Achilles and the Houseboy...Gillibran Brown

Achilles and the Houseboy…Gillibran Brown

If Achilles, ancient hero of the Trojan War, had worn proper footwear then Gillibran Brown, modern hero of the Domestic Empire, would get into a lot less trouble, or so he believes.

A kiss heralds the arrival of a most unwelcome and troublesome visitor who throws Gilli out of kilter with life and his Daddies.

Take another journey with Gillibran Brown. (that's me ;-)

My wiki page: http://bookworld.editme.com/GillibranBrown

Book edition available at:

http://www.lulu.com/product/paperback/achilles-and-the-houseboy/15549858

Ebook edition to follow

Published by Houseboy-Works

Excerpt:

Prologue

When you think about the ancient Greeks, as oft I do, because I’m strange like that, they and their deities have a lot to answer for. Gone they might be, but they still manage to cast their antique influence over us modern mortals in a variety of ways.

Take Achilles for example. If he’d worn proper footwear then I wouldn’t get into half as much bother as I do. Honest it's true, if he’d worn calve length Doc Marten boots my life would be much easier.

I’ll endeavour to explain using my vast knowledge of Greek mythology acquired from years of studying the ancient classics. (Lie detector snorts, you once read a kiddies book of myths and legends and most of it was in pictures) Okay, okay, but those pictures were detailed.

Achilles was the son of an immortal mother and a mortal father. The immortal mummy in question, Thetis, was distressed because not only had her son inherited his father’s Roman nose and overly large lugs, he had also inherited his mortality. She decided to top up her baby’s immortality by dipping him in the magical River Styx (there were no social services then you know, you could do what you liked) only the un-dead daft bat forgot to wet the heel she dangled him by, thus leaving him vulnerable at that point.

Achilles grew up fine, strong and immortal, albeit with a small print clause he had declined to read - failure to wear chain mail socks at all times will invalidate your life insurance. He was also as thick as ancient Greek pig shit. Why else would he have elected to go into battle against a tribe of aggressive chiropodists wearing a gold lame evening gown and a pair of patent leather sling backs, which left his heels totally exposed to his enemies weapons. It’s true, honest, it really happened (swiftly puts a hand over lie detectors mouth)

It seems our mate Achilles wasn’t quite the hero he’s made out to be. According to some sources he was second to none when it came to flinging hissy fits and sulking in his tent for days on end when he didn’t get his own way. He could very well be the patron saint of brats everywhere.
When he was called up for service in The Trojan War Achilles was not pleased. He didn’t want to go to war, he wanted to stay in and play Grand Theft Chariot on his X-Box. He came up with a cunning plan to dodge the draft by dressing up as a woman, but he forgot to wax his legs and Odysseus sussed him.

Okay, I feel a slight tangent coming on. In spite of my old school teacher's warnings about wandering off subject, I'm going to go with it. (Sorry, Miss) According to a painting I once saw of Achilles, he had muscles that could lay claim to being independent territories but a cock the size of a winkle. It set me off pondering, it doesn't take much, I love a good ponder.

Surely any painter set on depicting one of the most famous heroes of the Trojan War would opt to give him a magnificent dick in keeping with his status, one that could be used as a battering ram in the event of a siege situation? Instead, the artist chose to give him a todger and ball bag that would embarrass a cherub. Perhaps he was running out of flesh coloured paint at that point and decided to skimp, or perhaps it was an ironic comment on the futility of war? Who knows! Artists are funny folk and a tiny cock could mean many things.

Anyway, he said, forcing himself back on topic and away from cocks, which doesn’t happen often believe me, because of Achilles, the cross dressing warrior Greek, most of us modern humans have an Achilles heel, a weakness of one kind or another.

Being a well-balanced sort of chap I actually have two Achilles heels, one on each foot. The first is jealousy and the second is temper and they don’t make good partners. One fuels the other and tends to make a bad situation even worse.

It’s Achilles fault that I so often end up at odds with my men folk. If he’d worn sensible footwear then Paris would never have been able to kill him with a well-aimed poison arrow and the term 'Achilles heel' would never have been coined. Consequently, according to my logic anyway, I wouldn’t suffer from jealousy or temper or a combination of both and I’d have a smooth and ripple free relationship with my own particular pair of Greek gods (legends in their own lunchtime)

Leaving aside half arsed pseudo mythological stuff, this humble chapter in the life and times of this houseboy concerns the manifestation of my personal Achilles heel, Jealousy, who dropped in for a visit the weekend prior to Dick’s birthday on the first of August.

On that particular weekend Dick had been called south by the imperious and chilly tones of his mama and was due to be away from Friday afternoon until Sunday evening. Shane was also away on business that Friday, but would be back late the same day.

Being an optimistic sort of house lad I was looking forward to spending some quality time alone with my alpha Daddy. As things turned out it was fantastic. He wined me, dined me, bought me flowers and new clothes, wrote me a love sonnet in iambic pentameter and told me he adored me. He even stacked the dishwasher (well, you wouldn’t expect him to wash up by hand now would you) while I supped champagne cocktails and watched the telly. (Lie detector says, in your Mills and Boons little fantasies, boy.) Okay, okay (romantic dream pings and pops like a fairy liquid bubble) it wasn’t quite like that. So, I hear you ask, either that or I’m suffering audio hallucinations, what was it like? Well, it was more like this: sprinkle-sprinkle - glitter-glitter (don’t worry, being gay I’m fully trained, licensed and insured for magical glitter sprinkling) let's go back in time to the Friday before Dick’s birthday, the twenty-seventh of July 2007.

Fun With Dick And Shane

Excerpt

Warning: Adult Content

The Story Of Friday


I awoke alone in the single room, having been banished there the night before because Dick and Shane said they did not want to share bed space with a surly brat. Fair enough. I didn’t want to share it with a couple of judgemental old farts and said so, but very quietly under my breath so they couldn’t hear. No way was I sending my pretty botty on a suicide mission. Judging from the moans and murmurs coming from the master bedroom they had been awake for some time before me.

Padding across the landing I quietly opened the door, my guts contracting with jealousy as I observed them. They were oblivious to my presence, totally lost in each other. After watching for a few moments I quietly closed the door and went to the bathroom, using my fist to relieve my erection so I could pee, reviewing the scene in the bedroom with my minds eye to aid the process. Relieved and watered I pulled on a fresh pair of boxers and a t-shirt and went downstairs to begin my duties.

Shane eventually came into the kitchen trailing a tantalising tease of Yves St Laurent aftershave while adjusting the silver cufflinks he always wears in his work shirts. He spared me a glance.

“No breakfast for me this morning, Gilli. I have to run.”

I scowled, choosing to take his words as a personal slur, “I’ve made it now, and it won’t take you more than a few minutes to have a bite.”

“I’m sorry, cub, but I need to get going. I’m running late as it is.”

“Waste of time hauling my bum out of bed at six to make you breakfast you don’t eat.”

He shot me a warning look from flinty green eyes. “Don’t start, apart from anything else it’s your job to haul your bum out of bed at six to make me breakfast, regardless of whether I eat it or not.” He pulled on his jacket and then made to reach for me prior to kissing me goodbye.

I sidestepped him. “It’s not my JOB to accept false affection and besides, you’re running late. God forbid you waste a precious fucking second on me.” I hissed, as his hand slapped a single harsh reprimand onto the side of my bare thigh.

“Lose that attitude, Gillibran, because I’m heartily sick of it. I’ll see you this evening.”

He matched the harsh slap with a harsh kiss and then he was gone, well most of him. With his kiss still stinging my lips, I flopped down on a chair and stared at the red handprint stinging my left thigh. It was a perfect copy of his right hand; all digits including the thumb were present. I laid my own smaller hand on top of it, as if trying to hold it. I then stared at his place at the table: the neatly folded napkin, the un-drunk orange juice and freshly brewed black coffee, the uneaten scrambled egg and lightly done toast. It looked forlorn and abandoned. My eyes stung.

“Don’t take it personally, he’s got a lot on today.”

I looked up to see Dick leaning against the doorjamb; brown hair sweetly mussed, arms folded.

“He made plenty of time to shaft your brains out.” I snatched up the plate of scrambled eggs and stood up, stalking over to the bin with it. “I don’t see why he couldn’t have made some time for me. I mean it’s not like your arse is going to be scarce over the next week is it.” I tipped the cold flaccid mass into the pedal bin snapping, “there’s juice, coffee, cereal and toast on the table, help yourself, or do like Shane did and ignore it because he was too busy sticking you to make time for my pathetic offering. He knows I look forward to having breakfast with him, but my feelings apparently don’t count. I’m going to get dressed.”

Savagely dumping the plate on top of the eggs I made to exit the kitchen. Dick caught my arm, spun me round and slapped my bottom hard several times.

After making me retrieve the plate from the bin he dragged me back to the table. “You’re onto a hiding to nothing carrying on like this,” he sat down pulling me firmly onto his knee and putting his arms around my waist, “or should I just say a hiding. Shane is running out of patience and so am I. You’ve been a miserable pestilence all week. It’s like living with a hormone-encrusted teenager. Why didn’t you join us in bed this morning? We usually have to fend you off with a stick when it comes to sex.”

“You didn’t look like you’d welcome company. Shane was into you like you were about to become an extinct species.”

“Cutting your nose off to spite your face in other words.” Dick gazed at me solemnly, “listen, I want you to be nice to Shane this evening. He’s tired. He’s had a heavy week at work and he needs to come home to a peaceful haven and domestic harmony, not to someone with a sour face and an attitude to match.”

“He didn’t tell me he was tired, or that he’s had a heavy week. He doesn’t tell me anything. He’s hardly spared me the time of day lately, except to criticise.”

“Stop it, Gil, stop looking for reasons to be annoyed with him. It’s not fair. He doesn’t like fretting you that’s all. Besides you’re the one that’s hardly spared him the time of day, because you’ve been too busy wallowing in resentment. Be a good boy today and do your work properly.” He stroked my face with elegant fingers, “do something special for dinner, make the dining room welcoming and we’ll have a lovely evening together, yes?”

I nodded and tried to produce a smile, but it was swept away on a riptide of tears, not even a life raft could have saved it. “Do you think about me when you’re away,” I put my arms round him, sobbing into his neck, “or is it like I don’t exist? Are you happier without me, do you regret that I came into your lives, do you want it to be just the two of you again?”

“Aw, baby,” he rubbed my back. “We’ve been through all this, time and time again. You’re just needlessly tormenting yourself. Of course we think about you and no we’re not happier without you. We’re just something different. We need to do this, honey. Shane and I need to do this. It strengthens us and we need to be strong, not just for each other, but also for you. Shane and I are the core of this relationship, we have to be certain of each other and we need time alone to renew ourselves and reconnect.”

“I know I’m being a selfish, immature little prick, and I’m sorry.” I tried unsuccessfully to stem the flow, “but I can’t help it.”

He cuddled me while softly singing a refrain from a Gershwin song that he’d improvised just for me, “your Daddies are rich and they’re both good lookin' so hush pretty baby, don’t you cry.”

When I was more composed he stroked a sensuous hand along my thigh, “no more tears now.” The hand slipped inside the leg of my boxers where my cock sprang eagerly to greet it. He kissed my tearstained face and gave me a little wink, “come on, my slutty little boy. Come to bed and have some fun with Dick.”

copyright Gillibran Brown 2010

More information at: http://bookworld.editme.com/GillibranBrown