My main concern, of course, was getting from the headmaster's office back through the labyrinthine maze of identical, unlit corridors to the unknown classroom where all of my clothes had been stashed. Knowing the evil Clive, I wasn't totally convinced he wouldn't simply leave me to my own devices once he had had his fun, and as time progressed I became more anxious. It was approaching 11pm, and I knew the dance was probably winding to its conclusion: as we had to negotiate the entrance hall of the school immediately on exiting the headmaster's office, I was keen to get on with it soon, before hundreds of schoolchildren started massing in it, awaiting their parents.

As it turned out, Clive, for once, did the honourable thing, and ensured I had safe passage from the office into the dark and anonymous corridors once more, then led me to the classroom for my clothes. Once I was dressed we returned to the dance just as it was finishing, in time for the last, smoochy number, for which Clive, of course, insisted on dragging me to the dance floor; there, he proceeded to smother me with kisses, his hands pawing at my backside, dragging my skirt up and exposing my arse cheeks to the congregation. By now, though, I was so exhausted I didn't care. The last few minutes of the evening flitted by in a haze of weariness.

And so, next day, I was somewhat stiff and tender, after my multiple session with the kids in the headmaster's office. I lazed about the house, wearing only my dressing gown, and relished the tranquility of the suburban mid-morning. Until the doorbell rang.

Who the hell is that, I thought crossly. Petulantly, I marched to the door and swung it open, the draught inadvertently sweeping against my dressing gown and parting it as far as my crotch. There in the doorway, staring at my recently exposed thighs, was Mary.

Mary was my next door neighbour, married to Allan. They were the couple who had held the party which had overheard my spanking for spilling the wine, that fateful event which had brought me into contact with old Tom, the horrifying Sue, Pete and Barbara and, of course, the hideous boy-monster, Clive. In the aftermath of that spanking, all of my neighbours bar old Tom had found an excuse to drop in on us, and I well remembered Mary's arrival. I had been forbidden, as punishment, to wear any clothes for the remainder of the day, and for the duration of Mary's visit I was completely naked.

She had found this a far greater ordeal than I did. She was clearly uncomfortable throughout and didn't know where to look, or what to talk about ut. Being confronted with such upfront nudity was something she had never encountered and she had no strategy for coping; as she said her goodbyes and I slammed the door on her an hour later, I felt terrific; I experienced a feeling of superiority over this little woman, repressed as she was and unable to deal with sexuality. I'd seen the last of her, I thought. Which was why I was rather surprised to see her at my door.

"Hello," I said as warmly as I could muster. She smiled pensively, a thin-lipped, preoccupied grimace, and I invited her in. Wordlessly, she accepted and walked past me into the living room. I brewed some tea and we settled down, not entirely comfortably. What did she want? I wasn't at all sure what her intentions were, and I wasn't convinced she knew either. We skirted round the polite edges of conversation for a while, giving the weather, that fine British conversational stand-by, a good going over, and working our way through the titbits from the local paper: scandal and news didn't feature much in our area, so there wasn't much to occupy us. I could tell that Mary was building herself up to something, was willing herself to do what she had set out to do. Equally, I could see she was never going to manage it by herself. Some people just can't assert themselves, even when confronted with a slave girl.

"Well, I'm wearing more than I did the last time you were here," I commented breezily. "Only just, mind you," I added, nodding down at my short dressing gown and lifting the flap peremptorily, affording her another glimpse of my upper thigh. She blushed. God, this was going to be hard work. "Mary," I said finally, "is that why you came back today? Did you want to see it again?"

"No!" she cried instantly. A confused rash enveloped her face. "Yes 3; No, what I mean 3;"

I rested my hand on the belt of my dressing gown. Mary became less flustered.

"I haven't been able to get it out of my head," she confessed eventually, not looking at me and sipping anxiously at her tea. So, we were getting there. Mary was in her mid-fifties, and I guess she had had an uneventful sex life. She had probably never even seen her husband's cock, I fancied, nor let him see her in the light; and so, on that evening, to be confronted with me brazenly sitting in front of her, naked, must have been quite startling. Clearly it had branded itself on her imagination. And equally clearly, she had been fantasising about it - me - ever since.

"And?" I asked.

She looked confused and said nothing.

"Do you want to see it again?" I repeated.

"Yes."

She was sitting on the settee, her body crumpled into a defensive ball. I stood up and undid the belt of my dressing gown. Gripping the edges of the gown, I began to part them, turning on my heels as I did, so that by the time I had opened the gown I had my back to her; coquettishly, I looked over my shoulder at her, my leg cocked and back crooked enticingly, and slid the gown over my shoulders to the middle of my back. Turning again, so that I was 90º to her, I slid the gown to the top of my arse, exposing a fraction of cleft, and then, looking directly into her eyes, I dropped it to the floor. Folding my hands over my bush, drawing my arms in so that they partly concealed my breasts, I turned again and faced her full on. She smiled drily.