Revelations

By Gillibran Brown

Here it is at long last, Revs - book six in the ‘Memoirs of a Houseboy’ series.

And they say miracles don’t happen. Ha!

Revs isn’t about revelations in a grand sense, so don’t build your hopes up. There’s nothing biblical. I’m not a long-lost prince. I don’t have connections to mafia-style villains. There is no finding of ancient treasure or uncovering of plots to kill royalty and take over the world. My revelations are small fry. Basically, it’s just stuff, stuff about me and about other people too, though mainly about me, because I am that egotist, possibly even a narcissist, but nice with it. I wouldn’t personally harm a fly, not unless it harmed me first and even then I’d yell for one of the men folk to do it.

Anyway. It’s stuff that happened ages back, stuff I couldn’t write about at the time for one reason or another: I was too close, too raw, too emotional and maybe just not mature enough.

Read on, and if you don’t like it, then you’ve lost nothing but a few quid and a small portion of time.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gillibran Brown
• Release date: Oct 24, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005304836

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

Gillibran Brown

Revelations

Memoirs of a Houseboy

Copyright © Gillibran Brown 2021

Smashwords Edition

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.

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

Table of Contents:

Dedication

Preface

Home Again, Jiggety-Jig

Auld Lang Syne

Hobo Dancing

Bastard Craig

Round Up

When George Michael Sings

End of Days

Requiem Revelations

Bad Blood

Another Round Up

Seed Sowing

Annus Horribilis - Overview

Rocks Under Tide

Hitting The Reset Button

Summerhouse Summary

Annus Horribilis - Annulled

Dedicated to my countless (two) wonderful fans, Doris and Walter. Cheers, mates, and no you can’t have a refund if you don’t like it. Would Tesco give you a refund after you’d taken a bite out of a Jammie Dodger and decided you didn’t like it? I think not.

Preface

The first entry in my personal journal for the year 2009 reads: here we are at the start of another year. What will it bring, other than my mother’s death? She’s nearing the front of the queue for Heaven’s Gate. There’s no saying when it will open and she’ll pass through, but pass she will at some point in the coming months. The doctors have spoken. Her treatment plan has switched to a spine-chilling end of life plan and consists solely of palliative care. Part of me believes the doctors have got it wrong and she’ll go on living. I suppose I have that in common with all who face the loss of a loved one.

Those words didn’t transfer to my online diary, or anywhere else. They were too painful. I didn’t want to share or even own them.

Brevity pretty much set the diary precedent for 2009 and also 2010, the years I later titled my annus horribilis years. Looking back, I can see how troubled I was. I lost all enthusiasm for wittering and yarn spinning. The diary fell by the wayside. Entries were sparse, consisting of unsynchronised snapshots. Chapters of this boy’s modest life story were left untold, and I guess that’s what this ledger is about, telling some of those untold stories for better or worse.

So, Gilli, I hear you ask (and really I wish you wouldn’t because your constant interruptions ruin my train of thought) is this slice of houseboy witterings going to be all doom and gloom then, because it sounds like it? Yeah, afraid so, people, so stock up on antidepressants and alcohol and make sure you have the Samaritans on standby ready to take your call when it all becomes too much.

Nah! I’m just kidding. There were some lighter moments. Such is life - a palette of many shades. Hmm, methinks I should get a job writing naff platitudes for a fridge magnet company.

In terms of time, this tome picks up directly from ‘Christmas at Leo’s.’ Why? Because it’s relevant and even if it isn’t relevant I want it to, so there!

Don your protective eye goggles, folks, while I uncork my handy phial of magic travel glitter to whisk us back to the latter days of December 2008. We don’t want a visit from the health and safety executive if sparkle particles go astray. Here goes. Sprinkle-sprinkle. Glitter-glitter...

Home Again, Jiggety-Jig

Silence held sway in the car as we drove home after spending the Christmas festivities at Leo’s place. I suppose we were all tired in our way, fatigued from rich food, company and, in Dick and Shane’s case, kinky shenanigans. Boxing Day had been Bondage Day at Leo’s with a big BDSM party. Dick and Shane had indulged in full, but I had been more observer than participant. As I’ve said before, public play isn’t really my thing. I’m too self-conscious, too insecure. I’m not into dangling my dick in front of all and sundry. I prefer privacy when it comes to sex play, just the men folk and me.

Slouched in the back of the car, seated behind Dick, I stared out of the window, watching the scenery slip by without seeing it. I was picturing the den at home, and the bed where I’d dumped the snowflake-patterned box my mother had gifted me for Christmas. A memory box she called it, something to remember her by when she was gone. Gone of course being a euphemism for death.

I shivered, shifting in my seat, folding my arms tight across my chest. Leaning my head against the car window I closed my eyes. I hadn’t expected a Christmas gift from my mother. She didn’t have a lot of money to spare, and, as she’d observed, there was nothing she could give that I didn’t already have. On reflection, I would have preferred a token gift of man smellies, or some cheerful sweet treats, instead of a box filled with paraphernalia from my past.

Memory box. I grimaced at the thought. Whose memories though? Not mine, not really. The memories it held were her memories, alluding to aspects of our relationship she had cherished and wished to remember, the board book and Lego brick years when I was small. I had other memories, less cosy ones. The thought made me uneasy, as it always did. I felt disloyal and mean minded. My mother was not a bad person, far from it, and yet, without doubt, I had issues with her.

The box held more than memories. It held a request. Mum had enclosed a CD of Scottish folk songs. One of the songs it contained had been her father’s favourite. Prior to my pre-Christmas visit she had never mentioned her father, my grandfather. She had always been a closed book when it came to her past. She gave nothing away.

Anyway, she wanted me to learn and sing ‘her dad’s’ song at her funeral. Tears pricked at my closed eyelids. I didn’t want to hear the song, let alone learn and sing it. To do so meant accepting her death as imminent. The request felt like a burden.

Dick’s voice broke the silence in the car. You okay back there, hun?

Fine. I opened my eyes, blinking away moisture.

The silence returned, as if none of us knew how to fill it.

Dick leaned forward and turned the radio on. The poignant sound of ‘Bronski Beat’s’ ‘Smalltown Boy’ filled the car interior. Shane, not generally a fan of pop music, drummed his fingers on the steering wheel in time to the beat. Of course, I smiled to myself. Bronski Beat had been big on the landscape of his youth when synth-pop had ruled the airwaves. The song lyrics brought a lump to my throat. Decades on they were still starkly relevant for so many gay men and women. And why? Because archaic organised religion still influences social attitudes. Its malevolent canker has eroded the heart and soul of humanity, encouraging and justifying hate, exclusion and intolerance. Yes. I know. I’m ranting again. It’s what I do. Get over it.

I cast my mind back to the day I’d left my own small town for good. I didn’t have a little black case for my belongings. All I owned was shoved in a shabby backpack and two yellow Netto carrier bags. I posted the door key through the letterbox of my sordid little bedsit, on which I owed rent arrears, and headed for the railway station.

I boarded the train I hoped would carry me to a new life, working a job with live in facilities. I didn’t actually have the job, just an artfully procured interview. In my mind though I had determined the job was mine. I had to have it. I had to get away from my small town before it, or rather some of the people in it, killed me.

You see, I was a wanted man at that point, wanted primarily by a bloke who went by the nickname of Spud. He was so named for the odd shape of his head, which looked like a large potato, not that anyone ever called him Spud to his face, not unless they were suicidal and fancied certain death. Most people addressed him as ‘Mr Quinn’ in tones of fear induced respect.

So why did Mr Spud/Quinn want me? Not for love, that’s for sure. I owed him what I had none of, money, lots of it, most of it exorbitant interest accumulated on a few small loans. He wasn’t the charitable type and he didn’t have a better nature to appeal to, or any mercy to throw myself on. He was a cunning, cold-blooded, back street shark and he wanted what he considered his due, or he’d have one of his brutal lackeys teach me a lesson about money management and debt repayment.

To say I was scared would be an understatement. I was bricking it. There were people limping around with metal pins in their legs after a lesson taught by a Spud thug, and they were the lucky ones. Rumours abounded about allotments whose produce owed its prize-winning status to more than shop bought fertiliser. Most of the stories were probably urban myth, factoids, but still. Just as there’s a link between smoke and fire, so there’s a link between myth and fact, no matter how tenuous. I didn’t want to be a factoid casualty.

In short, my life was out of control and I saw running away as my only option. A fresh start in a fresh place and everything would be okay. Such was my hope anyway.

I’d cried as the train pulled out of the station, huddled in my seat, sobbing into my coat sleeve. It was a mixture of relief at setting distance between me and the people I owed money to, fear about what lay ahead, and sadness as the gap between me and mum widened further. I’d not spoken to her since the day I’d left home at sixteen. I’d glimpsed her once or twice, out and about, but had always hurried away in the opposite direction before she could spot me. My seventeenth birthday passed without so much as a card from her never mind a box of chocs and an olive branch from Interflora. The omission confirmed the cutting of familial ties.

I was alone in the world. My mates were getting on with their lives in a normal teenage way. I felt distanced from them, especially Lee, to the point where I was avoiding him. I was envious. He had a supportive family, and a good apprenticeship. He didn’t like it much, but he had it and in time it would give him the skills to earn a living.

I had nothing. I’d dropped out of college to take a fulltime job in the shop I’d previously worked in as a Saturday boy. It was a shit, low paid, dead-end job, but it helped me survive in the world after striking out on my own, until I got sacked that is, and all for an impulsive week in the sun.

So what was the big deal about taking a holiday? I wasn’t entitled, simple as that. Changing from carefree Saturday lad to reluctant fulltime shop slave meant signing a new contract. Under its terms I hadn’t worked long enough to accrue more than a few days paid leave and I’d had them. I took sick leave instead, citing a tummy bug of epic proportion, thinking no one would ever find out. It’s funny how things get around.

I arrived back from my deceitful jaunt to find I was jobless. Some fink had spragged on me. I’m not ashamed to admit I begged (tears included) for a second chance, to no avail. I was gutted. I’d made a mess of everything I’d touched, pitching from one calamity to another. The reckless holiday with a couple of my rainbow club mates was a blur punctuated with horrible hangovers, dodgy encounters and painful sunburn. It was meant to compensate for the holiday I’d missed with Lee and his family. Instead of fun in the sun, I’d had to use my savings to fund my survival after being chucked out of house and home.

If I was Frank Sinatra I’d burst into a chorus of ‘My Way’ at this point, giving special emphasis to the words: regrets, I’ve had a few. Yeah and the rest! My way was a fucking disaster. I’d been determined to get a stamp in my shiny passport and I had it, at a cost. I was up to my neck in debt with no means of repaying it.

On the car radio, ‘Bronski Beat’ gave way to ‘Kings Of Leon’ and ‘Sex On Fire,’ a song whose lyrics, though catchy, made absolutely no sense, not unless they were an oblique reference to some BDSM practice gone horribly wrong. Not even Dick, the King of Kink, would fancy his sex being set on fire. Genital conflagration suggested pain without any gain whatsoever, not unless months of skin grafts turned you on. It gave a whole new meaning to the term ‘bushfire.’ The song was not to Shane’s taste. He clicked the radio off. Silence resumed.

The quasi mansion loomed into view. I got out of the car to open the drive gates, pinning them back, hearing a nursery rhyme refrain in my head as I did so: ‘home again, home again, jiggety-jig.’ When I was little, my mother would always say those words when we got home after being out somewhere. ‘Here we are, Gilli, love, home again, home again, jiggety-jig.’ They’d made me feel safe and warm. Not today though, not in the here and now.

I glanced uneasily at the front door, making no effort to unlock it, though I had my keys. I waited for Shane to park up and for them both to get out. As they came towards me, I pushed my hands in my pockets, saying casually. I think I’ll pop over to see Eileen, say hello and ask if she had a good Christmas.

Not today. You’ve got things to do in the house and Frederick will be here soon. He’ll want tea. Shane inserted his key in the lock of the front door.

I won’t be long.

Shane didn’t miss a beat. Unlocking the door he pushed it open, ordered Dick to disable the alarm, grabbed my elbow and propelled me into the hall. Leaning down to my level he fixed me with a look that sent an alpine chill rippling down my spine.

Are you done flapping your mouth, boy?

Bearing in mind the lesson he had taught on Boxing Day, I nodded by way of reply, fearful in case a verbal response would result in physical discipline for continuing to ‘flap’ my mouth. He delivered a familiar mantra.

When I say no I mean no. When I tell you to do something, you do it, at the time I tell you to do it, and without comment. You remain under restriction. Step out of line and I’ll discipline you. Pleasing Daddy is still your number one priority. Are we clear or shall I strap the message on your bare backside?

I shook my head. My bum was still tender after the negative attention it had received during the holiday period. I’d been punished several times for behaviour considered unbecoming to a Daddies’ boy. Shane had even spanked me in front of Leo, laying into my backside and demanding I make apology for my rudeness to him. The memory of it would continue to bring a flush of mortification to my skin for months hence. In a weird converse way it would also bring a flush of arousal, not felt at the time. I guess it’s an illustration of my desire to be dominated and brought under control, even when resenting the reality.

Relevant Aside: kink is a many splendid and mighty confusing thing. It’s about time there was a proper in-depth study done into the nature of consensual kink. It’s not like it’s uncommon. It’s just not talked about much even in this day and age, and it should be, instead of being dismissed as no more than depravity. End of RA.

Shane marked my forehead with an authoritative kiss and then straightened up. Put the heating on, get this place warmed through and make a start. Dick and I will unpack the car. You make the bed and then sort out the cases.

I turned the central heating on and headed upstairs, feeling more settled than I was before Shane’s intervention. Better to be under his authority than my own at that moment in time. Pleasing Daddy, both of them, meant I could put all else out of my mind, for a while anyway.

By the time I’d made the bed, Dick had brought the cases upstairs. He opened one and began to unpack, but I stopped him, saying I’d handle it myself. He looked more than a little fragile. The scene play he’d so enjoyed on Boxing Day had caught up with him. Eroticism had given way to discomfort as his body recovered from the heavy punishment it had taken. His marks and bruises no longer felt sexy, they just felt sore, his muscles stiff from strenuous bondage and suspension activity. Not that he complained. He wouldn’t. Such physical aftermath is an accepted aspect of the lifestyle, a price proudly paid.

I told Dick to rest. He thanked me for my kind consideration, kissed me and left. Later, I knew, Shane would turn his discomfort to pleasure once again with sensual massage and the soft trace of fingers over tender flesh.

I unpacked the cases, put away what could go away and took our dirty clothes to the utility room, shoving them in the laundry basket. One item of my clothing would not be making it back into the closet, namely the jogger jeans Shane had made me wear on Christmas Eve. Their stretchy waistband had made it simple for him to rapidly bare my backside for punishment. Hateful things. I was sending them to a charity shop to sell to someone in a nice safe vanilla relationship.

I opened the blinds in the lounge, admiring the Christmas tree in the window alcove. It hadn’t fared too badly in our absence, seeing as no central heating had been on. I topped up the water container and gave the branches a spray with water to perk it up before turning on the fairy lights. It was still Christmas. I wanted my tree to have its fair share of glitter glory before New Year came and went and Shane demanded I get rid of it. I had a quick tidy around, flicking a duster over the furniture and plumping up cushions.

The kitchen was next on my domestic agenda. I got milk and bread out of the freezer, blasting the milk in the microwave on a defrost setting to re-liquefy it. I filled the kettle with water and switched it on to make a cuppa. I’d just popped the lid on the teapot when the doorbell rang. I waited for the usual roar of ‘Gilli! Door!’ It didn’t come. Shane answered it, evidence that it was indeed Christmas and the season of miracles.

A few moments later he entered the kitchen to tell me that Frederick, his solicitor, had arrived and they would take tea and Christmas cake in the lounge before sojourning to the study to go over whatever papers needed going over.

Legal eagle Fred likes a little ceremony when it comes to taking tea. With that in mind, I put the best cups and saucers and matching tea plates on a tray along with the teapot, milk jug and a trio of luxury paper napkins printed with vibrant holly and ivy motifs. They’d cost a mint and I was determined to use them. Christmas demands a bit of observable glamour.

It seemed a shame to cut into the pretty pristine Christmas cake, thus spoiling the winter dressing I had so carefully applied, but I suppose it had to be eaten at some point. The knife sliced with ease through the soft white icing and marzipan layers into the dark, rich fruitcake, releasing a glorious spice aroma. Penny, Shane’s evil older sister, could certainly bake a delicious Christmas cake, not that she was going to get any credit for it this year. I, you see, had cake-knapped her cake and claimed it for my own, after the one I made had betrayed me by growing a spectacular mould during storage. The backstabbing fruity bastard! Overcome by jealous piqué I swapped my rotten cake with hers and sought to personalise it by adorning it with icing. My cake lay mouldering in her tin yet to be discovered. At odd moments I practised looks of shock in preps for its unveiling. I know. I’m a bad lad.

I arranged generous slices of the lush cake on a serving plate. Despite the tantalising smell I didn’t eat so much as a crumb, much as I was tempted. It was soaked in brandy, and a moment on my lips would lead to agony in the vicinity of my hips when Shane sussed the cake was booze laden and I had partaken. His vow to lash a cane across my naked backside if ever I imbibed alcohol again would be fulfilled. The thought made my mouth tighten with resentment. So many simple pleasures had gone from my life, thanks to my bossy, alpha boyfriends. A voice in my head issued a small reminder. You wanted them, Gilli. Yeah. Well. A boy can always change his mind.

Girding my loins, I took a deep breath and hefted the heavy tray through to the lounge, fighting a ludicrous impulse to do so in the style of Roddy McDowall in one of his Planet of the Apes manifestations. I’d watched a series of the films over the Crimbo period and I guess they had stayed with me. It’s Frederick. He brings out the worst in me. The minute I clap eyes on his stuffy, fussy, prudish, unsmiling face, I want to do something outrageous just to get a reaction. He makes me want to pull faces, make rude noises and generally behave like a naughty five-year-old being visited by a detested relative.

I put the tray on the coffee table in the lounge, uttering a polite greeting to Frederic, as I set out the cups, saucers and tea plates. He was dressed as always in a formal suit and tie. The man never took a holiday. He had probably shot out of his mother’s womb wearing a suit and tie and carrying a briefcase filled with his afterbirth. He’d have then made his mother sign an affidavit declaring she was fit to bring him up.

He gave me a cool nod and a mistrustful look, as if afraid I was about to whip out my dick and use it to stir sugar into his tea. I might have considered it, had I not been conscious of Shane’s surveillance. I gave him a honeyed smile and an eyelash flutter. They registered zilch on his approval scale. He’s so resistant to houseboy wiles and charm, or cheek as he calls it.

Dick invited me to join them for tea, but I’d rather have plucked out my pubic hairs with my teeth than take tea with fuddy-duddy Freddy and his brilliantine hair. I doubt he’d relish supping tea with me either. He doesn’t approve of me. He said so to Shane the moment he twigged I’d become a bedmate. I’d overheard him with my own ears, well, one of my ears, the one pressed up against the study door when the pair were in conference there. I was unpredictable, he said, dangerously indiscreet, and much too young. Sooner or later too much disparity in age led to trouble and strife. As a solicitor, he had seen it a thousand times. It never ended well.

At the eavesdropping time, I resented the stodgy solicitor’s remarks, but now they presented in a new light. I experienced another of the uncomfortable thoughts plaguing me of late. Maybe he’d made a fair point? Shane and Dick had lost touch with their youth, outgrown it, that’s if Shane had ever been in touch with his. I suspect he was young for about two minutes shortly after being born, and then grew up. He’d probably opened a bank account, applied for a college place and set up a pension plan before his umbilical cord had even been tied off. I, however, was far from being grown up.

Honey?

Dick’s voice broke into my thoughts. I realised I hadn’t answered his invitation to join them for tea.

I’ve got things to do, Dick. I smiled, and then, prompted by mischief, leaned to kiss him on the lips, knowing such displays made Frederick uncomfortable. Adopting a corny French accent I wished them all bon appetite and walked sedately from the room, closing the door behind me.

With no cool green eyes to observe me, I gave full vent to my urges, dropping into monkey boy mode and pulling faces at the door. Feeling oddly satisfied I lurched back to the kitchen, ape style, bowing my legs and swinging my arms, chimp chattering under my breath. Had there been a chandelier in the hall I’d have made a good attempt to dangle from it while peeling a banana with my feet. Insane? Me? Probably.

I put the corrupted Christmas cake back in its tin and packed it away in a cupboard. I compensated for cake deprivation by helping myself to a handful of booze free chocolate digestives. I forsook drinking tea from delicate china in favour of drinking it from a large earthenware mug emblazoned with Homer Simpson’s mug. Call it rebellion, a nod back to my plebeian roots. Fetching a book, I parked my arse on a chair and my feet on the kitchen table.

The book remained unread. My mind wandered back to the thoughts I’d had in the lounge while setting out the tea things. Was some of the conflict I was feeling of late due to the age difference between the three of us? Was the disparity finally beginning to tell from my end? Never mind me being too young for them. Were they too old for me?

Feeling suddenly light-headed I swung my feet to the floor, trying to ground myself. A light sweat dampened the back of my top. I’d tucked the age difference away at the back of my mind, never giving it a thought. Like so many other things it was slipping forward, demanding acknowledgment.

Dick again interrupted my thoughts, walking into the kitchen.

I need more hot water for the pot. Frederick fancies another cup of tea, and, he smiled, "another slice of your delicious cake. He’s most impressed with it. We all are. Your praises are being sung. It