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Jeeves à la Spode

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Jeeves entered the bedroom at Totleigh Towers, outwardly serene, but with a shimmer of dew upon the brow. To an experienced Jeeves watcher, this was on par with the consulate attaché bursting into the ambassador’s chamber to tell him that the military coup was very much a goer and that scramming was advisable for the sensible diplomat who wished to avoid the business of the blindfolding and last cigarette.


“What tidings, Jeeves?” I said.


“I regret to inform you, sir, that Mr. Spode has been granted permission to search the luggage of each guest before their departure. He is most intent upon retrieving his missing parcel.”


“And I’m next on his list, him viewing me as the worm he wants to catch early on, so as to keep his afternoon free for other pursuits?”


“Mr. Spode has intimated with some force that he expects his interview with you to muster, as he terms them, ‘the goods.’”


“Grim news, what?”


“It is most unfortunate, sir.”


As one, we looked to the parcel that was resting upon my eiderdown. It had the innocent air of the schoolboy who had thrown the food-fight’s first fistful of mashed-potato and is letting his pals take the rap.


I had been ruminating over the thing upon Jeeves’ arrival, and now he joined me at the cud. I had nothing to fear though, for I was in the presence of a champion ruminator. The pendulum of the clock two-and-froed once, had a second crack at the thing, and then Jeeves cleared his throat.


“Yes, Jeeves?” I said.


“A solution does present itself, sir.”


I applied the ‘kerchief to the temple, reflecting once more upon the majesty of my man. “Then proceed Jeeves. Proceed with vim and vigour - before we have to barricade the door!”


I paused.


“That wasn’t the solution that presented itself, was it?”


“No sir.”


“Probably a bit difficult to procure all the planks and whatnot.”


“Indeed sir. Though I fear that you may consider my plan… unconventional.”


At this moment there came an almighty yell from outside, followed by a splash that tallied exactly with the dimensions of one human male. We hoofed over to the window in time to see Gussie Fink-Nottle squelching out of the ornamental lake from whence he’d been hurled. I need not insult the reader with the name of the Fink-Nottle thrower.


“Jeeves,” I said with resolve, “I am entirely in your hands.”  






I seem to have done it again. Launched right into the story at the juiciest of moments with no thought to my readers. The usual punters would have lapped up an opening like that. Spode - a familiar antagonist to one and all - about to have another run-in with the Wooster pluck and the handsome genius in the size nine-and-a-quarter bowler.


But you, my second, and more… particular readership aren’t interested in the hijinks of Totleigh Towers. Spode, you might say to yourself, can take a long walk off a short whatsit. What care I for Spodes at this juncture? And mysterious packages can biff off along with him.


You are no doubt hurrying me along to the good bits. You want the dreamy blue eyes, the fluttering of butterflies in the abdominal region, and I’m sure you wouldn’t say no to a bit of the old heave-ho in the bedroom.

Yet the one thing all readers have in common is their desire to hear about Jeeves. Never fear, I can assure you that as we stared down at this problematic package, he looked as top notch as ever. His shoes shone, his eyes sparkled, and I only occasionally wondered what it would be like to divest him of his shirt and writhe against him, hungry for his touch.


Let me set the scene.


Roderick Spode, the hulking friend of Sir Watkyn Bassett and a man who leans so far to the right  politically that he dare not visit Pisa for fear of being mobbed by tourists, had arranged for delivery of a most important parcel. This parcel contained a number of ladies intimates, which those familiar with my work (or good quality lingerie in general) will know he is a secret designer thereof.


You will feel no surprise that the parcel was now under my purview, such things being par for the course during my visits to the countryside, but I will briefly outline the chain of events.


In a classic mix-up, it had initially been delivered into the hands of Augustus Fink-Nottle, soon to be son-in-law to Sir Watkyn Bassett and longtime pal slash general nuisance to me. Gussie gleefully accepted it, believing it to be the special heating lamp he had ordered for his newt tank.


Now Gussie may be but mad north-north-west, but he can tell women’s underwear from a newt warmer. He sought my help at once (and as often happens when my friends seek my help, he addressed the problem entirely to Jeeves and ignored every word I said.)


Gussie, in the first sensible act of his career, intimated that he wished to pass on the goods while they were still hot, and before Spode approached him in the hope of exchanging some high end ladies’ delicates for a piece of newt apparatus and a punch to the nose. Gussie then went on to indicate that I was the exact man for the job and handed over the brown paper and string with spirits greatly revived.


Now I had the magic words, you might think. I was already acquainted with Spode’s work for Eulalie Soeurs (the lingerie company that sold his wares.) My knowledge was all that stopped him from beating me to a pulp on a regular basis. Surely one shout of ‘Eulalie’ and Bertram Wooster would be free to purloin the man’s parcels at will.


But Jeeves was quicker on the uptake.


“If the items were to be found in your possession it would cast any accusations regarding Mr. Spode’s involvement with Eulalie Soeurs in a doubtful light.”


“I see what you’re driving at,” I’d said, once Jeeves finished explaining what he was driving at. “You can’t be caught with an overabundance of brassieres and then start childishly pointing fingers and declaring ‘yes - but he designed them!’”


“Quite, sir.”


In truth, the goods were devoid of brassieres, which was probably for the best. Jeeves, whose sartorial knowledge is unparallelled, described the items under discussion as thus:


1 pair of women’s lace knickers, black.

1 pair of women’s silk knickers, cherry blossom pink.

1 suspender belt, dark green

1 suspender belt, black

2 pairs of silk stockings, black


“I believe these are a new design,” Jeeves explained further. “For the more robustly built woman. I imagine that Mr. Spode is keen to protect his work.”


At this point in the narrative, I was considering eating the damn things, but salvation approached. Jeeves was about to lay his unconventional plan on me.  


“I suggest we put the items to their intended use, sir.”


“Intended…? Now hang on a bally minute !”


You hear stories of changelings, whilst at the knee of a kindly nanny who doesn’t skimp on the bedtime stories, but I never thought I’d have to face one down in the shape of my own valet.


I looked at the package on the bed. I looked back to Jeeves. He didn’t appear to have taken a recent blow to the head.  


This was a man who needed a lie down after being confronted with an unexpectedly bold paisley. Upon stepping through the pearly gates, I suspect Jeeves would take one look at his clothing allocation and decide that the harp was acceptable but he’d need to have a word with the management about the flowing gown.


“Jeeves, you of all people cannot approve of such an incorrect use of clothing!”


“Excellent tailoring and craftsmanship cannot offend, sir, regardless of the form wearing it.”


“I think it jolly would offend if I were to put on ladies’ underthings and parade around outside!”


“In the matter of undergarments a man is the ruler of his own kingdom,” Jeeves said firmly. “For a well dressed man should never have a moment’s fear of revealing them.”


This! From a man who wielded his totalitarian power over my own underwear drawer much in the same fashion Caligula did over the Roman Senate.


From somewhere within the house came a crash that sounded not unlike an unstoppable newt tank meeting an immovable Roderick Spode.


We were running out of time.


What could I do but acquiesce?


Now Jeeves doesn’t affix every item of my wardrobe. In the matters of underthings and socks, I proceed under my own steam while he prepares the outer crust. But, with Spode even now on the march, my man shimmied me out of my shoes and trousers and divested me of my pants before I even knew what was happening.


Heavy as lead, I lifted my legs to step into the knickers and he drew them into position. They seemed to disappear into crevices that I’d rather not mention. Jeeves then kneeled at my feet, taking an eternity to adjust the young master’s seams. This could only be survived by concentrating hard on topics such as newts and not something like - choosing a subject at complete random - my valet’s glossy head bobbing about at waist level and his hands working my inner leg.


The suspenders also turned out to be a harrowing ordeal - I’m not at all sure how women manage to move around at all under such constant elastic threat down below. I had not a moment to get to grips with this southern regime change, though, because once my trousers were back in situ, my man set about unfastening his own.


“Please forgive the imposition sir,” he said, as I spun away with a splutter of shock at the first glimpse of white underpant. “But it’s a most pressing situation.”


“Well quite,” I said shakily. If my voice climbed a little higher up the register than usual then I’m sure he generously ascribed it to some unexpected new pinching down below.


Breathe, Wooster , I told myself. Breathe.


An agonising minute passed, in which I fought back delish imaginings of what was happening behind me. What if he never put the lingerie on and instead stripped off completely… what would I do with a naked Jeeves? What wouldn’t I do with one? I was pretty sure I could find uses for three naked Jeeveses at once, and they’d be kept busy enough that I’d still need a fourth, fully clothed, for actual valeting.


I was just performing some mental calculations over the physical gymnastics that would be required in keeping such a multitude of Jeeveses occupied, when a discreet cough from the first and only Jeeves summoned my attention. I turned, expecting all to be outwardly in order.


The noise I made next could be described as a screech. Less generous observers might have dallied around with words like ‘squeak’ or even ‘manly squeal.’


From the waist up, Jeeves looked as he always did. His shirt and tie were immaculate, hair lustrous, nose regal - an image that could be displayed on the cover of any monthly valeting magazine in the land. I’m not sure what publication his lower half would be featured on, but you can put Bertram down for a yearly subscription.


The sweet pink knickers contrasted beautifully against Jeeves’ marble white skin. They sat on his hips, struggling to contain a significant, though not erect, bulge. The suspenders were stretched over his powerful thighs, with their smattering of dark hair. His long, muscular legs looked as natural in black silk as they did in his valeting trousers.


On second thoughts, perhaps three naked Jeeveses was too ambitious. This one was still semi-clothed and I was near spent from lust.


“I apologise for appearing before you this way sir,” he said formally.


“Yarg!” was my eloquent response.


“I fear that I cannot quite attach the suspenders at the back.”


He did not quite say ‘time is of the essence and we are united against a common enemy, so hop to it Wooster’ but it was very much implied.


I tell you, there are some things no man should be forced to endure. Thankfully my own treacherous body made the decision for me, and I was forced to leap behind him and out of his line of sight.


I might have coped, if I then hadn’t come face to face - so to speak - with Jeeves’ firm posterior. I can assure faithful followers that it would be magnificent in or out of pink silk. I closed my eyes until the urge to tug the scanty underwear down and check for myself had passed.




“Uh… yes… just working it all out.”


I affixed the left suspender with shaking hands, glorying in the tension it required to stretch over that round bottom. I did the same with the right. Then, unable to stop myself, I reached out to adjust the top of the right stocking, my index finger sliding inside, stroking the hot skin of Jeeves’ leg for just a moment.


“It was crooked,” I whispered.


“I am much obliged, sir,” Jeeves said. And if his voice was a fraction lower than normal, I put it down to wishful thinking on my part.


At this point, I expect much gnashing of teeth from my loyal, highly specific readership. Wooster, you fathead! You may cry. How could you stand there, breathing all over his silk covered nether regions and not have the whole thing come to a point? If ‘come’ and ‘point’ are the words I want.


Consider though - Jeeves was the light of my life, the dream rabbit par excellence , but what evidence did I have to believe he felt anything for me beyond his Feudal Spirit? If anything I was presumably quite a nuisance, distracting him from the improving reading he’d have preferred to be getting on with. He might very well have been on his way to world domination by now, if not for me.


If pressed, I might have gone so far to suggest that, as a man closer to his own age than the usual master spec, I might have been somewhat jollier company for him. He had once, in a moment of high emotion, hinted that he appreciated my generous, sunny nature. But that was the sum total of - to my knowledge - his affection for me.


So if a strange expression ever flickered across his face, you can understand why I assumed his daily fish ration was causing him internal trouble, rather than him being struck by sunlight glinting off my hair or somesuch. And it doesn’t take someone with my experience of the long arm of the law (in the matters of helmet stealing and light coshings) to know that I was risking considerably more than being stung for a £5 fine and some pointed comments from the bench.


Jeeves was now back to his conservatively dressed self and your narrator’s legs had ceased to tremble in an unseemly fashion. All that remained was to escape the clutches of Totleigh Towers, preferably before Roderick Spode decided that my limbs were too close together and needed to be spread about the countryside.


We left the bedroom, cool as you please, with Jeeves pausing in the corridor to instruct an underling to assist with the luggage. At this point a noise emerged from my right that is generally only experienced by the safari-goer who has made the nighttime acquaintance of a displeased hippo.


I turned to find Spode blocking out the sunlight. His face was puce and if his hair had not been dragged through a bush, it could have been much improved by the experience. His proportions strained against the very walls and ceiling, presenting a not inconsiderable risk of structural damage should anything upset him further.


“WOOSTER!” he bellowed, causing some light seismic activity.  


“Ah, Spode,” I said. “Come to see me off, what?”


“I am looking,” he snarled, “ for my missing parcel. A parcel of a most… private nature . You are currently my chief suspect.”


“Oh well,” I said, not unkindly, “I can see your mistake at once. If you had made any real study of the classic works of mystery fiction, as I flatter myself I have, you’d know that you’re on a hiding to nowhere by pursuing the obvious suspect. What you want is the very last person on the list. A nun perhaps. Have you made enquiries amongst the clergy?”


Spode gave no response to this informative critique, for he had locked eyes upon my neatly stacked suitcases. His voice became dangerously low, possibly because his neck had expanded enough for his tie to restrict his airflow.


“I have been given permission to search the guests’ luggage.”


“Inspect at your leisure Spode. I know nothing of this parcel of which you speak.”


Taking this, quite reasonably, as an invitation to stampede, Spode let out an almighty roar and yanked open the nearest suitcase in the way a strongman might tear in half a large boulder. My underthings flew into the air.


Jeeves, looking as pipped as Jeeves ever allows himself to look pipped, eyeballed a spot on the wall. The underling fixed his gaze to the ceiling. I focused on standing in my usual manner, and not like a man negotiating an unusual amount of lace and silk in the area of his trousers.


Spode searched, oh how he searched, but he had to eventually accept that no package of lace underthings was in my luggage.


“You can’t hide it from me long, Wooster!” he snarled.


He peppered this observation by punching through one of my straw hats and stomping off without a further word.


We were free to go! I took a moment to enjoy the satisfaction of leaving Totleigh, miraculously unengaged, and to enjoy the prospect of home, hearth, and perhaps a snifter at the Drones.


I only took a short moment though, because then Jeeves crouched down to gather my strewn clothing.


Jeeves. Crouching! Fortunately the underling was engaged in rescuing one of my socks from the helmet of a suit of armour, and quite missed the direction in which my eyes were now glued.


The strain those suspenders must have been under, taught against those bulging thighs…


I fairly tottered down to the car, and was then gently reminded that the car was not my own and that we had in fact arrived by train.




Now if you are inclined to imagine Totleigh-in-the-Wold station as a glorious example of a British railway outpost you have gotten ahead of yourself. It is little more than a single platform and some bushes. It has so little business that even the stationmaster seems embarrassed to wave you onboard.


Wooster!, I’m sure my dear readers are saying, you are testing us to the giddy limit with this railway talk, in the style of Bradshaw or similar. Unless Bradshaw is going to turn up and do some snogging, we aren’t interested. Cease with this locomotive business at once.


Normally, I’d quite agree, but I beg your patience.


Totleigh-in-the-Wold is the start of the line, taking us from Bassett and Spode country to the relative civilisation of Gloucester, and from there to actual society. Careful readers might care to note that we were the only passengers starting the journey at the station.


Jeeves nodded in approval as the train left exactly on time. All was well for a minute or two, until the pressing of my bladder made itself known and I stood up for a trip to the little gentlemans’ room. It was then that I remembered the situation down below.


“Would you care for some assistance, sir?” Jeeves asked delicately.


I replied with some dignity, and a hint of strawberry about the features, that I’d managed my own affairs in that regard since I was in short trousers. I would not be cowed by some stolen underwear.  


Well! I tell you! Five minutes later, and feeling as if I’d completed a gymnastics event in a space not much larger than a tea caddy, I emerged a changed man, a man who has looked into the very abyss and lived to tell the tale.


And, as Jeeves was quick to notice, a limping man.


“Are you injured sir?” he asked.


“No,” I hissed, looking behind me to ensure the carriage door was closed and we were unobserved. “It’s the… the…


“Am I to understand that one of your suspenders has become twisted?” Jeeves asked, and I looked around in panic in case someone outside the carriage might have heard. The corridor was thankfully deserted.


“Yes!” I squeaked. “It pinged off and then I put it back but somehow it went wrong…”


I gestured helplessly at the front of my left leg. As always, Jeeves took the matter in his stride.


“If you would return to your window seat, sir, I will attend to the matter directly.”


I took my seat as instructed and focused my gaze out of the window, in the hope of gaining back some dignity. I was just considering the likelihood of rain, vis a vis the field of sleeping cows we were overtaking, when Jeeves stuck his hand down my trousers.




“Hmm. Yes, sir?”  


His skilled fingers danced along my thigh while he tracked down his suspect. The twisted suspender seemed to be a slippery customer indeed.


“Stop this at once! People will see!”


“Not at all, sir,” said Jeeves briskly. He was leaning over me, which caused his forearm to make frequent contact with what you might call the main attraction.


“When the train started from Totleigh, we were the only passengers. There is no need for the conductor to come this way for any reason than to announce the station, and we are still seven minutes from the next stop. I estimate that for the next five minutes we will be free from prying eyes.”


Forearms gently rubbing upon the Wooster Minor were one thing, as were clever fingers stroking at my thighs, but how could I defend myself against this display of logic? I gasped. I squirmed.


And then the limited space inside my trousers became even scarcer.


“Ah,” said Jeeves, sounding strangled, “I do apologise sir. There seems to have been some inadvertent… stimulation on my part.”


He did not remove his arm. In fact, he seemed quite frozen to the s.


I saw at once the situation. Reginald Jeeves has a quiet roguishness about him that oft goes unnoticed. He is by no means a prankster, and he considers a lark to be a step too far, but he takes a certain amount of enjoyment where he can. It was clear to me that he had, in his own way, been having his portion of fun at the young master’s expense and now had much to regret.


“Well,” I said.


And then, feeling I should do the thing properly, “Gosh.”


What was my fate to be? Would Jeeves coldly wave me off to my two rations of gruel and six hours of rockbreaking per day? Or would he simply remove his hand and use it to proffer his resignation? Both seemed equally bleak prospects.


“You do like it,” he said, at long last.


I considered his tone, as a sommelier considers a new Bordeaux of his acquaintance. It was not angry, it was not quite shocked…


... it was wondrous.  


Perhaps Jeeves had been teasing me, but it had been as Tantalus teased at the fruit - his fingers might brush the skin but he’d known he’d never be allowed to nibble ‘pon the flesh. Now here I was, offering myself up as the proverbial fruit platter.


“Oh rather,” I agreed.


Ever the logician, Jeeves moved his hand and cupped the lace covered bulge. I gurgled with pleasure. My credentials as someone who did indeed like it were quickly established.


But for a man who’s right palm was currently well employed in the location of my crotch, a hint of maidenly shyness crossed the Jeevesian dial.


Now I’m not up to the mark on many subjects, but if Eton handed out prizes in reading Jeeves’ expressions, I’d have had more certificates than wallspace. I saw the crux of the problem at once. Jeeves is a reserved chap. He likes his emotions to keep their hands where he can see them and to avoid any funny business. But one had clearly gone rogue, and that feudally-spirited mind of his was trying to clap it in irons before it caused him to say something he’d regret.


However, you can’t have had ancestors at Agincourt and be struck dumb by love for your own valet. Like any hot-blooded young man, I wasn’t afraid to wade in and feel some feelings. I needed to take charge of the conversation and lead from example.


“A rummy business, Jeeves.” I said.


I sat back with the feeling of a job well done. He absent-mindedly stroked my length with his thumb while he considered his next words. I ‘ gah! ’ed with enthusiasm.


“I hoped that you might be interested in the male form,” he said eventually. “I suspected. Perhaps I wished it. But until this moment I wasn’t sure.”


“I had no idea you went in for such things,” I said, turnabout being fair play. “I wished too.”


We considered the thingness of it all for a moment. Jeeves then donned his armour and headed back out into the conversational fray.


“When I overheard Mr. Spode talking on the telephone about his special delivery… I can’t explain what went through my mind,” Jeeves said. “I had the most vivid image of you wearing the contents. I rather lost my senses.”


“You, Jeeves?!” I said. “You were responsible for Gussie receiving the parcel in the first place?”


“A small misdirection, sir. I orchestrated for the parcel to go to Mr. Fink-Nottle, feeling sure he would seek your assistance in the matter. My study of your character suggested that you would find it difficult to hide any… interest. I believed that if you felt nothing at all you would simply write the adventure off as yet another set of hijinks.”


Wonderful Jeeves. Does he occasionally lead Wooster into the soup? He does. Will Wooster be better off for said souping? Every single time. If Machiavelli had experienced a bit of a tender pash and then come into the possession of some women’s unmentionables, I imagine he’d have done much the same.


“You are a marvel,” I sighed.


“You would be willing to share the occasional… physical companionship with me? I would never dream of suggesting anything more -”


Anything more? More ? I would have given Jeeves even to the half of my kingdom at any point in the last few years, and that was before he stuck his hands down my trousers. I’d had plenty of physical companionship (my education being quite an education in that respect) and I was certain that things could never be so straightforward with Jeeves.


I could see that Jeeves had struggled to the door of the love that dare not speak , and now that he’d dinged the doorbell, he was having some difficulty remembering its name. Well, Bertram Wilberforce Wooster Esq was going to give it full throat and hang the consequences.


“Jeeves, old thing” I said, “I’m daffy about you. Absolutely potty.”


“Oh sir,” he whispered.


Feeling that the matter had been admirably resolved, I kissed him.


I can report back that the Jeevesian lips are, as I had often hypothecated, firm and yet plump. The tongue is agile, and I was quite sure my generations of warring ancestors would forgive my easy surrender to it, in the circs. The midday sun was in the sky and yet Jeeves still smelled of freshly aired laundry and fine milled soap. He tasted like the first cup of Oolong of the day. I was certain I could never face a morning again, if it did not begin with a kiss such as this.


I keened when he broke away, but he was resolute.


“Sir, the conductor will shortly announce the station.”


“Dash it all,” I said, my views upon conductors at that moment aligning with what the Pharaoh must have felt after Moses let loose with the first batch of frogs.


At once, Jeeves and I seperated and retreated to a discreet distance. The Telegraph was hiding the indignity in my lower regions from the conductor, and - moments later - from the elderly lady who took a seat in our carriage.


I lowered the paper a fraction to risk a glance at Jeeves. He lifted his nose from his book and we shared a look that could only mean one thing.


Just wait until I get you home.




I won’t say we raced up the stairs to my apartment. If anything Jeeves seemed to be modelling himself on a passing glacier. He enquired after the Doorman, and Mrs. Doorman, and all of the little Doormans - growing like weeds, Mr Jeeves! He arranged for the luggage to be carried upstairs and then set about a seemingly endless scheme of essential household airing whilst I trailed after him in the style of the proverbial little lamb.


It was only when we were finally in the bedroom, and I began to fear that he was going to torture me by making me watch him unpack the entirety of the luggage, that he finally took pity.


“Would you like me to divest you of your travelling garments, sir?”


I gulped. I quivered.


“Divest away, Jeeves. Divest away.”


Jeeves had my jacket off in a thrice, my tie and shirt off in a trice, and my undershirt gone in… even less time than that. I trembled as he unbuckled my belt and I dared not even look at him as he pulled it from me with with a rasp of leather on tweed.


All that now remained were the trousers, rather a key point in the proceedings. Once they were removed some fairly spicy scenes were likely to follow, and whatever life we had previously known with each other was going to change for good.


Jeeves has always insisted that trousers are important - which just goes to show how right he is about things.


A dunderheaded specimen such as myself couldn’t put words to such complex emotions, but I kissed Jeeves sweetly, and hoped he understood. He kissed back, and even if I didn’t understand exactly what his lips were telegraphing back to me, you can be sure that I felt delightfully safe and loved.


Jeeves then removed the trou in the same way he did every day, barely glancing at me as he turned to fold them over the chair. This seemed as close as he could bring himself to flinging clothing passionately across the room.


I don’t know if you’ve ever found yourself standing in front of your beloved in nothing but ladies’ underwear. I assume plenty of ladies have done so without it presenting a problem. But as a chap, I can tell you that small doubts start to creep into the mind. You begin to feel silly.  


I was just wondering whether Jeeves might turn and laugh when Jeeves actually did the much anticipated 180 degrees.


He did not laugh.


Now I don’t consider myself a matinee idol. ‘Willowy charm’ is the term that gets bandied around about Wooster comma Bertram, with an occasional foray into ‘suave elegance’ when eveningwear makes an appearance. ‘Tall and slender’, is what they marked on my card early on, with an additional note that all of the other features could be taken from the drawer marked ‘non-descript’.


Yet there Jeeves was, looking at me like someone had just givien him a light coshing. He took his fill of me via the peepers, and then strode forward in the manner of one who has tucked their napkin into their collar and is planning to get in a good eleven courses, plus coffee and mints. He kissed me fervently which was terrific fun, especially when his hands slid over my bottom and crushed me against him. Just a scrap of lace now separated me from his valeting costume.


“I’m no expert in the business of removing clothes,” I gasped eventually. “But have pity, Jeeves. The uniform has to go.”


“Certainly, sir.”


I wanted to address this ‘sir’ business, but the moment his broad chest came into view I quite forgot how to speak. I hopped from one foot to the other in aroused eagerness as he folded his shirt and then - still turned away from me - dropped his trousers to give me a lingering look at his posterior.


The soft, feminine garments only teased at the powerful body beneath. His strong shoulders, his long legs - I wanted it all. When he finally turned to me, his magnificent dick was proudly erect and my mouth actually watered.


My instinct was to leap at him and have my way on whatever surface happened to catch our fall, but a chap only gets one first time with the object of their a. It was my duty to do the thing properly.


I met Jeeves’ yearning expression with what I hoped was a rather corking, smouldering one of my own. Then I circled around him, taking in every inch.


A second look at that wonderful arse wasn’t enough, so I pressed against his back and peppered kisses on his shoulders. I swear that the lace of my costume whispered as I ground it against him and he rocked backwards into to me. It was with some reluctance that I freed myself to move onto the the next item on the agenda.


His cock was peeking from the elastic waistband, already so hard that it was pulling the fabric away from his body. The tip was rosy and already weeping. I reached out and encircled the head with the tip of my finger, much as one might make music upon the rim of a glass. Jeeves certainly gave forth a high note or two.


I can’t tell you what a pleasing sight it was, the head contrasting beautifully with the pale pink silk and the dark thatch of hair that climbed up towards his bellybutton. I sighed in pleasure and - feeling one might as well do the thing properly - leant forward to nip gently on one of his temptingly sweet nipples. The left I think. He responded so delightfully (hand carding through my hair, fingers dancing along my back) that I moved over to the right suckled away, giving a nice little demonstration of my active tongue.


His chest rose and fell underneath my lips as he panted.


“Sir… please…” he croaked. “I need you… I - I need you -”


The world, by and large, considers young B. W. Wooster to be a talentless fool, which shows that it pays to never listen to a critic. For where I’d been shortchanged in the areas of business acumen and tactical thinking, I’d clearly been given extra rations in the skill of reducing intelligent, capable valets to quivering puddles. After one more kiss to the chest, and then another to his mouth, I finally ceased my teasing.


“Then you must have me Jeeves,” I said huskily. “In any way you please.”


If my manly dignity was impinged by tripping backwards onto the bed at this juncture, Jeeves didn’t seem to mind. He fell on top of me and we were soon writhing, kissing and groping with abandon. His bulge ground into mine and I fizzed with pleasure like a firework before it rockets into the sky.


I shimmied my hand beneath the pink silk and took hold of his cock. He was wonderfully lengthy and a delightfully thick handful. I’d enjoyed large men before, but it was nothing to the longing I felt now. I wanted him slicked up and pounding me into the goosedown forthwith.


I made my case for this course of action, using the few words still at my disposal.


“I'm afraid sir,” gasped Jeeves, “that we are a little too close to la petite mort to perform as either of us would hope.”


Ah Jeeves, ever the perfectionist!


“But you will soon?” I begged. “The thought of you driving into me hard enough to make the room quake… skin slapping against skin... or me riding that immense prick like one of those champion chappies at Ascot… until I go off like a champagne bottle...”


At my words, the aforementioned immense p. jerked in my hand. I stroked it possessively and for some reason, this caused Jeeves some trouble in elucidating his next point.


“I will spend hours on such an endeavour, sir,” he eventually croaked. “More than once, if you feel it merited.”




“Yes, sir.”


We continued in this fashion for a while. Eventually Jeeves freed himself from my greedy hand and began a torturous trail of kisses down my chest and stomach. When he reached his destination, he stroked and massaged the bulge of fabric with the heel of his palm. I thrashed about on the pillows, but his campaign was not done. He returned his lips to the lace covering and stroked his tongue up and down the outline of my prick. He took the fabric covered tip into his mouth and suckled it wetly.


I’m only a man - even one in women’s underwear. I could take it no longer. I needed to be free from this infernal lace contraption.


“JEEVES!” I howled. “Take it - take -”


I met Jeeves’ hooded gaze. His eyes were near black, his lips were cherry-red, and the chiselled features I had so oft admired were flushed with arousal.


“Would you like me to remove the knickers, sir?”




“For the purposes of taking you in my mouth?”


“That’s the stuff, yes!”


“As you wish, sir.”


Quick as a flash he reached out and grasped the sopping wet lace in his hands. He gave a mighty wrench and the fabric tore like tissue paper, allowing my abused cock to bound to freedom.


Time stopped, just for a second. Perhaps no one but myself and Jeeves noticed.  


Because Jeeves had destroyed a garment to access my penis.


Jeeves did that. I mean… Jeeves!


I had no time to wonder further at the perfection of the man, because now my prick was free and jutting up toward him quite shamelessly. He wasted no time sinking his mouth down onto it.


I bucked. I thrashed. Then I remembered that keeping my hips still was usually the preux chevalier thing and restrained myself with heroic effort.


I thought his plan was send me careening into my orgasm, for he sucked and slurped brutally, taking me whole and moving at a ruthless pace. His tongue swirled and he paused only once, to suckle at my balls as a little holiday from the main event, before returning to his assault upon my needy prick.


Tears streamed from my eyes and my knuckles were white as I clung to the headboard. If I managed to say any words at all beyond ululations of ecstasy, I couldn’t possibly tell you what they were.


But just as the world started to slip away and the pressure rose… his mouth was gone. I opened my eyes and found him panting for air, but apparently not ready to let me finish yet.


At this point I managed some words, which I won’t print here. There are some limits.


He let me whimper and writhe most cruelly, until I had regained something like composure. I felt wrung out, destined to never find release.


If only I had known what was to come next…


Jeeves seized my thighs and lifted them for better access to my arse. The suspenders - still miraculously in place - strained at the new position, and he nipped my derriere with his teeth in pleasure at the view.


My cock remained stubbornly untouched as it weeped against my abdomen. Instead he seperated my cheeks - as I had begged him to do earlier - and swirled his tongue at my hole. My reaction spurred him on to further acts of spectacular villainy. He tongued me without mercy, spreading me wide, but he never let me fall over the edge. When it became too much for me, he nipped and swatted at my bottom.


In the most agonising tease of all, he held my cheeks open and ground his silken bulge against my wet, sensitive hole.


This brought my earlier comments home to roost viz. being hammered into the mattress and/or riding him like I was on course to win the National. I was sure I would die of it, if he did not suck me or fuck me right there and then.


When I was beyond reason, he finally took pity and released me from the torture.


He lowered my legs and allowed me to recover whilst he put on a little show for my delectation. I focused all my attention on him as, one by one, he plucked his suspenders free. He was perfectly able to reach the ones at the back and I called him a beast for his earlier trick. Once unhooked, he removed his garter belt, leaving him modelling just the straining knickers and the stockings.


It was time for me to take action. I worked my jellied legs and pushed myself up until I was seated against the headboard.




Jeeves understood perfectly. He carefully avoided my cock which was primed to go off at the slightest touch, but he slid himself up until he was kneeling over me and my face was inches from his groin.


As he had done to me earlier, I leaned forward and nuzzled against his beautiful dick. Rubbing my face and lips against it, tonguing the damp fabric, and - by placing both hands on his arse - I encouraged him to grind against me at will.


It was heavenly, slow suffocation. I was surrounded by muscle, skin, silk, and the scent and taste of arousal. I groped at Jeeves’ arse and thighs and gasped against the straining length as it pressed against my face and lips. I was greedy for it.


“Who was that god, Jeeves?” I murmured.


Poor Jeeves. This was hardly the moment for theology, but he took it in his stride.


“G - god, sir?”


“The one who had a jolly time with the orgies?”


“I - I can’t - Bacchus , sir.”


I momentarily tongued at the tip of his cockhead, where it peeked shyly over the elastic.


“That’s how I feel,” I sighed, while he garbled. “ Bacchanalian.”


Whether it was my tongue or my stimulation of his brain that had done it, it was all suddenly too much for Jeeves. He scrabbled at the silk knickers, yanking them down as far as possible with his legs still straddling my upper chest.


His hefty cock finally fell free and I suckled on it joyously.


He was divine; wonderfully musky and as salty as supper in Normandy. I slapped at his arse (which made a lovely ringing noise, now the skin was finally bare) to make it clear that some pistoning of the hips was in order.


I wanted him to use my lips and throat recklessly, and I confess to no small amount of talent in that arena. He cottoned on at once, and cupped the back of my head to hold me still and prevent my skull cracking on the headboard. He thinks of everything.


He quickly got to business, pounding into my hot and eager mouth. He snapped his hips to-and-fro, balls slapping at my chin, broad dick sliding against my lips until they were raw from the motion. Saliva dribbled from my mouth, but I cared not a jot - there was nothing left in the world but Jeeves’ cries and my muffled groans of pleasure.


My own cock, though currently not in play, was leaking and near agony. I was just wondering whether a man might be able to come untouched, when Jeeves suddenly pulled away, launching himself toward the bedstead.    


“I was too close…” he gasped.


He kicked away the knickers that were now bunched around his knees and for a moment we both lay, gasping at our respective ends of the bed, building ourselves up for the final push to victory.


Eventually though, ‘I can’t’ becomes ‘I must’ a nd Jeeves was soon crawling back over to me, eyes bright, full of the old viking spirit. He straddled me once more and it was a sight I will remember to my dying day.


He kneeled proudly over me. As I have mentioned, he is broadly built, pale but for a tender smattering of hair, which climbed beautifully up from his balls to his belly button, and another fine patch that rested between his two delicate pink nipples. His stockings were still in pristine condition despite the way they strained against his strapping thighs. In the midst of this glorious scene was his wet prick, which (in line with his hat size) was well above par in length and thickness. It hung, painfully heavy with need.


He took my dusky, engorged cock and pressed it against his, encircling us both with his capable hands.


“Please!” I said. Or perhaps it was ‘ Jeeves’ , or even ‘ Yes!’ You can understand how a chap might lose track.


“Are you ready?” he asked.


I indicated that I was by writhing, begging, and nearly tearing the pillow I was clutching at apart.


It was such a heady mix of sensations that I was at once lost. Our silk encased legs slid against each other, still clothed, and his engorged balls pressed against mine. Our lengths were grinding against each other as his hands moved up and down around them, squeezing, pumping, driving us towards the end. His eyes were fixed on mine and his muscled arms bulged as they went about their important task. I bucked underneath him, hips thrashing at the inescapable, tender onslaught.




When release finally came, it lasted for an age. The sensation rocketed around my body and my prick jerked out cum with abandon. I recovered just in time for Jeeves to arrive at his own destination. His cum streaked my chest, mixing with mine in a most wickedly satisfactory way. He milked away at us until every drop was eked from our sensitive, slick cocks.


This done, he landed next to me in the fashion of an amorously felled tree.


Well, physically and emotionally, it was all a bit much for a chap. Bliss is overwhelming, and I’d had several spoonfuls more than the recommended dose. The body trembled. The eyes watered.


But all was well. My man pressed his lips to mine and stroked my happy tears away.




I could end it there, though I’m sure my readers would gnash teeth and bay for blood. Wooster, you ninny, you fool, it’s all very well a good time being had by all, but what of the emotional pay-off? Who loves whom and for how long have they yearned, et cetera, et cetera?


Well, a whole new relationship can’t be perfectly arranged in the course of an afternoon, even when one half of the pair is mentally rich in nutrients and could take a fair crack at world peace, if given the chance. Nevertheless, we gave it a bally good try.  


Once we’d finished our panting and gasping, our senses slowly returned. Jeeves got up (still in stockings, his naked bottom moving with purpose) and set the bath to running. While the tub filled, he returned to my side and went to immediate work applying the Jeevesian lips to as-yet neglected areas of the Wooster corpus.


When the bath was ready he enticed me up out of bed, using nothing more than wile and his naked flesh. He divested me of the last scraps of fabric and lowered my spent body into the warm water. In a delightful change from the usual program, he then slid in behind me.


I fear poor Mr. Duck will have a rival for my attention from now on.


After the soaping, stroking, and canoodling that followed, we talked boldly of our feelings. The odd manly tear was shed as we marvelled at the luck that had led us to each other’s door. (Or rather, led Jeeves to my door and me to answering it, but you get the idea.)


“Jeeves?” I asked.


“Hmmm, sir?”


He stroked warm water over an exposed bit of my shoulder that was just beginning to goose-pimple. I nuzzled into his neck.


“I feel we should consult the poets. Do they have anything fruity to say about moments such as these?”


“A great many things, sir. I am considering the merits of John Donne.”


“What says he?”


“‘Come live with me, and be my love, and we will some new pleasures prove.’”


John Donne had cut right to the nub of the issue, and I said as much.


For a moment, though, my stomach fluttered with something else - with nervousness. Not about the the many things I yearned to do to the splendid cock that was even now hardening against my buttocks, but for what would happen afterwards. Eventually I would have to face the world, the Drones, the Aunts… and he’d have to answer doors and arrange grocery deliveries. We’d have to navigate it all whilst keeping this wonderful secret between us.


But, this morning I had been within moments of a trouncing from Roderick Spode. Now, thanks to my man, I was enjoying a long and delectable afternoon that was about to get even more l. and involve considerably more d. When it looked like Jeeves was about to get me into hot water, it was only because he’d drawn me a fragrant bath. He would keep us safe and I would keep him happy.


And we both agreed that, whatever else the future held, a discrete catalogue of Eulalie products was going to be absolutely essential.


The End