Ours has never been what you'd call an ordinary family. My parents first met at a BDSM convention twenty years ago, and it was love -- or lust -- at first sight. He was a Master who specialized in bondage and pain. His tools ranged from the simplicity of dental floss, to the convenience of a woman's stockings, the extravagance of a handcrafted leather whip, or the complex designs of a gynecological table. She was a Mistress who excelled at intellectual domination and the art of humiliation. The only tool she relied upon, though, was her own imagination -- which she wielded with a cruel sense of irony.

Initially, the pairing of two such equals seemed an odd combination, but together they were invincible. Not only did their talents complement each other, but they enhanced them to the point where the whole became far greater than the sum of its parts. To nobody's surprise, they didn't just attend the next year's convention -- they took it over.

Less than a year later they married, financing the elaborate affair with a six-figure income provided by their high-profile slave breaking/training operation. It was, of course, as much a publicity stunt as it was a proper ceremony, but people STILL speak of the 2- day spectacle with a kind of hushed awe. By the time my twin sister and I came along -- just over two years later -- the operation had wisely gone underground, but their annual income had reached seven-figures plus.

Although my sister and I received all the love and affection we could want, ours was definitely NOT a normal childhood. Our parents were careful to encourage any and all signs of submissiveness in us, and quick to discourage the slightest hint of disobedience or rebellion. We weren't brought up AS slaves -- to strangers we merely seemed especially well behaved -- but to someday BECOME slaves. For both of us, that day came on our sixteenth birthday. Together, we knelt before our parents -- she before Father, myself before Mother -- and held hands as silver collars were locked around our necks. With that single metallic 'click' we became slaves, stripped of our identities, as plain and nameless as any other. Only the manner in which we addressed our new owners -- Master Father and Mistress Mother -- set us apart.

In all fairness, we HAD been given a choice. Simply put, we could either accept the collar and all that it stood for, or leave to start a new life outside the family. Our parents even offered us enough money to start out right, but freedom was too alien a concept for either of us to embrace.

Part One: Punishments & Bad News

"Oh, shit . . . no . . ." Barely able to breathe, much less move, I stared down at the blue feather-duster I had dropped on the floor. It was right there, in plain sight on the cream-coloured carpet, silently taunting me. For all the good that did me, though, it may as well have been locked in one of the dungeon rooms far below.

"Damn, how the hell am I supposed to pick that up?" As I stood there, trying to come up with a solution, my eyes kept wandering towards the door. If Mistress Mother walked in to find me just standing there . . . well, I didn't even want to THINK about what kind of punishment I might face this time.

The last mistake I'd made had been a simple one -- or so I had thought at the time -- but had resulted in my present situation. All I had done was accidentally toss one of her bras in the dryer, and it hadn't even shrunk. Pretty simple, right? I mean, it's not even like I forgot to hang it up to dry, I just hadn't noticed it while emptying the washer. Unfortunately, nothing was simple in our house, and mistakes were punished just as surely as deliberate disobedience.

When she noticed the absence of that single bra on the clothesline, Mistress Mother had punished me appropriately. Which, in her case, meant with all the cruelty she could conjure from the depths of her dark imagination. Gawd, after so many years, you think I'd have learned my lesson!

First, she'd ordered ME to put on the bra, knowing full well that it would be several sizes too small. "You are going to learn just how it feels," she had told me, "when a lazy slave shrinks your clothes."

Like an idiot -- damn, but I was having a bad day -- I'd pointed out the fact that guys didn't wear bras. That, of course, was an even bigger mistake. Not only had I talked back -- a serious offence on its own -- but I'd also given her an opening for much deeper punishment. It was to be sheer humiliation, her very favourite.

Keeping with her theme of tight, restrictive clothing, she'd then slapped a full corset on me. It was one of those antique lace-up things that stretched from hips to tits, complete with real whalebone ribbing and leather laces. She'd spent two bloody hours lacing me into it, pressing me down on the bed, pushing me against the wall, even tossing me over her knee. Sometimes barking orders and sometimes silent -- to keep me off my guard -- she had refused to give up until it wouldn't cinch any farther. Gawd, I can still feel her stiletto heel digging into the small of my back as she tried pressing me THROUGH the wall.

She hadn't stopped there, either. When Mistress Mother administered a punishment, she took it all the way. A too-short, too-tight miniskirt had been next, followed by a pair of six-inch heels that were too small even for her. I'd had to lie on the floor for the miniskirt, my shoulders braced against her feet as she yanked, jerked, and shimmied the shiny black latex over my ass. I lost count of how many times she pinched or scraped my cock with the waistband, but it was gonna be sore for days. As for the shoes, she had actually punched them onto my feet, later wrapping the swollen mess in duct-tape to hold the shoes in place.

Finally, after all that, there were still chores to do -- which left me in my current predicament. I needed that duster to finish my work, but I physically could NOT reach it. The corset made it impossible to bend over, the skirt kept me from crouching or kneeling, and the shoes threatened to tip me over no matter what I tried. Not that any of that mattered, mind you -- Mistress Mother wouldn't stand for any excuse, no matter how legitimate I might feel it was. Besides, I had brought the situation on myself, through nothing less than sheer carelessness and stupidity.

Suddenly, my nervous ponderings were interrupted by a cry of: "Boy!".....(cont)