The Winkle On The Bus And Other Stuff

By Gillibran Brown

Another Stand Alone Chapter of Memoir from Celebrated Houseboy Gillibran Brown - Legend in His Own Lunchtime

So what’s this Winkle stuff all about then? Basically it’s the houseboy doing what he does best - chuntering and wittering about stuff in general, anything to avoid getting stuck into the housework.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gillibran Brown
• Release date: Dec 6, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370636778

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

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Gillibran Brown

The Winkle On the Bus

And Other Stuff

Memoirs of a Houseboy

Copyright © Gillibran Brown 2016

Gillibran Brown asserts the right to be identified as the author of this work

All Rights Reserved

This electronic book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, 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 purchase your own copy. Thank you for not stealing the hard work of this independent scribbler, you’ll get your reward in heaven, or hell if you prefer.

The winkle on the bus ‘adventure’ (such as it was) happened one day in February 2016, but like most things in life it was part of a butterfly effect* rather than a truly isolated event. Its origins come under the loose remit of ‘other stuff’ and stretched back to the previous autumn, October 2015, so that’s where I’ll start. I’ve run out of magic glitter (never fear, Peeps, it is on order) so we’ll have to rely on the Dorothy from Kansas mode of travel for this memoir chapter, so dig out your ruby brogues and slip them on. Don’t worry if they pinch a bit. I’ve got Compeed plasters in the event of blisters. Got the shoes on? Great, let’s go then. Everyone hold hands, close your eyes and start clicking those heels together. Travel back with me. It won’t take long, you’ll be back in time for tea and there’s no danger involved so you won’t need insurance.

*Disclaimer: use of the term ‘butterfly effect’ does not mean Ashton Kutcher features anywhere in this account. Sorry, Peeps, I did try to hire him as a guest star, but his fees were too high for this humble houseboy.

Dedicated with love and thanks to all loyal Fluff Bunnies and Gillifans - I swear I will help pay for your psychiatric treatment one of these days! ;-)

The Winkle On the Bus

And Other Stuff

I think October has a beauty all its own. The trees are donning their autumn finery, glowing in robes of red and gold, enjoying a final fling before winter winds begin to strip them down to stark bones. Mornings are dark, cool and often misty, but the days can still brighten into something reminiscent of summer. It’s a bridge month, a crossing point between one season and another. As such I want to embrace and love it, to bathe in those last rays of temperate sunshine in preparation for the cold days ahead. October 2015 was no exception.

I watched the garden gradually take on its autumn livery from the sanctuary of the summerhouse, curled up with a magazine or favourite book and a mug of tea or coffee as I took a break from the daily graft. I’d been hijacked by a virus in September, the little bugger had kicked the stuffing out of me and I found myself still needing a couple of good breaks in the day to recharge my batteries. Well, that was my excuse and I was sticking to it. Without doubt such days brought home to me how fortunate I was to be able to arrange my work schedule pretty much as I liked, within reason of course. I mean I couldn’t swan off to punt a boat down the river on a sudden whim, not without permission and a written promise to wear a life jacket.

Then, one fine morning, a drop of coffee signalled the end of my barmy, or should that be balmy, autumn idyll. By drop of coffee I mean literally a drop of coffee, mug and all. One moment I’d been enjoying drinking the coffee it contained and the next it was lying in pieces amid its contents. I stared aghast at the shards of bone china littering the summerhouse floor. It had been a favourite mug (a stocking filler gift from Dick the previous Christmas) depicting a series of perky robins amid festive flora. I’d loved it. I’m like that you see, I get attached to inanimate objects, often imbuing them with near human qualities, it’s part of my charm, or indication of mental instability, however you choose to look at it.

The loss of the mug was upsetting enough, but worse was the fact I couldn’t remember dropping it, but dropped it I had, the evidence was there before me. I had some splashes of coffee on my Vans and the hems of my jeans, but luckily the majority of the liquid had bypassed me in favour of the floor.

My heart hammered as I surveyed the mess. Anxiety toppled contentment. How the hell had it happened? No matter how hard I tried I simply could not recall dropping the mug. It must have made a hell of a clatter as it struck the floor, but I couldn’t recall hearing it. To say I was shaken would be an understatement. I searched for an explanation. Was it an episode of acute deafness brought on by raging earwax? Perhaps some weird flash form of Alzheimer’s disease had afflicted me or perhaps I’d been abducted by aliens, experimented on, had my brain wiped and been returned to earth without me knowing a thing about it? The mug had been knocked over by a clumsy alien doing a runner before I came round and spotted him. Yeah right.

Squatting, I began to pick up pieces of shattered china, sad at the loss of a cherished possession and not just in a material sense. The mug meant Dick listened to me, that he remembered my fondness for the red-breasted bird. It had been a small but thoughtful gift and now it was gone.

After mopping up the coffee,