She allows me to go home early. Thankfully. Outside the shop she tells me, 'No use you going to the house, as it is late. Thank you for being with me and bearing what must have been difficult for you.' She gives me a quick kiss and is off in her direction. She turns around once to wave.

My amazement knows no bounds! The kiss... Her thanking me... for what? For allowing her to put me on and be an easy victim? Or for genuinely supporting her?

She is well gone before I set off homeward myself. Did she put me on? Yes, there were moments during this episode when I thought that she was playing a game with me. But she was sincere just now when she thanked and kissed me. But the gift she gave me... Out of order ... It must have been a game.

At home, I sit down with a cup of tea and think about what happened. I have difficulties accepting all that.

My hurt mistress, '... I deserved it...'

Her need or desire to expose me to her state, her wounded body. Or should I say, her need to involve me and have me share this experience?

And the attendant? Was she just there to serve as the catalyst?

'... I deserved it...' I cannot understand why anyone would accept punishment of this kind from her husband and simply declare that she deserved it. I am led to believe pain can be regarded as good. Would that hold for her? And her husband, what kind of hold does he have on her? Simple love? '...My pain is my love...' Or does he hold her on other grounds? Should I do something about it? Involve the police? Don't be silly!

The gift of an identical set of underwear: it cannot simply be a reward for bearing what happened. She wishes me to identify with her? Or herself with me. How can I tell? But I will have to refuse the gift.

The following days pass without mentioning or referring to the incident. I haven't yet the courage to refuse the gift to come. She is very pleasant, however, and I reciprocate, relieved as I am that nothing new and drastic is required of me.

There is no denying the inevitable arrival of the day that bears the gift. (Kassandra, sister of Hector of Troy, tells me not to accept.) Madame hands me a package when I come in a week after. 'The things I got you... here you are.' Straight like that. She knows I remember and do not need a further introduction.

'Madame, I will not have them,' I whisper with paper-thin conviction. Before I have even started to utter this, she has turned around and started walking away. Oh, has she heard me?

'...I will not have them...,' I hear her whisper. With my back towards her still, I say, 'My dear, you will. No need to worry.' I turn around again and smile at her. 'Just take them home and try them, if you like. And, if you like their look and if they suit you well, wear them. Wear them when you are here, I suggest. But whether or not you do, you don't have to tell me. It'll be your secret.' And I am on my way again. 'But I will know. Beyond any doubt.'

Two weeks later, after we have had our coffees together, I tell her that my husband wants to meet her. 'Could you meet us for dinner tomorrow? You'll have tomorrow off, please. The cleaning can bear to wait a day.'

Of course she hesitates. 'I know you are not sure. I also know why. Yes, my husband is a powerful man, but he is fair. I love him. You know that. Come, you will not regret it.'

'I will think about it, Madame. Thank you.'

She will come, her trepidation notwithstanding. No. Rather, the trepidation is part of the reason why. Why do children play with fire?

I will go. I call the house later that night and confirm this. I love Madame. There, I have said it. She is beautiful and so much herself. Beauty is a given, but I can aspire to her self-assurance. One without the other is meaningless, but the self-assurance is key.

Monsieur, her husband I have seen once, twice, but not met. Him I am afraid of. Of course, Madame was right. I can see the power she spoke about, but his fairness? I am not convinced. Still, Madame suggests that he is the source of her self-assurance. I therefore should look forward to meeting him. I will try to forget my fear.

A rare day off. Shopping therefore, with a girlfriend. Working six days a week is no sinecure. I normally rush shopping during evenings or shop combined with Madame's. It is great to have all the time in the world and top company. I need the company to divert my thoughts too. Still, the main shopping concerns new clothes for tonight, a skirt and blouse, shoes and, yes, stockings. My girlfriend is especially excited about the stockings. A sensuous alternative to a pantyhose, she insists, oh la la! I laugh and talk along, as if there were no worry looming. We find a ravishing sleeveless blouse, grey and a trifle transparent, and a loose, flowing scarlet skirt, though tight at the waist. Grey stockings to match and ultra-shiny red, open and high-heeled shoes. My girlfriend is certain that I am on a mission. I playfully deny it, truly and falsely. Since the day is splendid and sunny, I keep my new clothes on. That is, apart from the stockings, as I am not wearing a girdle. I look dressed to kill, she says, confirming what the mirror told me. Reinforced by what these two told me, I feel very confident. Parading the streets and drinking coffee and wine at cafe terraces, looking like I do and in this buoyant mood, I turn many heads.

Having had a wonderful time, I am left by my girlfriend at my front door with a hug and a pair of kisses. I enter my apartment and am alone.

I have two hours before I am to leave for Madame and Monsieur. The larger part I pass by taking a bath. I have some favourite music on in order to fill the voids where the thoughts would be.

With half an hour to go I get dressed. Although I have made up my mind to wear Madame's gifts, when I see my new clothes laid out on the bed, I hesitate before putting them on. I remember what Madame said, '... if you like their look and if they suit you well, wear them... wear them when you are here... it'll be your secret... but I will know... beyond doubt... ' I feel I am my own woman, but I love and admire Madame. I sense that my admiration for her makes me vulnerable to what she has in mind, however, and, what's more, through her what Monsieur wants. Yet I must go through with this. I am prepared to bend or break.

So I put on my high-arched girdle and register that it leaves my pubic hair in full view. The stockings, next, which make my legs wonderfully smooth, yet the top of my thighs white and vulnerable. The indecent bra, which barely contains my soft breasts and offers them openly to the viewer. The blouse, which emphasises my arms and shoulders and shows a trace of my bra and breasts. The skirt, which hides my private garden from view, but hardly dresses me to my own mind. Finally, the shoes, which highlight my legs and render my posture proud. When I look in the mirror I see a worthy subject.

No further ado. I put on my coat, leave the building and grab a taxi to my destination.

Monsieur opens the door. He shakes my hand and prepares to take my coat. He looks at me appreciatingly when I take it off and then leads me to the drawing room. 'We knew you would come,' he says with a formal, courteous smile, ' and we thank you.

'You will see Madame in a short while. First I will get you a drink. Campari?'

I don't know. I nod. 'Yes, yes... Campari.' He then leaves me standing, alone.

I look around me. It is a strange feeling to be here as a guest, at night.

Then I hear his footsteps in the corridor, returning to me. Slowly. His footsteps are accompanied by a shuffling sound.

He re-enters. I see him halt in the doorway. He carries my drink in his right hand. He looks at me for a moment and then resumes his pace. In his left hand, he holds a chain. My God, it is her! She is as a dog, following Monsieur faithfully on all fours. The chain is slack. Save her collar, she is nude and her breasts swing with each awkward step she takes.

They approach until he stands right in front of me and looks me in the eye. I am dumbstruck and cannot bear his look. Avoiding his, I look down and catch hers. The nature of her gaze is the same as his. She is not a victim.

She gets up and says, with a smile, 'This is not how I normally serve him. Such theatrical scenes do serve their purpose from time to time, but they are theatrical, abnormal. This time the audience is you.'

Her husband releases the chain from her neck and drops it on the floor. 'Come, let us sit and enjoy our drinks.' He shows me an easy chair and I sit down, legs crossed. He sit downs in the other easy chair and Madame on the adjacent sofa. She is seated in an entirely normal, relaxed mode, as if dressed, as if she were simply entertaining, except that she is nude and does not cross her legs as one would. I look at her body, which again impresses me so. Her chest only faintly bears the marks I saw before.

We talk about a few light subjects first, about her, for example, and her work, the fact that is six days a week and so on. The maid is withdrawn and evidently far from adjusted to what she landed in, even if she half expected it. She explains why she likes her work. Good and simple housework, caring work... why she doesn't mind it being six days a week. To her, the routine equates to peace of mind. Still, she is right in suspecting this is just the small talk before the real substance.

Monsieur is his most courteous, composed self. I fully participate, in my most friendly, confidential way, not restrained by my being the submissive of Monsieur. The maid appears to gradually get used to the situation and to me in the state I am in.

Monsieur then introduces the subject of my submission, how I have passed the control of my life to him. It is true, I have! It has not been an easy ride, but rewarding all the same. How relinquishing this control has given me freedom and enhanced my life. And it has! Even though I am by nature not meek and slave-like. It has, because I am not.

'Does this sounds perverted to you?'

'No... yes... well, I can't say...', she thinks aloud, 'it is so unusual...'

'It is only what normal people do, brought to an extreme. One in control, one following. Madame is free in the strict order imposed by her master,' he suggests. 'A paradox, but life is full of them.'

She says, 'But Madame... it is so humiliating!'

'Is she not exquisitely beautiful? Are you not envious?'

'She is beautiful, yes...'

'Is it the sexual content that disturbs you? We are open about the importance of sex and the different roles that either partner plays. Submission has a strong sexual content. That is why she sits there naked with open legs. I have the right to satisfy myself any time I like and whether or not I satisfy her needs. Why she is satisfied this way? Ultimately because I love and admire her.

'Humiliating... yes, it is true. Humility is one of the main lessons she is being taught, relentlessly.

'Now, may we talk about you for a moment?'

'We knew you would come. We also know why. You are drawn towards Madame, aren't you? Be honest.'

'I am,' she says.

'So then, I request you to get up and stand here in front of us.'

This is the moment of do or die. Have we been right? I hold my breath. The moment is long ... Then - I breathe again - she uncrosses her legs and slowly walks to the position, step by step, and stands still, eyes cast down.

She looks ravishing. Why she appears not to fight off lovers is anybody's guess. Her blouse... the bra, yes, she has complied.

I stand in front of Monsieur and Madame and stare at Madame's bare feet. Whatever they require, I am ready. I am afraid that I want whatever they require.

In the distance, I hear Monsieur calmly say, in a friendly tone, but one that allows but one answer, 'Lift up your skirt, dear.'

I start. I scream inwardly. Time stands still... It is an order.

I thus bend over slightly. With both hands I take the hem of my skirt between my legs and slowly and steadily lift it up to chest level. The tops of my stockings appear, the naked flesh above it, punctuated by the girdle straps, and finally the hair of my triangle. I am entirely absorbed by the result of my action. Monsieur and Madame now see that I am wearing the girdle she gave me. And also see my most intimate area. If my mother could see me now!

I stand there during a few minutes... I don't know how long. I blindly stare at Madame's feet. Nothing moves and not a word is spoken.

I only notice her when she is very near. She kisses me on the cheek and then embraces me. I am close to crying.

'Hush, my dear. I am proud of you. I know how difficult it is to cross the line. Come, you may drop your skirt now.

'Go to the bathroom and freshen up. We shall eat when you are back.'

The maid leaves the room. She knows the way.

I am happy with the developments. I need her. I look at Monsieur. I imagine he is happy, but his face is a closed book.

'Come,' he says. 'Stand there, facing the couch, legs against it. Bend over and support yourself holding the back.'

I know what is coming and I don't like it. I never like being fucked in public. He has the right, but it is hard for me. I hear him zip down and release his cock. He grabs me by the waist and I brace myself for his thrust. It does not come. Yet. We stand there for several minutes in dead silence, until we hear the maid coming down the stairs. It is then that his member splits me and roughly thrusts in and out.

I have washed my face, touched up my make-up and sat on the toilet for several minutes. I have tried to regulate my breathing and have managed to calm down a bit.

I feel like I have lost my virginity. A second time, because don't let there be any doubt, I lost my virginity at seventeen, just like anybody else, and have had my share of steady relationships and one-night stands, just like anybody. I only just broke up with my boyfriend. I was never and have not become an alienated nun or whatever.

I have lost my virginity a second time. And I feel lost, without bearings. I will have to find them again. And I will find them. How and what? I need time.

I leave the bathroom and will rejoin Monsieur and poor Madame How will the evening proceed?

I am shocked when I enter the living room and see Madame being taken from behind. Monsieur said so much. Madame looks embarrassed, humiliated and I feel the same way. Yet she gives him the right.

Monsieur clenches his teeth, utters a cry, stays frozen for a handful of seconds and withdraws. Madame remains as she was. After Monsieur has brought his clothes back in order, he turns to me and says, 'My dear, there you are again. We can have dinner now.' Turning to Madame, he tells her to serve us. She straightens and asks him, 'I ask permission to clean myself first.' But he denies her this, saying, 'Certainly not. The traces of me are to serve as a reminder. Please serve dinner to us the way your are.'

Madame serves dinner and eats with us, thankfully. Everything is back to normal. That is, not a word is said about that I exposed myself, about Madame's being taken in my presence... Madame brings on the food, eats with us and clears the table in her naked state, with clear traces of Monsieur's sperm on her thighs.

The conversation is sparse and initiated by Monsieur in particular, Madame and I merely reacting.

From my side, on the one hand I would rather have left, on the other I am dying to stay. I think of Madame's conflicting feelings when she was being taken just now. I stay and prefer to keep talking. Silence under these conditions would be unbearable.

The food is excellent, but that hardly matters now.

After coffee, Monsieur leaves us after a bow and a brief 'Good Night'. His woman and I, a woman myself, remain by ourselves and drink another cup together. The atmosphere is more than intimate, even if we still avoid expressing what concerns us both, and connects us. Finally, Madame says, 'You must go now. I have to clean myself.' We both get up and approach each other. 'I am very proud of you, my dear, very proud,' she says and embraces me.

I let myself out and go, into the night. My old self stays behind.

What went before - To be continued

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