The Homecoming Story

I was on tenterhooks from the moment I woke up on Saturday morning, and no, I hadn’t fallen foul of a nighttime intruder with bdsm inclinations. My Daddies were coming home from holiday and I couldn’t wait, just thinking about it got me all excited. I lay for a while fantasising about the passionate nature of our reunion, while wishing my eyes had the power to project the fantasy running through my mind onto the ceiling above me in wide screen format, so I could watch myself perform in my very own home porn movie (it’s living with Dick that does it, his kinkiness is rubbing off) As with most porn movies mine had absolutely no plot, one costume change, from clothed to naked in under sixty seconds, few props, basically three cocks, a gallon of lube and a bed, plus a dialogue consisting mainly of grunts, breathy and repetitious use of the word ‘yes’ which was given variation by the clever insertion of our old friend ‘oh’ as in ‘oh yes.’ Basically the dialogue went:

  “Yes…yes…oh yes…”

  “Good, that’s so good…oh…fuck…yes…fuck oh…yes!”

Slurping and sucking sounds, grunts, more slurping.


Bedsprings creaking, headboard banging, heavy breathing in triplicate (the bedroom sounds like a convention of asthmatic dirty phone callers have gathered there)
  “I’m close…I’m close…I’m so clo-OH-yes… I’m cum……mmmming!” 

Of course, it being a gay porn movie, I was no sooner down than I was up again. The Jesus Factor it’s called, instant resurrection and a second cumming. As far as films go it would never get nominated for an Oscar, but I for one would give it a standing ovation, once I got my land legs back.

After performing my one-man, one-hand show I showered, wearing a Marigold washing up glove over my bandaged mango cut. How the feminist hardliners haven’t latched onto the inequality inherent in calling a washing up aid by a female name is beyond me. Perhaps it’s because a lot of feminist hardliners haven’t noticed, on account of never doing any washing up, they make their partners do it. After my shower I got dressed and set about making the house beautiful and planning a welcome home dinner. I’d been living on junk food all week so I was quite looking forward to real food again. Preparing proper meals for one is no fun and anyway, my rebellious streak demanded that I revert to my slobby former self by way of protest at being so cruelly abandoned by my Daddies.

The cruel abandoners phoned at ten to say they’d checked out of their hotel and were on their way to the airport. They’d ring again when they were actually back in England, inside Shane’s car and wending homewards. It was wonderful just to hear their voices again and my excitement and pleasure increased. It was a toss up as to whether I tossed off again, or polished. I opted for polishing, wishing to keep myself sexually fresh, like a virgin (cue Madonna…or perhaps not, all that muscle makes me feel inferior) for when the men folk arrived home.

They rang again at one to tell me that their flight had been delayed and they were still at the airport in Portugal. They were still at the airport at three, and at five, though by six they were getting ready to board and my spirits, which had grown increasingly low as the day wore on revived a touch, though not for long. They broke the news that by the time they got back on English soil and through customs etc, it would be too late and they would be too tired to make the long drive back, so had decided to book into a hotel overnight. They’d set off for home first thing on the morrow. My heart sank. I’d been keyed up all day, getting more and more frustrated at the delays and now they weren’t coming home at all. It wasn’t fair. They’d been together all week and now they were having an extra night. I went silent, unable to find any words that sounded the right note. Dick apologised, saying he hoped I didn’t mind too much? I wanted to say something gracious, something mature and noble that took into account the circumstances, which after all were beyond the Daddies ability to control. So, taking a deep breath, I said, “yes, I do fucking mind actually. I haven’t seen you for a week and now you’re having an extra night. I’ve waited in all day for you, made dinner and now you’re not coming. You’ve obviously missed me like mad and can’t wait to see me…not!” Almost choking on angry disappointment I slammed the receiver down and stormed into the kitchen, dumping the meal I’d prepared into the bin before kicking a chair over. Childish I know, but then disappointment is rooted in the child part of you, the part of you that wants, and wants now!

The phone in the hall rang again and I ignored it in favour of opening a bottle of the Chablis I’d had chilling all afternoon. My mobile rang and I ignored it in favour of pouring myself a glass of the wine I’d just opened. I was halfway down the glass and was topping it up when the phone in the study rang. I stood in the doorway, letting the answer machine pick up the message.

  “Gilli, pick the phone up honey. I haven’t got much time, we’re getting ready to board.”

I didn’t.

  “Baby, I know you’re there, I know you’re upset, talk to me. I feel bad about letting you down, but it can’t be helped, just let me know you’re okay.”

I didn’t want to talk by phone. I wanted to talk in person. I sipped my wine, then scowled as Dick’s seductive tones gave way to Shane’s more strident ones. He can split atoms with his voice sometimes.

  “Childish sulking is not going to change the situation, Gillibran. We’ll call you from the hotel when we get there.” He rang off.

It was almost eleven when the phone in the hall rang. I ignored it in favour of squeezing the last dregs of Chablis into my glass. My mobile rang, but again I ignored it, and yes, I was being a very naughty houseboy, but I didn’t care. The phone in the study rang and I let it go through its paces, hearing the muffled recorded voice say ‘please leave a message after the tone.’ There was a brief silence and then I almost choked on my wine as Shane’s voice reverberated across the hall, splitting atoms as it travelled.

  “Pick the fucking phone up, boy, or so help me I’ll make the drive home tonight just for the pleasure of booting your petulant brat’s arse from one end of the house to the other!”

I hastened the slandered arse in the requested direction.

Copyright Gillibran Brown 2010

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