"Do come again," I sang breezily, waving cheerfully, as I watched her weave her way down the drive. Can't even hold a couple of glasses of wine, I thought, contemptuously. Stupid woman.

It was with a sense of euphoria that I settled myself back into the settee. It had been some hours since my very public spanking: the physical pain had long passed; the red, raised and roughened aspect of my backside had gradually disappeared, leaving me unblemished and healthily pink; and the mental scars, the very real sense of humiliation I had felt as I was spanked in full hearing of all my neighbours, were being slowly and deliciously healed by the bottle of Argentinian wine I was consuming. As I sat sipping another glass, I felt a happy glow suffusing my body.

Mistake.

What a mistake.

I heard the door slam and got up to greet my Master, anticipating the relation of my experience with Mary. I was stopped short.

"Hi Harriet," I heard him shout. "I've brought Clive in: he wants a word with you about something."

Clive! Not that weird son of Pete and Barbara; not that brat who always ogles me, stares at my cleavage, mentally undresses me. He was about seventeen or so, I guess, and almost certainly a virgin. He was a bit of a geek, to be honest, and I never saw him with friends. In our street there were probably only Sue and me who were young and attractive, and Clive devoted his attentions to us. Sue was happy to lead him on, chatting and flirting, playing with him, no doubt delighting in the emotions she was so clearly arousing in him. But I had nothing to do with him, would not entertain his juvenile crushes in any way.

And here he was, in my house. While I was half naked. This was the worst, I thought. Over the last few weeks since I had finally and fully submitted to my Master he had inflicted some delicious indignities on me, starting way back on that evening - how long ago it seemed now, how much had happened to me since- when our friends had come round expecting a normal evening and found me serving their every whim; absolutely every whim, as it turned out. I had flaunted myself, flashed, exposed my body on numerous occasions, I had crouched down and peed in the middle of a public car park, I had been spanked in full hearing of all my neighbours. I was no stranger to humiliations of all kinds, but this was the limit: being made to greet an adolescent, a hormone ravaged kid, while not wearing a skirt or panties was quite the most humbling thing I had ever known. I couldn't believe my Master would inflict this on me.

But he did.

Clive's face, as he entered the living room and saw me standing, half naked, before him was almost comical; all his wet dreams had come to fruition in this one surreal moment, and he was unable to mask the look of unadulterated lust which crossed his visage. He only lacked the drooling tongue to complete the cartoon expression of libidinousness: and even that would have come, in time, I suspected. I felt smaller than a gnat, watching him ogling me, staring unashamedly at my pussy. I looked helplessly at my Master, but he made no comment or gesture.

"Hi Clive," I said, finally, "what can I do for you?" I was well aware that I was already doing it. The kid was leaning at an awkward angle, trying to accommodate the swelling in his pants and, faced by a vision he could scarcely have dreamed of in his wildest fantasies, was finding speech difficult to master.

"I...I...I...," he stammered, "I was wondering if you could help me with a computer problem I have." God, what a geek, I thought, my heart hammering in my chest and the sound of my pulse whooshing in my ears like a demented tide rushing in on a stony beach. I had worked with computers, so I expected I could help him, but of course he didn't care whether I did or not; this was just a pretext for him to get to look at a naked woman. He outlined his problem, which wasn't very difficult. I tried to explain it to him but he couldn't understand what I meant: whether it was genuine, or he was just spinning it out so that he could continue to feast his eyes on my body I don't know, but its reasonable to suspect the latter.

"Why don't you show Clive what you mean on our computer, Harriet?" my Master said, mildly.

I stared at him, incredulously. My mouth went dry and I tried to shake my head. I had become accustomed to my situation - not comfortable, but accustomed - sitting on the settee facing Clive, covering myself as best I could with my arms. But to show him on our computer would require me to move.

And what's more, it would require me to go upstairs.

"Take him up and show him," my Master continued, more firmly.

No, no no, I thought. Please not that. My Master, though, was wearing his inscrutable look, and I knew I could not refuse. I rose shakily to my feet, aware of Clive's eyes on me the whole time, boring into my pussy, watching intently for any glimpse of my lips and the - no doubt to him - mysterious depths within. Heading for the door, I tried to usher him in front of me, but my Master interceded again.

"Lead the way, Harriet."

My mouth was so dry I had that sensation you get when you are very nervous, of tasting blood at the back of my throat. Slowly, I climbed the first couple of steps. Clive was right behind me as I ascended, always a couple of steps below, and I knew that his face was a matter of inches away from my arse. With every step the little brat could see everything. I half expected him to reach out and touch me, but presumably the presence of my Master deterred him. Step after step I edged upstairs, trying to clench my buttocks together, hoping that not too much of me was on display. A vain hope, I knew. It was the longest flight of steps I have ever known; it seemed to take an hour to make it to the top landing. I turned at the top and stood before him, my pussy at his eye level. The boy's face was crimson with excitement.

"In here," I said.

As I had suspected, he already understood my explanation of his computer fault, and after a couple of minutes it was clear that there was nothing more to do. My Master intervened, presumably thinking that my humiliation had gone on long enough, and ushered the excited young boy downstairs and out, no doubt to spend the next hour alone with his libido and a box of tissues.

"Well done, Harriet," my Master said as we returned to the living room. "I'm proud of you. You've proved yourself to be a thousand times better than those neighbours of ours. They've taken advantage of your situation. They thought they were better than you and came here to laugh at you, to feel superior. Your dignified behaviour proved them wrong."

"Thank you, Master," I replied. I knew he was right. Indeed I had come to the same conclusion myself, during Mary's visit. "Only old Tom was too polite to take advantage."

"Yes indeed he was. Tom's a gentleman, and he proved it today. We have to show him our gratitude for that."

I nodded.

"That is why you will give him a blow job."

On to next story: Meeting Old Tom