Achilles and the Houseboy

Gillibran Brown

Achilles and the Houseboy

Memoirs of a Houseboy

Copyright © Gillibran Brown 2011

(Revised 2014)

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Houseboy Works

Dedication:

This chapter is an appendage to the memoir edition - ‘More Fun with Dick and Shane.’

It deals with Dick and Shane’s Civil Partnership, not a big issue for them, but a huge one for me.

As ever this work is dedicated to my personal deities of hearth and home, my beloved dictators, Dick and Shane. XX

Gillibran Brown

Table of Contents:

Title Page

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Epilogue

Achilles and the Houseboy

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 incredibly 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 could do what you liked.) However, 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 that left his heels totally exposed to enemy weapons. It’s true, honest, it really happened (swiftly puts a hand over lie detector’s 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 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 the 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 I grant you, 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.

Because of Achilles I end up at odds with my men folk far more often than I should. 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, ripple free relationship with my 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. He was due to be away from Friday afternoon until Sunday evening. Shane was also away on business that Friday, but was due to return later 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.

Achilles and the Houseboy

Chapter One

The alarm snapped on at six. I silenced it, lay for a few moments and then got out of bed. I pulled on boxers and a t-shirt and went over to the window, parting the blind slats in order to see what the weather was doing. It was doing pretty much what it had done for days past. It was raining. The sound of water reminded my bladder it was full and I headed to the ensuite bathroom to pee. Afterwards I washed my hands and then inspected my face in the mirror, experiencing a swell of angst as I noted a fresh eruption of pimples around my nose and chin. The bloody things were never ending.

Don’t pick! Dick materialised in the bathroom. He flicked a hand at my backside before standing in front of the loo, directing a golden stream into the bowl. They’ll clear up faster if you let them be.

I don’t look hideous, do I, Dick?

Of course not, honey.

To my mind the words lacked sincerity. They were an automatic, placatory response.

Grasping me around the waist, he swung me away from the mirror so he could gain access to the hand basin. Stop preening, Gil. Go and make a start on breakfast. Set a place for me. I’ll eat with you and Shane this morning, seeing as I’m going away for a few days.

You haven’t given me a morning kiss yet, is it because I’m spotty?

My face was grasped between wet hands and a kiss dutifully delivered. Now scram, serf, make breakfast for your masters or I shall have you soundly whipped. He swiped playfully at my arse. I scrammed.

I paid little attention to the conversation at the breakfast table. It was simply background noise to my spotty thoughts. The pimples were sore and felt as big as rocks. My fingers strayed to my nose, but didn’t get the chance to probe and explore the rocks. I gave a squeak of fright as my hand was seized and yanked away from my face.

Leave your skin alone. Shane’s eyes glared disgust. I’m sick of you picking at yourself like a flea ridden monkey. If I see you pawing those spots again, I’ll tawse your hands. Is that clear?

His tone was uncompromising and I responded immediately. Yes, Daddy.

Dick rubbed my arm, stop fretting, you look fine. He gave a gentle smile and a sweet little wink, make me some more toast, baby. I’m hungry this morning.

Wash your hands first, clipped Shane. I don’t want you spreading bacteria everywhere.

I silently washed my hands at the kitchen sink while thinking Shane was a might too harsh with me at times. I made another round of toast and freshened the teapot, getting a smile of appreciation from Dick and a cool look from Shane. I’d obviously annoyed him, again. I'd gotten on his tits a few times lately, vexing him only a week earlier by dashing across a railway track in front of a high-speed train on a moronic impulse and then again by whinging on about my skin problem, a side effect of my resented AED's.

When breakfast was done, I began to stack the used dishes while the men folk went off to finish getting ready for work. I stacked the stacked dishes by the side of the sink, put away the milk, cereal, butter and other breakfast paraphernalia and padded