“I'm sorry, Michael, but I'm going to have to double what I charge you,” Ashley explained in a very matter-of-fact manner.

I was still groaning from the caning she had administered as I had been spread over her kitchen table—twelve fiery strokes of a whippy cane expertly applied across my bare buttocks.

Consequently, it took me a couple of minutes to process what she was saying. “Sorry...” I gasped, easing myself up and flinching. “What do you mean, Miss?”

Ashley positioned herself so she was directly in front of me. Seeing her there, the cane flexed in her hands, caused my penis to throb inside its chastity cage. She was so beautiful, with pert breasts, a shapely bum and long blonde hair.

And while she was still dressed below the waist in her usual blue jeans, above the waist she had stripped off her shirt to reveal a lacy black bra—one I'd not seen before.

As she had once teasingly explained to me, taking her shirt off allowed her to swing the cane with more ferocity. I didn't believe that for even a moment, yet I would never argue. But if it did hurt more, seeing her half-naked more than compensated for the additional pain. It was just as well I was a masochist who thrived on such agony.

She stared at me as if I was stupid. “Doubling means I will have to charge you twice what you pay now for each session. Maths not your strong point, Michael?”

“Yes... No... but... but, why?”

“Because I've lost my other punter, so my income has been halved.”

“Isn't it possible to find a replacement?” I asked.

“I've advertised on a fetish website, but there's been no takers. Strangely, not many men seem to enjoy being caned and humiliated. Can't think why!” she laughed.

“Have you tried the university?” I knew she was a final-year student there, and being a domme was only a part-time activity for her, something she fitted in with her course on medieval history.

She snorted. “For God's sake, Michael! No, I haven't. I don't want the lads there finding out what my hobby is. I need to have compartments in my life.”

“Yeah, I see... but I honestly can't afford to pay you double,” I explained, attempting to put on a face that would appeal to her better nature.

“You're getting a bargain as it is. If you went to a professional, she'd charge you twice what I'm charging. Perhaps three times more. And... you wouldn't get the possibility of a blowjob afterwards.”

Ah, yes, the possibility of a blowjob—the elusive carrot that guaranteed my return to her every Sunday.

But she was right! Before I'd encountered Ashley, I had been paying far more than she charged, and there'd never even been a hint of sex afterwards.

“I've got my ex-wife and four kids to support,” I explained. “I really can't afford to pay you double what I'm paying now. I'm up to my neck in debt, Miss!”

“Oh, my heart bleeds,” she rejoined, sarcastically. “Perhaps if your wife had put you in a chastity cage, there wouldn't be four sprogs to drain your finances.” There was a pause before she added, in a sympathetic tone, “I'm not stupid, Michael, so I guessed you would say that, and therefore I've an alternative suggestion.”

She left the sentence hanging for what seemed like an eternity, forcing me to whisper, “What is it?”

She smiled mischievously. “My mum's looking for a Saturday cleaner, and she'll pay enough to cover my price increase.”

“What?! I'm a school teacher! I don't clean other people's houses!”

“You're a snob, Michael!” she grinned. “Someone has to do cleaning! It's a vital job. Anyway, I've given her your name. She'll interview you on Saturday morning at nine.”

“Sorry, but I can't be a cleaner, Miss.”

“Well, another alternative is I only see you once every two weeks, but you pay double when you come. That won't cost you any more each month.”

“Er... but that won't help you! That won't give you more money.”

“No, but it means you'll only be unlocked every fortnight! Doesn't that make cleaning more appealing?” She smiled at her cleverness, waving the gold chain around her neck.

Ashley was my keyholder, and it was only after the weekly caning sessions that she unlocked me, offering this nebulous possibility of a blowjob.

“Yes, I guess it does,” I replied, forcing a smile. “But maybe I could find some other job... one more suited to my qualifications? Giving extracurricular tuition to students?” I suggested, with more enthusiasm. “Yes, that would work!”

“No!” she firmly replied. “Mum wants a cleaner, and I want you to be that cleaner, Michael. You're a submissive, and I don't want you to get ideas above your station. Cleaning is a menial job that will keep you grounded.”

I knew that once she set her mind on something, it was nigh impossible to change it. “Er... right... I'll give it a go, Miss, if I have to,” I muttered. “If that's what you really want.”

“It is, Michael, it is,” she replied, beaming. “Mum likes the idea that her cleaner is someone I know. You'll really have to screw up the interview not to get the job. Don't let me down.”

“What have you told her about me, Miss?”

“Nothing... except that you're trustworthy, responsible and short of money.”

“Nothing else? Nothing about our... er... sessions?”

“No! Unless you want me to?”

“Noooh!!”

She snickered at my embarrassment. “Anyway,” she continued. “We're wasting time. You've still your post-caning corner time to do, so pull your knickers up and get your nose in that corner.”

I hoped she'd forgotten that. It was the caning I enjoyed—the corner time I hated. Corner time, both before and after a caning, was a regular feature of my sessions with Ashley. It was something she insisted on. At first, I thought it must be as boring for her as it was for me, but then I discovered that she used the time to catch up on some of her course reading.

“I don't mind missing that out... if you're busy, I mean,” I suggested, suspecting what the answer would be.

She laughed, “No, Michael, I want you to get your money's worth, so get yourself into the corner. And it's an extra ten minutes today for arguing with me!”

With an air of resignation, I pulled up the high-waisted cotton panties that she insisted I wear every day of the week. The cotton was soft and delicate, but I still winced as the undies, being a tad too small, pressed painfully against the welts from my caning.

oooOOooo

I buried my nose into the corner. Today I now knew I would be there for thirty minutes—longer if she thought I was fidgeting and longer still if I made the mistake of touching my sore bum. I positioned my hands in the small of my back, well away from temptation.

As always, the time passed slowly and, not for the first time, I wondered if she had become so absorbed in her reading that she had lost track of time. Only after what seemed like an eternity did she speak. “Turn around, Michael,” she announced. I saw she now had her shirt back on. I'd expected that, but it was still a disappointment.

“Come over here.” As she said that, she produced a familiar set of handcuffs and secured my wrists behind my back.

Then she slipped my panties down to mid-thigh and used the key that had hung from the chain around her neck to unlock my chastity device. She pulled it off, and my penis immediately stood proud, begging attention.

“God, you're keen today, Michael. It must be the thought of becoming a cleaner,” she exclaimed with a laugh, pulling up my panties so they swallowed my erection. “I'll get the cards,” she added with a devilish grin.

It was a game she played with a pack of playing cards. It was a standard pack, except three of the aces had been removed. She would shuffle the pack, and then I would choose a card at random. The value of the card had a meaning—a card from two to ten meant she would allow me to cum by humping the floor, while a picture card earned me a hand job skillfully delivered by her. But the biggest prize was the solitary ace, which would entail her giving me a blowjob. The booby prize was a joker, of which there were two in the pack—choosing a joker meant no relief that session.

By the law of averages, I should draw the ace about once a year. Yet, I had been seeing her once a week for eighteen months and had never yet picked the ace. In fact, the number of times I'd chosen a picture card also defied statistical odds but, strangely, I'd selected a joker four times.

Had she removed all the aces and most of the picture cards, I'd once asked, and she'd feigned offence, telling me that if I didn't trust her then we wouldn't play the game that week. After that, I'd kept my suspicions to myself but, deep down, I honestly couldn't ever see her giving me a blowjob. It was probably no more than a shrewd ploy to keep me returning to her—and it was working.

“Choose a card,” she said, fanning out the pack, face down. With my hands cuffed behind me, selecting a card meant bobbing forward and touching one with my nose. I picked one from near the middle, and she pulled it out, looked at it and then turned it over. My heart sank when I saw it was the five of clubs.

“Oh, dear, Michael,” she remarked, with a playful glint in her eyes. “Another humping job! How unlucky! That's the fourth week in a row.” Thank you, I thought—there's no need to remind me.

“Down you get,” she commanded, “and start rubbing the carpet.”

I knew what to do, so I dropped down and began humping. As was her way, she stood a couple of feet away, staring down at me, compounding my humiliation. But I knew, despite my embarrassment, that it would not take me long to climax, and so it was.

It was a week since I'd last cum, so when I did, there seemed to be a flood. Gallons of slimy semen filled my panties, degrading me still further.

Still lying on the carpet, I turned my neck to look up at her, and she was smiling at me. I would never describe Ashley as a cruel girl—in many ways, she was sweet and kind—but she did take perverse pleasure in seeing me prostrate on the carpet in a servile, submissive position. She would leave me lying there for a few minutes after doing the deed, so that my jism had time to thoroughly soak itself in the thin cotton of my knickers.

“Right, Michael, up you get. You have five minutes to get cleaned up in the bathroom. No playing with yourself.”

It was a familiar routine, as was her asking me on my return whether I was game for another week of enforced chastity. Despite my libido having plummeted after my orgasm, my answer was always the same. “Yes, please, Miss,” I would reply. She would then lock me back up and tell me to get dressed, which included putting on the wet, soiled panties. I would then be sent home.

“Don't forget your interview on Saturday morning,” she reminded me as I bid her goodbye. “And don't breathe a word to her about what you and I get up to. It's our secret.”

oooOOooo

If I wished to continue with weekly caning sessions, Ashley had left me with little choice but to become a cleaner for her mother. It was a daunting prospect, and, as the week progressed, my anxiety about meeting her mother grew.

I heard from Ashley twice during the week, but each time it was simply a message seeking photographic proof that I was correctly attired in panties. This was a further humiliating twist that she played, but, secretly, I loved wearing female underwear. There was always the risk of discovery, which kept me in a state of semi-permanent excitement.

I relished this extra requirement from Ashley. I'd never experienced this with a professional dominatrix, so it was another bonus in using Ashley's services—another ploy she exploited to keep me going back for a caning.

Luckily, I suppose, she knew I taught, and I wasn't able to instantly drop out of a classroom to provide her with the evidence I needed. Therefore, her messages demanding a photograph had a generous time allowance during school hours, but less so at other times.

What happened if I was late sending an image, you may ask. Well, I was punished, but, bizarrely, you might think, the punishment was one fewer stroke of the cane for each occurrence. For a masochist, who thrived on corporal punishment, this was a fitting penance. But worse, my corner time was increased by however many minutes I was late—that, I did not relish.

oooOOooo

Saturday came and, at nine that morning, I presented myself at Ashley's mother's house, located on the opposite side of town from the university. The property was large and rambling, and situated well away from any neighbouring properties. The place had an ominous feel.

I rang the bell, and it was several minutes before the front door was opened. Standing there was a twenty-five-year-older version of Ashley. She was around my age, and attractive. It was reassuring to think that Ashley would look as good as that in twenty-five years, although, despite my earnest desires, it seemed unlikely that Ashley would still be controlling my life by then.

“Yes?” the woman curtly asked, eyeing me up and down with a humourless expression. She might look like an older version of Ashley, but I could instantly tell her character was vastly different.

She glared at me, waiting for an answer, but I realised I didn't know her name—stupidly, I'd not asked Ashley, and I didn't know Ashley's surname.

“Er... I'm Michael. You must be... Ashley's mum?”

“I'm Mrs Campbell. You'd better come in.” Her lack of enthusiasm spoke volumes.

She took me through to a large sitting room and sat herself down on a voluminous armchair. She was dressed in a pale blue dress that finished just above the knees, except sitting caused it to rise up, exposing an expanse of toned thigh.

I was left standing in front of her, with no suggestion from her that I should take a seat. Her dress was low-cut and revealed a large amount of cleavage, and my vantage point afforded a good perspective—had I not been determined to avoid it.

She stared up at me with a critical expression. “I was expecting someone younger. Someone my daughter's age. How do you know her?”

I had anticipated this question, so without hesitation I lied, “We go to the same gym, Mrs Campbell.”

“Really?” she retorted, with undisguised disbelief. “First I know of her being a gym-goer. I trust you're not taking advantage of her—you're old enough to be her father.”

“Goodness, no! She just knows I'm looking for part-time work and that you were looking for a cleaner.”

“If you're not with Ashley, do you have a girlfriend?”

“No... I'm divorced and live alone.”

“Yes, Ashley mentioned you have a wife and four children to support. Yet she told me you're a responsible person. I can't imagine anyone who claims to be responsible siring four children, and then walking away.”

“It... it wasn't like that, I—”

“I'm not interested in the sordid details, Michael. Can you clean?”

“Yes, Mrs Campbell. I keep my flat immaculate,” I replied, hoping she didn't wish to carry out an inspection.

“Do you have references and recommendations?”

“Er... no, sorry, I don't. This is the first time I've taken on a cleaning job.”

“Hmmm... in that case, I'm only prepared to pay you half what Ashley suggested for four hours' work. The hourly rate she suggested was ridiculous for... an amateur. Does that seem fair, Michael?”

I seemed to have no choice, but I had passed the interview, it seemed. “Yes, that's very fair, Mrs Campbell. Thank you. Will Mr Campbell be okay with me being the cleaner?”

“I don't know what business it is of yours, but I'm a widow. He died a couple of years ago—and when he was alive I did not need to employ a cleaner off the streets.”

“I'm sorry,” I said, deciding it was wiser not to challenge her perception that I was “off the streets”.

She returned a faint smile, the first she'd given me. “I miss him deeply, Michael.”

I put on an expression which I hoped conveyed my condolences.

“But time moves on!” she abruptly announced. “You can start work now. Cleaning materials are in the kitchen, and the hoover is under the stairs. I expect the house to be spotless when you finish. Understood? Otherwise, I'll be docking your pay.”

I understood only too well.

oooOOooo

Setting to work, I began upstairs, starting in the main bedroom. It wasn't dirty, but it was untidy, with Mrs Campbell's clothes littered around, including some intimate items. Looking at a pair of lacy white panties lying on the floor, I could see they had been worn because the gusset was exposed. I felt my penis twitching.

What was I to do with them? And what to do with the matching bra that was lying close to the knickers. Bending down, I picked them up and used all my resolve not to sniff the panties. In the corner of the room was a laundry basket and I dropped the two garments inside. Perhaps, on a future visit, I might risk inhaling the scent from the panties, but to do so today would be foolish. I congratulated myself on my self-control.

But then my phone buzzed. I glanced at it. Shit! It was a message from Ashley: Photo - 5 min.

She knew where I was and what I was doing, yet she wanted evidence of my obedience. There were times for her to play her games and times when her games were inappropriate—this was such a time. But I had to act, and act quickly.

I dived into the ensuite and pushed the door to. Quickly, I undid my belt and zip, allowing my trousers to fall to mid-thigh. With an ease honed from practice, I snapped a photo of my panties, the evidence Ashley needed. Then, I wasted no time sharing it with her via WhatsApp.

I breathed a sigh of relief, but it was short-lived because, at that moment, the unlocked bathroom door swung open and Mrs Campbell entered. Her mouth dropped open, and her eyebrows shot up. For a few seconds, she was dumbstruck. I was too paralysed with fear to pull my trousers up, but instinctively I placed my hands in front of my underwear.

“What the hell do you think you're doing?” she screamed, once she'd regained the power of speech.

“I... I... was... I... don't know!” I blurted out. “I—”

My sentence was cut short by a sharp slap across my left cheek from the palm of her hand. “Tell me!” she hissed, slapping my other cheek with her other hand. She was angry, and her face was red with rage.

The slaps stung. This was a defining moment. People can't go around slapping other people, even masochists, at least not without their consent. I could report her for assault. I could get her arrested.

I stared at her, and she stared back. There was fury in her eyes, and she raised her right hand to strike me again, daring me to defend myself.

This was the time to assert my rights, the juncture to tell her in no uncertain terms that slapping someone without their permission was illegal. Instead, my utter humiliation was causing my penis to stir inside its tight tube.

“I'm sorry,” I pleaded. “I'm sorry... really sorry...”

She had won. She had struck me twice, yet I was the one apologising. The anger drained from her face and was replaced by a look of surprise—surprise that I had folded so quickly and so decisively.

For a second or so, she was again lost for words, but then she took advantage of my capitulation. “Hands on your head,” she sneered. I did what she wanted, my trousers now falling to my ankles. She had taken control—I had submitted.

“And why are you wearing panties?” she yelled. “Are you a pervert?”

I suppose the answer had to be yes, but I replied, “No... sorry... they... they were all I could find this morning.”

“Nonsense! You must think I was born yesterday, you stupid man.”

“Sorry!”

“I only came upstairs to clear away my undies, but I see you've been touching them already. Yes?”

“Yes, but only to put them in the laundry basket, Mrs Campbell. I didn't... er...”

“You didn't sniff them, you're trying to say.”

I nodded and went to pull up my trousers. “No! Take them off completely,” she instructed.

She peered at my underwear. “You're wearing a chastity cage, aren't you? I can see the outline.” I nodded again, my throat too dry to talk. “Show me!”

I pulled my knickers down, and she stared at the cage. “An expensive model! Where do you keep the keys?”

“I... I have a keyholder. I don't have the keys,” I croaked.

“A keyholder?” She furrowed her brow, trying to make heads or tails of the scene in front of her. Then there was a lightbulb moment. “Is, by chance, my daughter your keyholder?”

Despite those strict instructions from Ashley not to reveal what she and I get up to, I was so intimidated by her mum that I found myself nodding. I swallowed hard, awaiting another furious explosion of anger.

“Clever girl,” she muttered, talking more to herself than to me. She smiled at me. “Well, well... she really is her mother's daughter. Who would have thought?”

“Pardon?”

“Does she unlock you for relief?”

The secret was out, so there was no point in me lying further.

“Yes, most weeks, on Sundays. There's a game we play with a pack of cards and—”

Her eyes lit up. “Don't tell me she still does card tricks!”

“Does she? Oh...”

“She was so good at them! And I'm guessing she expects you to wear panties every day. Yes?” I nodded.

“And what were you doing when I came in?”

“She'd messaged me, saying she wanted a photo of my panties. It's... it's a game we play.” I gave a forced laugh, purely from embarrassment.

“And what else does she do?”

Sanity was returning to me, and I was disinclined to say more, but she wasn't going to give up. “I've asked you a question. Have the good manners to answer me.”

“She canes me, Mrs Campbell, every Sunday... twelve strokes.”

Her eyes lit up. “Show me!”

I turned around so she could see the remains of the welts from the previous week. “She does a fine job. Every Sunday, you say? She strikes just hard enough that the marks resolve over the course of a week—I'm impressed with her skill. And tomorrow you'll receive another twelve? I'm proud of her, Michael. Mr Campbell would be proud of her.”

“Er... yes, she's a lovely girl,” I observed, not entirely sure it was an appropriate comment.

“Why do you need to earn extra money, Michael?” she asked.

“It's because your daughter has put her prices up—doubled them, in fact. I can't afford to pay more, so she suggested this job. She said this way, she gets her money, and you get a cleaner, Mrs Campbell.”

She smiled at me and shook her head. “How devious of her. She could have asked me for money but—no—she's chosen to use you as the middleman.”

“Yes... I see what you mean.”

“Pull your knickers up and take your shirt off. You can do the rest of the cleaning today in your underwear.”

“Yes, Mrs Campbell.”

She eyed me up and down. “What size are your feet?”

“Er... size nine, Mrs Campbell.”

She nodded approvingly. “That's convenient! If you wish to continue in my employment, then next week I have a maid's dress and three-inch heels you can wear, but you will need to provide your own underwear—panties, bra, suspender belt and stockings. White underwear and black stockings. The plainest underwear you can find because maids don't wear sexy stuff. Understood? And the bra needs to be D-cup to fit the inserts I have.”

I gulped, my penis now throbbing in desperation. I nodded, unsure what I was letting myself in for but excited at the prospect.

“And when you see Ashley tomorrow, you make no mention of this. Do you understand? This is to be our secret.”

Not another secret!