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“I think you should.” she continues, using my Dark Adventure argument against me by pointing out how much better my writing will be if I know what I’m talking about. “Can’t you just tell me?” I ask because before this happened that’s exactly what we’d planned.

“I’ll tell you this……….” she offers, grinning and announces “Want it.” as if that’s the title of the lecture I’m about to receive. Apparently, in Alison’s twisted, kink crazed mind one has to want the ordeal in order to validate the threat of it. It’s a sort of debt to the game one’s fantasy becomes if you try to bring it to life. “Like your bet with Ben.” she explains. If you didn’t think you might lose you shouldn’t have played. “I know that!” I snap at her. “Well, there you are then.’ she says, satisfied, “But you did.”

Before we leave she says “You’re an estate agent.” I am, so what? She smiles as she accuses me of being a shameless liar. “You can sell anything.” she jokes, “Why can’t you just act compliance?”

A few days later, no amount of pressure has levered Alison away from her certainty that I must attend the interview, for the sake of our Dark Adventure’s artistic credibility. I’ve warned her that her adventure is likely to be darker still if she doesn’t take my place but she’s adamant my humiliation is necessary. For these few days she’s hardly been able to contain her unbridled delight.

My only hope had become to plead with my boyfriend in the hope that he’d see how going back to St Nick’s is too risky and let me off having to. Surely I’ve suffered enough haven’t I? Yesterday the final instructions for the interview came through by email. Only half of them were enough to make me want to throw up and I read the rest with terror building outwards from my guts. If you want to read them too read Please confirm and take pity on me. I don’t care what Alison thinks, I do NOT deserve that!

In my boyfriend’s workshop where he was fixing his motorbike, until I showed him my final instructions, I had to remember my resolve to be with my lover for the rest of my life to make myself feel better about the tears of laughter streaming down his face and the fact that he could hardly speak through it. Foolishly I’d assumed he’d see the terror in what was being asked of me but something far more sinister happened. “He’s fucking with you, it’s a joke!” he cried. “How can you take that seriously?” he asked, convinced I was being wound up.

Stunned by his response I shouted that Gittins had tried to cane me for real, with a real cane, and bloody Hamilton Horseface? Did he think I’d make that up!

One awful phrase from the instructions chilled me most, the one about being closely inspected. He couldn’t possibly allow that, not as my boyfriend. “That’s why it’s bogus.’ he replied cheerfully. His reasoning being that St Nick’s would have to keep such a thing quiet and therefore photographing me would be the last thing they needed.

In desperation I made the mistake of making Alison send him the video of the unfortunate whore in the secret ritual which gave her the opportunity to message him, urging him not to let me off the hook. I couldn’t believe she’d betray me so badly. His determination to see this as a joke wavered then but the sight of the whore dressed as I’d been told to steadied it back. “I’d like to see you like that!” he laughed. I bet he would.

Alison threw herself into shopping for the kit to achieve it with wildly excited enthusiasm, the bitch, and that’s where I am now, in my bedroom on the day of my trial (un)dressed with her “help”.

Several years ago, in a game she remembers with horror, I took her out in public inadequately dressed and for her the chance to exact revenge has been deliciously sweet. She’s loving this. I don’t do lingerie, Ben’s never seen me in any and he’s looking forward to the spectacle. “You’ll be fine.” he said and qualified that with the observation that lacy suspenders are like putting wide wheels on a car, they all look good! Do I? We’ll call him up when I’m ready.

I’m, hardly, wearing a size 12 black skater skirt which is as small as I can do up and still breathe. As Alison intended it’s flared out over my hips revealing lots of thigh between my stocking tops and the hem so my suspender belt straps are showing nearly all the way up. “I thought your cellulite would be a lot worse than that.” she said, stressing our friendship to breaking point.

My stockings are sheer black, the same colour as my skirt to accent my white knickers, sorry, panties, drawing the eye to them aesthetically, according, with a wry smile, to Alison. She’s insisted on snipping off the errant tufts of my bush so they don’t poke through the lace front panel. Round the side of the crotch matters too because although I’m not a “daylighter” like she is, the high kicking in my instructions actually means I’ll be required to show off the gusset. “You don’t want to look like a yeti do you?” she tells me, less than sensitively implying I do.

The idea of high kicking feels like a nightmare. “You gotta dance Kate!” she laughs, then it really is a nightmare. That began by trying to trim myself up with one foot up on my dressing table, watching in the mirror with all my movements the wrong way while Alison giggled. I’ve never done it before.

I have a matching white bra which seems to be there simply to point my tits forward and up above the neckline of my white blouse, making me look pumped up to bursting point. Alison read between the lines of my instructions in order to assume that’s what they meant. My blouse is tucked in to my skirt but not too far, because on me the skirt’s so short the tucked in bits would spoil the white lacy underwear look she wants to achieve. She spent ages adjusting it, coming back from over the other side of the room to pull or poke it one way or the other. Does it matter? If that video on her phone is anything to fear it won’t. “The instructions, striptease?” I remind her. “Yeah but you wanna make an impression first!”

Having lost my lovely silver hair clasp I have my hair loosely braided this time. “They can pull on that like a rope.” she said. My normal black eye liner will do but I have rarely used plum coloured lipstick. I don’t own anything else and Alison forgot to get some alternatives.

Well, do I look good? Maybe I do if you want tart, whore, slapper or similar. My heart sinks when I look in the mirror, all I can see is a fat slag. “KurvyKate!” she cries, happy with that because I look seriously wasp waisted. I miss my normal clothes badly and I feel as naked as I did in Miss “whore arsed” Poppy’s stupid uniform! “Here Ben, check this out!” Alison shouts downstairs.

Surely now he’ll see how ridiculous I look and save me from the crushing humiliation of being abused like it? No, he still thinks it’s a joke. “Oooooh Kate!” he purrs meaning sadly, he fancies me like this. Does he think we’re having a bit of playful fun and using my interview as some sort of dressing up excuse?

Alison squeals with joy when he asks if I’m serious about leaving the house like this. Her cute little face is a picture of childlike mischief. Steady on girl I think, when the time comes, I’m going to be brutal with you!

“You’re not still going to make me do it?” I plead. Either he thinks he is because Alison has poisoned his mind with her "want to" crap and he thinks I’m as kinky as she is or he’s a worse bastard than I thought. “Yep.” he grins.

We go in Ben’s van because I can hide in the back and I sit on a cushion on the wheel arch holding on to the shelving screwed on the sides, in the dark. This is the bit where when she does it, Alison’s heart thunders in her chest and she’s dripping in the erotic power of her fear, apparently. She’s barking nuts, there’s no doubt about that. My heart’s thundering too but I’m simply scared. I’m nauseous, I can’t breathe, I can’t believe she does this for fun.

I feel the van turn sharply a few times and realise we must be manoeuvering in the car park of St Nick’s. I haven’t cried and I haven’t thrown up, just, because I’ve been clinging on to the hope that Ben’s the one who’s trying to wind me up. The van door swings open. I wait for him to laugh and say “OK, ha, ha, had you worried.” so I can punch him and we’ll all go home but he’s shaking his head as if Alison’s explained something to him while they’ve been driving and he’s confused. I hear the passenger door open then she appears beside Ben at the back of the van. She looks at her wrist where there’s no watch, just like I do, mimicking me. It means “C’mon, get on with it.”

To get out of the van I have to clamber over the wires and tubes of the welder Ben left in it, in heels, in an undignified scramble and discover Alison’s white on black effect does indeed draw the masculine eye to between my legs. I wait until Ben eventually looks at my face when I stop half out of the van in order to complain bitterly one last time that I want to go home.

Then I watch mortified as Alison lifts her hand and touches Ben’s arm while she looks at him, as if that’s a reminder of some promise he’s made? I see collusion, I’ve been discussed, she makes up his mind, maybe I should punch her!

To help me out the rest of the way Ben takes my hand to guide me over the rusty step at the bottom of the door but keeps pulling me so there’s room behind me for him to kick it shut. I’m not getting back in. As soon as that’s obvious I snap my hand out of his to demonstrate my disgust and walk off. I don’t even want to look at them never mind talk to them.

I must be fifty yards up the drive to the main school building before I hear Alison shout “Oi Kate, make the rockin’ world go round yeeeeeeeah!” singing it like the song. Mimicking her this time I hold an up yours finger aloft without looking back, just like she does. I hear her laugh. I am going to punch her.

At least my shoes fit this time, because they’re mine. As I click up the tarmac in them I remember there are no women here. Dressed like I am I must appear as available as this ocean of testosterone expects. I don’t get off on vulnerability like Alison does and all I can think of is visualising how I’m going to fight my way out of here in three hours time. Three hours? I’ve often heard her murmur “Oh fuck!” when it’s bad, now I know what she means.

My first problem is I don’t know where Laird Tarn’s office is, so I’m going to need to ask at reception. As I approach the old, main building I pass the East Wing with its acres of glass and it’s obvious I’m here in between lessons because the corridors are teeming with boys. I can’t cope with that and elect to wait for a while, hiding against a wall it looks like no one comes past. In the distance back in the car park Ben’s van is still there. He will wait won’t he? We should have arranged that.

Someone comes past everywhere in schools and it isn’t long before I’m discovered by a couple of juniors who look at me as if I’m from Mars. As young as they are my tits and my knickers are worthy of comment before they’re out of earshot. This place is breeding dinosaurs!

“Hey you!” I call after them, suddenly realising they could help me. They turn back. “You’re a bit fat to dress like that.” one of them says. The other one wants to know what I’m doing here. “Where’s the governor’s office? (you little bastard!)” I ask. “What do you want that for?” they ask back together. Ominously that matters. “Job interview?” the bigger one sneers, he’s not heard it called that before. They understand perfectly that someone dressed like me is likely to be wanted in the governor’s office in the private house in the grounds beyond the cricket pitches, not the other one. How far is that? One of them shrugs, the other offers “Miles?” Thanks brat.

They hang around wanting to watch me unclip my stockings because I have at least three county championship sized pitches to cross and it’s a big ask in heels, for a fat girl! No shoes, then no stockings either but I’m not going to peel them off with an adolescent audience. “Fuck Off!” I shout at them, thankful for their help. I never swear normally but I’m thinking I’ll soon get the hang of it. Alison curses like a sailor.

After they’ve gone I have to be quick in case they tell anyone I’m here but I roll off my stockings carefully intending to roll them back on later, then set off barefoot across the grass.

Once I’m out in the open I check the horizon, constantly spinning round wary of anyone approaching. Half way across the cricket pitches I’m visible from every single window on this side of the East Wing. Surely their teachers have their undivided attention by now and not a single student is looking? My bare legs feel exposed in the breeze and must show up for miles, time for another “Fuck!”

Seconds after that I get plenty of swearing practice, someone is walking towards me! As the distance between us closes I see he’s in a St Nick’s blazer and there’s no chance at all he’s going to walk past. He’s walking straight at me, it’s certainly me he wants. It’s Smith, who’s grasping hands mauled me last time. “Here for the interview?” he asks cheerfully. I’m temporarily immobile, frozen like a rabbit in headlights. He pulls out his phone, which he’s not supposed to have, which presumably he’ll need to film my disgrace during my ordeal, sorry, interview. “I’ve found her, she’s with me, be there in a minute.” he tells someone. “We were worried about you.” he tells me. Not as much as I’m worried about him! Everyone else is waiting, for me.

Smith is the sportsman HH isn’t. He’s tall and handsome and it feels unnerving to let him hold me on the path to the house’s front door while I stand on one leg to replace my stockings. “What’s going to happen?” I ask. Didn’t I read the letter? “It’s ridiculous!” I complain. Yes but it’s only a bit of fun and…….. while I’m putting my shoes on Smith lifts the back of my skirt to look at my arse, as if he couldn’t see enough already and finishes “ You’ll be fine, he’ll love you!” I glare at him, hating being loved. “Easy tigress, I remember you!” he laughs.

I’d be charmed by how polite holding the front door open for me would feel if I didn’t know Smith simply wanted me inside. “Here we go!” I mutter to myself, I’m going to take control of this, somehow. I don’t walk through the door, not at first.