give_satisfaction | Let The Kinkiness Begin!

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Let The Kinkiness Begin!

And we're off! Don't hold back! It's anonymous so let your freak flag fly! Not confident about your creative skills? Practice here! The fills can be anything you want. Fics, videos, artwork and anything else that strikes your fancy. Prompts do not have to be Bertie and Jeeves only! All of the other characters are fair game (Honoria and Madeline tentacle sex, anybody?). As are characters from other books and stories. This meme might be slow to start, so please spread the word!

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Graphic Depictions Of Violence
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Rape/Non-Con
Suicide
Attempted Suicide
Incest

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I did it as well! I regret (almost) nothing.

Jeeves/Bertie, cold hands on warm skin

Jeeves/Bertie with a focus on Jeeves' legs, please!

Oh, I'm definitely one of those.

The conclusion to Spinoza’s “Ethics” supposes that all things excellent are as difficult as they are rare. I found myself pondering this as I watched Mr. Wooster from across the room – the soft lines of his young features; the arch of his eyebrows, raised in provocation; the alluring azure of his eyes; and the stark cupid’s bow beneath his Grecian nose.

Yes, Mr. Wooster was indeed rare – as rare as he was difficult.

Arms crossed over his chest, he lifted his chin. ‘No, Jeeves, I will not concede defeat this time,’ said his slightly upturned lips, and his pink tongue darted out to touch the corner of his mouth, ‘We’ve had our sartorial differences before, but this goes beyond garment.’

He was being, as I have mentioned, difficult. However, there are certain languages one learns to speak from habit, and I knew his playfulness well by now. ‘Sir?’ I raised an eyebrow at him, daring him to go further.

‘Yes, Jeeves, this is a matter of dominance.’ He spoke the word with such incitement that I was almost unsettled by its impropriety.

Almost.

‘Indeed, sir,’ I answered levelly, as I slowly crossed the room towards him. I was only a few inches taller than him, but I was also broader, stronger, and I positioned myself as to accentuate this. I saw the tremor that passed through him, the anticipation in his eyes.

When he spoke next, I stood so close to him that I felt his warm breath against my skin. ‘The tie shall remain, Jeeves, and I shall wear it tomorrow morning,’ he stood upright, amused by his own defiance, ‘Unless…’

The word lingered in the air, a living thing between us. ‘Unless, sir?’

‘Unless you can… persuade me.’

Again, that insolence, that shameless insinuation. I delighted in it. Impudent, brazen, scandalous but gentlemanly – he was irresistible. I could have yielded then, dropped to my knees in front of him or taken him against the wall. He would have liked it either way. But I remembered Spinoza, and all things excellent. Rare and difficult.

Mr. Wooster’s eyelids fluttered, and his eyes moved to my lips. He was waiting for the fissure in my composure. I sought excellence in all things – an easy victory was nothing to me. I would not drop to my knees. I would not give in to the tension between us, to the passion that burned in my loins. I would remain self-possessed, and I would persuade him all the same. He wanted dominance… I would show him dominance.

‘You will pardon me for saying, sir, that you are not aware of what you are truly asking,’ I said, reaching slowly for the tie at his neck. I took the offending item between my finger and thumb, rubbing at its garish fabric.

His breath came out louder, his chest heaving under my gaze. He looked at my fingers, the way they stroked the tie at his throat, the way they undid it with the deftness that only habit grants. He swallowed, and I felt the bob of his Adam’s apple against the back of my hand. ‘I bally well am aware, Jeeves,’ he tried to find his boldness, but it was lost.

‘In that case, sir…’ I let my voice drift away languidly, as if in negligence, and I made my fingers tap lightly at the base of his neck, where his shirt now lay open. I slid my hand up along his jaw. I saw him soften, felt his body relax as it leaned into mine. He made the mistake of believing that I would submit.

Now, he was mine.

In one swift movement I wrenched the tie from him and turned him around. He staggered in his surprise, allowing me to pull his arms behind his back. I pressed my body into his. ‘I will have to be firm with you,’ I whispered in his ear, using the tie to bind his hands.

He gasped as the fabric dug into his wrists. I had only taken his hat, stick and coat. The rest he still wore – even his jacket and his shoes. I wanted to see him laid out for me; I wanted to reveal the helplessness in him. As much as I enjoyed his natural shamelessness and voluntary impudence, I ached to see the other, equally charming facet of him: the vulnerable young man, who would moan, whimper and beg.

‘If you would kneel now, sir…’

Dominance, he had said. But I kept my tone even and polite. I would command him without artifice or ploy – I would make the master submit to the servant. I could feel in him the urge to succumb, the ardent desire to kneel for me. He protested half-heartedly, but seconds later he was on his knees, his back to me. He could not see my breathlessness, the red that painted my cheeks.

I took a moment to calm the pounding in my chest, but my eyes fell on McIntosh’s leash, hanging off the side of a chair. Fiery madness overtook me, and I reached for the rope. Leaning over Mr. Wooster, I slipped the leash through the tie still binding his hands and then down to his feet. I felt him shudder. With eager fingers I wound the leash twice around his ankles and fastened it there.

I made him wait, and he waited. He could not move – would not move unless I ordered him. I placed my hand on his back and slowly pushed him forward. I watched his shirt slide up his back, high, higher, until I could see his smooth, pale skin. He pushed his backside off his heels. I did not have to force him. He bent forward until his cheek was pressed against the floor and his bottom thrust up in the air. His shirt and jacket had slid almost up to his chest, revealing the exquisite softness of his lower back, the cleft of his buttocks peeking out of his trousers, framed by two delicate dimples.

The rope tying his wrists to his ankles was taut against his back. I was painfully hard, but I did not reach to unfasten my trousers. Instead, I ran my hands up his trembling thighs and squeezed his buttocks. He moaned.

‘Jeeves… please…’

I was feverish with lust. ‘It is indeed, Mr. Wooster, a matter of dominance,’ I heard myself say. His eyes were closed, his eyebrows curving upwards imploringly as he knelt there for me. His arms twitched, but he did not struggle against his bonds.

He was utterly beautiful, kneeling face down on the floor, his trousers clinging to his thighs, his hands tied behind his back. He was wearing the shoes I liked best, and a suit I had chosen for him myself. I could not say what enthralled me more: the defencelessness of his position, or the fact that he was fully dressed, and how much more indecent that made him. A young gentleman in such distinguished attire should never be thus exposed. And yet there he was…

‘I do enjoy hearing you beg, sir,’ I said. I was insatiable.

‘Oh, please Jeeves… please, I – I can’t take it any longer…’ he pleaded.

‘And how may I satisfy you, sir?’

‘Please… do whatever you want to me, just – touch me!’

With a twinge of regret, I removed the leash, leaving him free to move everything except for his arms, which were still tied behind his back. He immediately spread his legs further apart.

‘So eager…’ I whispered, almost to myself, as I tugged at his trousers.

‘Jeeves, this is unbearable, please…’

I pulled down his trousers and smalls. He pushed his bottom higher in the air. ‘You are shameless, Mr. Wooster,’ I said, but I did not wait for an answer.

Spreading his cheeks with my hands, I leaned in and pressed my tongue against his most intimate area. He gasped, and as I continued, his moans grew louder. I could feel his knees shaking, straining to keep him upright. I used my lips and tongue to stretch him open until I was panting, and when I came up to breathe I looked at him. The sight alone was almost my undoing: there he was, only half-undressed, laid out for me, his tight pink hole displayed in such an indecent manner, and he was whimpering, begging for my touch…

‘I will take you now,’ I said, fumbling with my trousers. Mr. Wooster nodded feverishly. He had no words in him, only moans and my name, like a prayer on his tongue.

In a haze of passion I prepared myself, and then I was on my knees behind him, and my hands were on his hips, and I was gently sliding inside him. Finally, finally inside him.

He tried to push himself against me, to take me in deeper, but his hands were still tied behind his back. I gave him a light slap on the thigh. ‘Patience,’ I hummed. I knew what he wanted, and it seemed cruel to deny him now, after he had been so obedient. But I wanted him to be aware of his own depravity; I wanted him to think of it when he would reach his climax.

‘See how docile you can be,’ I said, and I felt him clench around me, ‘You are so beautiful when you submit to me, sir, do you not agree?’

‘Yes, Jeeves,’ he gasped, and I knew that he understood, that he felt the unparalleled bliss of being claimed by his manservant while he, the master, was bound and used.

‘Very good, sir,’ I praised him, although the very same words had been spoken before in a different context. This, paired with a few powerful thrusts, had a remarkable effect. Mr. Wooster jolted, crying out in pleasure, and shuddered through a violent orgasm.

I lost all control then and pounded into him savagely, until I spilled my seed inside him with a groan. I only vaguely remember that I untied him and took him in my arms, kissing his face and neck. He smiled up at me, tired and content, and we somehow found ourselves on his bed. As we lay there recovering, he played with my hair.

‘Jeeves…’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘That tie – get rid of it, will you?’

‘Thank you, sir.’

Here were all things excellent: the horrible tie, finally to be thrown out or burned; Mr. Wooster’s body, warm against mine; and our days together, stretching out until the end of time. If I were to simplify this philosophy, I would borrow one of Mr. Wooster’s expressions: ‘nothing good comes easy’. But when I looked into his bright blue eyes, I forgot everything I had endured, and knew only the happiness of being with him.

Hello, I‘m the one from the country with the „fear of contacts“ and I think it‘d be lovely to have a prompt about this!
I love making fun of my country ;)

Please see the Time Travel post.

Please see the Jeeves and Wooster time travel post.

How so?

I thought this wasn't my kink. Apparently it is when you write it. Holy fuck.

The post with the time loop was meant to be a new prompt but I posted it as reply to the time travel prompt instead.

Would you like to put in the longer prompt thread instead?

In case additional visual inspiration is required for this one....

So full disclosure guys: I was the one who posted the original prompt here and now have this fill sitting around and it doesn’t really fit everything I wrote/stole in the prompt but I wanted to post this fill anyway because I’ve been working really hard on revising it and I figure because I posted the prompt it won’t actually be violating the guidelines of this community so... yup. This is updated a little (...or a lot...) since its debut on DeviantArt back in 2011. The content is pretty much the same. The language has changed.

My dear imaginary audience (for imaginary you must be, unless you’re B. Wooster himself,) I imagine that you’re of the intelligent variety. You don’t allow yourself to be duped. You aren’t told by chortling chums that it’s raining sausages and head out into the streets with your finest china. “Peter,” you say, if your c. c.’s name is Peter, “Peter, you jest. Nothing so absurd has happened since the days of Exodus. You’re telling a fib, my good man, and I suggest that you cease at once.” You’d be right to take a dismissive attitude, and you would no doubt be commended for it.

You couldn’t be faulted for assuming the same attitude towards this scrap of prose. You’d be perfectly right to dismiss the improbable happenings and shocking revelations herein, for they are decently improbable and fairly shocking. You’d be right until your humble author informed you that this is an account torn directly from his experience, and that it is absolutely, brilliantly, mortifyingly true. Maybe a description has erred here or there, but the general contents are factual as Bertram Wilberforce knows how to present them. They could scarcely have been vivid enough for him to ruin several sets of sheets and pajamas and perfectly good baths in their honor if they were pure fiction!

The starting gun sounded, as it so often does, at the threat of matrimony. I burst into my Berkeley Mansions abode around noontime, crying out for Jeeves at such a pitch and volume that I could have impressed my Aunt Dahlia in her hunting days. A disaster had occurred. Madeleine Bassett had once again deigned to drift down from her cloud of perfumed romance and had been spotted roving the land in search of her specific dream rabbit. I had it from the lads at the Drones that she was headed Wooster-ward, and I knew that the only solution was to throw her off the scent with distance. Two or three hours by car, at least, to have her tiff with the Fink-Nottle poop repaired and those huge fish-eyes trained on him or some other poor soul again.

“Jeeves!” I called, plucking my driving cap from its rack and hurling myself back into the threshold. “We’ve got to leave, now. Madeline Bassett’s been reported to have caught onto my blood like a different breed of her sort, if you take my meaning. We must hie us to safer locales.”

The above-referenced paragon of manservants appeared in the midst of my babbling explanation, and, for once, his mere presence didn’t manage to relieve my anxiety. He had been in the kitchen polishing shoes when I made my entrance, if I were to surmise by the slightly miffed expression (i.e., the slightest quirk of the left eyebrow,) and the black Oxford, half-mirror finished, taking up residence in his hand. Jeeves considered my breathless form for a moment before replying coolly:

“Of course, sir. I will be with you in a moment. There are some things I’d like to fetch for the journey.” Needless to say, I was impatiently incensed by this talk of “things.” Couldn’t he sense that this was a matter of direst urgency?

“This is no time for things, Jeeves; we’ve got to go this minute!”

“Very good, sir.” My insistence moved him this time, and with what I think may have been a sigh (unless it was the whisper of a neglected shoe being placed delicately by the kitchen door,) my man nodded and joined me at the threshold. He followed a step or two behind me down the stairs and out the front door, freshly gloved and bowler-hatted and without a whit of a changed air about him. Nothing whatever could have indicated his being somehow ruffled by our impromptu journey. I would argue, lest the pride of the Woosters should suffer a blow, that I couldn’t have anticipated the events of the afternoon unless I’d been a veritable C. A. Dupin. Jeeves’ face was then as it always was: sculpted and strong and inscrutable as a chunk of marble.

As always in times of great stress, when I believe my valet’s serener style of driving won’t do, I insisted upon taking the wheel, and drove as hastily as one could through London’s midday traffic. Once we’d reached the outskirts of the city and could begin really stretching the car’s legs, Jeeves turned to me and spoke. Courtesy dictated a glance at him; I saw him clutching the rim of his bowler hat with a black-gloved hand to keep it from flying off into the ether. The hat, that is, not the hand.

“Sir,” he began, voice raised a bit over the hearty pounding of pistons, “where is it we are going, precisely, to evade Miss Bassett?” I smiled at the road, reveling a tad in the cunning of my plan.

“The young master’s outdone himself this time, Jeeves! Not only is this scheme suitable for escaping La Bassett, but it’s perfectly revel—relen—”

“Relevant, sir?”

“That’s the chappie! It’s perfectly relevant to our interests. There’s this place, you see, a summer house that Bingo’s just got his mitts on and is looking to rent. He recommended it to me just last weekend. Supposedly, the place is absolutely brimming with atmosphere. He’s going to show us around when we get there. Or so he says. I’ve some trouble believing that he’ll be ready to show at any moment, what with ‘June’ or ‘Julia’ or whoever it is cluttering up his brain these days…. Anyhow, we should be arriving in a couple of hours, give or take.”

Jeeves coughed into his fist—a little louder than the gentle bleat of a sheep on a distant hillock—and joined me in gazing at the road without another word.

A good forty-five minutes or so passed in near-silence. As my desperation for departure from the metrop. began to dissipate, I became increasingly aware of Jeeves’ unusual behavior. The quiet between us led me to sneaking peeks at him, and what I observed made said peeks increase in frequency as our journey wore on: Jeeves seemed restless. I’d never known him to move much during our travels before. Typically, he would settle in and we would have a matey conversation, or else he would gaze at the countryside or pick up an improving book. Yet on this occasion, he seemed unable to settle (if the frequent stirring of limbs was to be believed) and had not a thing to say. Though we were flying down the road at a decent clip, Jeeves’ hand left its place securing old size-fourteen and clutched his knee instead. I couldn’t help but notice how said h. convulsed whenever we hit a rough patch in the road, together with a twinge of the noble brow.

I could get along without pointing out these peculiar acts at first; however, when Jeeves gave a decided (if small and dignified in its Jeevesian way) groan, and the tips of his fingers rose to his waistcoat just over his midriff, I was troubled enough to speak up. We had just encountered a particularly jarring bump, and, though it shook the tailbone a little, groaning seemed unnecessary, even to one as vocal as B. Wooster.

“I say, Jeeves, are you feeling all right?” Naturally, one asks such questions by way of expressing concern. But I think that something in mine insulted Jeeves, for his response was to sit up even more erect and reply with a sort of clipped terseness I’d never heard him employ before.

“Thank you, yes, sir. I am experiencing some slight vertebral pain, but, otherwise, I am well. The discomfort should pass with time.”

I didn’t quite have an answer to that—Jeeves had made it clear that he had no desire to discuss his affliction—but I made an effort to keep the conversation flowing anyhow. Not on the topic of aching spines, naturally, but on lighter, diverting things. The sorts of things I would normally have an amiable chat with my valet about: my latest golfing exploits, Boko and Nobbie’s next visit to London, and, stretching myself to my intellectual limits, the release of Spinoza’s next and finest. All received curt “yes, sir”-s and “very good, sir”-s in return, without a drop of commentary or insight. When even the subject of purple socks was met with near-apathy, I decided to give it up as a bad job and allowed this new “quiet” motif to settle between us.

Despite his suggestion that time would heal all, Jeeves’ condition visibly deteriorated over the next hour. He began to flush bright red about the ears and cheeks, and doffed his hat, revealing a pale and slightly shiny forehead. Jeeves didn’t just remove the chapeau, but held it with lap with both hands and began tapping it rhythmically. I had to work to disguise my shock. Prior to this incident, I’d believed valets as a species incapable of fidgeting.

But fidget Jeeves did, minutely at first, and increasing steadily in intensity as time strolled by. The restlessness that had been curtailed when I’d first made inquiry into Jeeves’ condition returned with renewed vigor. There came a point at which he was hardly sitting at all, twisted instead into a curious position with his back arched and his legs pressed firmly together, crossed at the ankles. (“The things one has to do for one’s spine,” I mused.) The sighs, though very quiet, were falling thick and fast, and, when I chanced to look at his face, the baby blues appeared to dance around the open, hilly landscape as if seeking… something.

Since I’d already questioned him once, and hadn’t exactly been gifted with a chummy response, I refrained from giving tongue to any further comment. But Jeeves’ decidedly rummy way—which, I exaggerate not, yielded a whimper from him as he squeezed his eyes shut and pressed one foot on top of the other—definitely tested the Empathy clause of the Code of the Woosters. In spite of the Code, I was trapped in silence. I was sure that if I prodded him again, Jeeves would only become shorter with the young master. No doubt, if I followed that path, this would all end with his refusal to let me so much as utter the word “hospital.”

Thankfully, I didn’t have to suffer very long before Jeeves spoke. I say that he “spoke;” I should say instead that he gasped some words at me through an obviously rigid larynx.

“Sir... how long shall it be until we arrive, now?” I peeped sideways at my man—whose face had come over a sincerely sickly combination of white and bright red since last I looked at him—and answered with measured calm, trying my vocal cords at the same tone he’d employed when I’d been crying for us to make our flight not two hours before.

“Oh, I’d say another half hour or so, if I’ve got my directions right. Not to worry, Jeeves! It’ll only be a little longer. I’m sure that Bingo wouldn’t mind if you had a bit of a lie-down while he shows me ‘round the place.”

Jeeves shifted back, and his eyes seemed to lock stock-still ahead of him. With an unsteady hand (though one supposes that said unsteadiness could be attributed to the vibration of the car,) he withdrew a handkerchief from his breast pocket to press at the sweating red patches over his map. The other looked as if it would crush the hat still sitting tidily in his lap. Jeeves squirmed oddly in his seat, bounced an uneasy leg a few times, and, after another minute or so, he addressed me in the most low and frankly desperate voice I’d ever heard of anybody, all trace of its normal formality and pleasant veneer washed away.

“Please....” He paused to breathe; the silence drew my eyes again, and I noticed with a sudden jolt that one of his hands had disappeared beneath the bowler hat. I looked away at once, of course. Then back again. “I am sorry sir... terribly sorry, for this... indiscretion. But you must stop.” Although I depressed the brakes as Jeeves requested, I too began to question him, bewildered.

“Whatever for, Jeeves?” He had turned his attention from me again, reverting back into that tense near-sitting position with his eyes shut tight. His hand was still conspicuously absent from the scene. “We’ll be at Bingo’s in twenty minutes. You can rest then.”

“Please, sir, I... have to urinate,” he stumbled out in a sharp breath, his face turning, if possible, more deeply red about the ears and cheeks. What with Jeeves’ embarrassment and the very nature of this predicament, I felt my face flush too, and didn’t say anything as I stopped the car by the roadside. The landscape about us was completely open, not a shrubbery or tree or any other convenient foliage in sight. Just rolling hills and low, golden grass.

Perhaps steeling himself to stand, Jeeves remained in his contorted state for a good few moments with his long legs openly crossed. (I openly stared, but that, surely, is another matter entirely.) When he at last stood, it was with near-inhuman swiftness, and Jeeves didn’t even bother to close the door behind him. He took only a few jolting steps from the vehicle before casting off his gloves and, one presumes, working at his trouser buttons. There was the shifting of fabric, and some labored breathing, and then there was the distinct and awfully loud sound of a stream pouring into a puddle in the mud beside the road.

I was still (understandably) extremely embarrassed by it all, and looked away to give my man some semblance of privacy. I was also (less-understandably) beginning to feel a little hot under the collar, and found it necessary to echo Jeeves by relocating my headgear into my lap. The sound, the image of Jeeves’ total discomposure, the long, deep breath I heard escape from him as he found relief—all of these served to stoke a flame that I never knew existed in the Wooster psyche.

It went on for ages, and, even through the haze of half-mortification and half-bemused arousal, I had to wonder how I could have missed all the signs so plainly presented to me. I’d wager I stopped him relieving himself before leaving the flat; I’d swallowed the “vertebral” drivel without a murmur, and even when he was on the verge of the unthinkable, I needed to be told before I fully understood. It was the miracle of belief, I suppose: belief that marvels such as Jeeves truly exist above the needs of us mere mortals.

After a disconcertingly long while—what seemed minutes, but probably could be capped at one—the gushing diminished into pattering raindrops, and then ceased altogether. The prospect of Jeeves’ return to the car shuddered through me like a death knell. Incredible awkwardness was on the horizon. I think that Jeeves prolonged his stay at the roadside for this very reason. For several moments he remained with his back to me, tugging at his jacket, pulling his gloves on again, and slowly retrieving the bowler that had been hurled from his lap to the ground beside the car. He’d lost it in his haste to exit the two-seater, and held it in both hands again, appearing to examine it for damage before replacing it on his head of sleek black hair.

The poor man could hardly meet my eyes on turning around. He was flushing as before, though the remainder of his face was significantly less pale. Despite the fluttery feeling in my stomach (and other, ruder places;) despite the fact that this Wooster rarely lives up to the might of his ancestors at Agincourt, I managed to break in with some words of assurance.

“Are you feeling all right now, Jeeves?” I questioned cheerily as ever, and offered him a smile. Jeeves met my eyes sharply. Then, with a dry twitch of the lips, he folded his re-gloved hands in his lap and settled peacefully into his seat.

“Thank-you, yes, sir. Much relieved.”

Very hot!

OH MY!

Ohhhhelp... This hits my kink very, very hard. Thank you so much for sharing your fic here! Much appreciated! It will take me some time to recover from this.

This is really beautiful, I like the philosophy of it all.

Also: "...the fact that he was fully dressed, and how much more indecent that made him. A young gentleman in such distinguished attire should never be thus exposed." That bit really captures what's so hot about the original photo. The suit makes it that much more undignified and improper.

Also, why is rimming one of those things that holds zero appeal for me IRL but all the appeal in fic?

Bertie calling Jeeves "sir."
This could probably be combined with a lot of other prompts.

Hnnng❣

Prompt: Jeeves/Bertie, compersion (i.e., the feeling of happiness and/or arousal one gets when one's partner is with other partners. Basically the opposite of jealousy.)
There are various ways this could go: Could be pre-relationship or open relationship. One could accidentally walk in on the other in flagrante delicto. Bertie could come asking Jeeves for sex advice regarding his new boyfriend or girlfriend. The important part is, one gets laid and the other is turned on by it.

Oh no. Not again one of those fics. Really not a kink of mine in reality but when you guys use Jeeves and Bertie and write it like that then... Come on! It's not fair. And with Jeeves as the victim it's even worse. I don't want to like this stuff but... 😳

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Page 13 of 36

Let The Kinkiness Begin!

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FILL: All Things Excellent

Re: FILL: Adventures In The Potting Shed

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Re: FILL: The Gentlemanly Art of Spanking

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Preamble

Fill: Escape

Re: FILL: All Things Excellent

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Re: Fill: Escape

Re: FILL: All Things Excellent

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Re: Fill: Escape