It was extraordinary. Her hands rose to her blouse and deftly unbuttoned it. Pulling it from her skirt she unceremoniously shucked it from her arms and let it fall on the settee. A frisson of excitement slid through my body as I watched her perform for me, this woman who had so tormented me, so abused my mind and body. And now she was stripping at my command. She unbuttoned and unzipped her skirt and stepped out of it, then slid her slip to the floor. Standing before me in bra, tights and panties, she looked for the first time vulnerable and uncertain. I smirked and raised an eyebrow expectantly, a teasing gesture which I knew would infuriate her. She unfastened the bra at the front and peeled it from her, revealing large, slightly sagging breasts. Bending, she rolled her tights down and stepped out of them, then moved her hands towards her panties.

"Turn," I said. "Turn for me."

She swivelled once, a desultory, defiant movement.

"Again, round and round."

Slowly, mechanically, she turned on the spot, her face blank, displaying no emotion.

"Keep going," I said. "And now take your knickers down." My pulse was racing with excitement. Sue couldn't prevent her eyes from looking at me as I delivered my instruction and I caught their distaste at her predicament. It served only to increase my pleasure. She gripped her panties and slid them over her arse, still turning round and round, then bent her knees and let them slide to the floor. When she was naked she stopped turning and looked at me.

Of course, I had seen her naked before but this was different. Now she was naked because I had ordered it. She had reluctantly revealed her body to me and now found herself in the humiliating position of being forced to re-enact the first, dreadful scene she had imposed on me. For her, the disgrace would be all the greater because of who was inflicting it: Harriet the Slave Girl, whom she had treated so diabolically, was now in charge.

"Need to lose weight," I said. "And look at the cellulite on that arse." It was a cheap shot, and I guessed she had anticipated it. Certainly, she showed no surprise nor hurt. I would need to be more imaginative in my insults.

I stretched casually in my chair, wiping my hands over the folds of my jumper and the fabric of my jeans, emphasising the contrast between my fully dressed condition and her nakedness.

"Remind me," I asked, "what else did you make me do that day?"

It is very difficult to look defiant when you are naked. I knew this from bitter experience, and appreciated how difficult it was for Sue. I had to admire her fortitude, and despite her ignominy she managed to retain the hostile defiance of her expression. Of course, it was exactly the expectation of this which had caused my reluctance to obey my Master's instructions regarding Sue, but now that I was confronted by it I felt curiously relaxed. There was defiance in her eyes, certainly, but not outright denial. Not yet, anyway.

After a pause, Sue replied, her voice low but firm. "Dance."

"That's right. You made me dance. What to, again?"

"I don't remember."

"Think."

"The golliwog's cakewalk."

"Yes, the golliwog's cakewalk. And didn't it make me look ridiculous?"

"Yes."

"Do you know what I'm going to do now?"

"I can guess."

"What do you guess?" I had learned from my Master that the easiest way to draw out humiliation was to make the subject spell it out for herself: it makes her complicit in the progress of events, makes her play an active role in her own shame.

"Make me dance."

"Was that a request?"

"No."

"Shame. And what do you think I'm going to make you dance to?"

"The golliwog's cakewalk."

"Wrong. That would be too easy. Boring. Been there, done that. I've got something better. Go and look on the CD player." Sue walked uncertainly to the CD player and looked at the case I had left on top. The involuntary jerk of her head betrayed her distaste for what she saw. "What is it?" I asked.

"The birdie song."

"Yes, indeed. You see, where I think you went wrong is that the golliwog's cakewalk isn't that well known: you don't hear it very often. The birdie song, on the other hand, you hear all the time. Every party, every wedding, every works do you ever go to, there it is, the sodding birdie song. And every time you hear it from now on is going to remind you of this. Every single time you hear this song for the rest of your life you will remember me, and how I made you dance. And you're going to hate it. And you're going to hate me. And there's nothing you can do about it. Cool, huh?"

Sue didn't reply, but I could tell from her posture, slightly shrunken, that the truth of my words had penetrated. All those happy events in future would be shattered by the memory of the forthcoming humiliation.

"Okay, switch it on. I expect you know all the movements, do you?"

At first she looked like she was going to deny it, but then she thought better of it and nodded. I think I would have too, in her position. However humiliating it would be, at least the stricture of following a routine offered a route through the moment, allowing part of the mind to concentrate on following the steps rather than having the whole consciousness dwelling on the shame of the situation.

"In front of the window, with your back to it." She faltered as she calculated whether she could be seen from outside. Of course, she could. I reached to the floor and picked up my camcorder, raising it to my eyes and grinning as she caught sight of it. "Must save the moment for prosperity," I laughed. "My Master will enjoy this immensely when we watch it tonight. Ready?"

She hovered over the CD Player. "Let's dance," I said. And she pressed play.

The first, ridiculous strains of music filled the room and she stood awkwardly, having missed her intro. In any dance or music it is difficult to find your place if you miss your cue: the music seems to flow to fast for you to catch up and step in. I laughed at her discomfort, further adding to her embarrassment. Finally, she groped her way in to the melody. I watched in delight as Sue, the forbidding, arrogant solicitor, the woman who had deliberately made my life misery, gurned and flounced her way through the stupid song, her breasts wobbling ludicrously as she flapped them in imitation of a bird's wings. Round and round she went, growing more self-conscious with each passing phrase. She was unable to fix my gaze, staring instead blankly into space, tying to block the moment from reality.

"Look at the camera," I chided. Reluctantly, she did so. "And smile. Big smile." She forced herself, and the smile coincided with another flap of her wings, a wonderful juxtaposition perfectly encapsulating the horror of her humiliation. "Perfect, sweetie, perfect." She cringed, her eyes closed in denial, and continued her dance. As the tune ground to its painful conclusion I saw her begin to relax, her movements become less precise until she was no more than swaying in time with the music. Clearly, she thought her ordeal was over.

Oh dear.

As soon as it ended it started again.

"Repeat button. A useful feature, isn't it? Keep going."

Her face betrayed outrage, shock and despair. It was a perfect moment. I let the tune cycle through four more times, and her dancing was different each time, at first more violent as her anger consumed her, then more reflective as she accepted her fate, and finally fitful as she began to tire. At this point I knew I had milked the maximum humiliation from the moment and allowed her to stop.

"That was fun, wasn't it?"

As expected, she made no reply.

"Bet you're all hot and sticky now? Expect you'd like a quick wash down?" Again, she made no reply. "Wouldn't you?"

"Yes," she said.

"Excellent." I rose to my feet and swept past her, grabbing her hand as I headed for the patio door.

"Into the garden, then."