The next day, Sunday, still feeling stunned and bewildered by my visit to Mrs Campbell, I reported to her daughter, Ashley, for my weekly caning.

She looked cheerful as she opened the door to let me in. “Hello, Michael,” she greeted me. “How did the cleaning go with my mum?”

“Er... fine, Miss. She's taken me on.”

“Cool. So now you can afford my increased rates. Everyone's a winner!”

I nervously nodded as I stripped down to my cotton panties, in readiness for our session.

“Did I get you excited, sending you that demand for a photo of your knickers? I couldn't resist the tease, Michael. I can imagine you panicking when the message came through.”

“Yes, I was panicking, Miss, but I got you the picture.” I was sworn to secrecy, so I couldn't mention that her mother had caught me in the act.

Ashley laughed. “Yes, good man, Michael, so no extra corner time for you today. Just the standard twenty minutes.”

Ashley pointed to the corner, and I humbly walked over, knowing that I would be standing there, motionless, while she read through some of her university course material.

It was a relief when she summoned me back over to her. Yes, I knew it was so I was to be caned, but, as I've explained, I'm a masochist who enjoys that—which is why I return to her every Sunday.

She'd taken her shirt off in readiness and was standing, cane in hand, wearing a decorative pink bra that was semi-transparent, although it was exquisitely designed to obscure her nipples. Nonetheless, I could see two little mountains pushing up the fabric of the bra, obvious signs that the prospect of caning me was arousing her.

I tried not to stare at her—she had told me in the past that she was not a sex object to be gawped at—but I was sure it was yet another new bra. I suspected that all the money I gave her each week was spent on lingerie, not that I was grumbling.

I had often wondered if she wore matching bra and panties, but I had no idea! She had no qualms about taking her shirt off, but what was below the belt was out of bounds—not for my eyes. However, in my imagination, I was sure she wore sets—no girl spending so much money on lingerie would wear mismatches. My penis was in agony at the thought.

“Knickers down, Michael,” she instructed, “and assume the position.” I did so, and she gently eased down my panties to expose my bare buttocks. Then, I felt her feet tapping against mine, an instruction to spread my legs more.

When she was finally satisfied with my position, the punishment began, and the next eleven minutes were occupied by me receiving a dozen strokes of her cane. She had a protocol that she followed, with one minute separating each delivery. As she'd once told me, and I could testify to, this allowed me time to savour the initial sharp sting and then process the ensuing red-hot poker effect as the pain propagated through my buttocks, slowly diminishing in intensity over sixty seconds.

Not a word would leave her lips during the entire procedure. But she announced each stroke by lightly tapping my flesh—aiming strokes, she'd called them. Then, the cane would be raised, and a split second later I would hear it whistling through the air. I would yelp loudly as each stroke hit the mark, but my penis, cherishing the agony, would be struggling inside its small tube.

She was an expert at her craft, with the strokes leaving almost exactly parallel lines. The first would always land high up, and then she worked her way down, the last couple of deliveries—the most painful—landing on my upper thighs.

Then it was over! She left me sprawled out over the kitchen table for a few minutes while my brain replayed the experience, and I regained my breath.

“Okay, Michael? Up you get and do another twenty minutes of corner time.”

The time passed slowly, as always, and I was thankful when she called me to be handcuffed for the unlocking of my cage. Cuffs undone, she unlocked my cage, causing my penis to spring rigidly to attention, something that always happened and which amused her.

She held the pack of cards and stared at me with a mischievous sparkle in her eyes. “Will today be your lucky day?” she asked.

She fanned out the pack. The card I chose would decide whether I ended up humping the carpet, experiencing a hand job or receiving a blow job—the latter being the prize that helped motivate me to return each week, but which forever eluded me.

I bobbed forward to touch a card with my nose. She withdrew the card and stared at it, keeping it hidden from me. “Oh, dear,” she remarked, “it's the three of hearts, Michael. Look!” She turned it over for me to see—I was destined again to hump the carpet.

“No, surely not,” I protested. “That's the fifth week in a row.”

“I'm really sorry,” she explained, with what seemed to be a contrived expression of sadness, “but we have to play by the rules, Michael.”

“Your mother said you were good at card tricks, Miss,” I blurted out without considering any consequences.

“What? Are you suggesting I cheat? If you are, I'm deeply offended, Michael. You'll apologise now—on your knees!”

I felt myself flush at her disappointment in me, and I dropped down in front of her. “Sorry, Miss! I... I wasn't trying to say you cheat. It's... it's just that seeing the cards reminded me that your mum said you were good at card tricks.”

“I don't know why she would be talking to you about cards. You were there to do the cleaning?”

“Yes, but it... it just came up in conversation,” I lied.

“A strange conversation... for a cleaner to have with his employer!”

“Well—”

“You've been talking to my mum about us, haven't you, Michael?”

“Er... no!” I responded, hoping I was wrong about the burning sensation in my cheeks.

“Michael?” she queried, like a parent seeking a confession from a recalcitrant child. “I think you were...”

She knew, and it was pointless for me to deny it further. “Yes... Sorry, Miss. She's found out what you do. She's found out about us!”

“How the hell did that happen?”

“She caught me taking a photo of my knickers after you sent the message.”

“Shit! Why did you allow yourself to get caught? You stupid idiot!”

“Sorry, Miss! It just happened. I wasn't expecting a message from you and—”

“You're blaming me?!” she screeched, wide-eyed.

“No, not at all. I went into a bathroom but didn't lock the door. Your mother found me.”

She glared contemptuously at me, open-mouthed. “You moron!” she cried.

“Sorry,” I mumbled.

“What does she know about us?”

“Er... everything, I suppose, Miss.”

“Everything?”

“Yes... my panties, my canings, my chastity cage, the card game...” I explained. “Sorry!” I quietly added.

She was glaring at me, but I was unable to look her in the eyes.

“You cretin!” she declared. “I can't believe you told her everything.”

“When she caught me with my trousers down, she saw things for herself. I couldn't hide anything.”

“Look at me, Michael,” she insisted. “Look up!”

Reluctantly, I raised my eyes to meet hers, fearing the worst, but instead I detected a faint smile spreading across her face.

“I guess I have to share part of the blame, Michael. I shouldn't have asked for a photo. But now she knows about you and me, you need to tell me about you and her. Spill the beans, Michael.”

Mrs Campbell had sworn me to secrecy. “I can't, Miss, sorry,” I replied.

“Yes, you can—and you will! Unless you want to go back into the corner and get no relief today.”

I was desperate for release, and just casually thinking of my time with her mother was causing my penis to swell. She detected my hesitation. “You can tell me,” she urged. “Mum doesn't need to know you've told me. Come on!”

“She... she wants me to dress up as a maid, Miss. When I do the cleaning.”

Ashley's faint smile turned into a broad grin. “A maid's dress! No way!! Oh, my God! I remember that dress, Michael.”

“I think your father used to wear it, Miss,” I ventured.

“I think you're right, but I never got to witness that.”

“Your mum's providing the dress... and the shoes. I need to buy the underwear—white panties, white bra, white suspender belt... and black stockings.”

“Oh, my God, Michael. Are you going along with this?”

“Yeah! I thought of refusing and resigning, but I've decided it might be fun—sort of...”

“Hmmm... my mother's very strict, so I hope that you've made the right choice.”

“I hope so, Miss? Am I forgiven?”

She nodded, and I smiled at her, thankful for her forgiveness.

She returned my smile. “I can't wait to hear how it goes. But what are you waiting for? Start humping the carpet, you silly man!”

oooOOooo

I was now under the control of two women—a playful daughter and her strict and humourless mother who was expecting me to dress up as her maid. Moreover, I was to buy my own underwear for the occasion, and Mrs Campbell's instructions had been clear—plain white panties, bra and suspender belt and black stockings. Had I lost my sanity?

Had I asked, I imagine Ashley's mother would have told me to buy the clothing from a department store, in person. But I'd not asked and, as I didn't want the embarrassment of visiting a shop, I decided to order online.

I knew the size of my panties, as I wore a pair every day at Ashley's insistence. Guessing the size of the suspender belt and stockings was straightforward, but selecting a bra size was more of a challenge. Fortunately, there were websites to help me, and Mrs Campbell had instructed me to buy a D-cup.

I made sure to order everything I needed at the start of the week to be sure it would be delivered before Saturday.

oooOOooo

Saturday came, and I made my way to Mrs Campbell's house, wearing simple white cotton panties and carrying everything else in a small plastic bag.

She let me in, looking me up and down, as po-faced as usual. “Are you dressed as you were told?” she enquired.

I held up the plastic bag.

“I take that as a ‘no’, then. I expect you to arrive attired in the correct underwear, Michael. I'm not paying you to get dressed in your underwear in my time.”

“Sorry, Mrs Campbell,” I mumbled.

“Ma'am! Call me Ma'am.”

“Sorry, Ma'am.”

“Well?”

Although we were still standing in her hallway, I took that single word as a command to strip off. Red-faced, I took off my shoes, socks, trousers and shirt. Reaching into the bag, I pulled out the bra and proceeded to put it on. She tutted as I struggled to do up the back, and her annoyed expression told me that I needed to practice getting dressed as a woman.

I put on the suspender belt next, and she tutted again, this time accompanied by a scornful expression. “The straps go inside your knickers, you idiot. Can't you get anything right?”

“Er...”

She rolled her eyes. “If the straps are on the outside, how do you expect to pull your panties down to sit on the lavatory?”

“Ah... yes, sorry... I see what you mean, Mrs Campbell.” I forced a smile, purely out of embarrassment. Her stern expression didn't waver.

Finally, I put on the stockings, having asked for permission to sit on the wooden seat that was positioned in the hallway. More tuts were emitted as she watched me struggle to pull the delicate hosiery over my feet and up my legs.

“Give me strength,” she grumbled. “This is why you get dressed in your own time and not mine.”

Eventually, I was attired to her requirements. She opened a cupboard near the chair and passed me two breast inserts that I placed inside my bra. Then she extracted a black maid's dress. If I'd been expecting a saucy French maid's costume, this was not it. It was simple, more like what a hotel cleaner might wear—except it was short... very short.

“Mr Campbell was not so tall as you, Michael, but I see no point in wasting money on a new dress.”

She held it out for me to step into. Apart from the length, it fitted, and I did up the buttons at the front that stretched from the waist to my neck.

“Do I need to lock you in, Michael?” she asked. I looked down and realised that the dress had been modified at the neckline so that a padlock could be inserted.

“No...” I exclaimed. “I won't take it off without permission.”

She stared quizzically at me for several seconds before nodding, “See that you don't.”

Then she bent down and removed a pair of black shoes from the cupboard. “These are size nine,” she mentioned, “so they'll fit you.”

They had three-inch heels and must have been purchased from a fetish store because they had built-in locks to prevent removal.

Sitting on the chair, I put them on—my first time wearing heels. This time, she didn't need to ask if they should be locked in place, and I heard them click shut as I did up each shoe. I had to hope she knew where the key was.

“Stand up,” she ordered. I did so, wobbling on the three-inch heels. “Stop being so pathetic!” she moaned. “How do you think women manage?”

I looked down and saw she was also wearing heels, which looked an inch taller than mine.

“Now get on with your work. I'm not to be disturbed, Michael, unless my daughter messages you for a photo. Then you are to inform me at once.”

oooOOooo

I spent the morning diligently cleaning Mrs Campbell's house from top to bottom, paying attention to the smallest detail. Much of the work involved bending down or kneeling, and I was forever conscious of my short dress, knowing that my panties must often bob into view, their pristine whiteness providing a sharp contrast to the black on my dress. But being dressed like that was stimulating me, and I seemed to be in a perpetual state of arousal—at least as far as my cage would allow. My panties, I was sure, were becoming drenched in leaking precum.

Twice she came to see me to check on progress, the second time carrying a stiff leather tawse as a symbol of her authority. She said nothing, but it was obvious that if she was displeased with my work, then that tawse would be applied across my buttocks.

After a few intense hours of cleaning, I reported to her to say that I'd finished.

She was sat in her armchair, and I stood in front of her, my hands clasped behind my back. Her attire was similar to the previous week—a flowery dress that revealed her thighs and her cleavage. She was wearing stockings. I knew that because her dress had ridden up, providing a glimpse of stocking top. Standing there, I felt my penis thickening inside its tube, pressing against the sides.

“Your cleaning has been done to a reasonable standard, Michael, but I can't believe how long it's taken you,” she explained. “If you wish to return, I expect you to work faster in future—no dawdling nor slacking off.”

I nodded, while pondering how I could possibly have worked faster. But I had every intention of returning the following week.

“Next week, there'll be laundry and ironing to do, as well as cleaning,” she continued. “And when you've mastered that to my satisfaction, I'll discuss your gardening work.”

I gulped, wondering how much she expected me to get done each Saturday in four hours. She read my mind. “I want value for my money, Michael. You're here to work, not ponce around in a maid's dress! I may be paying you for four hours, but I expect you to remain until everything has been completed.”

“Yes, Ma'am.”

“If you please me, there will be some special—personal—duties for you to perform.”

“Er?”

She hesitated for a moment, thinking things through, it seemed. “I'm wondering if you are capable of carrying out personal duties, Michael.” There was another pause while she weighed up a decision. “Get down on your knees, remove my right shoe and worship my foot.”

I dropped down in front of her. Her right leg was crossed over her left knee, leaving her right foot wobbling in the air. Cautiously, I slipped off her shoe.

“You'll need to remove my stocking, but don't you dare grope me,” she remarked, pulling her dress up a couple more inches to reveal more of the top of her stocking. It was attached by three black straps—front, side and back. Gingerly, and with my fingers trembling, I fumbled with the front and side clips, and she adjusted the position of her leg to give me access to the back one. “Watch where your grubby fingers are going,” she hissed.

As carefully as I could, I eased the nylon down and pulled it off her. I stared at her foot. It looked heavenly, and I thought she must have had a recent pedicure. Her nails were coated in a scarlet gel, and a fragrant scent drifted up from the foot.

“Stop staring and get to work,” she commanded. “Use your lips and your tongue.”

Foot worship was not one of my fetishes, but just the humiliating way she was talking to me was arousing, and my penis was struggling in its restraint, causing me some distress.

I bent down and took her big toe in my mouth, sucking it with my lips and caressing it with my tongue. She said nothing, which I took to be a good sign, so, after a minute or so of worship, I moved on to the adjoining toe.

“Do the gaps between the toes, Michael,” she murmured.

I pushed my tongue into the tight space and moved it around, resulting in her giving a sigh of satisfaction. At last, I was doing something that she seemed totally happy with.

Slowly, I moved from toe to toe, while she seemed to wallow in the experience.

“That's enough, Michael. You've shown me that you are able to deliver personal services—perhaps more personal than worshipping my feet. Are you happy to stay in my employment?”

“My God, yes!” I exclaimed. “Thank you, Ma'am.”

She returned a faint smile, which I was learning was the closest she got to being ecstatic.

“Did you see my daughter last Sunday?” she asked.

“Yes, Ma'am,” I replied. “She—”

“You succinctly answer my questions, Michael — otherwise, you don't speak. I've no interest in hearing your ramblings. Understood?”

I swallowed hard and nodded.

“I asked if you understood?” she barked. The hint of a smile had gone.

“Yes... Ma'am!”

“Did you tell my daughter of the conditions of your employment here?”

“Hmm...”

“That means ‘yes’, doesn't it? I specifically told you not to tell her, so why did you?”

“I... I don't know. It just came out. She has a way of probing my thoughts, Ma'am. I find it impossible to keep secrets from her.”

“And from me, I suppose,” she added. “You're a blabbermouth, Michael!”

“Sorry... it's... it's a consequence of being a submissive, I suppose.”

She nodded her head, almost imperceptibly. But it told me that she understood my predicament.

“So, now you are serving two mistresses, Michael.”

I swallowed hard and nodded.

“You will present yourself to Ashley tomorrow for your caning and come here next Saturday to clean and perform other duties. I will be talking to Ashley this evening to discuss how best we jointly manage you, but I will be suggesting to her that weekly relief is unnecessary. Mr Campbell was able to forego release for much longer periods.”

I felt my stomach sink but in an exhilarating way. Somehow, Ashley would be receiving extra money, her mother would be getting a cleaner, and I would be serving two mistresses with no additional expense. We were, indeed, all winners.

THE END