Fun with Dick and Shane: Memoirs of a Houseboy

Fun with Dick and Shane

Memoirs of a Houseboy

September 2006-to-December 2006

Gillibran Brown

Copyright © Gillibran Brown 2011

Houseboy Works

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Dedicated to Daddies, Dick and Shane. XX

Table Of Contents

Title

Dedication

September 17th

September 19th

September 20th

September 22nd

September 25th

September 27th

September 28th

Story Of Friday

Homecoming Story

October 1st

October 2nd

October 5th

October 7th

October 8th

October 11th

October 12th

October 13th

October 20th

A Fitting Little Warning

October 25th

October 27th

A Sad Sorry Tale Of Whatever

October 29th

October 30th

November 1st

November 3rd

November 7th

November 11th

November 21st

A Life In The Day Of Wednesday

November 23rd

December 5th

December 7th

December 8th

You. Did. What?

December 11th

Blackpool Rock

December 13th

December 14th

December 17th

Robins

December 18th

December 21st

December 22nd

December 31st

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. After a discipline spanking from him my arse feels like it’s been caught in the jaws of a steel trap. 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, 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 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 was nice looking in a boy next-door kind of way, which could mean anything.

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, and her marriage. 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 eighteen 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 fruit 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. 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. 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 the 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