Gilliflowers (13 page)

Come Monday morning I hastened to my doctor and whacked out my tackle for him to have a feel of. He duly fingered my testicles, making my eyes water as he sadistically pinched and poked around the lump. He offered reassurances, but also picked up the phone and referred me to the hospital there and then. Best to be on the ball he said in a futile attempt at medical humour.

From there followed more anxious days where my crown jewels seemed to be on permanent display to a variety of medics. I also had to suffer the embarrassment of an ultrasound scan done by two lady radiologists. I’d never had my cock and balls handled by women before. It made me appreciate what an ordeal it must be for ladies to have to display their intimate areas to male medics. I blushed from head to foot throughout the entire procedure, especially when gel was applied to my scrotum. It looked and felt exactly like a sex lube. I was mortified. Much to my relief the trouser pup behaved himself and didn’t jump up or snarl at them. He was too scared. A small sample of fluid was taken from the lump and sent for analysis.

Thankfully it turned out to be an innocuous cyst. I almost passed out with relief when told it wasn’t cancerous. To be honest I shed a few tears. I’d convinced myself God had a hit out on me. Epilepsy wasn’t proving strong enough to kill me so he’d sent in cancer as a back up. I had my funeral all planned out.

The cyst was drained with a needle and syringe the size of a road drill and I was a bit bruised and tender for a few days, but everything soon returned to normal. I can only imagine how terrifying it must feel to be told you do have cancer. My mother said when she was told she felt as if the whole world stopped turning for a few moments.

Soon after my scare she had a bit of a bad do again and ended up in hospital, but she rallied in her marvellous stubborn way. She’s good again now, but it got me down a bit because I know there’s going to come a time when she won’t rally, no matter how much she wants to and no matter how hard the doctors try to keep her going.

I didn’t burden her with news of my own testicular drama. I didn’t want to worry her and besides talking balls to your mum is one thing, talking about your balls to your mum is another thing altogether. I couldn’t bring myself to chat about my adult privates to her. The last time she saw my groin area was when I was about eleven. I discovered something sinister growing at the base of my penis and panicked, running to mum for reassurance. It turned out to be a hair. It stayed there all on its own for almost a year, bravely standing guard until others broke through the puberty barrier to join it.

Shane decided we all deserved a break from the stresses and strain of life and booked a villa in Greece, at a place called Mykonos. It was gorgeous. The villa was set on a hill above the bay overlooking the sea and a cluster of islands. It was a stunning location and the villa was beautiful. A couple of the rooms had mosaic floors and we had our own heated pool. It was utter luxury. The weather in Greece at this time of year is fairly similar to ours, if not colder at times, so we didn’t come home with suntans as such, but it was still lovely.

Dick and Shane haven’t had a proper holiday in a while and they really did need the break. At first I said I didn’t want to go with them, in case something happened to my mother while I was away. Shane said I was going whether I wanted to or not. We had every means of communication and if anything happened he’d make sure I got where I needed to be as fast as was humanly possible.

Shane took the opportunity and the total privacy of the villa to reinforce his dominant role. There was no danger of us being observed, so we didn’t have to quell the dynamic between us. He was relaxed and affectionate on one level, making sure his boys were well cared for, while also confirming his authority and ensuring we knew our place in relation to his. It was good, helping reaffirm our relationship structure and our respective roles within it.

Dick often teases me by calling me the household pet. He says I get away with far more than he would ever be allowed to get away with. It’s true I suppose. My relationship with the men folk has a slightly different impetus to the one existing between the two of them, which falls more into a traditional Dom/sub mould, if there be such a thing. All power exchange relationships will have a different drive to them.

You can’t have two the same, because people aren’t the same and what suits Bill won’t suit Ben.

I must go, household pet I might be, but I still have my tasks to attend to. We’ve got people due this evening and I’ve got plenty of work to do.

Being Palm Sunday today Shane decided to celebrate the occasion in his own inimitable fashion by waving his palm, the palm of his hand that is, in the direction of my backside and all because I complained of having an itchy foot. (Lie detector says NO!) Well okay, maybe it wasn’t quite so straightforward. To be honest we were all a bit irritable in the early hours of this morning, me because of my itchy foot and the same for Dick and Shane, my itchy foot having disturbed not only my sleep but also theirs.

For some weird reason my right foot, inside arch, woke me up at around half past three this morning demanding to be scratched. Sounds simple doesn’t it: itch + scratch = relief. Not so. The itch proved elusive and hard to please. No matter how hard I scratched I couldn’t quite satisfy it, nor could I quite locate it, just as I thought I’d pinpointed the exact position it moved. I ended up raking at my foot like a dog with a pelt full of fleas, consequently waking up both Daddies who demanded to know why the fuck I was writhing around the bed, like Linda fucking Blair from The fucking Exorcist. I’m pretty sure both Linda and the film title didn’t have a fucking sandwiched between them, but I didn’t say so.

I explained my dilemma and Dick obligingly scratched my foot for me, but to avail. It got even itchier. Shane told me to take some paracetamol to see if it numbed the nerves and calmed the itch. He also told me to try and ignore it, as the more I scratched the more likely it was to keep itching.

So I took some paracetamol and tried to settle down and ignore it. Have you ever tried ignoring an itch? It’s impossible. The bloody thing consumed me. I became obsessed. I found myself rubbing my foot up and down the mattress in an effort to satisfy the itch, and then I used my left foot to see if it could eradicate the itch in my right foot. Shane finally blew a gasket when in demented desperation I resorted to frantically rubbing my foot along his leg in the hope his rough hairs would solve the problem.

He did not appreciate being used as a scratching post. My arse was sharply swatted and then my itch and I were banished to the single room. By then I was viewing the itch as a mortal enemy, which had to be defeated at all costs. Being short my fingernails weren’t up to the job. I had to find something else, some other weapon, something rough and sturdy. Like a knight on a crusade I set off in search of a grail and found it in the kitchen in the guise of a beech wood steak hammer.

Sitting on a chair I plonked my foot on the table and began to move the serrated surface of the hammer over the perceived area of itch. At first it was bliss, sheer bliss, better than sex. I was in heaven, moaning softly as if in the throes of a small orgasm, but then the evil itch fought back, forcing me to apply more pressure. Soon I was rasping the mallet against my foot as if I were auditioning for the role of a victim in a Saw film. Disaster struck as I broke the skin. It hurt and my leg shot out in a reflex action, which caught the teapot and sent it crashing to the floor.

Both Daddies came galloping downstairs fearing someone had broken in. They were not pleased. Shane gave me the rough edge of his tongue (shame he couldn’t have used it to scratch my foot with) and I was left in no doubt as to what he thought of idiot houseboy’s who used kitchen equipment to scratch their feet with.

Dick then casually said he’d read how fresh urine was good for calming inflamed and irritated skin. I lost it. I was tired and frustrated, my foot was burning, sore, swollen and still fucking itching and there was Dick talking about the calming properties of urine. I snarled that he was not pissing on my foot. I wasn’t pissing on my foot. NO one was pissing on my fucking foot! I then chucked the steak hammer towards the sink, aiming for the washing up bowl. It missed and hit the drainer instead breaking a glass.

It was Shane’s turn to lose it. A strip was torn from the houseboy. One did not speak to one’s Daddy like that. One did not abuse kitchen equipment and nor did one hurl it around in surly bad temper when it failed to perform a function it hadn’t been designed for, lines to the effect to be written on the morrow. After strip tearing he applied sulphuric acid to the patch of red raw skin on my foot. (Lie detector says NO!) Oh all right, he applied TCP ointment, but it felt like sulphuric acid. He covered it with a dressing and told me he would remove all my fingers if I so much as thought about using them to scratch at my foot.

I was dragged back to bed and sandwiched between them with the instruction to sleep or else. I did sleep eventually. We all did. My foot is still sore, but at least it isn’t itchy. Itching has to qualify as a form of purgatorial, torturous hell.

It’s been a pleasant day, a bit windy, but otherwise bright and mellow. We went out for our lunch seeing as we stayed in on Saturday night. It was a tad lacklustre. I ordered salmon fillet in a watercress sauce and it came garnished with a long black hair. I knew from the length it was unlikely to be a pubic hair, not unless the cook who made it had pubes hanging down to his/her knees, all the same it really put me off. I’m squeamish like that. I almost gagged. I got it changed, but my appetite had perished and I only picked at it. Dick and Shane ordered rump steak and they weren’t too impressed either. Dick’s steak was tough enough to challenge a busload of Glaswegian skinheads to a fight. It’s one pub restaurant we won’t be hurrying back too.

Today I am mostly irritated and irritable. Dick irritated me this morning by

wanting to play with me when I wasn’t in the mood to be played with. He said maybe a good fuck would put a smile on my face. I said I didn’t want a smile on my face. My face was perfectly fine as it was, ta very much. He said I was a waspish little bugger and he was going to trade me in for a nice accommodating blow up fuck slut that didn’t answer back.

True to his prior promise Shane put me over his knee and gave my bare bottom a dozen hard slaps before leaving for work. He told me to spend the day sorting myself out, because if he came home to a sour faced houseboy there’d be serious trouble. I told him when it came to sour faces his took the golden lemon and maybe he should practice what he preached and slap a smile on his own mush. (Lie detector falls over laughing) Okay, I didn’t say that. I like living I do.

The spanking calmed me, for a brief period anyway. The post woman revived my

irritation by shoving several forests of junk mail and a credit card bill through the letterbox. The bill irritated me by announcing I had incurred a penalty for being late with my last payment. What a bastard cheek! Credit card companies take enough in interest as it is.

In an effort to remove myself from irritation I went out for a walk and called in at an Aldi store to buy some mixed peppers to sling in a salad for dinner. The queue in Aldi irritated me by moving far too slowly because the checkout operator was busy flirting with the security guard on duty. God knows why because he had a row of nicotine stained stumps for teeth. It would be like snogging an ashtray.

The woman standing behind me in the queue irritated me by apparently trying to make her trolley mate with me. She was all but shoving it up my arse. Honestly, if she’d shoved much harder the pound coin deposit would have shot out of my mouth.

She was perhaps hoping I’d give birth to a little hand basket she could adopt and bring up as her own. No pepper was worth that kind of irritation, so I dumped them in her trolley and irritably left the store.

And why is the usually mild and gentle houseboy so irritated? Because my plans for a cosy Easter weekend nibbling at chocolate eggs were shattered last evening when Shane announced we’d been invited to spend Easter with Penny and the

Muppet. It seems she has some kind of surprise lined up. By ‘we’ of course she meant him and Dick. Penny wouldn’t deign to invite me by name. I’m just part of the luggage. She’d shove me in the cupboard under the stairs if she could get away with it.

I said if they wanted to go then fine they could go, but I was going to stay at home. I didn’t want to spend the holiday alone, but nor did I want to spend it at Penny’s, not after what happened at Christmas. Shane coldly stated I had no choice in the matter. When it came to decision-making about who went where and when he’d do the making and I’d do the accepting. The three of us were going to spend the break with his sister. He said if we wanted our relationship to be accepted then we had to behave as if it was acceptable and that meant consistently presenting ourselves as a unit.

I had a grumble to Dick, but got short shrift. He said I was being utterly selfish by discounting Shane’s loyalty to his family. Penny had something up her sleeve and wanted her brother to be a part of it. He said I needed to put aside my personal animosity and respect Shane’s need to maintain a connection with his family.

So we’re off to spend Easter with Penny the witch. I can hardly wait, for it to be over that is. We’re setting off tomorrow, Good Friday. Huh, not so good from where I’m standing.

It’s been gorgeous here today, unusually warm for March. I tidied up the garden and then hung some towels and sheets out to dry on the line instead of putting them through the dryer and thus doing my bit to save energy and reduce my carbon footprint.

I also went into town to get my hair cut. Shane has been nagging about it again. I was warned to get it tidied up today, or there would be bother for the houseboy. It’s grown really fast since my last cut. I had a bit of a hack and slash at it yesterday, but frankly I made it even more of a mess. I looked like someone wielding a garden gadget, Cedric Strimmer Hands, had attacked me. The world of hairdressing can breathe a sigh of relief because this boy will not be vying to be the next John Frieda.