My sister, Phoebe, and her friend, Zoe, were looking after me for the weekend—babysitting they called it. They were both intent on humiliating me and making me suffer, allegedly for my crime six years earlier of searching through Phoebe's underwear drawer. I say allegedly because I now think Phoebe, assisted with unbridled enthusiasm by Zoe, simply enjoys the power she has over me. Both girls become visibly excited when tormenting me.

Their latest way of humiliating me had been to glue bright scarlet false nails on the digits of both hands. If that wasn't enough humiliation, I had then been required to sit, stock still, supposedly while the glue dried, but more likely to torture me with tedium. By the time Zoe decided the glue had set it was late afternoon, and I was still wearing nothing but bra and panties. “We don't want your nails getting damaged, so you have to wear these,” Zoe announced.

In her hands she had a pair of thick, padded ski mittens which I could see had been modified by her. Around the wrist of each had been attached a strap with a buckle. As I placed my hand into each mitten, so Zoe fastened the straps. Unless I wished to break my teeth, there was no way I would be able to undo the buckles on my own. I then realised that she had stitched the holes for the thumb to the bodies of the mitten, meaning that I no longer had opposable thumbs, a defining characteristic of primates that provides dexterity. My hands had suddenly become useless appendages, good for clutching but not for fine motor skills.

Zoe smirked at me as the reality of my situation dawned on me. But she was not finished. “I've bought you a present, slave,” she explained, licking her lips. “It's very appropriate, with that luscious underwear and those beautiful nails of yours.” From a bag, she produced a magazine. It took me just a fraction of a second to realise it was a top-shelf gay mag. She quickly flicked through the pages, giving me a whirlwind tour of what was inside, which was entirely photos of nude men with partial erections to get past the censors, but giving the impression they were all very well endowed.

“As you must have gay tendencies, we want you to browse through this magazine and pick out the guy who you would most want to fuck you, slave.” Once again, Zoe was taking the lead, and she was revelling in my embarrassment.

“I'm not gay, Miss,” I pleaded.

“So you say, but you don't fool us. Just look at the way you're dressed. And the nail colour you chose!” laughed Zoe.

It was pointless arguing I had not chosen the colour, but I did feel the need to stress my sexual orientation. “But I'm not gay! Miss Laura will tell you I'm not.” I paused for a few seconds, weighing up the risks, then exclaimed, “How can I be gay, when I, like any other heterosexual man, find you sexually attractive, Miss Zoe?!”

This stopped both girls in their tracks. I can't have told them anything they had not already guessed but this was a watershed moment. My sister had commented on me not being able to take my eyes off Zoe, yet I had now admitted, with my own words, that I fancied her.

They glared at me open-mouthed. It was my sister who was first to respond. “You bastard!” she screamed. “How dare you try it on with my friend. You wait until Laura—Miss Laura—finds out. She'll skin you alive, if we've not done it already.”

“No, you misunderstand me,” I tried to explain, in desperation. “I'm... I'm... just saying that I can't be gay because if I were I wouldn't be attracted to beautiful girls, such as Miss Zoe. No man would say differently, Miss! I'm not flirting, honestly, I'm not.”

“He's sex mad,” concluded Phoebe, turning to Zoe. “You can see why Laura has to keep his prick locked up, can't you? No woman would be safe from him. Unless he wants us to tell his mistress that he tried it on with you, Zoe, he'd better discover he is gay after all. What do you think?”

“Yeah, you're right. He'd better play along with our little game.” Zoe stared hard at me, saying, in a sinister voice, “You need to convince us you're gay, slave.”

“I'm not!” I pleaded in exasperation.

Zoe shook her head. “I don't believe you, but, if you want, just imagine you're a woman—that can't be difficult dressed as you are—and choose the stud that you would want to screw you. We want you to explain to us why he's the chosen one and what makes him so special. You need to be very convincing, slave. You need to sell him to us.”

I wouldn't be able to turn the pages of the magazine wearing the mittens, so Zoe held it up for me to see, slowly advancing from page to page, waiting for me to choose my favoured man. But there was no one who appealed to me.

Nevertheless, with them both peering intently at me, I studied the naked men in the magazine. Despite not being gay, I had a good idea of what would make a compelling choice of stud—one that would satisfy these two girls. Yet, I was aware of having gone crimson and I couldn't bring myself to look at every photo. Barely a quarter-way through, I announced, “That's the one!” I pointed to a well-hung man in his twenties with a hunky, Mediterranean appearance.

“You've not looked at them all, slave. Why that one?” queried Zoe.

“Er... he looks nice, Miss.”

“He looks nice?!!” She shook her head in disbelief. “Is that the best you can say? He looks nice! Tell us why you fancy him. Spare no details. We're waiting...”

“I can't do this. It's too humiliating.”

“You will do it!” insisted Zoe, who was still taking the lead.

I hesitated, but I could tell that my tormentors were not going to give up. “Er... I like that he has a very large willy, Miss... I can't imagine how big it must be when it's fully erect, but it would be... gigantic.” I looked at the girls, and it was obvious they wanted me to continue.

“And... and I like his muscles. His six-pack is very impressive. And his arm muscles. He looks so... so powerful. And his five o'clock shadow gives him a rugged appearance. He's... a real man, and I don't think he would take any prisoners... Looking at him makes me go weak at the knees.” I glanced at the girls, hoping that this is all they wanted. They were smiling, and there were strong signs they were both becoming aroused.

“Go on...” urged Zoe. “Tell us what you would like him to do to you.”

“Er... I would like him to... er... undress me, Miss.”

“You must want more than that, slave. You must be gagging for it, and I'm sure he is as well. How's he going to screw you?”

“Er... oh, my God... he might put his erect penis into my mouth, Miss, and then I would... I would suck it, moving back and forth until he... he came.”

“Then what?”

“Then I would... swallow.”

“Hmm... that sounds good, but I reckon he would want to do more than that, don't you? What about your sissy hole?”

“Er... I would hope that he would take me a second time, Miss, pushing his hard-on inside me and making love to me... Oh, God... I can't say any more. Please let me stop, Miss.”

“Good girl,” concluded my sister, who was starting to look embarrassed. Turning to Zoe, she whispered, “I think he's said all he can. He's confirmed he's gay.”

“I'm so, so sorry, Phoebe,” remarked Zoe, pretending to be upset, “but at least you know now. Let's have a big hug to make things better.”

The two girls embraced each other fondly—rather too fondly and for rather too long, in my opinion. By now, I was the colour of a beetroot, but I suspected they had not yet finished with me...

oooOOooo

Soon, I needed to use the toilet and that meant asking permission, but a further complication was the bulky mittens. “Number one or number two, slave?” enquired Zoe.

“Er... number one, Miss,” I replied.

“Then follow me.”

Red-faced, I trailed behind her as she led the way into the bathroom. She yanked my knickers down. “Sit!” she commanded, as if talking to a puppy undergoing training. I did so. “Pee!” she instructed.

She stood watching me as I struggled to perform under such close scrutiny. “I don't have all day,” she nagged, piling on the pressure. “Pee, for God's sake!”

Eventually I did. “At last! Gooood girl! That wasn't so difficult, was it?” she said, in the most patronising way imaginable, while shaking her head. She dabbed the end of my cage with toilet tissue and then told me to stand up so she could pull my panties back up. Then we went back into the lounge for more “quiet time” for me, while the two girls conversed and looked at their phones.

oooOOooo

I had missed out on lunch, but I was allowed to have an evening meal. The mittens were removed so that I could cook for the three of us but, to my dismay, I was put back into the mittens to eat. The two girls sat at the table, while I was made to sit on the floor, alongside. I was given a knife and fork but using them was almost impossible wearing mittens. I almost had to resort to picking up the food from my plate with my mouth, yet I still had some dignity to preserve so I persevered with the cutlery. They, of course, were finished long before me and made their boredom clear by impatiently tapping the table.

The girls then watched a film while I was given some childish colouring-in to do while lying in front of them on the floor of the lounge, using felt-tipped pens held in my mittened hands. I knew it was intended to degrade me, but it took my mind off other things. Naturally, the result was dreadful, which caused them to mock my colouring-in talents. “A three-year-old could do better,” remarked Phoebe, and she was not wrong.

oooOOooo

At 10:30 they announced they were going to bed. We had not discussed sleeping arrangements, but I was not surprised to learn they would be in the bedroom, while I was to sleep on the sofa in the lounge. I was intrigued to know whether they would be sharing Laura's bed, or whether one of them would sleep on my airbed, but, of course, I did not enquire.

I thought I might have to sleep in the mittens, but Zoe decided they should be taken off. “It's only so you can shower in the morning and make our breakfasts without disturbing us,” she explained. I was told to wake them at nine o'clock on the Sunday morning with their breakfasts, and I was given precise instructions as to what they wanted to eat and drink, and how it should be cooked and served.

“We're giving you advance permission to use the bathroom between eight and eight-thirty,” I was told by Phoebe. “Don't use it outside that window, slave. And we will generously allow you breakfast—a bowl of cornflakes, with some milk and a glass of water. Eaten on the floor, obviously, because slaves do not sit at tables, but you may use a spoon.”

oooOOooo

The sofa was not comfortable, so I was awake early. I was convinced they were both asleep, but I delayed going through to the bathroom before eight o'clock in case they were laying a trap to catch me in there before my allocated time.

Once showered, shaved and dressed, I ate my breakfast, again sticking rigidly to their rules of what I could eat and drink, and making sure I sat on the floor. Then I collected up as much of the clean washing from around the house as I could, but not going into the girls' bedroom where more had been spread out to dry. Having picked up what I could, I made three piles—mine, Laura's and the girls. I still had not worked out what was Phoebe's and what was Zoe's.

Then I prepared their food and, at exactly nine o'clock, I knocked on their bedroom door with a large tray full of what they had ordered. I could hear then chatting but the conversation stopped briefly while Phoebe summoned me inside. She was in the bed, and Zoe was on the air mattress. Perhaps they had been like that all night, but maybe they hadn't—there was no way of telling. Both girls pulled up their duvets so that I could not see their bodies, and there was no evidence either was wearing nightclothes. But they did not intend this to be a weekend where I would gain any titillation by looking at them naked or semi-naked.

Their conversation resumed until, suddenly, Zoe interjected, “I don't remember us giving our slave permission to wear clothes, do you, Phoebe?”

“Er…no, we didn't. Why are you wearing clothes, slave?”

I had to come up with an answer, yet I knew that nothing I said would make one iota of difference. “I didn't know I couldn't, Miss Phoebe,” I responded.

“You were told yesterday to get undressed. At no time have you been told to get dressed again.”

“Sorry, Miss, but I thought I...”

“It's not your position to do the thinking, slave,” chimed in Zoe. “We do the thinking for you, and you do the obeying. That makes life easier for a brainless dimwit like you. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Miss, but...”

“Be quiet!” snapped my sister. “Strip off down to your undies. Now!”

I did so, revealing a pale blue bra and matching panties.

“Oh, my God,” exclaimed Zoe, in mock surprise. “He's even changed his underwear without asking. Can you believe it, Phoebe?”

Phoebe shook her head, feigning horror. “He is so naughty. I don't know how Laura puts up with him.”

“But, Miss Laura expects...”

“Shut up! You answer our questions, but otherwise, you don't speak,” shrilled Zoe.

“Don't you think a thong would suit him better than those Bridget Jones panties he's wearing?” asked my sister, staring at me. No way could my bikini briefs be described as granny pants, but my opinion wasn't being sought. “Where's the thong you were wearing yesterday, Zoe? That's a matching colour for his bra,” she continued.

I watched as Zoe picked up her light blue thong from the floor, holding it up for my sister to see. “They are a good colour match, but they won't fit him. He'd wreck these. He needs to get his own pair, Phoebe.”

“Hmm... you're right. Laura needs to get him his own thongs—in a size too small, of course, so they're so uncomfortable he can never forget what he's wearing. But, for now, I've a better idea. Roll them into a ball.”

Zoe and I both knew what Phoebe had in mind. “Er... yeah, okay. But... are you sure? This is so embarrassing!” I sensed she meant embarrassing for her, not for me.

“Yes, I'm sure. Open your mouth wide, muffin,” she whined, mimicking Laura. “Now pop them inside, Zoe!”

The thong was thrust into my mouth, and Zoe pushed up on my chin to close my jaw to hold them in place.

“This is so gross,” cried Zoe, while cringing. “I was so aroused yesterday, they must be fermenting!” And then she burst out laughing, joined by Phoebe.

Zoe was right. She had spent much of Saturday in a high state of arousal, and the evidence had been deposited into her thong panties. As my saliva diffused into the fabric, releasing its sweet, musky components, I felt my penis struggling inside its restraint and I started leaking precum. What was supposedly a punishment was proving to the highlight of an abysmal weekend. If only they knew! But things were to change.

“Slave,” commanded Zoe, “go and fetch the coconut mat from by the front door.” I realised what she was planning, but I had no choice other than to obey. I went to the door and picked up the mat, whose purpose was usually to clean the dirt from Laura and my shoes when we entered the flat. It was made from coir, the stiff bristles obtained from coconuts. Just holding it caused those fibres to push into my hands, like little needles.

“Put it on the floor, by the wall, slave,” demanded Zoe. “Now kneel on mat and face the wall while we have our breakfast in peace. Keep your back straight and your nose pressed against the wall. And put your hands on your head! And don't even think about telling tales to Miss Laura. We'll deny everything and we'll tell her how you fancy me. I might even say you tried it on!”

oooOOooo

Immediately, I felt prickly pain in my knees. It was like being on a bed of nails. Any attempt to move my knees just a fraction intensified the pain and slightly lifting one knee reduced the distress to that knee, but only at the expense of the pain in the other knee intensifying. I remained facing the wall while they enjoyed their Sunday breakfast. They were in no rush to finish and were uncaring about my distress. Sweat beads had formed on my forehead. I thought about standing up, exclaiming I had had enough of this cruelty, but I didn't, despite being fully within my rights to do so. Surely, anything they did to me had to be consensual?

But then there was a distraction that took my mind off my discomfort for a few minutes. “We should see how Eric is getting on,” declared Phoebe.

“Yeah, he should be up and cleaning the house by now.”

I guessed that Zoe was bringing up a live camera shot on her phone. “Nope, he's not in that room... Wait, here he is, on this camera. Yes, he's hard at work, scrubbing the kitchen floor on his hands and knees.”

“Gosh! He's using a lot...