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Sunday Sept 17th 2006. I have to say the concept of a web page is much easier than the reality, I was full of ideas (or more likely full of bull shit) 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 24 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 and all (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 polygamous relationship for two years now, though Dick and Shane themselves have been lovers for far longer, almost ten years. Dick, short for Richard, is 34 and Shane is closing in on the year 44. I’ve always had a strong attraction to men older and more mature than myself in preference to men my own age or younger, I’m just not turned on by teens, as they simply 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 that young men become older men and they don’t shed their sexual potency when they hit a certain age, they refine it and carry it forward and its 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 30. 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 other folks relationships aside, 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 a sexual sense, in other words they, with my full consent, discipline me. In fact they use, abuse and mistreat me horribly, brutes to a man they are. Nah, I’m winding, they’re not brutes at all, not 24/7 anyway, certainly not Dick, he’s quite cuddly sometimes, especially in the event that 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 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 mad and it’s still a bit tender. Afterwards, Dick took me to bed for a comforting cuddle and I asked him to run away with me, but he refused saying that Shane would only track us down and then neither of us would be able to sit comfortably and besides, he affectionately patted my still blazing bottom and said 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, good job I like dominant men. We talked about why I’d been punished and I admitted that I’d been well out of order and had deserved the belting Shane had given me. Dick then told me I had to apologise to Shane, but while admitting the punishment was deserved, forgiving the perpetrator 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 said no, I wasn’t going to apologise and I hated him (I didn’t mean it) so Dick said in that case I could stay in bed like the sulky, selfish child I was acting like and left me alone. Later, I heard them having sex downstairs and got mad and jealous all over again. When they finally came up to bed, I got out and pointedly stalked back 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 Shane, he just does not do door slamming, and maybe that’s why I did it. I just wanted his attention, and at any cost. He gave me his attention. 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 came yesterday morning, soon after they’d gone. The card simply read: Be good, we love you very much. I cried all afternoon. They called me last night to say they’d gotten to their destination safely and then to cheer me up they had me pleasure myself at their instruction, phone sex is HOT, I recommend it. They won’t call me again, except to say that they’re on their way home again. This is their week and I have to try and understand that. Click here for the story of Friday. What else does one write on a kind of 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 without provocation spanking my bottom the moment it mooned afresh at the world. However, that means doing loads of thinking and remembering and writing and as the philosopher Socrates himself once said: ‘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 5’7,’ if I put my mind to it I could be 5’8’ but that would mean walking with my head up and back straight and really I prefer to slouch, so I’ll stick at 5’7.’ I’m slim to medium build, blue eyed and blondish haired and according to Dick and Shane, 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 fucking knob head called Frank, my stepfather who thinks homosexuality is a disease and who booted 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’d 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, 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 not on scene, he’s 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 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 do that, 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. 19th September 2006. This memoir stuff is 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 relax and do something else. I woke up miserable today, it feels like forever since Dick and Shane shipped out. I’m sleeping in the single room; the smaller bed feels a bit less lonely. I toyed with the idea of calling them and telling them I had an emergency and they would have to fly back, but the thought that I would actually have to kill myself in order to save my rump from terrible retribution when they found out I didn’t, put me off a bit. It’s a wise man that learns how to save his own arse. Wednesday 20th 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, but I know people who are, but I don’t associate much with them, 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 hate 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; you can’t get a grip on them. I was happily peeling my mango 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 emergency and call Dick and Shane, but decided against it, figuring that they’d both be a bit pissed 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. 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 is churning I’ve got somebody else’s as well, 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 were away I gave myself the day off and caught the train back to my hometown yesterday to spend the day with 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 said he’s that desperate to get laid that if I dressed up as a woman he’d consider shagging me. Then he complained that it wasn’t fair that I could get two blokes to shack up with and he couldn’t even get a one-night stand with a cross eyed dog. I said I wasn’t surprised if that represented his chat up technique. Lee and I then 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 since I left the area to work for Dick and Shane. I enjoyed myself, and it was great to catch up with Lee. He proved a true friend to me when most of my so-called friends shunned me after I came ‘out.’ 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 over the Internet and after practising on himself (Lee said he sits colouring himself in while watching telly) 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 too elaborate or over the top just a little Celtic symbol on my upper arm, it’s a bit sore and indistinct at the moment because its scabbing over, but once it heals I think it should look nice. I’m not sure how Dick and Shane will react. I think Dick will probably like it, but Shane’s a bit old fashioned about stuff like tattoos and such like, he made me get rid of my nose piercing because he said only animals wore nasal rings. Lee invited me to stay over for a day or two, but I said I couldn’t 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 paid my mother a courtesy call and she seemed pleased to see me, said I looked very well and fussed a bit over my mango cut, which keeps opening and bleeding because its in an awkward place on the side of hand, she insisted on cleaning and dressing it more securely for me and when I left she gave me a hug, which surprised me, I can’t remember the last time I had a hug from her. 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, one is happily three again. I don’t know who said that two into one don’t go, but they were wrong big time, they go just perfectly fine in my experience. ;-) I still haven’t finished the Story Of Friday, I didn’t realise what a long day that 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 coming home I haven’t had as much time. The homecoming while glorious in its way had a hiccup or two, what with the mango cut to explain and the tattoo and discovery of the hole in the utility room wall (I didn’t even realise that Shane knew his way to the utility room, not without a guide and someone to explain what a washing machine was) This writing business is harder than it looks and more time consuming and oddly addictive in its way. I’ll finish the Story Of Friday and then I might write the Home Coming Story. 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 and 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. By the time they were ready and gone I was exhausted, it’s always the same when they’re getting ready to go out with 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. 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 IN 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. I tell you, my admiration for writers has grown, especially ones that actually get stuff finished; it takes sticking power. If I ever finish my autobiography I might have a go at penning a novel. 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. 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 and 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 said no and took on the role of ACAS instead attempting to get Shane and I to resolve our dispute peacefully. I set up a picket line outside the kitchen and when that didn’t work (Dick and Shane both being over 6 ‘ tall simply picked me up and set me aside when they wanted to use the kitchen) I refused to tell them where I’d hidden the toilet rolls, it’s the little things that bring down giants. 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 that is. He nearly shit himself one evening when at a crucial moment in his pleasuring of Dick I burst into the bedroom blowing a whistle and whirring a football rattle. Crashing from bed to floor he left Dick wide eyed and screaming with shock, not surprising really seeing as they’d been indulging in oral 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 saw 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 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 some posh public school when he was but a lad, which explains some of his kinkier traits, hotbeds of sexual perversions are public schools. I haven’t quite finished the last part of the Friday Story yet, but I will. Incidentally, the crab looked lovely after I’d finished dressing it, it could have graced a Paris catwalk instead of a humble 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. |
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