More Fun with Dick and Shane

By Gillibran Brown

The houseboy is back...

Gillibran Brown returns with more day to day tales about life, love and housework.

Being a houseboy to two demanding men is no easy task. There’s more to it than first meets the eye. Gilli has to be all things from chief cook and bottle washer to cleaner, gardener and personal valet.

When he’s good he’s very very good and when he’s bad...he gets his comeuppance.

You’re once again invited to step inside this houseboy’s world to spend a year in the company of Gilli and his men folk.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gillibran Brown
• Release date: Mar 21, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452348902

Gillibran Brown

Introducing houseboy Gillibran Brown.Gay ménage à trois, BDSM, spanking, discipline, SM, domination and submission, domestic trials and tribulations.Gilli’s observations and anecdotes are entertaining, sometimes hilarious and often moving.If you think this houseboy’s life might interest you, then welcome. Step over the threshold, but wipe your feet first, as he’s just polished the parquet.Funny, tender, insightful and sexy.Contains scenes of a sexual nature and also discipline scenes.Book 1 - Fun with Dick and ShaneBook 2 - More Fun with Dick and ShaneBook 3 - Achilles and the HouseboyBook 4 - Gilliflowers, Bonds of AffectionBook 5 - Christmas at Leo'sBook 6 - RevelationsStand Alone Chapters:The Snail AffairThe Winkle On The Bus And Other Stuff.Snakes and Ratters and other bits.Daddy Valenswines

Book preview

More Fun with Dick and Shane

Memoirs of a Houseboy

January 2007-to-December 2007

Gillibran Brown

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © Gillibran Brown 2011

Houseboy Works

http://www.gillibran-brown.com

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be given away or re-sold to other people. If you would like to share it with another person then please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Seasons come and seasons go, but one thing remains the same: my heart belongs to Daddies, Dick and Shane. Xx

Tuesday 2nd January 2007

I’m feeling a bit depressed tonight. Actually, suicidal might be a better definition of my mood. I put Shane’s 18ct gold Rolex Cellini strap watch, a fortieth birthday present from Dick, through the washing machine this morning. I didn’t do it on purpose you understand. I’m not into machine-washing timepieces for kicks or anything like that. It was an accident. The buckle on the strap broke when Shane was putting it on this morning. He brought it downstairs and laid it on the kitchen table and told me to take it into town to the jewellers that Dick bought it from in order to get the gold buckle repaired or replaced. Failing that, he wanted a completely new Rolex strap fitted, an authentic one mind, no bit of mass-produced plastic tat.

I was already planning on going into town in order to get my hair cut, I had an appointment at one o clock with the exclusive Holga, Danish God of hair to men and women alike, so decided I’d take Shane’s watch into the jewellers after that. In the meantime I got on with my usual jobs, stripping the bed and gathering up all the towels to wash.

I was whisking the swiffer mop over the utility room floor, happily humming away when I heard an ominous clunk from the washing machine. Words cannot describe my horror as I spied Shane’s beautiful timepiece whirling round the machine’s port window. I’d dumped the bedding on the kitchen table while I gathered tea towels to add to the wash. Obviously the watch had got picked up with the washing.

The fact that the watch was a gift from Dick made me feel even more mortified. I bawled my eyes out as I read the loving inscription on the back after rescuing it from the machine. There was water under the glass and so it stood to reason that there would be water in the mechanics of the thing. Of course if Shane had any consideration for my feelings he’d have owned a waterproof to forty thousand leagues under the sea, quartz movement, chunky divers watch, instead of a beautiful, elegant dress watch with a delicate mechanical movement. He’s just plain selfish sometimes.

I hastened into town taking the drowned watch with me. The jeweller was pessimistic about it being salvaged; saying that at best it might need a new movement. He’s sent it off for an inspection and repair estimate. Shane’s been busy with work this evening and he hasn’t mentioned the watch and I haven’t had the guts to bring the subject up voluntarily.

Dick keeps asking if I’m okay and I keep saying I’m fine. I don’t know what I’m going to do. I feel awful. Shane loves that watch. I’ll have to put it right somehow, but Christ knows how much it’ll cost. The jeweller told me that the watch is, was, worth around two and a half grand. I don’t have that kind of money, and anyway the sentimental value outweighs the commercial. What a balls up.

Wednesday 3rd January 2007

I couldn’t settle to sleep last night. I ended up getting on the men folk’s nerves with my tossing, turning, heaving and sighing. I was unanimously voted into the single room to toss and turn alone. I got up at five and went on the computer in the study to see if I could find a site specialising in the trade of body organs. One of my kidneys must be worth the cost of a gold Rolex, surely?

Shane asked about his watch at breakfast this morning and my bowels just about went into spasm. I explained that the jeweller couldn’t mend the buckle and had sent the watch to the Rolex service centre to be fitted with a new strap. He accepted it without a problem, simply telling me to let him know when it was ready and he’d write a cheque for it. He then unnerved me by watching me intently over the breakfast table, like he was reading my guilty thoughts or something.

To make matters worse he was nice to me. He asked what was on my mind and called me his darling…the sadist. I’m sure he must know what effect that has on me. It nearly set me off crying. I mumbled something about a headache and he ordered me to take a couple of paracetamol and go back to bed and rest until it passed off. I thought about confessing the disaster to Dick, but just couldn’t bring myself to tell him that I’d ruined the commemorative gift he’d given Shane.

Maybe a standard service will put the watch right. I hope so, otherwise failing the sale of one of my kidneys I’ll have to go on the game and become a male prosser to make a bit of extra cash. I’d consider making a porn movie except I’d be worried about Dick coming across it on the Internet. I can’t see him or Shane being too chuffed to be confronted by a film entitled ‘Horny Houseboy’ featuring yours truly being gang banged while clutching a feather duster. Though knowing Dick he’d want to re-enact the scene with him and Shane playing the gang.

In all honesty I don’t think I could work in the sex industry. I really enjoy sex, but I have a feeling that enjoying sex and selling sex are very different things. I had a friend who played the midnight cowboy for a while. He started selling sex when he was eighteen and moved to London to go to university. Living in a squalid student shit hole wasn’t to his taste, nor was slogging his guts out for a pittance. He wanted money and he wanted a lot of it as fast as possible and he liked fucking, so why not put that to work? I'm pretty sure he still does it from time to time because I know the online name he used when he was cruising for clients and I still see it occasionally on gay.com, usually on a weekend. He used to say that the early hours of Saturday and Sunday morning were the best times to log on because the guys who hadn’t pulled in the clubs were still horny and high on whatever they were high on and prepared to pay for a good cock servicing. He could command between two and five hundred quid a session, depending on services rendered.

I know he was planning on doing a post grad course after he got his degree, but we fell out of touch after that. I assume that with his education he had at least a fair chance of getting a good job so I don’t know why he’s still selling his arse. Maybe he does it as a means of supplementing his income when he needs that bit extra, or maybe he’s saving up for something special, or wants to pay off a big mortgage before his age and looks render that kind of money making less feasible. Flesh has a limited shelf life and buyers mostly want it when it’s young and fresh.

I suppose I should shift my arse and do something constructive. I’m meant to be taking the Christmas tree down today. Shane has been making ‘it’s about time’ noises since New Year’s Day. I told him that it was bad luck to turf out the tree before Twelfth Night, but he doesn’t have a superstitious bone in his body. This morning he finally laid down the law. The tree was dusty, it was shedding needles and he’d had enough of it. He wanted it out of the house before he got home from work, or it would be bad luck for me, because he would dish out a hefty measure of CP.

I love decorating the Christmas tree, but I must admit that I can’t stand un-decorating it. It’s such a chore taking all the stuff off and putting it away. It feels kind of tawdry somehow. I feel sorry for the poor tree and guilty about having used it, decking it in finery and then rejecting it when its beauty has diminished, stripping it naked and casting it out into the cold. Still, it will have to be done, or my backside will be far from cold. Daddy does not make empty threats.

Friday 5th January 2007

I finally told Shane about the watch drowning tragedy. I couldn’t stand being banished to the single room on account of being a ‘fucking nuisance’ to sleep with as guilt kept me restless. Shane said if I didn’t stop wriggling around he was going to take me to the vet and have me wormed. Actually I didn’t tell Shane in person. I text Dick yesterday at work to tell him about it and asked him to tell Shane, while profusely apologising. He phoned me and said that I was a prick and I was to slap myself up the back of the head for worrying myself into a state over it, accidents happened. He then called Shane who called me and crisply stated that if I had brains that I knew how to use I’d be dangerous. I offered to pay for the repair. He told me not to be silly and what the hell did I think insurance was for.

I must admit that it is a relief to have it out in the open. Sometimes we make problems of things that needn’t be problems. Shane was more annoyed about me withholding information from him than he was about the watch. He gave me a very pithy lecture on the subject.

Dick is away on business tonight and Shane is starting a cold and is having an early night. He’s a really, and I mean REALLY grumpy sod when he has a cold. He takes it as a personal affront and a sign of weakness. The wisest thing is to let him just get on with it and try to pretend that you haven’t noticed him sneezing and coughing. Offer him an extra strong hack or a cup of lemsip and he’ll hack your balls off. He’ll bellow for me in a moment and demand to know why I’m fucking about on the computer late at night, disturbing him, which I’ll take as his way of saying that he wants me close by. Relationships are all about reading between the lines.

Sunday 7th January 2007

It’s no good. I’ve tried and tried, but this morning I finally conceded defeat and decided that the Damien Rice CD that Penny gave me for Christmas is a pile of old misery. I like to give things a fair chance and I’ve listened to it at least ten times in the hope that it would grow on me, after all it’s been fairly well received by the music critics and if they like it, it has to be good, right? Anyway, for a brief moment this morning, upon playing it as I made breakfast, I thought I might be getting to only faintly dislike it, as opposed to hating it with a vengeance. In fact I was on the verge of almost humming along to a dirge, ‘I love your depression and I love your double chin’ when something snapped inside me and I thought, no, fuck it, or to quote one of his own lyrics, ‘fuck you’ I can’t take anymore and ejected it from the player.

Christ, I mean the guy’s lyrics have a certain originality, but everything is sung in this dragging funereal tone and while I have very eclectic tastes and quite enjoy a bit of emotive downtime in music there are limits. It must have been reviewed by a hoard of misery loving emo music moguls. The cover should carry an advisory label for self-harmers plus a complimentary pack of steristrips and instructions on how to apply them to gaping wrist wounds. I can only imagine that Penny was hoping to edge me towards suicide and out of her brother’s life. I’m afraid Damien is destined to gather dust on my CD shelves before being chucked in the charity box of no return.

My favourite Christmas present this year was one of those daft stocking filler things, Dick gave it me, and no it isn’t an anal dildo that plays ‘Stand Up, Stand Up For Jesus’ upon insertion (apparently they’d sold out of them in The Christian Sex Aid Shop) it’s actually a Dalek key ring. I love it, it’s got moveable wheels and antennae and it’s great. See, I’m easy pleased I am. Diamond rings and all things bling hold no interest for this modest and cheap to run houseboy.

Shane’s cold is no better and he’s been a bit like a bear with a sore head this weekend, which is apt, seeing as he is a Bear with a sore head, and a sore foot, which I unfirly got the blame for, and no that isn’t a spelling mistake, nor am I trying to do a Cilla Black impression (we’ll have a lorra, lorra laffs luv) it’s intentional, a play on words no less, and yes that’s telling instead of showingI must stop reading these ‘how to write perfectly’ books. In the end they kill all incentive to put pen to paper or fingers to keyboard. Perfect technique, like perfect grammar, can end up being very boring. I’ve wandered off track now (sorry, Miss)

Getting back on track. After breakfast this morning Shane ambled barefoot into the living room in order to settle down to read the Sunday papers. Of course he had to find and step on the only pine needle that I’d missed when cleaning after taking the Christmas tree down. From the way he roared you’d be forgiven for thinking that someone had shot him in the arse with a blunderbuss loaded with pine needles.

I got into bother for shirking my cleaning duties and poor Dick got blasted for being startled. He’d ambled into the living room just ahead of the Bear carrying the remains of a mug of coffee. When Shane bellowed he got such a fright that he whirled round and not only crushed the Bear’s bare foot beneath his size ten trainers, but showered him with coffee dregs. Shane was not amused and we both got the rough edge of his tongue. The two of them then had a row about the wisdom of wearing or not wearing shoes in the house. It was an argument that Shane won hands down, and I do mean that.

I cooked a most excellent Sunday lunch today, roast leg of lamb accompanied by a redcurrant and rosemary sauce that I made myself from scratch, using fresh ingredients picked from the garden. As I picked them I was aided and abetted by a sweet little robin that serenaded me all the while (Lie detector says NO) oh all right, the robin was fictitious, I borrowed it off an old Christmas card and the sauce was out of a jar. I did take the lid off all by myself though and I also added a slug of port by way of tarting it up. The boyfriends enjoyed it and Shane fell asleep on the couch afterwards. Dick and I did the washing up and then went upstairs.

Sex was good. Dick took his time pleasuring me with the sweet, gentle consideration that always takes me back to the first time he ever made love to me, actually no, it takes me back to the second time he ever made love to me. The first time was good…fantastic in fact. However I woke up next morning not only aching from head to foot as a result of frenetic sexual activity, but also feeling terrified about what the repercussions of having sex with both my employers would be. I could barely look them in the face. I was so scared and embarrassed, fearing a humiliating dismissal from their house. It didn’t happen of course. I will write that story, one day. It deserves to be written, but not yet. I’m not ready.

Getting back to the here and now, Dick and I lay cuddling after sex and were just gearing up for a follow on session when the hall phone rang. It woke Shane up who as per usual bellowed PHONE! There are no flies on him you know, he recognises a phone ringing when he hears one and he’s not afraid to stick his neck out and say so. It didn’t matter that he was closer to the damn thing than I was. He yelled again. Dick made no effort to answer it so I thumped down the stairs shouting, nobody move. I’ll get it, it’s no trouble.

In the event it was one of those annoying automated public service recordings. Laying the receiver on the table I told Shane it was a man asking for him and then darted back upstairs. He soon followed. Thankfully the nap had restored his sense of humour and he let me live.

I’ve worn my Daddies out. They’re currently snoring away in each other’s arms. Hopefully they’ll stay that way for a while, especially Shane, who shortly after sexing me up said the one word guaranteed to strike fear deep into my heart and other inaccessible places: douche.

Friday 12th January 2007

I’ve been pretty much knee deep in shit all week and no, that doesn’t mean that douche man caught up with me. Dick gave me a helping hand in that respect last Monday night. Douching is actually a sensuous experience with him, whereas with Shane it’s a form of anal torture. I’d sooner push a gerbil carrying a miner’s lamp and wielding a shovel up my bottom than let him anywhere near it with a nozzle attached to a bag. Nor have I had the trots.

The shit in question, if you’ll pardon my French…not that I’m saying the French are shit or anything. I’m not Frenchophobic you understand. I enjoy a garlicky baguette and a day trip to Boulogne to pick up cheap booze with the best of them. The shit in question was more your metaphorical shit, though admittedly I did end up with a foot jammed down the u-bend of the downstairs toilet at one point. Fortunately it had just been flushed and squirted with Domestos, so fear not, there was no risk of dysentery.

Shane has had some problems at work this week, which hasn’t done much to enhance his legendary patience. Consequently he’s been a bit on the acerbic side, especially with me, acting less like a lover Daddy and more like a tetchy parent.

I annoyed him on Monday when I barged into the bathroom where he was trimming his nasal hair over the sink, almost causing him to almost perform a frontal lobotomy on himself when he shoved the tool up his left nostril. I was very apologetic, but did that save this poor houseboy’s bottom from several very harsh slaps? Nay, it did not.

I mega annoyed him on Tuesday when I downloaded some kind of Trojan virus onto the computer, as I innocently perused a site that specialised in the male body beautiful (it was art I tell you) Thereafter, mind boggling, eye popping, often stomach turning, porno pop ads would flash up along with scary messages like: the FBI, CIA, Scotland Yard and The Vice Squad are heading over to your house to seize your computer, etc. I was panic-stricken and tried everything I knew to delete the damn thing. The virus protection on the computer was useless. It just sat there and let the invader walk all over it.

Sometimes if you type HELP or similar, into google, you can find advice from people who’ve visited similar artistic sites and been stricken with similar computer beasties and who have found and pass on solutions and free fixes. So I tried a Vundofix, a Smitfraudfix and so on. Nothing helped and nowhere could I find a Shane’llkillmefix.

I resorted to doing what one should never do, when one has no clue about what one is doing. I started fiddling with the computer control panel deleting and uninstalling things in the hope I hit lucky and deleted whatever nasty viral programme had hijacked the computer. Of course all I did was further screw up the machine. By the time I’d finished interfering the only programme still in working order seemed to be the fucking virus.

Shane was absolutely livid and didn’t believe for a second that I’d downloaded the virus from an innocent site. My ears were smarting by the time he finished bawling me out. He said he wouldn’t mind, but it wasn’t as if I were deprived of sex in real life…generalised irritable nagging…I had no damn right fiddling with things I didn’t understand…more generalised and even more irritable nagging…and…irritably slaps at my backside…I could get it put right at my own expense…verbally chastises Dick for saying it could be put down as a business expense.

Dick was worried that my surfing porn sites indicated that I wasn’t sexually satisfied and asked if there was anything I’d viewed that I’d like to try? Seeing as we’d pretty much tried and regularly did what most of the sites pedalled as porn, I reassured him that I was more than satisfied, carefully avoiding all mention of a strange objects fetish site I’d come across, in case it gave him ideas about using my arse as a jar and bottle opener. Knowing him, it’s the sort of kinky thing that would appeal.

I had to get someone in to fix the computer, which cost me twenty quid before they even stepped inside the house. Of course if I’d had any sense I would have called someone in to fix it before Dick and Shane got home on Tuesday night and they’d have been none the wiser. To add insult to injury Shane made like a punishment virus and hijacked the keyboard and mouse so I couldn’t use the computer for a few days.

On Wednesday I annoyed him again when I forgot to pick up his favourite suit from the cleaners. He had an important meeting on Thursday morning and had wanted to wear it. I got a verbal roasting for that. To make matters worse I produced a foul evening meal and I don’t mean chicken or turkey. In the spirit of experimentation (in other words I couldn’t be bothered) I decided to invent a recipe and combined (chucked together in a crock pot) garlic, diced pork, chopped apple and new potatoes in what should have been a culinary masterpiece, but was in fact disgusting, not least because the pork was undercooked and squirting enough blood to qualify as an extra in a Kill Bill film.

Sir was most displeased and this houseboy’s ears tried desperately to heal over as yet another barrage of disapproval headed their way along with a warning that if I didn’t wake my ideas up I was heading for a hiding.

Standing in the kitchen afterwards, surrounded by the wreckage of the disastrous meal, I had one of those sod it moments. Throwing in the tea towel I lifted my jacket, left the mess, stealthily left the house and headed off to the Rose & Crown to have a quiet whine about my lot to the Lady Stella.

A little while later I thanked Mistress Artois for listening, kissed her goodbye, set down my glass and headed home. Shane wasn’t a bit suited about me waltzing off without a word, without my phone and without completing my duties in order to go sulking over a pint of lager. I made the mistake of rudely answering him back, i.e. I told him to get off my fucking case. As a consequence I ended up being strung from the ceiling by hooks inserted in my nipples (Lie detector says NO) okay, I admit that’s a fib. What can I say, some of the things that virus popped up on screen have scarred my innocent mind.

I might not have been strung up, but I was disciplined. Shane briskly stripped down my jeans and pants, bent me over the back of the couch and conveyed his displeasure via my disrespectful bare backside. It was a hard spanking and he didn’t stop until I was in tears. An exasperated Dick told me I was a silly immature brat and had got what I deserved, but he still took me to bed afterwards and cuddled me to sleep.

Shane and I had a small renaissance yesterday. I was duly deferential and made sure the suit he chose to wear was nicely pressed and that breakfast was just as he liked it with plenty of hot fresh coffee on tap. The bank meeting went well and for a Bear he was almost human when he came home. My enquiry of, Daddy, please don’t say we’re poor again, was met with an affectionate swat followed by a hug. I’d made a special effort with dinner and produced a rather fine curry made with goat meat that I’d bought from a farmers market in town. It was a hit and I was very proud of my first goat dish, but unfortunately it was quite strong and we all three had rather potent and pressing desires to move our bowels at pretty much the same time this morning. I believe experts (crapologists) refer to it as synchronised crapping, apparently it’s the male equivalent of an all female household having simultaneous periods. Being low down on the evolutionary scale, it fell to me to use the small downstairs loo, while Sirs Dick and Shane got the more

Reviews for More Fun with Dick and Shane

[katybethmckee · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This story was really a fun read. I loved the relationship between all three characters. I wonder if should worry that Gilli reminds me of myself. I could so relate when he overhears something and immediately goes to over react, when he goes to worse case scenario, when he doesn't want to take medication because that's admitting he has a condition, and taking things personally. I really enjoyed this story.

[ab_gayle_1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

What I enjoyed most about this book was the interspersed commentary about life in Britain, its politics, its customs all told in an amazingly common sense manner. This aspect is not often mentioned and attention is just centred on the hilarious antics. All these stem from the same source, Gilli's ability to analyse, over-analyse and pick the remaining bits to shreds before gathering them all up and starting again.

The interaction between the three men, the Dom/Sub-Dom/Sub all playing out their roles to perfection became just that, roleplay. Best summed up after Gilli's emotional trip home to see his motherDick and Shane arrived home to find me knee deep in snot and tears, sitting on the bottom stair, holding a soggy Christmas card and babbling incoherently about robins never sitting on the same branch. I didn’t even understand why I was crying. I only knew that the tears were an expression of some grief that I had yet to find words for, that I had yet to come to an understanding of. Maybe that’s just the way it is for most of us, and maybe most of us will never find the words, maybe we will never understand. Maybe the lucky, the successful people in life are the ones who accept that some things can never be fully explained and understood? Dick was all kind concern. He cuddled me, I was his honey, his sweetheart, his pretty baby and I wasn’t to cry because he was my Daddy and he’d make everything better. Shane was all sharp impatience. I was a tiresome boy, and what the hell had I been doing all day, not what I should have been doing, that much was abundantly clear. He did not appreciate coming home to find that dinner was going to be delayed because I’d neglected my duties in favour of having an impulsive, emotional away day. In future I was to consult with him before taking a workday off. He told me to sort myself out or he’d really give me something to cry about. The smack he applied to my backside was balanced by the kiss Dick applied to my lips. I got on with making dinner and felt better. Later, curled up on the couch between them, my head on Shane’s lap, my feet on Dick’s, I felt much more peaceful
Were Shane's words meant to be taken literally in this case? I don't think so, they were simply to give Gilli a constant, a certainty while he came to terms with his over-thinking.
Was it a healthy relationship? To answer that question, you have to go back to the section which describes what Gilli's life had been like after leaving home at 17. Yes, he was looking for a father figure, but in turn they were in Shane's case looking for a reminder of the youthfulness he'd lost* and in Dick's case an ability to top/care for/baby. If they wanted a mature acting adult, they could have easily turfed Gilli out. Leo would have taken him in like a shot.

* Good call there. I wrote this before I started the second book where I had my suspicions confirmed: His life would be bland without me around to put his watch through the washer, break the toilet, ruin the computer and forget to pick his stuff up from the cleaners. I keep him young.