Fun with Dick and Shane
Memoirs of a Houseboy
September 2006-to-December 2006
Gillibran Brown
Smashwords Edition
Copyright © Gillibran Brown 2011
Houseboy Works
http://www.gillibran-brown.com
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Dedicated to my Daddies, Dick and Shane. XX
Sunday Sept 17th 2006
I have to say the concept of a web diary is much easier than the reality. I was full of ideas (or more likely full of bullshit) before I created the page and now it’s staring at me blankly and I’m all tongue-tied and finger frozen. I suppose I ought to do some kind of introduction, names and dates that kind of thing. Okay, we’ll do the name thing first. I’m Gillibran Brown, I’m twenty-four and I live with Dick and Shane, surnames withheld for reasons of security, my security that is, as they’ll murder me if I reveal such classified information, them being highly thought of professionals (highly thought of mainly by themselves that is)
So, I live with Dick and Shane, in what capacity I hear you ask? Let’s see: cook, cleaner, gardener, dogsbody. In short I’m a domestic slave who toils all the day long with ne’er a day off and with feeble financial remuneration, well, everyone else complains about their wages so why not me. I’m their housekeeper or houseboy. I’m also a junior partner in their firm, firm being a pseudonym for relationship, or as Dick teasingly says, I’m their boy toy. We’ve shared a ménage relationship for almost two years now. Dick and Shane have been lovers and partners for ten years. Dick, short for Richard, has just turned thirty-four and Shane is forty-three.
I’ve always had a strong attraction to older men in preference to men my own age or younger. I’m just not turned on by twinks. They don’t meet my needs. In the gay community, as in most areas of life, it’s always the young who are promoted and lauded as being most sexually potent and desirable, but the fact is young men become older men and they don’t shed their sexual potency when they hit a certain age. On the contrary, they refine it and carry it forward and it’s exciting, at least I think so. So do many others, Bears/cubs, Daddy/boy, the pairing of younger with older men has always been an aspect of gay culture, though the youth purists would have you think that being gay is restricted to men under thirty. Mind you, I feel obliged to point out that cubs and boys aren't always younger than their Bears or Daddies, it's a state of mind as much as an age thing. I know someone who is five years older than the man they call Daddy. Anyway, leaving aside other folks relationships, I love my older men.
Our relationship also has another dimension and structure. Shane is lord of all he surveys, he Tops Dick and they both Top me, in an authoritarian sense as well as in a sexual sense. In other words I’m subject to discipline and corporal punishment at their discretion. The truth is they use, abuse and mistreat me horribly, brutes to a man they are. Nah, I’m winding you up, they’re not brutes at all, not 24/7 anyway, certainly not Dick. He’s quite cuddly sometimes, especially in the event that Daddy Shane has plastered my backside with original prints, handprints that is, or worse.
Shane is hardly ever cuddly; a steel mantrap is cuddlier than he is. He has a gaze that can freeze water and a hand that can create fire and after a discipline spanking from him my arse feels like its been caught in the jaws of a steel mantrap. Only last Friday evening he just about flayed the skin from my backside with his belt. It hurt like hell and it’s still a bit tender when I sit down. Afterwards, Dick took me to bed for a comforting cuddle and I asked him to run away with me. He refused, saying Shane would only track us down and then neither of us would be able to sit comfortably and besides, he affectionately patted my blazing bottom, saying that leaving Shane didn’t mean my pretty rear wouldn’t feel the kiss of correction when required…see what I have to put up with from both of them. It’s a good job I have a penchant for dominant men.
We talked about why I’d been punished and I admitted I’d been well out of order and had deserved the belting. Dick told me I was to apologise to Shane, but while admitting the punishment was deserved, forgiving the executor was something else. I was still very upset with him at that moment in time and not because of the spanking he’d meted out. I refused to apologise and said I hated him (I didn’t mean it) Dick said I was behaving like a sulky, selfish child, in which case he was going to treat me as such. I could stay in bed like the brat I was. Fair enough. I didn’t want to go downstairs anyway.
Later, I heard them having sex downstairs and got resentful and jealous all over again. When they finally came up to bed, I got out and pointedly stalked off to the single room to sleep on my own, punctuating my annoyance with them by slamming the door. It was a stupid move and one guaranteed to get me more unpleasant attention from Daddy Shane. He just does not do door slamming, and maybe that’s why I did it. I wanted his attention, and at any cost. He gave me his attention. I’ll write up the events in more detail, as a kind of memoir chapter.
I’m home alone at the moment and will be for the next week. Dick and Shane have gone away on holiday together. A big bouquet of flowers arrived yesterday morning, soon after they’d gone. The card, written in Dick’s sloping handwriting, read, we love you very much, be a good boy and we’ll be back before you know it. The flowers were lovely but even so I moped all afternoon. They telephoned last night to say they’d gotten safely to their destination, and then to cheer me up they had me pleasure myself at their instruction. Phone sex is HOT! I highly recommend it. They won’t call me again, except to say they’re on their way home. This is their week and I have to try and understand that.
What else does one write on a memoir page such as this? I suppose I could go back to being born and tell of how the midwife, a female sumo wrestler on a job swap (so I believe) abused me by dangling me by the ankles and spanking my bottom the moment it mooned afresh at the world. However, that means doing loads of thinking and remembering and chronological writing and as the philosopher Socrates once said, when asked to host a symposium on the nature of work, I just can’t be arsed. I suppose some background details are necessary. In a nutshell, I’m 6’2’ blonde and gorgeous (Lie detector says NO) Okay, I’m actually 5’7’ if I put my mind to it I could be 5’8’ but that would mean walking with my head up and my back straight and really I prefer to slouch, so I’ll stick at 5’7.’ I’m slimly built, blue-eyed and fair-haired and according to Dick and Shane I’m nice looking in a boy next-door kind of way, which could mean anything. The boy who lived next door to me was a right ugly sod.
Family background: mum alive, mum basically okay, but married to a knob called Frank, my stepfather. Frank thinks homosexuality is a disease and he booted the teenage me off the family premises with the instruction never to darken its threshold again, or he’d kick the living shit out of my filthy queer arse. He’s never liked me. If I’d confessed to being a closet Christian he would have booted me out for being a filthy prayer-monger. My mother didn’t exactly fight tooth and nail for me to stay, which stung a bit. Still it’s her life, her marriage and I had to leave home sometime. I’m looking forward to Frank dying so I can squat my filthy queer arse over his coffin and shit on it.
My real father is already dead. I’m told he was a sci-fi fan and a fantasy war gaming fanatic and my mother killed him with her bare hands when he told her that the child he was supposed to have registered as Jason Brown had been registered as Gillibran Brown after one of his favourite gaming characters (Lie detector says NO) Okay, the bit about my mother killing him is untrue. He died in a car accident when I was 18 months old and I have no recollection of him, which is kind of sad. The bit about my name is true and I have to say that at times I have thought bad thoughts about the man who lumbered me with a Christian name guaranteed to cause me trouble and make me an object of classroom mockery. So, why don’t I just call myself by some other name, Jason, like my mother intended, or even permanently change it by deed poll? I suppose I could, but I won’t, because I feel my name is the only link I have to the man who sired me and I don’t want to lose that. A boy needs a daddy.
Tuesday 19th September 2006
This memoir stuff is much harder than it seems. I still haven’t finished writing about what happened last Friday. I could do with a ghostwriter to write it for me while I do something else, like putting my feet up and relaxing.
I woke up feeling a bit miserable today. It seems like forever since Dick and Shane shipped out. I’m sleeping in the single room because the smaller bed feels less lonely. I toyed with the idea of calling them and telling them I had an emergency and they needed to fly back. However, I was put off by the thought that I would actually have to kill myself in order to save my rump from terrible retribution when they found out there was no emergency. It’s a wise man that knows how to save his own arse.
Wednesday 20thSeptember 2006
I hate fucking mangoes, not that I ever have, fucked one I mean. I’m not into all that homemade sex-toy from fruits kind of business. I know people who are, but I don’t associate with them much. To my mind bananas are for eating only and not when covered in chocolate sauce if you get my drift, no, what I mean is that I dislike mangoes, they’re highly dangerous and should carry a health warning: do not peel and slice this fruit unless you have a trained medic standing by to stitch your digits back on and provide a blood transfusion. They’re too slippery, like wet soap. I was happily peeling one this morning when I gripped it too tight and it shot across the kitchen like a bullet, leaving me peeling a slice out of my hand with the knife. There was blood everywhere, the kitchen looked like an abattoir. I was very tempted to declare a state of domestic emergency and call Dick and Shane, but decided against it, figuring they’d both be a bit pissed off about my decision to use the equivalent of a machete to peel a piece of fruit with. It’s the largest of a range of knives we have in the kitchen. Kitchen Devil’s they’re called. Kitchen Bastards more like. My hand is really sore.
I still haven’t finished the story of last Friday. It’s turning into a novel. I didn’t realise I was such a gobshite. No wonder Dick and Shane needed a holiday without me. If I talk as much as I write it’s a wonder they don’t need a spell in a sanatorium.
Friday 22nd September 2006
I’ve got a hangover and judging from the way my head is thumping and my guts are churning, I’ve also got somebody else’s. It can’t all be mine. It’s just my luck to have some bastard slip their hangover on me. Seeing as the men folk are away I gave myself the day off and caught the train back to my hometown yesterday. I spent the day with Lee, an old mate of mine; sleeping over at his place and getting the train back this morning. Lee is straight and currently between girlfriends, in fact there hasn’t been one on the horizon for some time. He claimed he’s so desperate to get laid that if I dressed up as a woman he’d consider shagging me. Then he complained it wasn’t fair that I could get two blokes to shack up with and he couldn’t get a one-night stand with a cross-eyed dog. I said I wasn’t surprised if that represented his chat up technique.
We spent the day pub-crawling in town and catching up with news and gossip and generally having a laugh. I haven’t done anything like that for ages, not since I became my Daddies boy. I enjoyed myself and it was great to catch up with Lee properly. We commune regularly by phone, email, messenger etc, but it isn’t the same as seeing him in the flesh. He proved a true friend to me when most of my so-called friends shunned me after I ‘came out’ in my early teens.
We got pretty drunk and I ended up doing something I might yet live to regret. I got a tattoo. Lee’s flatmate did it. He fancies himself as a body artist, having equipped himself with gear purchased from Ebay, and after practising on himself (Lee said he sits colouring himself in while watching telly) he was branching out and seeking guinea pigs to practice on. Hello, meet Gilli the guinea pig, courtesy of Lee, who volunteered me. It hurt like fuck and it bled. I had to bite my bottom lip to stop it from trembling in a very unmanly fashion.
It’s nothing elaborate, just a little Celtic symbol on my upper arm. It’s a bit sore and indistinct at the moment because it’s scabbing over. Once it heals I think it will look nice. I’m not sure how the Daddies will react. I think Dick will probably like it, but Shane’s a bit old fashioned about stuff like tattoos, etc. I mentioned getting one of those chin spikes a few weeks ago, but he mentioned putting a paddle across my arse, so I thought better of it. He made me get rid of my nose piercing because he said only animals wore nasal rings. When I was just an employee without bed rights, I was allowed to wear it in my own time, but once I became a Daddies boy proper nose jewellery was banned completely. It was one of my first tests in submissive obedience and it wasn’t easy.
Lee invited me to stay over for a day or two, but I said I had things to do. While I’d had a great time I was ready for home. It’s funny how you grow past some things and that one-day trek back to the past was enough for me.
Before I got the train home I decided to pay my mother a courtesy call. She seemed pleased to see me. She said I looked very well and fussed over my mango cut, which keeps opening and bleeding because it’s in an awkward place on the side of my hand. She insisted on cleaning and dressing it more securely and when I left she gave me a kiss and a big hug, which surprised me. I can’t remember the last time she hugged me. I nearly cried. Step-daddy Frank was at work, thank God, so I was spared any of his nastiness.
I’m counting the hours until one becomes three again.
Monday 25th September 2006
There’s an old saying: two hands are better than one, but four are fucking fantastic. Yep, my Bear pair are back in the lair and one is happily three again. I don’t know who said that two into one don’t go, but they were wrong, they go just fine in my experience.
I still haven’t finished The Story Of Friday. I didn’t realise what a long day it was. I will finish it though. I’m thorough that’s my trouble. I like to pay attention to detail. It’s just with the slave drivers being home again I haven’t had much spare time. The homecoming, while glorious in its way, had a hiccup or two, what with the mango cut to explain and the tattoo and the discovery of the hole in the utility room wall (I didn’t even realise Shane knew his way to the utility room, not without a guide and someone to explain what a washing machine is) This writing business is much harder than it looks and more time consuming. I’ll finish The Story Of Friday and then I might write all about my Daddies homecoming, it was quite eventful in its way.
Wednesday 27th September 2006
It was chaos in here last night with Dick and Shane getting ready to go to some Masonic function. I was invited to attend, but I said frankly I’d rather insert a taser into my rectum and set it on full power. I loathe those kind of events, they bore me rigid and anyway HE would be there more likely than not. I’d be tempted to perform a secret handshake around his neck with my bare hands and then my bare arse would get several secret handshakes, courtesy of Dick and Shane. (You’ll know more about whom HE is once you read The Story Of Friday) By the time the men folk were ready and gone I was exhausted. It’s always the same when they’re getting ready to go out. I get the pair of them bawling dual demands from the bedroom while I’m downstairs trying to do something. Two grown men and they can’t dress themselves without help. Short re-enactment coming up:
Shane: “Gilli, where’s my black socks?”
Me: “er, try your sock drawer.”
Dick: “Gil, where’s my white shirt?”
Me: “which one?”
Dick: “you know, the white one.”
The man has a wardrobe full of white shirts and I’m supposed to know exactly which one he can’t find.
Me: “no, I don’t know, describe it.”
Dick: (irritably) “white, with pearly type buttons.”
Me: “it’s in your wardrobe, Dick.”
Shane: “they’re not there, Gilli. I can’t find them and I need them.”
Dick: “it’s not there, Gil and I want to wear it.”
Me: “for crying out loud! If I come up there and lay hands on them first time there’ll be trouble!”
It was a relief to get them out of the house. It meant I could use the computer without getting interrupted. I managed to type up another part of what happened that Friday. My admiration for writers has grown, especially ones that actually get stuff finished. It takes sticking power. I might have a go at penning a novel one of these days. I’ve had an idea for one in the mould of Harry Potter. Mine’s about this boy who has a permanent cold and he goes on a magical quest to find a cure. I’m going to call it ‘Harry Snotter And The Gobbet Of Phlegm.’ Cool eh!
We’ve got company tonight and I’ve got tons to do, plus I’ve got to put a second skim of plaster on the utility room wall. A houseboy’s work is never done.
Thursday 28th September 2006
I was watching some programme about finance as I sat in the kitchen dressing a crab this afternoon, as you do, when someone asked the question ‘how do I clear a £15,000 credit card debt?’ Good question Batman. Well it doesn’t need a financial expert to answer it. The answer is simple: fake your own death, easy, take a quick trip to the beach, leave a pile of clothes and an empty aspirin bottle along with a note saying that you just couldn’t take another episode of Neighbours and bingo, you’re gone, debts cleared. Then you re-invent yourself and come back as your twin brother or sister.
Mind you, I wouldn’t have to fake my own death if I ran up a credit card debt like that. Dick and Shane would do the job for me and there would be nothing fake about it. They’re both funny about money, my wage for example is hysterical. I once asked Shane if he was aware that slavery had been abolished. He said I got paid the going rate for what I did. I said it might have been the going rate when television was monochrome and had only one channel, but times had moved on and I wanted a pay rise, otherwise this houseboy was going on strike. I did too. I laid down tools, not to mention tool, and this bottom’s bottom and associated parts were out of bounds.
I tried to get Dick onside and asked him to show solidarity by downing his tool in the bedroom along with me, but he declined. Instead he took on the role of ACAS, attempting to get Shane and I to resolve our dispute peacefully. I set up a picket line outside the kitchen, but it didn’t work (Dick and Shane both being over six feet tall simply picked me up and set me aside when they wanted to use the kitchen) It’s the little things that bring down giants, and with that in mind I hid the toilet rolls and refused to disclose where they were.
However, what made Shane really sit up and take notice of my protest was when I resorted to more aggressive strike tactics using coitus interruptus as a weapon, his coitus being the one that I interruptus. He nearly shit himself one evening when I burst into the bedroom at a crucial moment blowing a whistle and whirring a football rattle. Crashing from bed to floor he left Dick wide-eyed and screaming with shock, as opposed to pleasure. Not surprising really, seeing as they’d been indulging in oral, side by side 69, when I burst in on them and Shane had almost bitten a chunk out of poor Dick’s dick before plunging off the bed. They soon recovered though and it was the turn of this Daddies boy to get a shock, as I noted the murderous look on their faces as they both lunged for me. I have never moved so fast in my life.
In the end we met around the negotiating table and beat out a compromise. In other words, when they caught me, Dick pulled down my jeans and pants and bent me over the kitchen table while Shane spanked my backside until I agreed to call off the strike. So much for ACAS, ache ass more like. Ah well, I suppose I did deserve a spanking for the terrible fright I gave them and to be fair Shane did later up my wages. Self-made men my two are, well Shane is, Dick comes from minor landed gentry, meaning his forebears landed somewhere down South, slaughtered all the inhabitants as they slept and took over their lands and property. Oh yes, he’s a bit of a nob is our Dick. He went to a posh public school when he was but a lad, which explains some of his kinkier traits. Hotbeds of sexual perversions are public schools.
Incidentally, the crab looked lovely after I’d finished dressing it. It could have graced a Paris catwalk never mind a suburban dinner table. Dick and Shane gave it a rousing reception. Another culinary success for Gillibran Brown, houseboy and master chef, I might even ask for another pay rise.
Anyway, that’s enough chatter. Let me hear a drum roll please. Yes, it’s done. I’ve finally completed my first chapter of autobiography, The Story Of Friday. I’m quite pleased with myself for sticking at it. I was tempted to abandon it once or twice, but if you want to be a writer then you have to write, so it says in the job description anyway. So what if it’s only one chapter, who cares, one is better than none say I. It’s actually quite a long chapter, it’s amazing how much you pack into a day when you start to dissect it. By the way, I do go into some sexual detail; so if same-sex-sex bothers you, then close your eyes before reading.
The Story Of Friday
I awoke alone in the single room, having been banished there the night before because Dick and Shane said they did not want to share bed space with a surly brat. Fair enough. I didn’t want to share it with a couple of judgemental old farts and said so, but very quietly under my breath so they couldn’t hear. No way was I sending my pretty botty on a suicide mission. Judging from the moans and murmurs coming from the master bedroom they had been awake for some time before me. Padding across the landing I quietly opened the door, my guts contracting with jealousy as I observed them. They were oblivious to my presence, totally lost in each other. After watching for a few moments I quietly closed the door and went to the bathroom, using my fist to relieve my erection so I could pee, reviewing the scene in the bedroom with my minds eye to aid the process. Relieved and watered I pulled on a fresh pair of boxers and a t-shirt and went downstairs to begin my duties.
Shane eventually came into the kitchen trailing a tantalising tease of Yves St Laurent aftershave while adjusting the silver cufflinks he always wears in his work shirts. He spared me a glance.
“No breakfast for me this morning, Gilli. I have to run.”
I scowled, choosing to take his words as a personal slur, “I’ve made it now, and it won’t take you more than a few minutes to have a bite.”
“I’m sorry, cub, but I need to get going. I’m running late as it is.”
“Waste of time hauling my bum out of bed at six to make you breakfast you don’t eat.”
He shot me a warning look from flinty green eyes. “Don’t start, apart from anything else it’s your job to haul your bum out of bed at six to make me breakfast, regardless of whether I eat it or not.” He pulled on his jacket and then made to reach for me prior to kissing me goodbye.
I sidestepped him. “It’s not my JOB to accept false affection and besides, you’re running late. God forbid you waste a precious fucking second on me.” I hissed, as his hand slapped a single harsh reprimand onto the side of my bare thigh.
“Lose that attitude, Gillibran, because I’m heartily sick of it. I’ll see you this evening.”
He matched the harsh slap with a harsh kiss and then he was gone, well most of him. With his kiss still stinging my lips, I flopped down on a chair and stared at the red handprint stinging my left thigh. It was a perfect copy of his right hand; all digits including the thumb were present. I laid my own smaller hand on top of it, as if trying to hold it. I then stared at his place at the table: the neatly folded napkin, the un-drunk orange juice and freshly brewed black coffee, the uneaten scrambled egg and lightly done toast. It looked forlorn and abandoned. My eyes stung.
“Don’t take it personally, he’s got a lot on today.”
I looked up to see Dick leaning against the doorjamb; brown hair sweetly mussed, arms folded.
“He made plenty of time to shaft your brains out.” I snatched up the plate of scrambled eggs and stood up, stalking over to the bin with it. “I don’t see why he couldn’t have made some time for me. I mean it’s not like your arse is going to be scarce over the next week is it.” I tipped the cold flaccid mass into the pedal bin snapping, “there’s juice, coffee, cereal and toast on the table, help yourself, or do like Shane did and ignore it because he was too busy sticking you to make time for my pathetic offering. He knows I look forward to having breakfast with him, but my feelings apparently don’t count. I’m going to get dressed.”
Savagely dumping the plate on top of the eggs I made to exit the kitchen. Dick caught my arm, spun me round and slapped my bottom hard several times. After making me retrieve the plate from the bin he dragged me back to the table. “You’re onto a hiding to nothing carrying on like this,” he sat down pulling me firmly onto his knee and putting his arms around my waist, “or should I just say a hiding. Shane is running out of patience and so am I. You’ve been a miserable pestilence all week. It’s like living with a hormone-encrusted teenager. Why didn’t you join us in bed this morning? We usually have to fend you off with a stick when it comes to sex.”
“You didn’t look like you’d welcome company. Shane was into you like you were about to become an extinct species.”
“Cutting your nose off to spite your face in other words.” Dick gazed at me solemnly, “listen, I want you to be nice to Shane this evening. He’s tired. He’s had a heavy week at work and he needs to come home to a peaceful haven and domestic harmony, not to someone with a sour face and an attitude to match.”
“He didn’t tell me he was tired, or that he’s had a heavy week. He doesn’t tell me anything. He’s hardly spared me the time of day lately, except to criticise.”
“Stop it, Gil, stop looking for reasons to be annoyed with him. It’s not fair. He doesn’t like fretting you that’s all. Besides you’re the one that’s hardly spared him the time of day, because you’ve been too busy wallowing in resentment. Be a good boy today and do your work properly.” He stroked my face with elegant fingers, “do something special for dinner, make the dining room welcoming and we’ll have a lovely evening together, yes?”
I nodded and tried to produce a smile, but it was swept away on a riptide of tears, not even a life raft could have saved it. “Do you think about me when you’re away,” I put my arms round him, sobbing into his neck, “or is it like I don’t exist? Are you happier without me, do you regret that I came into your lives, do you want it to be just the two of you again?”
“Aw, baby,” he rubbed my back. “We’ve been through all this, time and time again. You’re just needlessly tormenting yourself. Of course we think about you and no we’re not happier without you. We’re just something different. We need to do this, honey. Shane and I need to do this. It strengthens us and we need to be strong, not just for each other, but also for you. Shane and I are the core of this relationship, we have to be certain of each other and we need time alone to renew ourselves and reconnect.”
“I know I’m being a selfish, immature little prick, and I’m sorry.” I tried unsuccessfully to stem the flow, “but I can’t help it.”
He cuddled me while softly singing a refrain from a Gershwin song that he’d improvised just for me, “your Daddies are rich and they’re both good lookin' so hush pretty baby, don’t you cry.” When I was more composed he stroked a sensuous hand along my thigh, “no more tears now.” The hand slipped inside the leg of my boxers where my cock sprang eagerly to greet it. He kissed my tearstained face and gave me a little wink, “come on, my slutty little boy. Come to bed and have some fun with Dick.”
I hugged his neck, as he scooped me up into his arms and effortlessly carried me upstairs. Sometimes I love him best of all. Lying me down on sheets that were rumpled and sex-stained from earlier he set about rumpling and staining them still more, only this time he was the giver in the scenario and I the eager recipient.
The thing I love about sex is the way it consumes you. While you’re fucking the world shrinks to a microcosm and life becomes nothing more than a cock and ball story working towards a climatic ending. The only thing that exists is that final sentence and the only thing that matters is reaching it. I wish I could fuck all day long. As far as this particular story was concerned it was a good one. By the time the final sentence had been yelled aloud and Dick’s dick pulled out of me, we were both hotly flushed and sleeked with satisfied sweat. My satisfaction took a small tumble and I squeaked a protest as he gave my flank a sharp little slap.
“You’re not cleaning yourself properly, you dirty boy.” He reached for a tissue from the bedside cabinet, wiping semen, lube and shit from his prick. “Douche for you this evening.”
He lay back down and I rested my head on his chest, rubbing my cheek against the light covering of sweat-moistened hairs as he cuddled me. “As long as you douche me and not Shane. It’s like having a fucking fire hose shoved up my arse when he does it. He thinks he’s Steve McQueen putting out a towering inferno. I’m surprised I don’t have shit shooting out of my mouth or through the top of my head like a fucking human muck spreader. I could fertilise a collective of market gardens.
“That’s more than enough disrespect and swearing from you, Gillibran Brown, or your back passage won’t be the only thing to get thoroughly washed out.”
His tone was severe, but seeing as his body was shaking with suppressed laughter I didn’t set too much store by it.
“Bad boy, that’s what you are, a rude, crude bad boy,” he kissed the top of my head.
Stroking his stomach I edged my fingers down into his dark pubic bush. Like the hair on the rest of his body it’s surprisingly soft and downy, not like Shane’s pubes, which are coarse and wiry enough to sand wood down. Caressing his inner thigh my fingers brushed his balls causing his semi flaccid prick to twitch a response. I asked casually, “did you enjoy sexing me as much as you enjoyed Shane fucking you this morning?”
“Gillibran!”
There was a definite warning in his use of my name and I backed off immediately not wanting to spoil what we’d shared. We have very strict rules about such questions. In a three-way relationship like ours, comparisons are not only odious they’re potentially destructive. “Sorry,” I kissed his chest. “Work at home today, please, Dick, I promise not to disturb you. I like knowing you’re in the house.”
“I’m sorry, honey, I can’t. I’ve got work I need to clear before I go off on holiday tomorrow and I need to be in the office to do it.”
I swallowed my disappointment, or tried to. It stuck in my throat. “You’d better hurry up and shower and get ready then,” I abruptly sat up, “you take the ensuite and I’ll shower in the bathroom and then make you a fresh breakfast.”
“Breakfast would be appreciated,” Dick pulled me back down on top of him looping his arms about me and holding me tight, “but you’re not allowed to shower. Just put your boxers back on.”
“WHY?”
“Because I say so,” he kissed the tip of my nose, “and because the thought of my cum leaking from your hot little arse, as you go about your business, really turns me on. No masturbating today either I want you nice and eager when I get home this evening.”
“I’m always eager,” I grinned, “and I love it when you get kinky.”
“I’ll see you tonight.” Dick cupped my boxer-clad buttocks in his hands, tilting my pelvis against his and giving one of the sexy little winks he saves just for me, “be good.” Keeping one hand on my arse he used the other to tilt up my chin, “I love you,” he kissed my lips.
I returned both kiss and sentiment, “I love you too, see you tonight.”
I watched him crunch across the drive to his car, his long slim frame looking good in the expensive light blue jeans, white shirt and tailored jacket that he favoured in place of a conventional city suit. On sudden impulse I ran over the gravel in my bare feet. “Dick, wait.”
“Gil,” he frowned, “you’ll cut your feet. What’s the matter?”
“Does Shane love me?”
“You know he does.”
“He’s never told me, not in so many words.”
“It isn’t his way. He’s from a less overt generation. He expects you to be able to read his mind and know what it is he doesn’t say.”
“He tells you that he loves you.”
“I’ve been with him ten years, since I was your age. I’ve earned it and he feels able. Come here,” slinging his briefcase and laptop onto the back seat of his car he swung me up into his arms for the second time that morning, carrying me back to the house and depositing me in the hall. “You’ve got to try and stop feeding your insecurities with false thoughts. He loves you, believe it, now get on with your work and let me get to mine.” He gave me a sudden serious look, “make sure you clean those bathrooms today or regardless of how much he loves you Shane won’t just spank your bare bottom, he’ll leather it and then to add insult to injury he’ll dock your housekeeper’s wage for shirking the job. I mean it, Gil, he’s trying to be patient because he knows you’re upset, but he’s cut you all the slack he’s going to cut.”
I watched him drive off and then closed the door and went inside to get dressed. I washed my upper body, but obediently did as Dick had told me to do, leaving my lower half un-cleansed. Besides, I touched a finger to the damp spot on the seat of my boxers, it turned me on too, feeling his juices leak from my body, reminding me of what we’d shared. It was uncomfortably sexy, highly erotic and it kept him close. I’m possessive. I can’t help it.
I did what Dick had told me to do and got on with the work I’d been skimping on all week out of pique. He was right. I was well out of slack as far as Shane was concerned and it was time I got my act together or there would be serious trouble. My Daddies are particular about cleanliness, they both enjoy having a nice home and it’s my job to keep it nice. Shane in particular is fussy. He has high standards and he expects things to be just so, from the way breakfast is set out each morning to the brand of soap used in the bathrooms. I usually clean the bathrooms every single day, but I hadn’t so much as sluiced a bit of bleach around the toilet bowls or wiped the sinks all week. Both Daddies had expressed their dissatisfaction over the situation and Shane further challenged me on Thursday night, demanding to know when I was going to do my job properly. I gave him some lip in response and he backed up verbal dissatisfaction by giving the seat of my jeans a stern over the knee lecture. I took surly umbrage at being punished, hence my banishment to the single room. I felt suddenly ashamed of myself. I’d been lazy and bad tempered all because I was jealous and angry with them for going away without me.
I actually do enjoy keeping the house nice and not just from a sense of obligation and duty to the salary I get paid for doing so, but also from a sense of personal pride and pleasure in looking after my men. It’s an aspect of my commitment to the relationship. I don’t care whether it’s old fashioned or not, but I really like being the gay equivalent of a stay at home housewife. Once upon a time I didn’t know one end of a broom from another, but since coming to work for Dick and Shane I’ve blossomed from hopeless slob into professional Mr Mop.
Slapping on the Black Metal music that the boyfriends hate, and won’t allow me to play when they’re home, I set to with a will. It’s amazing how a good morning fuck energises you. A couple of hours later the entire house positively gleamed. Kim and Aggie from ‘How Clean Is Your House’ would be proud to own me. Bless those ladies. I learned a lot from watching them, who said telly couldn’t be educational. The bathrooms sparkled with hygiene and the bed in the master bedroom was resplendent in crisp fresh sheets and covers. There’d be no leathering of this houseboy’s bare bottom.
Sitting with a well-earned mug of coffee and several dozen Jaffa cakes I researched dinner on the Internet, surfing in search of new and interesting recipes to wow the boyfriends with. I’m not a Cordon Bleu chef by any means. I’m still on a learning curve when it came to cuisine, but I’m one hundred percent better than I used to be. When I first came to work for Dick and Shane I couldn’t boil eggs, which was a pity seeing as in addition to claiming to be a paragon of domestic virtues, I’d also claimed to be a culinary genius, hinting at an appearance on Junior Master Chef.
Just so it’s clear: I basically lied and cheated my way into the employ of Dick and Shane. I had no housekeeper qualifications whatsoever. I forged references based on those belonging to my friend’s sister. My domestic deficit soon revealed itself and eviction from the abode of Dick and Shane looked imminent. Fate intervened and in consequence, and encouraged by Dick, Shane gave me a second chance, with conditions attached. I was to learn the job I had fibbed my way into and learn it quickly. He gave me two weeks to prove I had the makings of a good houseboy, or I would be out, permanently. I learned fast, if only to save myself from the terrifying ordeal of an interview in the study with Shane every evening when he got home from a hard day’s work to a chaotic house and a meal he wouldn’t insult a dustbin with…but that’s another story, while this is the story of Friday.
I’d just finished printing off an interesting and delicious sounding recipe for duck breasts in a honey and port sauce when the phone on the study desk rang. I didn’t answer it. I never answer the phone in the study, its permanently on answer machine. They sort out their own messages when they get home. My hackles rose as HIS voice polluted the hallowed atmosphere. He is an old friend of Dick and Shane’s. In fact He is someone Shane knew before he even met Dick and by knew I mean knew ‘carnally.’ I hate Him. How dare He know Shane before Shane knew Dick. I was indignant on Dick’s behalf. There should only be two people who know Shane, Dick and then me, the rest could just sod off. I once asked Dick how he could stand being near Him while knowing that He and Shane had once shagged. He replied that unlike me, he wasn’t an unreasonable little bastard, and accepted as given that all boyfriends in general and older boyfriends in particular, came with a sexual history. Aside from the history factor I hate Him because he’s a smug git. I dread the occasions whereby I might have to socialise with Him and have to be polite. The first and so far only caning I’ve ever had came about because of Him, but that’s another story and this is still the story of Friday.
He said: “just calling to wish you both a good holiday. I might pop over and spend a day with you. I’m in Lisbon for a business meeting midweek. It must be a great relief to be escaping the grind for a while, just the two of you. I know you’re especially looking forward to it, Shane, so enjoy. I don’t suppose you’d consider sending your pretty little employee my way for the week, can’t be much for him to do at your place with you both away. I could use a domestic who obliges with more than just cleaning services. I’d make sure he earned the salary you pay him (smarmy chuckle) Ciao.”
The silence fell heavy and so did my heart as painful insecurity seeped into it. When it comes to the ménage relationship I share with Dick and Shane I’m still an apprentice and not a confident one. It was plainly evident how He, and probably everyone else, viewed me. I wasn’t with them. I wasn’t a partner. I was a servant, a cleaner, the domestic employee who offered sex on the side. I was paid for, a prostitute, their executive toy and nothing more. My face stung with painful humiliation, which changed quickly to jealous rage. They were the partners and I was the outsider, even that smarmy fucker would be spending a day of the holiday with them, but not me.
That insidious call poisoned my day, poisoned my mind, made a devil of Shane and a betrayer of Dick and left me hurt and huddled on the sidelines of self-pity. Deleting the message and leaving the phone hugging the floor, I dragged off my clothes, shoved my stained boxers into the bin and then showered; scrubbing away all traces of the employer I sometimes loved best of all.
The day was doomed from then on as I became preoccupied with negative emotions and damaging thoughts. The words: ‘it must be a great relief to be escaping the grind for a while, just the two of you. I know you’re especially looking forward to it, Shane,’ burned white hot in my mind. That’s why they were going away. I was obviously part of the grind they wished to escape from. I was something to be left behind, like work and the office along with its employees. I already knew they were looking forward to being alone together for a while, they’d said so honestly. I thought I understood and had accepted the reasons, and I had, intellectually, but not deep down in the emotional layers.
It hurt too that Shane was ‘especially’ looking forward to escaping from me, what did it mean? As I went about my daily business I cut myself to ribbons on that word, shaping and twisting it into all manner of rejections. I burned his favourite shirt, one that Dick had given him, when I foolishly ironed it immediately after ironing a pair of heavy cotton trousers, forgetting to turn down the thermostat and let the iron cool. I was unsure as to whether it was an accident or a subconscious act of petty revenge. I hated to think I could be that childish, while knowing full well that I could be. We all can, when our feelings get crushed. Holding the ruined fabric against my face I wept into it, while cruelly telling myself that Shane loved Dick, but he didn’t love me, and Dick loved Shane and only pretended to love me so he could play the dominant male for a change. I was just another object in their fuck toy collection. Unplugging the iron I hurled it at the utility room wall.
Abandoning the house I went shopping for the ingredients I’d need for dinner. Dick and Shane insist upon fresh, good quality ingredients. Jamie Oliver would be proud of them, and of course as high earners they’re fortunate to be able to afford to indulge their preferences and spoil their palates. So, salving my hurts with contrary grocery shopping, I bought the cheapest frozen prawns I could lay hands on instead of going to the fishmongers and buying fresh ones, telling myself there was probably no difference anyway, except for snob value. I also bought cut price, near their sell by date, vegetables, and instead of patronising the quality game butcher in the Shambles market I plumped for frozen supermarket ducks, defrosting them in the microwave before cutting out the breasts.
I set only two places at the dining room table, reminding myself of the domestic law which decreed that the servant didn’t sup with the Master, or Masters in my case. I made a lacklustre unoriginal starter with the prawns, prepared the limp vegetables and the duck and then carelessly threw together the dessert I’d had planned. It was a homemade hazelnut and raspberry pavlova, one of my signature desserts (it was the first dessert I ever made that was fit for human consumption) and usually a favourite with both of them (the first dessert of mine they ever ate without flinching as if in pain)
They arrived home together, almost as if they were synchronized on some subconscious level. I watched discreetly from the living room window as they got out of their cars and greeted each other with a kiss. They put an intimate arm around each other’s waist to walk to the house, while talking animatedly about their day. Just before reaching the front door they halted and Shane caressed Dick’s face before kissing him, a tender lingering kiss. He’d been doing that a lot lately and I recognised it as being a sign he felt in need of some alone time with the man he’d partnered for ten years. Yes, I could understand that. If I were he, I would want the same, but jealousy isn’t easily dissuaded, it’s an immutable kind of emotion that responds only to itself. I talked to my jealousy, I reasoned with it. I told it to leave me. I dismissed it, but still it clung to me, looking out through my eyes and distorting the view. He never looked at me the way he looked at Dick and neither of them looked at me the way they looked at each other. I could never share what they had. It had been years in the making and I was no part of it. Jealousy and I turned away from the window and fled the room, as a key sounded in the lock.
I raced upstairs to the den at the top of the house, the bedsit I used to occupy when I first came here. I was ‘just’ the housekeeper. This was where I belonged, in the servant’s quarters. Closing and locking the door I lay on the bed, curled on my side. Downstairs I heard Dick calling me and ignored him. He called again, and then again, sounding puzzled.
“GILLIBRAN?” Shane’s stentorian tones booming from the second floor landing made my stomach contract and I didn’t dare ignore the command in his voice. Taking a deep breath I composed myself and unlocked the door descending the short flight of stairs, making him start slightly. “There you are,” he looked at me suspiciously, “why were you hiding away up there?”
Avoiding his eyes I said, “I wasn’t hiding. I was cleaning. It hasn’t been dusted for ages.”
“Very diligent I’m sure,” he smiled and made to touch me.
“It’s what you pay me for. Water’s hot for showering. I’ll see to the dinner.” Edging quickly past him before he could make contact I ran downstairs, passing Dick, who was on his way up. “I showered.” I cast the words at him before heading to the kitchen and closing the door hard.
It soon opened again, “what’s wrong, honey?”
“Nothing.” I managed to shimmy away from the hands that were trying to caress me. I busied myself by placing the duck breasts I’d had marinating into a roasting dish and slamming them into the hot oven.
“You look a bit washed out,” Dick insistently took hold of me, his brown eyes viewing me with warm concern. He ran his fingers through my hair. “Have you overstretched yourself today?”
“How can I possibly have overstretched myself,” I dismissed his concern as insincere, jerking my head away from his touch, snarling, “I do bloody menial housework for Christ’s sake, not rocket science.”
“Go and have your shower, Dick,” Shane intervened, fixing cool green eyes on me. “I’ll have a word with the cub.”
Dick did as he was told. Shane didn’t waste any time, he said, “Gilli, come here.”
I said, “Shane, I’m busy.”
He didn’t repeat himself. He just snapped his fingers and pointed at the floor directly in front of him. Both my stomach and my cock reacted to the hint of potential danger with a twitch of nervous excitement. Despite my intention to remain defiantly where I was, I moved towards him. He foiled my intention to keep my eyes fixed on the floor by taking hold of my chin and firmly tilting my head up, asking, “has something happened to upset you today?”
“Yeah, I had an argument with the vacuum cleaner hose, it wanted me to give it a blowjob, but I refused so it took offence. It claimed I blew everyone else’s attachment and it wasn’t fair.”
Shane didn’t say anything for what seemed like weeks, he just looked calmly into my eyes, and then he leaned his face close to mine so I could feel his breath misting my skin, “last warning, Gillibran, trim the tiresome attitude or I’ll deal with you, and you owe Dick an apology, is that very clear?”
“Yes.”
“Good, now I’m going to shower and change. I’ll see you presently. In the meantime put some sugar on that temper and sweeten it.” He brushed his lips briefly over mine, leaving a spice tang of his aftershave behind. My vision blurred as I watched him walk out of the kitchen. Feeling unreasonably abandoned I got on with dinner, putting the vegetables on to cook and taking the starters into the dining room along with a bottle of wine, and setting them on the table.
Dick made a return to the kitchen just as I was putting the tureens of vegetables into the oven’s warming drawer.
“Something smells good.”
Not as good as he did after his shower, and not as good as he looked in his tailored black trousers and fitted shirt. I felt dirty and greasy in comparison, the smell of the kitchen swaddled about me. I once again outmanoeuvred a potential hug, “I’m mucky. You’ll get grease on your shirt. I’m sorry for snapping your head off earlier. I suppose I am a bit tired.”
He looked at me kindly, “I’m not surprised, you’ve obviously worked your socks off today. The house looks beautiful and I noticed you’d even raked the gravel on the drive and fixed those loose edging stones. It all looks very smart.”
“It’s nothing,” I shrugged, “its just what you pay me for.” I didn’t say anything else, because in the mood I was in anything I said would come out ugly.
Dick frowned, “don’t dismiss yourself like that, Gilli, or me. I don’t like it.” He held out his arms, “are you going to give me a cuddle and a kiss this evening or not?”
I wanted to rush into his arms, press my face against his chest and beg him to confirm that I meant more to him than just a clean house and extra sex, but instead I said a simple, “no.”
“Fair enough, maybe later,” he let his arms fall to his side.” Do you need any help in here?”
“No.”
“Would you like a glass of wine, I’m going to have one?”
“No.”
“Bloody hell, Gil, you’re a little ray of sunshine tonight, a real pleasure to come home to.” Shaking his head he left the kitchen. But not for long, he was soon back. “You’ve only set two places in the dining room. Why?”
“I’m not hungry,” I opened the oven door, lifting out the pan of duck breasts and slapping it down on top of the cooker. The fat hissed spitefully, spitting out a burning gobbet that stung my hand. “Fucking evil duck,” I stabbed a fork into it and then glared at Dick, “and anyway I can’t be arsed getting changed. I’ll just stay in the scullery like a good little serf so you and Sir Shane can make cow’s eyes at each other in private. Just ring a fucking bell or whistle when you require me.”
“What the hell has gotten into you this evening?”
“Nothing, and I’m trying to do my job here, so if you don’t mind I’d like to be left in peace to do it.”
“You really are a most obstinate man at times.” Dick moved swiftly to close the kitchen door before turning and striding back across the kitchen. “I’m sick to the back teeth of your stropping and snarling,” he caught hold of my hand. “Shane has had a long day, so have I and we don’t need domestic strife from you. I told you this morning that I wanted you to make an effort to be nice. As far as I can see, nice is noticeable by its absence.”