Over the next couple of days, my life as a “slave” settled into a pattern. I had to work hard, cleaning the house, redecorating the spare bedroom, tending to the garden, popping down to the village shops and generally doing whatever the girls wanted.

My bras had arrived, along with inserts, and Abigail had patiently spent an hour or so training me how to do one up by stretching my arms behind my back. It took many attempts, but eventually I got the hang of it, much to her delight.

Admittedly, they were only C cup, but with weighted inserts inside they felt enormous to me. While Abigail had been pleased with the result, Bluebelle had given me another roll of her eyes and a look of contempt.

“You look so cute, Puppy,” Abigail had chirped. “It makes me randy just seeing you like that. You could easily pass as a girl, if you put your mind to it. You're proper eye candy.”

I didn't know what to say, but luckily Bluebelle called her away at that point, conceivably to berate her for fawning over me.

oooOOooo

Bluebelle continued to be the stricter of the two, while Abigail was a moderating influence, calming Bluebelle down, especially when the realisation set in that I was next to useless when it came to DIY.

The plans for me to wallpaper the bedrooms had to be abandoned when I put the first piece of wallpaper up at an angle that wasn't vertical, and the second at a different angle to the first—and still not vertical.

Bluebelle threatened to punish me, but her friend talked her out of it. “Look, Blue,” Abigail had argued, “He may be useless, but he is trying his best. He never claimed to be a decorator.”

“He needs to be incentivised, and that's what the tawse will do,” retorted Bluebelle.

“No! We should paint the walls, instead of wallpapering. I'm sure Puppy's capable of using a roller.”

And, so, the ambitious plans for wallpapered rooms, which is what Bluebelle's parents were expecting, and had paid for, were abandoned in favour of a coat of paint, the girls travelling to the nearest town to buy large cans.

My adventures in the garden led to similar disappointments when it became obvious that I was unable to reliably distinguish between weeds and flowers. And, as to cooking, Bluebelle needed no convincing that our collective survival required she took over those duties—I was relegated to making toast and sandwiches, something she loudly proclaimed was almost within my capabilities.

oooOOooo

Abigail became infatuated in seeing me in bra and panties and took pleasure in twanging my bra straps at every opportunity. It was after one such occasion that she muttered, “Oh, dear...”

“Sorry?”

“You've only been wearing a bra for two days, but you've already got tan lines, Puppy, despite me spraying you every day with sunscreen. I'm sorry, Puppy,” she explained. The expression on her face told me that she wasn't overly sorry, and I began to wonder how powerful the spray was that she'd been applying.

She might not have been unduly worried about tan lines, but I was. It could be a long while before I dared take off my shirt at the gym in front of other men.

oooOOooo

On the fifth morning of our stay, I took the girls' their breakfasts and waited to see if they had any instructions for me.

“Thank you, Puppy,” exclaimed Abigail, giving me a disarming smile.

“He's just doing his job, Abby, so you don't need to thank him all the time,” explained Bluebelle, who was cuddled up in bed with her friend. “But he seems to be blind.”

“Er?” I commented.

“Look around you, Puppy. This bedroom is a mess.” She sat up in bed, modestly pulling the duvet up against her breasts.

She was right, in the sense that there were clothes strewn across the floor and a chair—skirts, shorts, tops, bikinis, panties and bras.

“Erm...”

“One of your jobs is doing the laundry, Puppy. All that lot needs handwashing. Can you manage that?” Bluebelle asked.

This time, it was Abigail who shot up in bed. However, unlike Bluebelle, she made no attempt cover up her nightie, and I swear that through the thin fabric I could see the deep brown of her areola. I felt my penis give a jerk at the provocation, but Abigail paid no attention to where I was looking.

Instead, she turned to Bluebelle, uttering a gasp of surprise. “What? You don't mind him handling your undies, Blue? I'm amazed.”

“I'm sure he will find it a humiliating experience, Abby, so therefore I'm in favour.”

“Will you find it humiliating, Puppy?” asked Abigail.

“Yes, Miss,” I lied. “Very much so.” Bluebelle gave me one of her rare smiles. Doing the laundry had been mentioned before, but not for a moment had I thought it would involve handwashing their most intimate apparel.

Bluebelle picked up her tablet from the bedside table and quickly brought up a webpage. “These are some detailed instructions I found yesterday. Make sure they're followed to the letter, otherwise you'll be paying for replacement items,” she explained, passing me her tablet, which was displaying a page from a website on the care of delicate items. It told me precisely what to do—water temperature, pre-soaking times, type and amount of detergent, washing technique, number of rinses, and so on.

“Well, go and get on with it,” Bluebelle informed me. “And no sniffing!”

“You can sniff my stuff, Puppy,” chirped Abigail. “Please do!”

Bluebelle glared scornfully at her but said nothing more.

I collected the pile of clothes and took them down to the small utility room adjoining the kitchen. From unpacking their clothes on the evening of arrival, I knew which belonged to which girl.

After carefully reading the instructions twice, I set about the task, but not before taking several deep breaths of Abigail's panties. Straightaway, my penis responded, causing me more discomfort, yet that didn't stop me taking further sniffs. I thought about inhaling Bluebelle's scents. I fancied her as much as I did Abigail, but I couldn't risk disobeying her explicit instructions and being found out.

oooOOooo

So far, I had avoided the pain of the tawse but that was to change. My painting technique left almost as much to be desired as my skills at wallpapering, and it wasn't long before the carpet of the bedroom was marked with splatters of paint.

“What the fuck have you done?” yelled Bluebelle, when she came to inspect progress. “What are my parents going to say? Why didn't you cover the carpet up, you moron!”

“I did! But the dustsheet slipped. I'm very sorry. I'll try and get the paint off.”

“It's dried on! It'll never come off!” she retorted, fiercely.

“I... I'll try, Miss!”

“Try, but it won't work! You're unbelievably incompetent! You're going to be punished for this!” She stormed downstairs, incandescent with rage, leaving me to try to attempt paint removal.

Needless to say, Bluebelle was right and paint marks were still visible when she returned with Abigail thirty minutes later.

“Look what the cretin's done, Abby,” Bluebelle screamed. “He's fucking useless!”

My protestations that her parents were probably planning to renew the carpets cut no ice with her, simply infuriating her further.

“He has to be punished, Abby, and you're the one to do it!”

“Me?!”

“Yes, you! You're the one who forced me to accept him as our slave, so you can be the one to punish him.”

“Why me?”

“He sees you as his friend and me as an ogre, so you need to show him that you're not a soft touch. He needs six strokes of the tawse on each hand. You can do it in our bedroom, why I'll wait downstairs and inspect his hands afterwards.”

“Er... all right, I'll do it,” Abigail agreed, apparently a little reluctantly.

“Don't go lightly, because you'll do the idiot no favours if I have to give him a second dose.”

Abigail and I both gulped. She seemed as tense as I was. We went into the bedroom, and she dug out the thick leather tawse that I had seen the first evening.

“Bluebelle expects me to do a proper job, and I won't let her down, Puppy. She means too much to me.”

“I understand, Miss,” I nervously replied.

“Besides, you deserve this, don't you?” I nodded. “You're going to bravely take your punishment and not use your safe word, aren't you?” I nodded again. I didn't want to be strapped, but neither did I wish to be given my train fare back home.

I looked Abigail in the eyes, trying to figure out how she felt about punishing me. I knew she had a soft spot for me, and she never missed an opportunity to flirt, but, at that moment, there was nothing in her demeanour to suggest she would go easy. In fact, there was a worrying glint in her eyes.

“Stretch out your right arm, palm up,” she ordered.

She stared at me. “You've heard the expression, 'this is going to hurt me more than it will hurt you'?” I nodded. “Well, it's wrong!” With that, she brought the tawse down on my palm with a resounding crash, causing me to yelp like a wounded dog and then to thrust my hand under my armpit for comfort.

“Shit!” she exclaimed.

Had she struck too hard? Was she having regrets? No... and no!

“This shirt's restricting my swing,” she mumbled almost inaudibly to herself.

Without a moment's hesitation, she whipped off her T-shirt and stood in front of me wearing a pristine pale blue bra. Its unwiring pushed up her boobs, the semi-transparent material moulded perfectly to her skin. Her nipples, I noticed, were pushing against the fabric, and the sparkle in her eyes had grown more pronounced... and scarier. Despite my hand stinging like hell, I felt a spasm from my penis as I saw her dressed so enticingly... and so threateningly.

She was correct that her tight shirt had prevented her delivering full power, and the further five strikes on my right hand and the six on my left were unbelievably painful, causing me to pull back my arm after each stroke.

“Come on, Puppy, you can take this,” she had assured me, partway through. “We can't let Bluebelle down, and we don't want her thinking you're a wimp. I'm sure she could do this much harder than me.” That I found impossible to believe!

By the time it was finished, I had come to appreciate that Abigail had a sadistic streak. If she'd any compunction about punishing me, it had quickly evaporated once she got going. Whereas Bluebelle regarded me with indifference, simply as a slave who had to work hard and be punished for incompetence, Abigail saw me as a way of activating her sexual desires and then relieving her sexual frustrations.

Once it was over, my hands still stinging, I was sent downstairs to report to Bluebelle, who, thank God, seemed to consider that Abigail had done a decent job. Abigail remained in her bedroom, closing the door behind her. I had little doubt what she was up to, and, when she came downstairs a while later, her face looked flushed.

oooOOooo

I learnt my lesson and was careful from then on not to get paint drips on the carpet. But, just the very next day, there was another calamity. Working in the garden, I mistakenly dug up a plant that I thought was a weed, but which Bluebelle was swift to inform me was some prized specimen that her mother had said was to be cossetted at all costs. She even shoved a WhatsApp from her mum into my face, the message explaining how magnificent this specimen would look when in flower, and how she was looking forward to seeing it when she got back from her cruise. There was a photo of what it might look like in all its full glory.

I stared down at the woeful remains of the plant, which was in two pieces and wilting. All hope of restoring it to good health was gone. That Bluebelle had failed to inform me of the importance of that particular plant was not enough to defuse her wrath. “He's fucking useless, Abby,” she screamed, drops of saliva spraying from her mouth. “How did we end up with someone so stupid?”

“That plant didn't look so special to me,” replied Abigail, at the risk of further infuriating her friend. “Can't we just buy another one?”

“Puppy will be paying for another, but why is he so moronic in the first place? We should send him packing! I've had enough of him. He can go—today!”

“Then who would do the work? We don't want to do decorating or gardening, do we? And we can't afford to hire anyone. We've already spent most of the money you were given by your parents.” While reasoning with her, Abigail was softly stroking Bluebelle's arm, in an attempt to pacify her.

I had seen this technique work before, but it seemed to have little effect that day. But Bluebelle let out a huge gasp of air as the realisation of their predicament hit her. “Fuck! We're stuck with him!” was all she could say, while glowering contemptuously at me, probably wishing I would spontaneously combust.

“Let's go off to a garden centre and buy a new plant,” suggested Abigail, speaking calmly. “Then we can go for a walk and find somewhere quiet—somewhere we won't be disturbed, Blue.” She had moved behind Bluebelle and placed an arm over Bluebelle's shoulders, pushing her hand through the armhole of Bluebelle's vest top.

I watched, spellbound, as Abigail gently massaged Bluebelle's breast through her bra, seeking to dissipate her friend's rage. Bluebelle's expression softened a little, and she reached back with a hand, placing it between the legs of Abigail's shorts. Her scorn for me was being countered by her love and passion for Abigail.

Abby continued her efforts to defuse the situation, moving her hand over to stimulate Bluebelle's other breast. My penis, ignoring my dangerous plight, was painfully throbbing inside its cage.

“Come on, Blue! Let's have some time on our own. We can leave Puppy behind with some monotonous punishment. Hmm? Give me a few minutes to look online for suggestions.”

“Puppy,” hissed Bluebelle, “Get out of my sight and go and stand in the corner while we think.”

I seemed to be there for ages, while they discussed a suitable punishment for me. I couldn't make out what they were saying, but there were occasional bouts of giggling, which at least suggested to me that Bluebelle's fury must have been placated.

“Come here, Puppy,” she called. “We've found just the punishment for an imbecile like you.”

Abigail wasn't there but appeared a moment later with two rolls of toilet paper and a pen. She had a smirk on her face which didn't bode well. “Sit there,” Bluebelle continued, pointing at the kitchen table.

I sat down, and Abigail put a toilet roll down in front of me. “While we're at the garden centre, Puppy, you will write out 'Puppy is a complete moron'. Write it once on each sheet. There are about 150 sheets in total. You'll need to write carefully otherwise you'll make holes in the paper, and we won't be happy.”

She paused to allow me to absorb what she was saying, including the inevitable consequences of them not being “happy”, before delivering the killer blow. “Don't stop until you finish the roll and then carefully roll it up again. If you finish before we get back, here's a second roll to work on. Bluebelle and I will put them to good use over the next few days.”

I looked up at the girls, and Bluebelle looked less angry. Abigail had pacified her, but at the expense of me having the tedious task of writing out a meaningless line, and they were going to use the end result to wipe their bums!

They were gone a very long time, but Bluebelle was in a much better mood when they got back, and the pair were holding hands. Grains of sand on their tops suggested they had found some deserted beach to express their love for one another.

While they'd been gone, I'd been able to complete both rolls, and Bluebelle seemed pleased I'd had a wasted afternoon. I wouldn't go so far as to say that she had forgiven me, but at least she had stopped yelling.

oooOOooo

Over the next few days, I became ever more cautious about not making major mistakes. Abigail continued to flirt with me, but there was no further invite to finger her pussy. Bluebelle remained aloof, her disappointment at my being an incompetent male etched across her face. While she saw me as a slave, someone to make her life easy, she had no sexual interest in me. Yet she was the one who kept the key to my cage, so I was guessing she was the one who decided when—if—I would be released. It was therefore important that I kept on the right side of her.

Unfortunately, it was Bluebelle who found most fault in my work. Praise never came, and her verdict was always that I needed to toil away harder, better and faster. In contrast, Abigail could be extremely sweet, usually finding something to compliment even when I wasn't happy with the standard of my work. But I also saw her as a tease, someone who took some sadistic pleasure in seeing me in distress as my penis struggled to become erect inside its steel cage.

My nights were spent with me on a mattress laid down on the floor, on the landing. While I didn't set out to listen, I couldn't help but overhear their chats and giggles, and the bed would sometimes creak as they changed positions. I could only imagine what they were doing, but the squeaks and squeals told me that they were gaining enjoyment from it.