We had been walking for about twenty minutes, and I was aware that my Master was simply taking me in a circuit round the town; three times we passed the shop where we had purchased the garments, each time following the same route through the busiest part of town, ensuring my exposure to the maximum number of people. Finally, however, with my feet aching in my high heels, I was ushered into a nearby pub.

It was a dingy, vaguely disreputable place, one in which I had never previously gone. Accustoming myself to the darkness within I looked anxiously around. It was a working man's pub, and most of the occupants, milling around at the bar or seated at grimy tables, were middle aged or older. I was conscious of a dozen pairs of eyes boring into me as I entered and approached the bar.

"Two pints of lager," my Master ordered, and the barman started pulling at the Stella Artois pump. We paid, took our drinks and my Master led me to a bench at the back of the pub, where we would be in full view of everyone. He sat behind the small, round table, but made me sit away from it, with no cover for my exposed legs. Still, the dozen pairs of eyes followed my every movement. I stretched and crossed my legs, uncomfortably, trying to ensure that I remained as decent as possible. No chance.

"Uncross your legs," my Master ordered. "Sit with them together."

I did so, and sipped at my lager. Stella Artois is strong, over 5% proof, and I wasn't accustomed to drinking it. I was apprehensive about managing a full pint. My Master sensed my doubts.

"Drink up," he said. "We shall be having two pints each. Now I want you to go to the toilet. There, I want you to unbutton another three buttons of your blouse." Three! That would have me exposed to my navel, I thought. I was appalled, but knew better than to argue. "And come straight back," he continued. "You are not to use the toilet."

Morosely, I headed for the toilets and did as commanded. Looking in the mirror, I could see that I was exposed to well below my breasts. If I stayed upright I was okay, because the tightness of the blouse kept it reasonably in place; whenever I bent over, though, the blouse gave way and my entire breast was exposed. My collar was also more evident, a black slash round my throat, a badge, a sign of subservience. Oh Harriet, I thought, Harriet... My nipples were taut and clearly visible through the flimsy fabric. My skirt had by now become creased, a couple of deep lines crossing my front which had the effect of pulling it up by a few millimetes; it may not sound much, but since there wasn't a great deal to begin with any loss of precious material covering me was significant.

I needed to have a pee, and looked longingly at the cubicle, but my Master had forbidden it, and I knew if I was away for too long I would be punished. With a deep breath to compose myself and a brief, courage-giving nod at my reflection in the mirror, I headed towards the bar, back stiff, walking as erectly as possible to prevent my blouse from slipping open. My Master was toying with the whip as I approached my seat, and he patted it gently as I sat down, running it idly down my leg. He checked my blouse and nodded, then indicated with a turn of his head that I should take another drink.

My glass had been moved to the far side of the table. Perplexed, I looked at my Master, but he showed no emotion, instead watching me, waiting for me to act on his instruction. I stretched over to reach the glass and two things happened. Firstly, my legs, which were clasped together, parted slightly, exposing my bare pussy to a dozen pairs of eyes; and secondly, as I bent down and reached with my left hand for my glass my blouse separated, the left side, heavier because of the buttons, falling clear away and exposing my entire left breast to the curious gaze of the entire pub. At that moment, inadvertently and unmistakably open to the view of a room full of men old enough to be my father or even grandfather, I felt as base and humiliated as I have ever known. Odi et amo, I thought: I hate and I love.

There was a hush in the room, the usual banter and chatter forgotten as these strangers ogled my every movement, brazenly staring at my legs and my breast, hoping for another glance. Under his breath my Master ordered me to stay with my legs apart and keep sipping my drink. I was near the bottom of the pint now, and was beginning to feel the effects; that and my exposed state combined to make me feel quite light headed. I finished my pint, rested the glass on the table and sat back on the bench, my legs parting a fraction further as I did so. I knew that my pussy would now be completely visible.

My Master went to the bar and fetched the second drink he had promised. By now, I was feeling a strong urge to go to the loo, but when I asked my Master's permission he laughed and told me to wait. "Drink," he commanded. "And open those legs."

Gulping my drink down as fast as I could, I did as I was told and sat with my legs apart, head down, not wishing to attract the eye of any of the avaricious onlookers. Why was I doing this? What drives me to do this, what makes me accept it? Why do I hate and love? Nescio, sed fieri sentio et excrucior, I know not why, but I fear that it is so, and I am on the rack. My head buzzing with the combination of shame and alcohol, the next half hour spun by in a haze of thoughts, memories and visions. Throughout the whole time I sat there I made no attempt to cover myself, but did as my Master had bid me. Harriet the Slave Girl did as she was ordered. Harriet the Slave Girl hated and loved.