Saturday 19th January 2008


I was disappointed to wake up this morning and find we were surrounded by some rather fine weather. The sun was bright and if not warm then at least not cold. It smiled down benevolently, highlighting the pale green shoots of various flower bulbs pushing their way above ground, as if spring were proudly saying, ‘look, I’m on my way to banish winter.’ Far from being pleased I felt like complaining to the met office for failing to divvy up the promised rain and gales. Why? Because, as Dick said when I groused to him over fresh breakfast coffee and croissants, I’m a selfish possessive little bastard that’s why. 

If it had been raining heavily enough to float an ark and blowing a force nine gale, as promised, he wouldn’t have headed off to the golf course to smack little white balls with a long hard pole. I didn’t see why he couldn’t stay home and smack my balls with his pole. 

His solution was to suggest I caddy for him, he’d love to have me alongside. I declined saying I’d rather perform a sex change op on myself using a pair of rusty shears than caddy for him. He is hell to caddy for, a ruthless slave driver who makes Shane look like a little pink poodle in comparison. Honest, I’m not kidding. Dick undergoes a terrible transformation once he gets on the green with a golf club in his hand. He’s a fucking demon. All gentleness vanishes and even his hair gets harder. He’s Jekyll and Hide, and it’s usually my hide that suffers. So no, this houseboy refuses point blank to caddy for Daddy.

It’s coming up to half past noon so I’d better make a move. Dick will be back from conquering the golf course and expecting lunch any time soon and I’ve got to make a start on preparations for dinner this evening. I’m trying a new recipe, partridge with Moroccan spices and roast vegetables, it sounds nice, but is a bit finicky to prepare. Dick and Shane personally killed the birds I’ll be using on the last shoot they went on with Leo, so I suppose you can’t get more organic and free range than that. At least the poor things had a relatively good life before they were shot. I’ve also got flowers to buy and arrange for the dinner table. If I were straight I’d be starting to worry I might be gay, what with the cooking and flower arranging. 


Copyright Gillibran Brown 2012 


  Post Scriptum (to Shane's Birthday Dinner Report)


Shane didn’t miss out on birthday fun altogether. Oh dear me no, that wouldn’t do at all. I was in the kitchen clearing away the last of the pots from the night before when he arrived home, calling a greeting as he stepped into the house. 

I ran down the hall with a cry of, “Daddy you’re home!” I launched myself at him, wrapping my arms around his neck and my legs around his waist, kissing him passionately. 

“Silly boy.” He hugged and then set me down, a spark of amusement in his eyes, which he quenched and replaced with a stern look. “I had a text from Leo earlier. He said I missed a rare treat last night,” he paused for a moment before adding, “apparently you behaved yourself. Miracles do happen then.” I pulled a face at him and he grinned and ruffled my hair. “He said the food was rather good too.”

“It wasn’t rather good, it was bloody fantastic. I saved you a portion of everything, but it won’t be as nice as it was last night.” I affected a pout. “Trust you not to be here when I get everything perfect for once.” 

“Stop griping, whelp.” He hung his coat over the end of the banister and then made a grab for me, pulling up my t-shirt and tickling me, making me shout with laughter. “Where’s my other boy?” He slapped playfully at my arse. 

“Still in bed. We didn’t get to sleep until late.”

“I won’t ask why. Knowing Dick he was riding the passion pony all night. Lucky devil. All I had to keep me warm was an electric blanket. It’s almost twelve-thirty. Go and wake him, Gilli. Tell him he’s to get up and then make me a pot of tea. I’m parched.”

I did as bidden. When I went into the lounge carrying the tea things Dick was snuggled against Shane on the couch looking pleased with himself. The blue velvet boxes containing the pretty plugs were sitting open on the coffee table, proudly displaying their contents. (Fret not hygiene queens, mine had been properly cleaned and polished before being re-boxed) 

Shane was clearly taken with the unexpected little gifts. Pulling me down onto his lap he nip kissed my earlobe, saying it seemed he’d missed a good time in more ways than one. 

As soon as he’d slaked his thirst with the tea he set about slaking another kind of thirst. He announced it was his turn to enjoy some belated birthday fun and to that end we were to be his slaves for the day, subject to his every whim. He ordered us to go upstairs to the bedroom and strip off and then stand with our hands on our heads to wait for him. 


Copyright Gillibran Brown 2012 


 


Jottings on a Saturday Afternoon in February



Weather wise it’s been nice today with a distinct hint of spring in the air. I did a bit of fiddling and diddling in the garden earlier. They can’t touch you for it, not on private property. The snowdrops are out. I like snowdrops. They’re slender and elegant and yet have an underlying toughness that belies their pure and fragile appearance. They bloom in what can be a hard season, often thrusting their heads through frost and snow to fulfil their nature. They remind me of Dick in a way. He too is slender and elegant with an underlying toughness. If he’s in the mood he’ll also thrust his head through frost and snow to fulfil his nature, in fact he’ll thrust his head through anything including his own fist, if you get my drift. 

I’m fascinated by the different varieties of snowdrop. We have some in our garden that aren’t above a couple of inches in height, really very tiny things, and others which bloom on long stalks producing large flowers with pronounced stamens. Again, an analogy of Dick springs to mind, but we won’t go there, not today when I’m leaning more towards the poetic than the pornographic. 

There’s also a scattering of crocus showing, or should that be crocuses? It doesn’t sound quite right somehow, nor does it sound poetic. It makes me appreciate why whatsisname, the lakes poet, WW, chose to wax lyrical about daffodils. A host of golden crocuses wouldn’t have had anywhere near the same impact on the senses, or indeed on the future tourism industry in the Lakes. I doubt bus loads of people would flock to see golden crocuses fluttering and dancing in the breeze. They’re too short and stubby to flutter and dance with any kind of conviction, they just huddle the ground looking a bit ruffled and slightly narked. 

Incidentally, judging from a line in the daffs poem, I suspect William Wordsworth was gay. The company of daffodils he writes about is actually a metaphor for the athletic jock types he preferred to gangbang with. It’s all there in his own words: ‘a poet could not but be gay in such a jocund company.’ Yes, okay, it’s a tenuous joke I grant you, but I like it, so it’s staying in.  

Leaving aside daffs and returning to crocuses, there are fewer in our garden this year compared to last year. I think the naked snails have scoffed quite a few of the corms, the greedy little bastards. I’ll have to plant some more, corms that is, not slugs. I think I’ll get me some slug pellets and a gun to shoot them from, that’ll teach them to mess with this houseboy’s spring bulbs. Yup! I’m gonna run those slimy slugs outta town. 

After lunch I spent some minutes in front of the hall mirror, depressing over the state of my skin, trying to convince myself that my blue eyes and dark lashes are nice enough to make up for what my complexion lacks. I had another flare up of acne last week because of my medication. I was not happy.  My doctor gave me some Duac gel to daub on the spots at night. Being a bit of a vanity merchant and eager to remain pretty for my men, I daubed twice daily in the hope it would get rid of the spots twice as fast. It sort of worked, but at a cost. I now have a few less spots, but in their place I have dry sore skin on my forehead and around my nose. I geared up for a good moaning session about it this afternoon, but was cut off before I could really get going. Shane trumped my moaning session with a nagging session.

“Don’t you dare start whining to me about your skin, boy, or I’ll smack your tiresome backside until you can’t sit down. You were told to apply that gel sparingly, at night time only, not plaster it on at will. I’ve got no sympathy for you. It’s about time you started using some common sense. Medications are to be respected, not misused…nag, nag, nag.”  

I abandoned the moaning session and huffily settled for massaging some E45 cream into the dry patches on my face. 

As I write, the sun is shining through the study window, highlighting the dust everywhere. I suspect my dry skin might be responsible for the apparent increase in the wretched stuff. If I gather it all up and mix it with water I’ll probably be able to reproduce myself - a reconstituted houseboy. Knowing my luck though some skin cell debris from flies would end up in the mix resulting in a houseboy with wings and a propensity for shitting on ceilings, which wouldn’t please Shane. 

Talking of Shane I think I’ll close the blinds in case he comes in and sees the layers of dust. I don’t want to be nagged again and accused of shirking on my duties. 

Dick is in one of the lazy moods he gets from time to time. He usually can’t wait to get on the golf course on a Saturday morning, but he couldn’t be bothered today. He’s got a fungal infection under one of his big toenails and didn’t fancy cramming his poor tender tootsie into a tight golf shoe. I bought him some anti-fungal spray and some cream to see if they help. To cheer him up I told him if the cream didn’t work and the infection got worse he might have to have his entire toenail removed and the fungus scraped away. Squeamishly paling to the hue of a snowdrop he cuffed me smartly across the apex of my arse and called me a horrible little bugger. 

Shane breached the study ramparts a few moments ago to state if I thought I was sitting on my arse in front of the computer for hours on end I could think again. I have another half hour and that’s it. He then demanded to know why I had the blinds closed on such a lovely day and opened them. I braced myself to take delivery of more scolding, but thankfully his dust radar seems to be turned off today. He ruffled my hair on the way out. I like it when he does that. 

Dick spent the morning in bed. He got up for lunch, but only after Shane insisted he did so. They had a classic exchange:

“Are you planning on getting out of bed today, Dick?”

“I have no immediate plans, but I haven’t ruled it out completely. I’ll keep you posted.”

Dick immediately became Richard and was told to get his sassy arse out of bed pronto. 

After lunch he stretched out on the couch playing golf on his PSP and watching the horse racing on telly with Shane periodically nagging him about accounts and tax deadlines, it being that time of year again. Dick prefers to ignore such things for as long as possible. He listened carefully to Shane, nodding in earnest at certain points and agreeing, yes indeed it was best to keep on top of things. And then he went right back to playing on the PSP and phoning in bets to William Hill. 

It didn’t need an animal behaviourist to predict the beta wolf was in grave danger of falling foul of the alpha wolf. Sure enough, both PSP and mobile ended up being confiscated, leaving Dick with nothing but a nail buffer to occupy him. I don’t think he really minded too much today. I suspect he was deliberately pushing for a reaction from Shane. Sometimes he needs reassurance he’s still boy to Shane’s Daddy. They’ve since had a bit of a kiss and cuddle together and they’re fine. 

Penny called to chat with Shane. For once the topic of conversation didn’t revolve around their dad. Tests have been done and results are being waited for. Her concern this time was for The Muppet. He’s ill with a chest infection and she’s worried about him. Poor Chas. I’ll send him a get-well card. 

Shane has just popped his head around the door to give me another time check. 

I had a bit of a contretemps with the Supreme Authority last night after the Indian takeaway we’d ordered for dinner arrived. I love Indian cuisine, the spicier the better. The restaurant we order from does a particularly good Gosht Kalia, a spicy lamb dish. It’s one of my favourites. To my mind an Indian meal is made even better when washed down with a good quality chilled lager, it’s the small, seemingly insignificant things that make life good. I had several bottles of the aforementioned resting cool in the fridge. I set the table in the dining room. Shane doesn’t like us eating takeaway in the lounge. He says it makes the place smell for days on end. He’s a tad fussy like that. 

As I busied myself with serving the food, Shane got the drinks, returning to the dining room with two bottles of lager, one of which he handed to Dick before pouring the other into the glass set by his place at the table. I looked at him in some puzzlement. I know he doesn’t often deign to play waiter and is therefore lacking the requisite skills, but surely even he could have managed to simultaneously carry three bottles of lager from the fridge to the dining room. Upon questioning he admitted yes he could have managed to carry three bottles, but saw no need, as only two bottles were required. 

I asked why.

He told me. 

He thought it best if I forewent alcohol in the wake of the fit I’d had the previous day. He took the opportunity to smoothly reiterate his belief that lager had played its part in priming my brain in the first place. I was not best suited, arguing I felt fine and one measly bottle of lager wouldn’t do me any harm at all. Shane was adamant. I wasn’t having alcohol in any quantity whatsoever. Any fit, whatever its origin, meant my brain would be sensitised for a few days and thus more vulnerable to other triggers, like alcohol. I was annoyed and appealed to Dick. It was the wrong thing to do. I was sternly reprimanded. Shane had made the decision. It wasn’t up for negotiation and I had no business putting Dick on the spot. 

It was one of those situations where I found submitting to a ruling extremely difficult. In itself it wasn’t a huge issue and the decision wasn’t arbitrarily taken, there was sound reasoning behind it. All the same I utterly resented it. I’d been looking forward to the meal and part of the pleasure was now lost, because an element I enjoyed had been removed without me having any choice in the matter. 

Instead of submitting gracefully and getting on with enjoying what I did have, I effectively brooded throughout the meal. I hardly tasted the lamb because my mouth was too full of sour grapes. The discipline lifestyle isn’t easy at times, believe me, you can’t decide you want a day off because you’re not in the mood. The desire to yield to an authority other than myself is genuine. However the desire to put personal wants first can still be overwhelming and lead to a powerful internal struggle. 

After we’d eaten and I’d cleared away I went into the lounge where Dick and Shane were settled on the couch watching television. Instead of doing what I usually do and forcing my adorable person between them, I pointedly took it to the chair furthermost from the couch, dropping down onto it with a heavy air of disgruntlement. I then complained about the ‘shit’ program they were watching.

Oh foolish houseboy. In the blink of an eye Shane was on his feet and this tiresome boy was hauled from the chair and propelled across the room. In a clear illustration of authority I was seated firmly on the floor at his feet, as he re-took his seat on the couch. It was not the way I’d envisaged the evening turning out. 

Sitting in disgraced exile on the rug I had an opportunity to reflect. Okay, so I’d been bloody annoyed about the lager, but I should have gotten over it. It wasn’t as if he’d denied me it just for the sake of lording it over me. He did it because he worries about my health and was acting in my best interests, something I often fail to do on my own behalf. It’s an aspect of his role to make such decisions and it’s an aspect of mine to accept them. Only, as well documented, I’m not always good at accepting executive decisions. 

Now bear with the houseboy as he goes off on a slight tangent. I was once a member of several online groups focussed around SM, BDSM, and Domestic Discipline practices. I joined them in an effort to come to an understanding of the emotional and physical needs that drive my personality and to find some kind of frame of reference. Some of the punishments inflicted on submissive partners made scary reading; though with regard to the SM and BDSM lifestyles they had legitimacy. They were an understood and desired part of the consensual play and sexual dynamic between the partners concerned.  

On the contrary, it was some of the punishments outlined in the ‘loving’ 24/7 domestic discipline forums that really freaked me out. Shane can be a harsh disciplinarian, but not a jot as harsh as some of the people on those forums. They talked about making their partners drink and eat things that made them sick, or making them take strong laxatives or even depriving them of food altogether. Now to me that’s more torture than care-focussed discipline. 

There was one guy who boasted about coating his wife’s tongue once a week with a ‘deterrent’ solution made from bitter aloes, as a means of reminding her to ‘watch her mouth’ when speaking to him. It didn’t seem a loving action to me. It was more like a ringed on the calendar cruelty, a cold act of power-based sadism he really looked forward to. It wasn’t my scene at all. I couldn’t relate. 

As a result I concluded the only frame of reference I needed was my own. Writing down my thoughts is a far more beneficial way of exploring and understanding my emotions and needs within the context of the lifestyle I’ve chosen to live in. 

Anyway, he said, getting off his tangent, as I said, Shane forbade me alcohol, not because he had a sudden whim to do so, or because it was Friday night and it was ringed on the calendar. Nor did he do it in order to boost his ego, or because he got his rocks off on inflicting lager deprivation. He did it because he believed it was the right thing to do ‘for me.’  He was employing his power in a protective capacity. There was probably also an element of discipline involved in the decision, a punishment for drinking an extra half-pint the previous Monday. 

Once I accepted his decision in the spirit it had been made I immediately felt better. It wasn’t like I was being denied booze forever. It was one night only. Tipping back my head to gaze up at my domestic lord I duly offered an apology for my shitty attitude. The apology was accepted and we got on with the rest of our evening in peace and harmony, apart from a tussle between Dick and I over possession of the ‘comfy’ cushion. Shane took charge and ended the dispute by putting me over his left thigh and Dick over his right thigh and spanking both our arses simultaneously. It was more play than punishment and we ended up laughing and then we ended up in bed for even more play. 

It’s time to apply the final full stop to this page of jottings. I’m being told my half hour has already overrun by five minutes. If I don’t shift under my own steam then Shane will shift me under his. I know from experience that his steam has a tendency to scald certain parts of this houseboy so I shall comply with Daddy’s wishes and bid a sweet adieu to this small chapter in my life and times.  


Copyright Gillibran Brown 2012



A Summer Bridge 


 August 1st to 31st

August as a month engenders mixed feelings in me. It’s a bridge between all too brief summer and the long fall into winter. It’s imbued with an air of something ready to leave and something waiting to come. 

As I write, dear diary, it’s the last day of the month and for once I feel no sense of sadness at the prospect of summer slipping away. I’ll be glad to put this August behind me. It’s been tempestuous from day one for this houseboy with IEM putting in several appearances. 

  Dick’s birthday falls on the first of August. I usually look forward to pampering him and doing something nice, but on the day I woke up feeling fatigued, headachy and irritable. The plans I’d made for the day lost their polish seeming a chore rather than a pleasure. Even at six in the morning the sun was beaming and the garden was filled with birdsong, which should have lifted me, but didn’t. 

I lurched out of bed and stumbled to the bathroom to water the trouser pup. I felt like I had a hangover without having had the fun beforehand. It had happened several times of late and I had no idea why. I wanted to go back to bed and curl up under the sheet with my eyes shut, but work beckoned. I rinsed my face with copious amounts of cold water, trying to rinse myself brighter, and then headed downstairs.

I set the dining room table, as befits a celebration breakfast, putting my card and gift by Dick’s place. Mindful of the trouble I’d gotten into last year for spending too much money I’d exercised restraint and settled on more modest gifts this year. I bought him a good quality sketching set containing pencils and pastels for doing monochrome and sepia style work. I also bought a box of his favourite liquorice allsorts and some bright patterned acoustic guitar picks. Not quite as exciting as the car drive experience I’d given him last year, which he’d loved. We’d all had a wonderful day out on the strength of it. 

I fretfully fingered the gift packaging for a few moments as I wondered what Shane would give him. He’d been secretive about it, tapping his nose when I quizzed him by way of telling me to keep mine out. Whatever it was I’d bet it was something better than pencils, picks and sweets. Taking a deep breath I sternly reminded myself I wasn’t in competition with Shane and got on with breakfast preps. 

Shane’s gift was awesome. He’d taken a leaf from Dick’s book and gone for special jewellery, but not of the sex toy variety. This was something more than fun fetish wear. It was a commissioned piece, a handmade silver slave bracelet. Leo had put him onto a silversmith who specialised in creating pieces for BDSM disciples. It was simple and discreet enough to be worn every day if Dick wanted to. What set it apart and made it unique was a kind of flat charm attachment, a roll of silver bonded to the bracelet and impressed on the underside with Shane’s fingerprint. Dick’s initials were engraved on the front part.
Dick expressed delight at my gifts and I believe he genuinely liked them, but he clearly adored the bracelet. Of course he did. It was a beautiful gift and a beautiful gesture, a clear sign of the deep love Shane felt for him. Whenever he wore it he would be reminded of that love, feel Shane’s touch on his skin. I thought he was going to cry when Shane slipped it on his wrist. The kiss of thanks he gave him was edged with passion. 

Envy sensitised every nerve in my body. I smiled and admired and then quickly left the room ‘to see to breakfast’ but really to hide the jealous insecurity pricking my eyes. IEM* stepped up to the bar bringing resentment with him. My birthday had been horrible without so much as a glass of fizzy wine to give it a romantic glow. IEM conveniently forgot I’d been the one who fucked it up. 

I managed to compose myself enough to serve a pleasant meal of sautéed mushrooms on toast followed by Greek yoghurt and fresh summer fruits, a mix of cherries, strawberries and rasps. I also put out toasted brioche bread and preserves.  

I had little appetite, but I forced myself to partake. I sat half listening to them talk, while watching the play of sunshine on silver as Dick moved his arm. Maybe the silver circlet was Shane’s way of making up for the lack of a wedding ring, a way of not only marking Dick’s birthday, but their forthcoming anniversary? It has been almost a year since their Civil Partnership. A thought occurred. Penny was perhaps entitled to her anger against me. If not for me they might have had a more elaborate ceremony with an exchange of gold bands in front of family and friends instead of what she had called a shabby hole in the wall affair.


“Gilli.” I jumped as Dick touched my arm. “Something on your mind? You were miles away there.”

“I’m fine.” I sat up a little straighter, trying to shake off the lethargy that seemed intent on overwhelming me.


*Irrational Emotional Me


Copyright Gillibran Brown 2012

 
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