Christmas At Leo's - Memoirs Of A Houseboy (14 page)

“Put your hands down, turn around.”

I obeyed with a sigh of relief. It was short lived. He was sitting on the willow bedroom chair, looking as grim as grim could be. Punishment clearly wasn’t over. He motioned me over.

“Here.”

I walked over and stood in the spot indicated by his pointing finger.

“Hands behind your back. Don’t speak without my permission.”

I put my hands behind my back, stiffening my legs to try and stop them trembling. There was no sign of a paddle and his belt was still around his waist. It was small comfort. I was probably going to be taken over his knee and given a hand spanking. As well documented, he’s a formidable spanker.

“This Christmas was never going to be an easy one for you, Gilli, even without the alcohol issue. I know you’re fretting about your mother, of course you are. I wish I could change that situation, but I can’t and neither can you. For the moment she’s as well as she can be and that’s something to be glad about. Hopefully she’ll have a good Christmas, which brings me to our Christmas.”

I rashly interjected. “Surely you can see it will be kinder to let me stay at home, Shane…OW!” I yelped as he leaned forward and slapped the side of my thigh.

“You were told not to speak without permission. For your information I don’t care about kind, and it’s Daddy to you until further notice. You don’t deserve the privilege of using my first name. You’re not grown up enough.”

He sat back in the chair, fixing his fine green eyes on me. “Here’s the arrangement for the holidays. Listen carefully. You’re going to Leo’s, and you’re going to be pleasant to him and everyone else. You’re going to keep that loose mouth of yours in check. If you speak out of turn, I will punish you on the spot.”

He stood up. Somehow he seemed even taller than usual, towering over me. The network of nerves in my body tingled harder, sensing something was nigh.

“Go in the bathroom. Fetch what’s in the bath.” He glanced at the bedside clock. “Two minutes. Move.” He clapped his hands at me.

I hurried to the bathroom, my heart thumping. What the hell was I going to find? I hoped it wasn’t enema equipment. I hate being given an enema at the best of times. It’s so humiliating.

What I saw in the bath made my mouth go dry, my eyes open wide and my penis shrivel to the size of a monkey nut. The water I’d heard running earlier hadn’t been to wash his hands with. It had been to soak something with - a straight handled cane, a senior one. Rattan needs a little moisture from time to time to help keep it springy and supple. A dried out cane is fit only for use as a plant support. After using a cane Shane often wipes it with a damp cloth and he sometimes stands them in the shower to allow the steam to help condition them. He seldom uses an actual wet cane in play, because a wet cane has increased density and therefore increased intensity. If you’re planning a lengthy scene you don’t want to mark too much too soon, not unless you’re a mega sadist.

I jumped as he shouted from the bedroom.

“Hurry up, Gillibran, or I’m going to start counting.”

Steeling myself, I bent to retrieve the fearful instrument, feeling queasy as I lifted it from the warm water. It felt heavy, like my heart. I dragged back to the bedroom with it. “Daddy?”

He was unmoved by the plea in my voice.

“I’m going to give you the deterrent stroke I should have given you when I caned you in the autumn. Given your confrontational mood, I think you need to know what the senior cane is capable of. I also think you need a clear reminder of who is in charge in this house.”

He’d positioned the willow chair and placed a folded towel over the back of it to cushion the hard edge. He wasted no more time. Taking the dripping cane from me with one hand, he used his other to manipulate me over the chair, instructing me to rest my forearms on the seat and to keep my legs closed and straight. He lifted and folded back the hem of my robe, exposing my bottom. Panic set in. I tried to get up.

“DOWN!”

He accompanied the roar with a slap to my bared backside. I resumed position, flinching as the thick cane was lined up against the underside of my buttocks. He positioned and repositioned it calculating the area and angle of the stroke. Water drops trickled from it, cooling the sting from the slap he’d applied. Not for long. The stick drew away. I closed my eyes tight, holding my breath. There was a moist whoosh like a sudden squall of wind through wet tree branches. It was followed by an almighty crack. The cane impacted my buttocks, flattening muscle. A split second of numbness gave way to searing pain as the cane was lifted and the muscle sprang back. It was excruciating. It felt like he’d applied a white-hot poker to my arse cheeks and it was burning into the flesh. Shrieking, I tried to push up, but he placed a hand between my shoulder blades, keeping me bent over the chair.

“Let me repeat, yet again, you are not allowed alcohol.” He tapped the tip of the cane against the back of my left calve. “Break the rule and I’ll break this stick on your backside.”

He turned down the hem of my bathrobe and then took my arm, levering me upright. “Here’s a sobering fact for you, Gillibran. Even if your epilepsy disappeared tomorrow, I wouldn’t give you back the privilege of drinking alcohol. It’s a lifetime ban regardless of circumstances.” He held out the cane. “Put it back in the rack and be quick about it.”

I took the cane without looking at him. Taking it to the playroom, I crammed it back in the rack with its vicious brethren. Using the sleeve of my robe I tried to stem the tears running down my face. The stroke had been savage, applied for maximum effect. The pain from it was still building in sickening pulsing waves. The junior cane had hurt enough, but was nothing compared to the bite of the senior. I didn’t need to examine my bottom to know it was bruised from the single stroke. Six would be unbearable, even if the cane were not soaked beforehand.

My tears weren’t just a reaction to pain and Shane’s displeasure. I’d brought it on myself. I wouldn’t have been punished at all if I’d taken what had been offered when I returned from my run. The opportunity had been there to confide my unhappy thoughts and conflicted feelings. In return I would have received the three C’s from him: care, counsel and comfort. The thing is I didn’t want them. For some reason I wanted to hold my anger, not let it go. It was like a hard black ball in my gut. I wanted to bounce it around and slam it off walls.

Dick had come upstairs. I heard him ask Shane if I was all right.

“Go back downstairs. You are not fussing around him. He’s been given every opportunity to say what’s on his mind. If he wants to act out rather than talk to us then he can damn well take the consequences. I mean it, Richard. The boy seems to have something of a death wish of late. All his behaviour indicates a need for a firm hand. If unrelenting discipline is all he’s able to accept, then so be it. If you want to be busy, put the Christmas presents into my car.”

Dick returned downstairs. Shane walked into the playroom. “Stop blubbing.” He crooked his forefinger. “You’ve wasted enough time. There are things to do.”

I followed him back into the bedroom. The willow chair was back in its usual place. He pointed at the bed, from which he’d removed the travel cases.

“Strip it off. There’s no need to make it up again. You can do it when we come home.”

I stripped off the duvet cover, sheet and pillowcases, piling them on the landing to take down to the utility room. He shook the pillows and folded the duvet up, lining them neatly at the top of the bare mattress. He then put the travel cases back on the bed. He got another one out of the closet.

“Leo is hosting an event on Boxing Day, so we’ll need leathers. Pack my studded trousers and a waistcoat. Put in the crotchless trousers with the laced sides for Dick and a vest and thong. He’ll also need his suspension harness and his padlock collar. You’ll find a hank of new hemp rope in the paddle drawer; pack it along with my knife and my purpleheart paddle. Pack your collar too, and your leather trousers.”

My stomach lurched. “Why? You don’t usually allow me to play. I don’t want to either, not in front of loads of people.”

“I’m not interested in what you want. If I say you’ll play, then you will play. You are mine to use as I wish. I’ve a mind to demonstrate spanking techniques for punishing rebellious subs, using you as a model.”

“You don’t mean it.”

“Don’t I? Some public humiliation might make you more willing to toe the line in our private life.” He stabbed a stern finger. “I don’t recall giving you leave to speak freely, so shut up and get on with packing or I’ll put some spanking techniques into practice here and now.”

I fell silent, packing the instructed items, while he chose and packed other clothing, and not just on his own behalf. He selected clothes for Dick and me too. I didn’t dare object.

When the cases were packed he stood them on the landing ready to take downstairs. I was then given leave to get ready.

“Wash your face, scrape that fluff off it and then get dressed. I’ll put the cases in the car.”

I went into the bathroom. It was a relief to be out of his presence. The bedroom was empty when I re-emerged, having washed and shaved. He’d laid out clothes for me to wear: loose cotton boxers, a pair of jogger jeans, a white t-shirt and a grey hooded top. It wasn’t my favourite ensemble, but I suppose it would be comfortable.

Undoing my robe I slipped it off, inspecting myself in the full-length mirror, grimacing as I surveyed the livid ridge marring my backside. I touched it, feeling its heat, giving a whimper of self-pity. Sitting was going to be uncomfortable.

I got dressed, did my hair, slipped on my socks and shoes and then walked over to the window, looking out, chewing at my thumbnail. I didn’t want to participate in a crowded Christmas. I wanted to be free to get drunk and brood on bitter grievances. The ball of anger in my gut began to bounce. Shane was a brute. I didn’t want to be with him, or Dick. I was sick of the pair of them, sick of being told what I could and couldn’t do, sick of the whole fucking confining lifestyle. The ball stilled. I experienced a flicker of fearful anxiety. Was I really sick of it, and them, or was it just frustration because I felt thwarted?

Dick’s voice made me start. I hadn’t heard him enter the bedroom.

“I think you’ve chewed that nail as short as it can go. Leave it.”

I took my hand away from my mouth and crossed my arms, continuing to look out of the window.

“You look nice, honey.”

“I look a mess. I hate these jeans. I must have been fucking delusional when I bought them. The shop security guard should have arrested me on my way out, for intent to commit a crime against fashion.”

“Don’t contradict me. If I say you look nice you look nice, and you do.”

“Well, I don’t feel it.” I turned away from the window to look at him. “He caned me.”

“I know, sweetheart. I heard.”

“Did you know he was going to do it?”

“No.”

“I didn’t deserve it. I hate him.” I resumed window staring.

“Every boy hates his Daddy from time to time, usually when he’s not getting his own way over something.”

“I don’t get my way on anything. I don’t want to go to Leo’s. I’m not in the mood for Christmas this year.”

Dick’s next words took me by surprise.

“You don’t like Christmas at the best of times, Gilli. I’ve noticed before. You say you do, but it’s untrue. I think you think you ought to like it, so you try. You like aspects of it, such as your beloved tree and pretty lights, but the actual day seems to gnaw at you in some way, even when you did have permission to drink. You always, always, find something to squall over.”

I mulled over his words. He was right. Christmas did make me feel vaguely unhappy. It had done for years, but never more so than this year. I tried to swallow the lump in my throat, but it was stuck there.

As an occasion Christmas is loaded with emotion. It’s supposed to be about happy families, but happy families are almost as big a fable as Santa Claus. Christmas brings to the fore things you might otherwise keep at the back of your mind.

The Christmas when I’d been fourteen had been bad enough, but the year I turned sixteen was my worst ever. Lee and his family had jaunted down to Plymouth to spend Christmas with his grandparents, so I couldn’t go to their house as I had the previous year. I’d enjoyed being part of their celebrations. I felt comfortable and welcome at Lee’s house.

There was no question of me going to Castle Morrison for the festive knees up. My coming out had had repercussions. Frank was getting stick from his family about having a homo for a stepson. His mother had made clear she couldn’t allow me under her roof again, not knowing
what
I was. I wouldn’t have gone even if there had been an invite. I told Frank so to his face and told him to tell his redneck ma she could stick her turkey up her fat homophobic arse. Yes, yes, I know. I was a very rude boy.

I honestly believed mum would stay home that year, for my sake. To be fair, I think she broached the subject of staying, but Frank told her I didn’t deserve the consideration. He kicked up a stink and she gave in. I think she felt bad about it, but she truly didn’t like falling out with him. I also think she enjoyed being part of a big family Christmas. She tried to persuade me it would be fun for me to have the day and the house to myself. She said she’d leave a nice Christmas dinner and I could watch whatever I wanted on the telly.