I was pottering about the flat, the very picture of a young man in fine fettle with not a care in the world, when I became aware of a sound. A quiet-ish, unassuming little sound that nevertheless contrived to give the lie to my fine fettling state and bode poorly for my continued absence of care.
Jeeves had sighed.
“Jeeves,” I said. “You sighed.”
“I do beg your pardon, sir,” said Jeeves, regarding me with his usual poker-face. He held a piece of paper in one hand which, after only a moment’s thought, I was able to connect to the recent ring of the old doorbell and identify as a letter.
“Bad news?” I enquired solicitously.
“Nothing significant.” Jeeves tucked the letter away in one of his invisible pockets like a magician doing a trick. “Merely a friend of mine informing me that he is unable to make our social engagement tonight.”
I nodded in a sympathetic manner, having known too often the sting of a blighter standing one up. “Bally shame, what?”
“Don’t suppose I can tempt you to join me at the bash tonight? Aunt Dahlia would be thrilled to bits.” I was engaged to motor down to Brinkley Court that evening in advance of said aunt’s birthday celebrations the next day, following which I intended to stop on for a few days of Anatole-aided recovery. Jeeves had been invited but had declared himself unable to leave while certain repairs were being done on the flat, Jeeves being a singularly un-trusting sort of chap when it came to tradesmen.
“I regret not, sir.”
“Hope you won’t be at too much of a loose end.”
“I’m sure that I will manage to entertain myself somehow, sir,” said Jeeves, giving me an odd, thoughtful look.
I nodded in an understanding sort of way. Truth be told, I’ve never been entirely sure what sort of entertainment Jeeves does go in for, dark horse that he is. Certainly has no appreciation for music-hall, and claims to go to museums for fun on his days off. The only thing I know for certain that he does enjoy is exerting a tyrant-like control over my wardrobe. Therefore, as a generous gesture, I invited him to offer his opinion on my planned outfit for the shindig, which featured a rather spiffing new bow tie.
I was flabberghasted. Jeeves turning down an opportunity to opine on Bertie’s glad-rags?
“’No’ is my opinion, sir.”
The b. cheek of it! I abandoned my attempt to comfort the ungrateful wretch and went to have a bath instead.
What with one thing and another, I was so distracted that I managed to get halfway to Brinkley Court before I realised I’d left Aunt D’s birthday present in the flat. I thought about leaving it to be sent on at a later date, then pictured the ensuing row and decided that a small detour via the old homestead would be less of a fag, all in all.
I burst into the flat and, before I could yell out to Jeeves to explain the sitch, was hit whang in the beak with the most scrumptious smell that had ever tickled my nostrils.
“Good Lord!” I cried out. “What on earth is that ambrosial scent?”
“I fear that would be me, sir,” came Jeeves’s voice weakly from the vicinity of his bedroom.
Propelled forward by some hitherto unfamiliar urge, I found myself trotting down the corridor to the unknown territory that was Jeeves’s sole domain and putting my hand to the door handle.
“Sir, I really think it would be best if you-”
I flung the door open wide and gaped at the scene that lay beyond.
Jeeves - dignified, unperturbable Jeeves, he of the poker face and overly rigid attitude to formal dress - was sweaty and starkers in the middle of the sheets, legs akimbo, with what appeared to be a large pink marital aid thrust up his backside.
“Golly,” I said.
“Please excuse me, sir,” said Jeeves, red-faced, as he continued to work the artificial member in and out of himself with rude, wet, squelching sounds. “I wasn’t expecting you home this evening.”
The smell was overpowering now - sort of like a perfectly ripe nectarine, all lush and sweet and mouth-watering. I tried to think of an intelligent remark to make and found that I was fully erect and had already stripped off most of my clothes.
“Jeeves,” I began before losing my train of thought completely. Abandoning conversation as a lost cause, I stepped out of my trousers and leaped onto the bed prick-first.
Jeeves’s bottom, as it turned out, was a thing of hairy magnificence. I carefully withdrew the enormous rubber monstrosity and set it aside on the night-table before burying my face in between his two perfect, peach-like buttocks. “I mean to say,” I said, drunkenly and wet of face, when at last I surfaced. “Would you mind awfully if I ravished you?”
“Very good, sir.”
Reader, I ravished him. I rogered him rotten from one end of the flat to the other. I ploughed his arse with all the vigour and vim of a Spartan warrior in battle, and when I ran out of vigour he fixed me up one of his special tonics and I rogered him again.
“Good Lord,” I panted at one point as we reclined on the now unspeakable Chesterfield after yet another spectacular climax. “I mean to say, Jeeves. Good Lord.”
“I endeavour to give satisfaction,” said Jeeves modestly, cupping a speculative hand around my rapidly recovering manhood.
“Not as much as I do, you don’t.” I heaved a deep breath, rose to my feet, bent Jeeves over the dining room table and endeavoured my bally socks off.
I woke up several days later in my own bed, ache-y and discombobulated.
“Good morning, sir.” Jeeves glided in, immaculately dressed and looking in the very pink, and placed a cup of jolly Assam in my paw.
“Nng,” I commented. Had it all been a particularly fevered dream? Bit of a tricky subject to approach - can’t exactly come right out with ‘I say Jeeves, did I imagine it or did we just spend the better part of a week making the beast with two backs?’.
“I’ve taken the liberty of running you a bath, sir.”
The tea was sufficiently restorative to galvanise my poor muscles into taking me to the bathroom, where I flopped into the water like a seal who’s had a particularly hard day at the office.
Inspection of the various sticky and chafed bits of the Wooster corpus confirmed that ‘how’s your father’ had indeed taken place, multiple times and with considerable enthusiasm. As I lay there in the rose-scented water, splashing idly and letting the h. w. work its magic on my beleaguered body, I contemplated the courses of action available to a gentleman.
Never let it be said that Bertie shied away from doing the honourable thing.
“Jeeves,” I said some time later, when I was comfortably wrapped in my blue-est dressing gown and recovering from the liberal application of toast and kippers, “we need to talk.”
Jeeves put The Times down and raised his eyebrows at me in an interrogative manner.
My nerve failed me. “Aunt Dahlia’s going to be bally furious with me,” I said, resorting to the second-most important of the issues currently occupying the old bonce.
“I hope not, sir,” said Jeeves. “I took the liberty of sending her present by post with a note explaining that I had fallen unexpectedly ill and that you had very kindly stayed in London to look after me.”
My cheeks flamed at the thought of exactly what said looking after had entailed. Jeeves’s didn’t, the swine. “Very good,” I said, conceding that the story made up in irreproachability what it lacked in plausibility.
Jeeves returned to his perusal. I stiffened sinews, girded loins, and sallied once more into the breach. “Jeeves,” I said firmly, “we have a situation. There is only one course of action that the code of the Woosters will allow me to take, and I intend to take it.”
That got his attention. “Sir?” said Jeeves, looking somewhat alarmed.
“Matrimony,” I said.
Jeeves blinked at me, which might not seem very much to you but was the equivalent of a regular chap swooning to the floor in a dead faint.
“There’s no good carrying on like that,” I said, emboldened by righteous feeling. “We’ve got to think of the children.”
“The children,” said Jeeves, all a-quiver. “I’m afraid I don’t follow, sir.”
I was now at something of a loss, as further conversational forays appeared to require a certain frankness regarding biological matters that I simply wasn’t capable of in my delicate state. “You,” I said, gesturing, “we-”
“Perhaps it would help clarify things if I assured sir that all appropriate prophylactic measures were taken,” said Jeeves at some speed.
“Oh,” I said. “No children?”
“No, sir,” said Jeeves emphatically.
“Oh,” I said feeling faint with relief. “Jolly good.”
Jeeves was still eyeing me with the cautious manner of a man who has just heard his pet poodle speak and is worried it’s going to do it again. I felt moved to do something to reassure him, and also to satisfy the vague sense of obligation I still felt floating around.
“Jeeves,” I said.
“How would you feel about getting rid of my new bow tie?”
His mouth twitched a fraction in a manner that I translated as roaring approval. “Very good, sir.”
I settled back into the armchair with the warm, fluffy feeling of a job well done. Just as I was about to drop off for a well-deserved snooze, a thought occurred. “Jeeves?”
“Always happy to lend a hand, you know. Should you be poorly again.”
A look that I can only describe as lascivious gleamed momentarily in his eye before vanishing away like the proverbial dew in the equally proverbial morn. “I shall bear that in mind, sir.”