instantly I could tell that whatever scheme Clive had hatched, he had managed to sell it to my Master: he had that triumphant look on his face again, that self-satisfied, smug expression which reeked of superiority. The boy was a monster, manipulative to an extraordinary degree for one so young.

"Clive was telling me," my Master said, "that he has his school dance next week. It's his last one: he's leaving at the end of term and starting at university 3;"

"That's nice," I replied patronisingly. "Your last school disco. That'll be fun."

"Yes, I'm sure it will," my Master continued levelly. "For you both."

"Both?"

"Yes, both. Clive was telling me that he doesn't have a date for the dance, and as it's the last one, and a very special occasion, he wants to make sure it's one to remember."

I waited.

"So, I've agreed that you can be his date."

"You want me to go to a school disco? As Clive's date?"

"Yes, Harriet. It's on Friday. Clive will call for you at seven."

I couldn't believe my ears. Of all the ignominy, of all the humiliations heaped on me by my Master, to be expected, a grown woman, to accompany a schoolboy to his school dance was about as base as things could get. It was, as much as anything, an affront to my dignity. No wonder the little brat was grinning from ear to ear; yet again, he had managed to inveigle himself into a position of power over me. And this time, he knew, the world would see it, the world would know how Harriet had become subservient to the little monster.

"Obviously," continued my Master, "Clive wants you to look very special for the date, so I've said he can help you choose your outfit. You can take him upstairs now and do it."

I said nothing, as the impact of what my Master said sunk in. Not only was I expected to chaperone the evil brat to the dance, he was going to select the outfit I would wear; and not only that, but he was going to do it immediately, without giving me the chance to prepare myself, or hide some of the more provocative items in my wardrobe. I could well imagine what a seventeen year old school boy, given free rein, was likely to consider an appropriate outfit for his date, and I didn't imagine the words demure or elegant would cover it.

"Is that necessary?"

"Are you doubting my word, Harriet?"

"No."

"No?"

"No, Master." On the settee, Clive smirked at my discomfiture.

"Very well, take him upstairs now please."

"Yes, Master. Clive, would you follow me?" Clive stood up with alacrity and followed me upstairs; all the while, as I ascended, I was conscious of his face hovering ridiculously close to my arse, ogling me, all but touching it. We entered my bedroom.

"Okay," said Clive, assuming charge immediately, "we'll begin with the underwear. Let me see your underwear collection." I was shocked. Foolishly, I hadn't expected this; I had anticipated only selecting a dress or outfit, and hadn't contemplated the notion that Clive would expect to choose my underwear too. A red blush rising in my cheeks, defeated, I headed for the chest of drawers and opened the top drawer.

"Knickers here," I said.

I watched paralysed, helplessly, as the seventeen year old brat started rummaging through my knickers, sniggering at some of the older items, and lifting the racier pieces up and examining them closely. A few pairs of crotchless panties seemed to particularly appeal to him.

"Quite a collection. What about these," he said, holding up a transparent thong. "Have you a bra to match?"

"Yes," I said. It wasn't actually a matching pair, but I did have a bra which was similarly see-through and flimsy.

"Okay, try them on."

Once again, I froze to the spot. I must be incredibly naïve, I mused; I hadn't seen this coming either. I looked at him imploringly. "I don't think that's necessary. I know they fit."

"But I need to see how they look. Should I call "Master"?" He imbued the word Master with all the sneering irony he could muster.

"No, that won't be necessary," I replied morosely, slipping my tee shirt over my head and unbuttoning my trousers. I quickly stripped naked, feeling Clive's eyes boring into me, and slipped into the thong and bra. It was obscene. My trimmed bush, and even the clear outline of my pussy, were evident through the sheer fabric of the thong, as were my nipples through the bra. Humiliated, I stood in front of him as he looked lingeringly on my body.

"Yes," he said at length, "that'll do nicely. We'll need stockings and suspenders, of course." Of course. What schoolboy would dress up his dream woman without putting her in stockings and suspenders? I rummaged for a belt which I had previously used with this ensemble, and some white stockings.

"Fishnets," he corrected. Fishnets, of course. Quickly, I sought out a pair.

Clive was deliberately taking his time over the selection, ensuring that I had to prance around in my provocative underwear for as long as possible. Finally, he turned to my dress, and started going through my wardrobe. Hearing him tut and mutter over some of my treasured outfits, watching him shake his head and roll his eyes, I felt a sweep of degradation wash over me. The brat turned over every item in his grubby little hands, disdainfully rejecting dress after dress. My heart leaped into my mouth when he came to some of my specials, the maid's outfit which my Master had forced me to wear for the dinner party, and the almost non-existent skirts in which I was frequently obliged to sit in pubs and reveal myself. Not those, please, I prayed.

Finally, he came across a combination which satisfied him, and ordered me to put it on. Trembling, I eased myself into a microskirt and a white blouse almost as transparent as my underwear. Standing under the light, my nipples were clearly visible, and I knew that if I bent over the tops of my stockings would show. I looked like a hooker rather than a typical school disco dancer. There was no doubt: I was going to be the centre of attention at the dance.

"Excellent," said Clive, a malevolent grin creasing his face. "You're going to make a very big impression."