Gilliflowers (11 page)

cream into the dry patches on my face.

As I write, the sun is shining through the study window, highlighting the dust everywhere. I suspect my dry skin might be responsible for the apparent increase in the wretched stuff. If I gather it all up and mix it with water I’ll probably be able to reproduce myself - a reconstituted houseboy. Knowing my luck though some skin cell debris from flies would end up in the mix resulting in a houseboy with wings and a propensity for shitting on ceilings, which wouldn’t please Shane.

Talking of Shane I think I’ll close the blinds in case he comes in and sees the layers of dust. I don’t want to be nagged again and accused of shirking on my duties.

Dick is in one of the lazy moods he gets from time to time. He usually can’t wait to get on the golf course on a Saturday morning, but he couldn’t be bothered today.

He’s got a fungal infection under one of his big toenails and didn’t fancy cramming his poor tender tootsie into a tight golf shoe. I bought him some anti-fungal spray and some cream to see if they help. To cheer him up I told him if the cream didn’t work and the infection got worse he might have to have his entire toenail removed and the fungus scraped away. Squeamishly paling to the hue of a snowdrop he cuffed me smartly across the apex of my arse and called me a horrible little bugger.

Shane breached the study ramparts a few moments ago to state if I thought I was sitting on my arse in front of the computer for hours on end I could think again. I have another half hour and that’s it. He then demanded to know why I had the blinds closed on such a lovely day and opened them. I braced myself to take delivery of more scolding, but thankfully his dust radar seems to be turned off today. He ruffled my hair on the way out. I like it when he does that.

Dick spent the morning in bed. He got up for lunch, but only after Shane insisted he did so. They had a classic exchange:

“Are you planning on getting out of bed today, Dick?”

“I have no immediate plans, but I haven’t ruled it out completely. I’ll keep you posted.”

Dick immediately became Richard and was told to get his sassy arse out of bed pronto.

After lunch he stretched out on the couch playing golf on his PSP and watching the horse racing on telly with Shane periodically nagging him about accounts and tax deadlines, it being that time of year again. Dick prefers to ignore such things for as long as possible. He listened carefully to Shane, nodding in earnest at certain points and agreeing, yes indeed it was best to keep on top of things. And then he went right back to playing on the PSP and phoning in bets to William Hill.

It didn’t need an animal behaviourist to predict the beta wolf was in grave danger of falling foul of the alpha wolf. Sure enough, both PSP and mobile ended up being confiscated, leaving Dick with nothing but a nail buffer to occupy him. I don’t think he really minded too much today. I suspect he was deliberately pushing for a reaction from Shane. Sometimes he needs reassurance he’s still boy to Shane’s Daddy.

They’ve since had a bit of a kiss and cuddle together and they’re fine.

Penny called to chat with Shane. For once the topic of conversation didn’t revolve around their dad. Tests have been done and results are being waited for. Her concern this time was for The Muppet. He’s ill with a chest infection and she’s worried about him. Poor Chas. I’ll send him a get-well card.

Shane has just popped his head around the door to give me another time check.

I had a bit of a contretemps with the Supreme Authority last night after the Indian takeaway we’d ordered for dinner arrived. I love Indian cuisine, the spicier the better.

The restaurant we order from does a particularly good Gosht Kalia, a spicy lamb dish.

It’s one of my favourites. To my mind an Indian meal is made even better when washed down with a good quality chilled lager, it’s the small, seemingly insignificant things that make life good. I had several bottles of the aforementioned resting cool in the fridge. I set the table in the dining room. Shane doesn’t like us eating takeaway in the lounge. He says it makes the place smell for days on end. He’s a tad fussy like that.

As I busied myself with serving the food, Shane got the drinks, returning to the dining room with two bottles of lager, one of which he handed to Dick before pouring the other into the glass set by his place at the table. I looked at him in some puzzlement. I know he doesn’t often deign to play waiter and is therefore lacking the requisite skills, but surely even he could have managed to simultaneously carry three bottles of lager from the fridge in the kitchen to the table in the dining room. Upon questioning he admitted yes he could have managed to carry three bottles, but saw no need, as only two bottles were required.

I asked why.

He told me.

He thought it best if I forewent alcohol in the wake of the fit I’d had the previous day. He took the opportunity to smoothly reiterate his belief that lager had played its part in priming my brain in the first place. I was not best suited, arguing I felt fine and one measly bottle of lager wouldn’t do me any harm at all. Shane was adamant. I wasn’t having alcohol in any quantity whatsoever. Any fit, whatever its origin, meant my brain would be sensitised for a few days and thus more vulnerable to other triggers, like alcohol. I was annoyed and appealed to Dick. It was the wrong thing to do. I was sternly reprimanded. Shane had made the decision. It wasn’t up for negotiation and I had no business putting Dick on the spot.

It was one of those situations where I found submitting to a ruling extremely difficult. In itself it wasn’t a huge issue and the decision wasn’t arbitrarily taken, there was sound reasoning behind it. All the same I utterly resented it. I’d been looking forward to the meal and part of the pleasure was now lost, because an element I enjoyed had been removed without me having any choice in the matter.

Instead of submitting gracefully and getting on with enjoying what I did have I took to brooding. I hardly tasted the lamb because my mouth was too full of sour grapes. The discipline lifestyle isn’t easy at times, believe me, you can’t decide you want a day off because you’re not in the mood. The desire to yield to an authority other than myself is genuine. However the desire to put personal wants first can still be overwhelming and lead to a powerful internal struggle.

After we’d eaten and I’d cleared away I went into the lounge where Dick and Shane were settled on the couch watching television. Instead of doing what I usually do and forcing my adorable person between them, I pointedly took it to the chair furthermost from the couch, dropping down onto it with a heavy air of disgruntlement. I then complained about the ‘shit’ program they were watching.

Oh foolish houseboy. In the blink of an eye Shane was on his feet and this tiresome boy was hauled from the chair and propelled across the room. In a clear illustration of authority I was seated firmly on the floor at his feet, as he re-took his seat on the couch. It was not the way I’d envisaged the evening turning out.

Sitting in disgraced exile on the rug I had an opportunity to reflect. Okay, so I’d been bloody annoyed about the lager, but I should have gotten over it. It wasn’t as if he’d denied me it just for the sake of lording it over me. He did it because he worries about my health and was acting in my best interests, something I often fail to do on my own behalf. It’s an aspect of his role to make such decisions and it’s an aspect of mine to accept them. Only, as well documented, I’m not always good at accepting executive decisions.

Red Alert:
houseboy tangent coming up.
I was once a member of several online groups focussed around SM, BDSM, and Domestic Discipline practices. I joined them in an effort to come to an understanding of the emotional and physical needs that drive my personality and to find some kind of frame of reference. Some of the punishments inflicted on submissive partners made scary reading; though with regard to the SM and BDSM lifestyles they had legitimacy. They were an understood and desired part of the consensual
play
and sexual dynamic between the partners concerned.

On the contrary, it was some of the punishments outlined in the ‘loving’ 24/7

domestic discipline forums that really freaked me out. Shane can be a harsh disciplinarian, but not a jot as harsh as some of the people on those forums. They talked about making their partners drink and eat things that made them sick, or making them take strong laxatives or even depriving them of food altogether. Now to me that’s more torture than care-focussed discipline.

There was one guy who boasted about coating his wife’s tongue once a week with a ‘deterrent’ solution made from bitter aloes, as a means of reminding her to ‘watch her mouth’ when speaking to him. It didn’t seem a loving action to me. It was more like a ringed on the calendar cruelty, a cold act of power-based sadism he really looked forward to. It wasn’t my scene at all. I couldn’t relate.

As a result I concluded the only frame of reference I needed was my own. Writing down my thoughts is a far more beneficial way of exploring and understanding my emotions and needs within the context of the lifestyle I’ve chosen to live in.

Anyway, he said, getting off his tangent (sorry, Miss) as I said, Shane forbade me alcohol, not because he had a sudden whim to do so, or because it was Friday night and it was ringed on the calendar. Nor did he do it in order to boost his ego, or because he got his rocks off on inflicting lager deprivation. He did it because he believed it was the right thing to do for me. He was employing his power in a protective capacity. There was probably also an element of discipline involved in the decision, a punishment for drinking an extra half-pint the previous Monday.

Once I accepted his decision in the spirit it had been made I immediately felt better. It wasn’t like I was being denied booze forever. It was one night only. Tipping back my head to gaze up at my domestic lord I offered an apology for my shitty attitude. The apology was accepted and we got on with the rest of our evening in peace and harmony, apart from a tussle between Dick and I over possession of the ‘comfy’ cushion. Shane took charge and ended the dispute by putting me over his left thigh and Dick over his right thigh and spanking both our arses simultaneously. It was more play than punishment and we ended up laughing and then we ended up in bed for even more play.

It’s time to apply the final full stop to this page of jottings. I’m being told my half hour has already overrun by five minutes. If I don’t shift under my own steam then Shane will shift me under his. I know from experience that his steam has a tendency to scald certain parts of this houseboy so I shall comply with Daddy’s wishes and bid a sweet adieu to this small chapter in my life and times.

Batten down the hatches. I feel a long entry coming up, as the bishop said to the rent boy. The week past has been a busy one and varied in its way.

We had an unexpected guest come to stay with us last Monday night, a friend of Leo and Shane’s from way back, a bloke called Ray. He was attending a family funeral. The deceased wasn’t a close family member, but rather a relative whose passing at least demanded the respect of acknowledgment.

The funeral took place late on Monday afternoon, after which Ray called Shane to say he was in the area and he’d like to call in and say hello before heading home to Aberdeen on Tuesday. Shane invited him to stay over with us rather than put up in a hotel for the night.

Ray turned out to be a trim quiet man in his late fifties. Usually quiet people make me nervous. I always feel the reason they’re quiet is because I’ve done something to upset them or they don’t like me for some reason. (I think I might be mildly paranoid.) Ray came across as one of those people who simply don’t make small talk.

If he felt a pressing need to add to the conversation he did so with easy confidence.

There was no shyness about him.

I liked him, perhaps because he seemed un-fazed by our domestic set-up and my part in it. He didn’t blink an eye when Shane dryly introduced me using the words ‘this is our third member, young Gillibran. I’m sure you’ve heard about him along the grapevine.’ Ray laughed and said indeed he had. Shaking my hand he said he was pleased to meet me.

Shane later explained Ray’s ease with our arrangement. He’s involved in a rather unorthodox ménage relationship of his own. He lives in happy harmony with his wife and their jointly owned live in male slave of thirteen plus years. That being the case our lifestyle was hardly going to shock him.

Shane and Dick often adopt Master and slave roles when they’re playing. It really turns Dick on, but it must be a very different dynamic to a consensual 24/7 real life Master/slave relationship. I can hardly imagine what it must be like to willingly give up
all
aspects of freedom even down to the ownership and use of your body, and sometimes I believe it can be harsh use.

While Dick and I are subject to Shane’s authority at all times (and of course I’m also subject to Dick’s) we still retain a good deal of personal autonomy. We get to wear clothes for a start and at least we’re allowed on the furniture, most of the time anyway. We also retain the right to say no to sex if we’re not in the mood.

I think permanent M/s relationships are probably akin to a religious calling to those who practice them, involving, as they do, a very complex emotional and psychological interplay between the participants. When you think about it most religious sects have some form of M/s dynamic contained within their structure. The followers are devoted servants of a Master to whom they give their all, even if that master’s tenets are not always comfortable or easy to adhere to.

That said, Dick and Shane’s decisions aren’t always easy to adhere to, but there is at least a potential for negotiation and compromise. It might not always happen, but it exists, which I don’t believe is the case in M/s relationships.

Wednesday was not a good day. I woke up with what’s known in my neck of the woods as ‘a right cob on’ and no, that isn’t a euphemism for a hard on. It means a shitty mood. From the moment I opened my eyes nothing felt right. I hadn’t slept well, which was perhaps part of the problem. I woke up at about half past two and couldn’t get back off to sleep. There’s nothing more annoying than being wide-awake in the early hours when your bed partners are soundly sleeping. It feels like a conspiracy. I finally dropped off again at about five only to be rudely awoken by the alarm going off at six.