Christmas At Leo's - Memoirs Of A Houseboy (38 page)

By the time the cartoons finished, the Quality Street box was much depleted, containing only golden toffee pennies and two strawberry creams. The bed was littered with a colourful array of foil and cellophane wrappers. I gathered them up to put in the bin, smiling as another childhood memory surfaced. I hadn’t realised how many memories I’d retained, or how painful some of them were. Not this one though. I smiled again. My mother had always bought a big tin of QS at Christmastime, a seasonal luxury. It would be ceremoniously opened on Christmas Eve, after church, when I was bathed and in my pyjamas, my stocking carefully hung on the mantelpiece ready for Santa to fill. It was such a thrill seeing all the sweets in their jewel bright livery, signalling that Christmas had truly begun. Simple pleasures, eh?

By the end of the festivities the QS tin was devoid of sweets and full of wrappers. I used to love plunging my hands into them and scooping them up, hurling them in the air so they fluttered down about my head like multicoloured butterflies. The pretty memory faded, adulterated by another. Later, Frank had spoiled my simple fun, shouting at me to stop prancing about like a fairy and making a bloody mess.

I put the wrappers in the wastebasket, tipped the remaining sweets into the fruit bowl on the desk and collapsed the cardboard box ready to pop in the recycling. I then went into the bathroom to brush my teeth after my sugar feast. I rinsed my brush and put it away, resisting the habitual temptation to inspect my face in the mirror. It would only depress me.

I watered the boxer pup and washed my hands before returning to the bedroom, starting when I saw Shane standing by the desk in the window alcove. The man was like a genie without a lamp to inhabit, popping up without being summoned. Something about his demeanour set me on the defensive. “I didn’t hear you come in. I’m beginning to think you can walk through walls. Why can’t you rattle chains like Marley’s ghost so at least I know you’re about?”

“Shut up.” Unsmiling, he crooked his forefinger at me, motioning me forward. After what had happened earlier in the morning I did not dare question his intentions. I walked over to him at once, standing in front of him with my hands behind my back, trying not to let my inner agitation show in my face. What was coming?

Leaning his face close to mine, he said very quietly. “If you, little boy, were in any way responsible for that offensive smell downstairs, then make damn sure I don’t find out about it.”

He could have asked me directly about my involvement, leaving me no choice but to confess or deny. The fact he didn’t, suggested, as I had suspected, that he somehow knew I was involved, but didn’t really want to
know
, if you know what I mean? I could live with that. I kept my gob shut.

My relief was short lived. His next words made me almost jump out of my skin, so harsh were their delivery, not shouted by any means, but with the same level of intensity.

“On the bed, front down, head on your arms. Snap to it.”

I hastened to obey. Shoving off my shoes I prostrated myself on the bed. Positioning my arms, I rested my forehead on them. It’s a stance that lends itself to both play and discipline situations. It’s bondage without rope or blindfold. Movement is severely restricted and there’s nowhere for you to look, except down at the small portion of whatever surface is beneath your face. You can hear, but you can’t see what’s going on in the room around you and to move your arms or legs is to risk penalty. It can be a training exercise, a lesson in submission, or time out. It can be a step towards carnal pleasure, building anticipation when sex is the reward at the end of it. In this instance, reward was not on the agenda. I was being put in my place. It could be construed as punishment for my suspected act of odorous sabotage or a way of establishing mood for the party.

I did as I’d done when confined to the floor on Christmas Eve. I tried to find acceptance in my situation by making an effort to relax my body and clear my mind. Unfortunately, my idea of relaxing my body (shuffling in an effort to get comfortable) was not compatible with Master Shane’s.

“Be still. I won’t tell you again.”

I winced, pressing my pelvis against the mattress, as his hand cracked a savage slap to the centre of my buttocks. Message received loud and clear. He wasn’t shitting about.

I lay still. Closing my eyes, I paid heed to my breathing, keeping it calm and measured, while using my ears to track Shane’s movements in the room. He opened drawers and cupboards, maybe getting clothes out ready for the party. I heard him go into the bathroom and come back out again. I heard Dick’s phone ring, followed by Shane’s tongue clicking in clear exasperation. He had obviously called it and was none too pleased that it was on the bedside cabinet and not about Dick’s person.

I listened as he phoned Mike and asked to speak to Dick. There was a brief pause followed by a brusque order as he obviously got Dick’s ear. “Upstairs.”

Dick lost no time in heeding the order. He could not have failed to notice my predicament, but made no comment. He was instructed to shower and remove all facial and body hair in preparation for play. The order was followed by the sound of a palm meeting the seat of jeans, punishment for the phone perhaps, or a straightforward demonstration of authority.

Shane turned the television on, tuning into a repeat of a Christmas Day Eucharist service. The mattress moved as he settled on the bed next to me to watch and listen. My only option was to listen, which I did. His proximity along with the music and words of the service were a distraction from my physical restriction, something to focus my mind on.

Distraction gave way to shocked surprise when the vicar’s sermon, a predictable reminder about the continuing existence of poverty amidst excess in the modern world, gave way to an altogether different kind of sermon.

“Your slave collar is not a snare. It does not trap you. It does not confine you. It does not degrade your body, your mind or your soul.”

Good grief! What was the vicar thinking? How had he wandered so off course, and to whom was he speaking? The BBC would be inundated with viewer complaints. I could almost hear old ladies fainting in the church aisles, and then it dawned on me. I must have fallen asleep. The television was no longer on. It was Shane’s voice I was hearing, speaking a mantra he often used when collaring Dick prior to play.

He continued. “It serves to remind you that your love binds you to me, as my love binds me to you.” There was a pause followed by a wicked snort. “It’s also good to hold onto while I’m fucking you senseless.”

I smiled at that, but a part of me felt sad. I knew he meant what he said about their love binding them to each other. He never used the mantra when collaring me. My collaring was nearly always a wordless, practical act, perhaps placatory, a sweetener to keep me docile.

Dick’s vocal collaring ritual concluded with an order. “Kneel.”

I knew Dick would obey at once, kneeling on the floor, head bent, awaiting further instructions.

I flexed my shoulders, wondering how long I’d slept for. What time was it? Was the party imminent? I moistened my lips, experiencing a rush of pre-party nerves. People who are into S&M and BDSM come from all walks of life, literally all walks of life from shop assistants to lords and ladies. That said, the majority of those who attended Leo’s Dungeon Do’s tended to be educated, professional kinksters hailing from the middle and upper echelons. Mingling with them made my inferiority traits come to the surface. It was ridiculous. I lived with a posh perv for heaven’s sake. His credentials were up there with the best. Maybe that was the point. They were his creds, not mine. Moving in exalted circles didn’t mean you belonged there in any real sense. The servants in the grand manor house were still servants.

Shane’s attention turned to me. Tapping my hip, he ordered. “Freshen up and get dressed.”

I lumbered off the bed, glad to move and stretch my limbs. I had a quick wash, did my hair, put on my new earrings and then dressed in the clothes Shane had laid out for me. I inspected myself in the wardrobe mirror. The soft Gucci leather pants moulded my bottom and legs, but were not over tight. A skinny black top showed off my body to good effect. I finished the outfit with a pair of black leather ankle boots with pointed toes and buckle straps. I looked sexy in an understated way. At least I hoped so. I glanced across to where Dick knelt on the floor, seeking some reassurance, but he was immersed, head down and oblivious to his surroundings, attuned to only one person in the room, and it wasn’t me.

“Enough preening.” Shane took my hand, whisking me away from the mirror. “You’ll do.”

It was approval in its way, all I was going to get anyway. He fastened my collar about my neck, reminded me of his expectations of me and then ordered Dick to his feet. Game on. We headed downstairs.

There were already a number of people present in the house, and more arriving. The drive was cluttered with cars. Pat, along with Mike, was at the front door, welcoming people, taking coats, outlining house rules. He looked dignified and vintage handsome in fitted black pants, a white silk shirt and black waistcoat that suited his gaunt frame. He had a red armband on, denoting his status as a monitor.

Mike had his hair sleeked back and tied in the short ponytail he favoured when playing. He had forsaken leather for sharp cut khaki trousers and a military style shirt that gave him a tough, imposing look. His black boots gleamed with polish. He spoke a greeting to Shane as we passed by. Dick and I were ignored.

The spacious conservatory had been designated as the main social chill out area. People were congregating there to meet and greet each other before dispersing. The room looked splendid in a weird way, a trippy juxtaposition of the traditional and the perverse. The cool scent of hyacinths mingled with an anticipatory hint of sex pheromones. The Christmas tree lights glittered, reflecting on metal trimmed accessories such as belts, chains, buckles, collars and cuffs.

Complimentary bowls of condoms, miniature bottles of lube and packets of moist wipes rubbed shoulders with the more traditional party fare on the beautifully set out table. Plastic backed paper pads protected the furniture, because there’s nothing worse than having someone dribble body juice on your expensive soft furnishings. Some folks brought their own little puppy pads to park their naked, leaky, sweaty, play-sated sticky bits on, but Leo always covered up anyway just to be on the safe side.

Talk of the devil. Leo hailed Shane and came over to speak to him. Once again, Dick and I were ignored. A mindset was in operation. It was Master to Master only. Leo’s attire was minimalist, leather trousers and a pair of boots. He was stripped to the waist, showing off an impressive physique for a man his age, especially one with a fondness for food and fine wine. Like Shane he has the self-discipline to regulate his pleasures. His arms, shoulders and back showed muscles honed by strenuous sailing activity and regular gym trips. His body hair was greying, but it did not detract from his vigour, if anything it lent gravitas.

While Shane talked, I glanced around at fellow guests. There was so much gleaming leather, shiny latex and glossy PVC in evidence that it was like being in a kinky hall of mirrors. Everywhere I looked I could see my person reflected and warped in the persons of other people. Talk about dropping through the rabbit hole. It was almost surreal. I never imagined I would end up inhabiting a world such as this. Gillibran Brown, boy next door, had taken some odd turns on the path of life. It was a thought that might ordinarily have induced a smile, but didn’t.

A bewildering wave of loneliness suddenly swept over me, an echo of what I’d felt that Everly Brother summer when I was ten. All at once I felt so far removed from the place I’d started out, and the people, that it caused me physical pain. My throat squeezed tight. My mother could never relate to this world. It would scare and scandalise her and guarantee I would never regain the approval I felt I’d lost when I came out as gay. Tears stung my eyes. I chided myself. A BDSM party was no place for maudlin tears.
Fucks sake man. What is wrong with you? Don’t be such a prick! No wonder you get on Shane’s gonads.
I struggled to compose myself.

Master Ian provided a distraction, if not a welcome one. He came striding over to Shane with a purposeful air, his smooth shaven scalp shining aggressively under the lights. Talk about a hard head. A toupee would not dare to try and grace it.

He had something to say and got on with saying it without preamble, and without sparing me so much as a glance, despite me being the topic of conversation. His words made the blood freeze in my veins. He nodded over to where his wife stood resplendent in black patent bondage shoes with javelin heels. A scarlet latex jumpsuit moulded her petite body. Her black hair was oiled, pulled up and braided into a single long plait that swung from the centre of her head like a rope. Her makeup was heavy and dramatic with thick black eyeliner and blood red lips. She looked stunning, in a terrifying kind of way.

“Mistress Trina has expressed an interest in playing with your youngster. Leo says he’s largely untrained, a scandal considering how long you’ve had him. She sees gay boys and straight girls as an irresistible challenge, especially the unpractised ones. She enjoys the unpredictability of their reactions. You have my personal guarantee that she won’t mark him permanently.”

“The boy is off limits.”

Thank God! I let my stomach muscles relax. I’d have begged for a cyanide pill if Shane had granted her request.