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White Elephant

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“How was your evening, sir?”

“Splendid. The lads were in top form, and a good time was had by all at the White Elephant business.”

“White Elephant, sir?”

“Yes, didn’t I tell you? An uncle of Oofy Prosser’s died. He was a Colonel or a Major or some such. You know, one of those bromides who spent their careers wandering about defending the limits of the Empire. Oofy was the uncle’s only heir, but being the club millionaire, he isn’t in need of a windfall, which is a good thing because the sum of the inheritance turned out to be an enormous Hans Sloane collection of horrid objets d'art gathered from far corners of the map. Oofy didn’t want the eyesores, so he made a bit of a game of getting rid of the them and called it ‘White Elephant.’ Each of the club members was given an item from the trove. When it was your turn, you could keep what you had or exchange it with someone else for what they had. After three rounds of swapping, you got what you got. And, of course, the sport was to stick the other fellow with something more hideous than what you had.”

“Diverting, sir.”

“It was. Now prepare yourself to be underwhelmed, Jeeves, this is what I got.”

I set the box on the table.

“A box, sir?”

“Yes, just an ordinary black box. Not too heavy, not too light. Not too big, not too small. Unremarkable. No engravings of pagan gods or exotic animals or dancing girls. You can’t even open it as far as I can tell. No lock, no lid. Just a box.”

“Do you wish to keep it, sir?”

I shrugged, then shook the onion. “No, bin it in the morning, Jeeves.”

“Very good, sir.”

“A word, sir?”

“Yes, Jeeves?”

“About the black box of yesterday, sir. I took the liberty of examining it this morning.”

“Does it look more interesting by daylight?”

“Indeed, it does, sir, and I would like, with your permission, to give it a careful cleaning.”

“Be my guest, Jeeves, and let me know what the harvest is.”

“By Jove, your greased elbow has done wonders, Jeeves! It’s a rather handsome wooden box, isn’t it? And brown, not black at all.”

“Yes, sir. It is as I thought. This is a Malay puzzle box, and an unusually large specimen at that.”

“Huh. Puzzle box?”

“Yes, sir. When these pieces on the ends are set in the correct configuration, I believe the box will open.”

“Well, carry on. This box is now interesting me strangely.”

“I confess a strong curiosity myself, sir, regarding its contents.”

“Sir! The box!”

“You’ve cracked the code?”

“I believe so, sir.”

As I rushed into the room, I heard a satisfying click.

“Well, what is it, Jeeves?”

As Jeeves pulled the halves of the box apart, a red velvet drawstring bag dropped onto the table.

“Great Scott!” I exclaimed as Jeeves’ hand emerged from the bag. “It’s a…”

“Phallus sculpted of,” Jeeves furrowed the brow in examination, “ivory.”

I mean to say, what?!

Jeeves and I looked at each other with a wild surmise. I was stunned, and Jeeves’ eyebrows had risen a full half an inch higher than normal, so I know that he, too, was gob-smacked. Finally, speech returned.

“Good craftsmanship?” I said a bit doubtful just what the guild standard was for great white pricks.

“Yes, sir.”

“Bit of a surprise, what?”

“Yes, sir.” Jeeves hesitated, then offered it to me as he would a steak knife, with the handle towards me and the business end toward himself.

I took it and ran a thoughtful hand along one side, then the other. Then I inclined the lemon and stated the obvious. “Smooth.”


“The model or muse was a…”

“Healthy specimen?” suggested Jeeves.

“Yes. Think it’s worth something?”

“I really couldn’t say, sir. It would require a professional appraisal.”

Jeeves and I exchanged sig. glances in which I silently declared that there was no bally way I was going to allow some Sotheby’s excrescence to manhandle my elephantine tumescence, and Jeeves silently replied that he quite understood.

“Do you still wish to retain possession of the item, sir?”

I considered the question, then slowly shook the melon.

“Bin it in the morning.”

“Very good, sir.”

It was at least two hours past Cinderella time when I finally slipped out of bed and went in search of my most recent acquisition.

But I couldn’t find it.

Had Jeeves binned it already?

I heard a noise and crept silently down the hall.

The door to Jeeves’ lair was cracked but a sliver.

Lord, love a duck!

He was sitting atop his bed in a dressing gown with his legs tucked under him. With one hand, he was holding the ivory phallus in his mouth; the motion of his shoulder and upper body allowed for no confusion about what he was doing with the other hand.

The springs of the bed groaned softly as he bounced, and there were wet, slurping noises, then mumbling.

I caught only one word.


I legged it back to bed and threw the covers over my head.

Of course, a man had a right to his own fantasies, and Jeeves had had many employers. He might not be thinking of me. But if he was thinking of me?

Well, well, well.

When Jeeves shimmered in the next morning with the cup of Bohea, I touched on the matter gently,

“Jeeves, that piece of ivory?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you bin it yet?”

“Not yet, sir.”

“I’ve changed my mind. Let’s keep it.”

“Very good, sir. Do you have a preference for where it should be stored?”

“Good question. Here, in the bedroom, I suppose. Don’t want a distinguished guest like, say, my Aunt Agatha stumbling upon it.”

“No, sir.”

Jeeves had the night off. I listened for the quiet turn of his key in the lock.

There it was. I’d timed it just right.

I leaned forward a bit, balancing myself precariously on one hand while the other reached behind me, fingertips brushing but not quite grasping the handle.

The prick itself, of course, was sunk deep inside me.

A healthy specimen, indeed.

I whimpered a bit in genuine frustration and tried spreading my knees and sitting gently on the handle to hold it in place. Then I heard the sound I’d been hoping to hear: that of a sheep clearing its throat of a blade of grass on a far mountain top.

“If I might be of assistance, sir?”

“Thank you, Jeeves,” I groaned.

The jar of slick was open on the bed. With Jeeves in charge of the rear flank, as it were, I was free grease my palm and wrap my fist ‘round my own tusk, which was by this time standing as tall as a soldier on parade and leaking like a pipe on a Sunday afternoon.

We found our rhythm, Jeeves with the shallow thrusts and I with the tight strokes.

“Jeeves, you’re quite good at this.”

“Thank you, sir. I endeavour to give satisfaction.”

“You know, I’m quite coming ‘round to the notion that this relic might be a welcome addition to the household, what?”

“I, too, sir, am alive to its latent potentiality.”

“The deuce you are,” I groaned and spent the joy of the Woosters all over the bedclothing.

Jeeves unsheathed the shaft and I fell onto my back, looking up at him with what I hoped was a ‘come hither’ look in my eye.

I knew the shot was on the board when one of his lips twitched, the ghost of a smirk.

“Give us an audition,” I said as I crawled towards him.

Well, I am pleased to report that I did the fellating ancestors proud, suckling that Hathi’s tooth as only a graduate of Malvern House, Eton, and Oxford could. Jeeves made a valiant effort at resisting temptation, but eventually he succumbed, substituted his own great white for the ivory one.

I swallowed him down, and he came at once, with a string of oaths that made the preux blush and the public schoolboy go half-hard.

“You know, Jeeves, we could, from time to time, if the mood strikes us both, host a White Elephant night at home.”

“How is that, sir?”

“You know, I give you a gift and then you give it back to me and so on, three rounds and we call it a night.”

“A most agreeable suggestion, sir,” said he, setting himself to rights. “A bath, sir?”

“No, it’s late. I’ll just have a quick wash at the basin, but…”

“A change of bedlinen? Yes, sir.”

I eased off the bed and wrapped a dressing gown ‘round me. “You know, Jeeves, I thought I’d got a rum draw at that White Elephant business, but now I’m quite certain I was the luckiest sod there.”

He pressed his lips to my temple and said, “So do I, sir.”