Gillibran Brown. February 2008
Houseboy Jottings On A Saturday Afternoon In February
It’s been a nice day weatherise, very spring like. 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 in order 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 in order 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 that bloom on really long stalks producing quite large flowers with pronounced stamens. Again, an analogy of Dick springs to mind, but we won’t go there, not today.
There’s a few crocus showing as well, 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. There are far fewer crocuses than there was 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. 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 and 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. The 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 that it would get rid of the spots twice as fast. It sort of worked, but at a cost of very dry and very sore skin on my forehead and around my nose. I geared up for a good moaning session about it, 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, or I’ll smack your tiresome backside until you can’t sit down. You were told to apply that gel, sparingly, at nighttime only, not plaster it on at will. I’ve got no sympathy for you. It’s about time you started using some commonsense. 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 don’t know where it all comes from. I think I’ll close the blinds in case Shane comes in and accuses me of shirking on my duties. I don’t want to be Daddy nagged again.
Dick is in one of the lazy moods he gets in from time to time. He usually can’t wait to get out 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 antifungal spray and some cream to see if that helps clear it up. To cheer him up I told him that if the cream didn’t work and the infection got worse, he might have to have his entire toenail removed and the infection scraped away. Squeamishly paling to the hue of a snowdrop he cuffed me smartly up the back of the head and called me a horrible little bugger.
Shane breached the study ramparts a few minutes ago in order to crisply inform me that 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 that 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 the psp and watching the horse racing on telly with Shane periodically nagging him about accounts and tax deadlines and such like, 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 that, yes indeed, it was best to keep on top of things. And then he went right back to playing the psp and phoning in bets to William Hill.
It didn’t need an animal behaviourist to predict that 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 that 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 speak to Shane. She told him that the Muppet is poorly. He has a chest infection and she’s worried about him. I’ll send him a get-well card.
Shane has just popped his head around the door to give me a time check.
I myself 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 a good Indian meal is made even better when washed down with a good quality, nicely chilled lager, sometimes it’s the small, seemingly insignificant things that make life good. I had several bottles of the aforementioned resting ready in the fridge. I set the table in the dining room. Shane doesn’t like us eating takeaway in the living room. He says it makes the place smell. 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 setting the other at his own place on the table. I looked at him in some puzzlement, I mean I know he doesn’t often deign to play waiter and is therefore lacking in 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 that yes indeed he could have managed to carry three bottles, but he saw no need, as only two bottles were required.
Why?
Because he was of the opinion that it would be best if I forewent alcohol in the wake of the fit I’d had the previous day. I was not best suited and argued that I felt fine and one measly bottle of lager wouldn’t do me any harm at all. Shane was adamant that I wasn’t having alcohol in any quantity whatsoever. According to his research, any fit, however mild and whatever its origin, meant that my brain was likely to be sensitised for a few days and thus more vulnerable to other powerful triggers, like alcohol. I was annoyed and appealed to Dick. It was the wrong thing to do and I was sharply 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 was not a huge issue and the decision in question wasn’t arbitrarily taken, there was sound reasoning behind it. All the same, I found myself utterly resenting 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 my having any choice in the matter.
Instead of submitting gracefully to the ruling and getting on with enjoying what I did have, I effectively brooded throughout the meal. I hardly tasted the lamb; my mouth was too full of sour grapes. This lifestyle isn’t easy at times, believe me, you can’t decide that you want a day off because you’re not in the mood. My desire to submit to an authority other than myself is genuine, however, the desire to put personal wants first can still be overwhelming and lead to a real internal struggle.
After we’d eaten, I cleared away and then went into the sitting room where the Daddies were settled on the couch watching television. Instead of doing what I usually do i.e. forcing my adorable person between them, I pointedly took it to the chair furthermost from the couch and dropped down onto it with a heavy air of disgruntlement. I then complained about the ‘crap’ programme they were watching.
Oh foolish houseboy. In the blink of an eye Shane was on his feet and I was hauled from the chair. He gave my bottom a single firm admonitory spank and then propelled me across the room. In a clear illustration of authority, I was then seated firmly on the floor at his feet, as he re-took his seat on the couch.
I wasn’t too happy. It was not the way I’d envisaged the evening turning out.
Sitting in disgraced exile on the rug I had opportunity to reflect. Okay, so I’d been bloody annoyed about the lager, but I should have gotten over it. It wasn’t like he’d denied me it just for the sake of lording it over me. He did it because he worries about my health and he was acting in my best interests, something I often fail to do for myself. It’s an aspect of his role to make such decisions and it’s an aspect of mine to accept them.
Now bear with the houseboy as he goes off on a slight tangent. I was once a member of several online groups that 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, because 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 recommended. 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 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 very loving action to me. It seemed more like a ringed on the calendar cruelty, a cold act of power-based sadism that he really looked forward to. It just wasn’t my scene at all. I couldn’t relate and I realised that the only frame of reference I needed was my own. I’ve found that writing out my thoughts and emotions is a far more beneficial way of trying to arrive at an understanding of my own needs within the lifestyle I’ve chosen to live in. Seeing them written down on the page can often help me view things more objectively.
Anyway, he said, getting off his tangent, as I said, Shane forbade me a drink, 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.
Once I stopped sulking and accepted his decision in the spirit it had been meant I immediately felt better. I duly offered an apology for sulking and for my poor 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. Daddy 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 a final full stop to this little page of jottings. I’m being told that my half hour has already overrun by five minutes and 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 sweetly comply.
Copyright Gillibran Brown 2008
