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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Please warn for:
Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Major Character Death
Rape/Non-Con
Suicide
Attempted Suicide
Incest

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He wasn’t sure she had meant it, he wasn’t even sure he had understood, but when she’d asked him to meet her in her father’s study after diner, he’d said yes. Well, not so much said as nodded frantically. There was something about Honoria Glossop that made every bone in Gussie Fink-Nottle’s body rattle. He was afraid of her, of course, like everyone was. The woman could probably lift a car with her bare hands. But there was something else, as well.

He was pacing the study, trying to figure out what exactly that something else was, when she finally walked in. Gussie looked up, attempting to smile. “What ho, Honoria,” he said.

She was wearing a dark blue dress, cinched at the waist. Her arms were exposed, and Gussie noticed that they were tan and slightly muscular. Quite beautiful, really.

“Hello, Augustus,” she said, closing the door behind her.

For a moment, there reigned an uncomfortable sort of silence. Gussie bit the inside of his cheeks. Honoria took one step closer to him. “You know, Gussie, I couldn’t help but notice the way the light fell upon your cheek tonight,” she said softly – she who was usually so loud!

“The light?” Gussie repeated, stupidly, “My cheek?”

“Yes,” Honoria took another step towards him, “and the way you blushed when you dropped your spoon at diner.”

Gussie wasn’t very good at love – he wasn’t very good at anything, in all honesty, except taking care of newts. But he knew this had something to do with it – love, that is. All this talk of light and cheeks and blushing… he’d heard it all before, except he was quite certain it had been uttered by someone like Bingo Little, and that it hadn’t been directed at him, but at some beautiful young lady.

“I – I, er…” he stammered.

Honoria was standing very close to him now. She placed her hand on his sleeve. “Oh, Gussie! You’re so helpless… so fragile and vulnerable…”

“Well, I – I suppose, sometimes…”

“You need someone to guide you.”

“Perhaps, yes.”

“Someone to teach you… to take your innocence away… to shape the blushing boy that you are into a man.”

Suddenly the room was very warm, and Honoria’s body very close. There was a chair behind Gussie, and Honoria pushed him into it. He fell back, startled and – he couldn’t really hide it – terribly aroused.

“Why, Honoria,” he stared at her, eyes wide with wonder, “are you making love to me?”

She threw her head back and laughed loudly. “Of course I am, you silly boy.”

Gussie was confused. He thought it was the male’s job to make love to the female, or at least that was what they said in the Drones. Come to think of it, only chaps like Bingo and Tuppy ever talked about making love to girls. Others, like Barmy Fotheringay-Phipps or Bertie Wooster, were mostly interested in staring at advertisements for men’s underwear in the paper.

So it couldn’t be that bad if Honoria was the one making love to him; could it?

Just then, she leaned over him, placed both her hands on the back of his chair and looked him in the eyes. “Tell me now, Augustus: will you let me teach you?”

“T-Teach me?”

She slid her leg between his and pushed his thighs apart with her knee. “Yes,” she purred, “Will you let me be your mistress?”

Gussie’s mind had gone blank. It was as if everything alive and sensible in him had travelled south, to the one place in his body that was awake and still stirring. “Do you know how a male newt proposes, Honoria?” he said. It was the only thing he could think of. “He stands in front of the female newt vibrating his tail and bending his body in a semi-circle.”

Usually, when he spoke of newts, ladies and gentlemen alike would wince and wave their hands at him dismissively. But not Honoria. This talk of vibrating tails and bent bodies produced the most extraordinary effect: in one powerful movement, Honoria pulled Gussie out of the chair and pushed him up onto her father’s writing-desk. She tugged at his trousers forcefully, until they were bunched around his ankles.

“Lesson number one,” she growled as she fondled him through his underwear, “I will teach you how to be obedient and silent while your mistress rides you like a stallion.”

Gussie could hardly believe what was happening, and he was about to ask if this wasn’t a dream, but then Honoria did something that made his head fall back against the desk in pleasure, and for the rest of the night he was lost in that state of ecstasy.

Jeeves/Bertie, cockwarming!
I don't care if Jeeves is working or reading or whatever, as long as his dick is inside Bertie

This is so HOT, and rather beautiful! I get the feeling Bertie has been aware of Jeeves staring at him for some time. Whee!

OP here- thank you so much! HOT!

Which fill?

Probably the hugged by a stranger fill.

Thanks! This whole "creative writing" lark is pretty easy when all you have to do is just describe how you feel about '90s-era Hugh Laurie...

Glad to hear it! Didn't think this was my kink but you can always learn something new about yourself.

You're right, he has, how did you know? ;-)

truer words have never been spoken!

Bertie masturbating with Jeeves' gloves

I'm on it! Just figuring out how I want the ending to go...

OOOOH YES CAN'T WAIT!

In our world, class rules all.

Here and now, in London at the beginning of the 20th century, one’s class dictates every aspect of one’s life. Who you are, who you know, where you go, what you say, and what you do. The caste divisions are rigid. Yes, everyone knows a story about some commoner who rose above their station, or some member of the landed gentry who defied their birthright, but they are the rare exception to the rule. Those stories make the barriers seem much more permeable than they really are. With very little exception, you stay with your kind. You stay where you belong.

That truth is what makes it so unspeakably disgraceful, reprehensible, and thrilling to see Bertram W. Wooster—elite aristocrat, high-born gentleman of nobility—displayed in all his debauched glory, on his hands and knees atop the Victorian-style mahogany dining table, stripped completely naked besides a blindfold over his eyes and a dog collar secured around his neck. We went easy on him this time and did not bind his wrists; that is why he's able to clutch the edge of the table desperately with both hands and hang on as he's getting fucked into oblivion. We also skipped gagging him, but only to leave his mouth available, not to be kind.

Morrison has been pounding into Mr. Wooster for a while now and must be on the brink of release. His cock is one of the largest of the crowd in the Junior Ganymede Club tonight, but more notably, his hips pump the fastest of anyone's. He is an enthusiastic young footman who brings a characteristic zeal to everything he does, including this. He is like a human vibrator buzzing away at Mr. Wooster's arse, for which he is rewarded with a series of short, high, keening whines, so different from the low, long, rumbling groans that result from a slower, more patient fuck.

Phillips is more reserved. He is older, a butler at a large estate, and doesn't always participate in these bacchanalias of ours, but understandably he has been greatly moved by observing the events of this evening. He cannot stand to see a good hole go unused, so without interrupting Morrison’s rhythm, he grabs Mr. Wooster's disheveled hair, lifts his head, and pushes his cock down his throat. Mr. Wooster gags and coughs, but never tries to pull away. When he is in the zone like this, he will take anything, even things he cannot really handle.

That is partly the reason why, in the beginning, I just sit on the sidelines and watch. I make sure Mr. Wooster isn't getting carried away and getting himself into situations that are too hazardous or is going to cause long-term injury.

The other reason is, of course, that I like to be the grand finale.

I count the number of different men who have their way with him because he likes to keep a running tally for boasting rights; his record is 15 men in one evening. There are only seven of us tonight, but we have kept him tolerably busy. He has already taken two loads in his arse, one in his mouth, and even one in his hair, which had matted his auburn tresses and dripped down the side of his face. That one was courtesy of Blackburn, a chauffeur who is something of the club rapscallion. He, more than any of us, gets into the spirit of thoroughly humiliating Mr. Wooster.

With a growl, Morrison gives one last thrust; with a gasp, he finishes. Mr. Wooster doesn't pay too much attention to the cock draining into and then pulling out of him; at this point, he is so stretched out that he barely notices it. Instead, he focuses on swallowing down Phillips, fighting his gag reflex with every bob of his head. Soon enough, he too is spilling down Mr. Wooster's throat. Even a mature man like him, who doesn't reach his peak as quickly as he used to, is no match for Mr. Wooster's talented, tenacious mouth.

Now, it is finally my turn. I arise and approach the table where Mr. Wooster has collapsed onto his stomach. I seize him and roll him roughly onto his back. Even though he is blindfolded and I haven’t spoken, he somehow knows it's me, and he smiles. Whether he can tell from my touch, my scent, or because he has done the math and knows there’s only me left, I don't know, but regardless, it is gratifying to be greeted with such a sweet gesture. I reward him with a searing kiss, which he returns with gusto. His mouth tastes bitter and the visceral reminder of the other men who have used him so recently arouses me fiercely.

"Good work tonight, my darling. You've done us so well. Do you think you can take one more?"

"Yes, Sir. Only for you, Sir."

That word, Sir, coming from his lips might be the most powerfully erotic moment of the entire evening. This wealthy gentleman, this noble patrician, who by all rights should command us all, who has more money, power, and privileges than any of us servants could dream of—he has lowered himself before us in the most compromising, shameful, indecent way possible. Someday in the not-too-distant future, he will come into his title, take his place in the House of Lords, hold land, employ dozens of laborers just like us; he will marry a high society woman, produce heirs, serve as the patriarch of his family, and lead a life of idle luxury, while the rest of us continue to work hard day and night to feed our own families. This is the inevitable way of the world. But just for now, just for tonight, may we upset the social order: we may use and abuse him, spit in his face, drag him on a leash, defile his hair and his prick, punish his throat and his arse. And all the while, each of us gets to hear him say—as he is saying even now, as I finally get into position and take my first thrust deep inside him—

"Thank you, Sir! Thank you very much, Sir!"

Jeeves/Bertie fisting with Jeeves leather gloves.

Bertie blindfolded tied to the bed with a vibrating dildo up his ass while Jeeves moves around the flat and goes to tease him from time to time until he decides to put Bertie out off his misery.

Not the prompter, but holy fucking shit, this is hot. And really well-written! Thank you for writing it.

This is so lovely. Also, hot.

DAMN, this is hot! And a perfect Jeeves voice!!

oh my goodness. wow. WOW, HOT
I got a bit emotional when Bertie recognized Jeeves and smiled at him :')

Me too!

Golly. Would this even work? I guess in fanfic, all things are possible.

Lovely and then suddenly so hot!
I like the description of the two different overlaying visions. I often feel this way when I look at someone I like and, "somehow, there is another perspective that is apparently mine to enjoy alone," is a thought I'm quite familiar with. However, I would not have been able to put it so beautifully.

Jeeves calling Bertie darling or love and Bertie being equally very happy and embarrassed by this . They just entered a romantic relationship together.

„Darling?“ it sounded through the hall into the living-room. It was the voice of my trusted man, Jeeves, whom you surely know from some of the other little stories I have told you so far. Surely you’re wondering now, dear reader, why the term with which the aforementioned t.m. J. addressed the young master changed from the more whatsit-spirited „sir“ to this rather —intimate word?

Well well, this might be the result of a kiss I had, after maybe one or two b. and s.‘s too much with the birds at the Drones, planted onto the rather smashing set of lips my valet calls his own. And it might also be the result of some more kisses and other things, which I am too much of a gentleman to speak of now, that followed this first kiss that night.

To put it in a nutshell, my prince amongst valets, I say, my prince amongst all the birds that cluster our good old Britain, and this Wooster, B. had recently established an understanding which pleased both of us immensely. It was rather top notch, you see. Absolutely bee’s knees. Spiffing.
And ever since Jeeves had found his way from my wardrobe over my heart into my bed, he’d started calling me „darling“ or, when we were doing some of the good old horizontal waltzing, „love“.

Knowing Jeeves and all his talk of the feudal spirit and whatnot, you’ll understand that this blew the onion out of the water at first. But he assured me that, to him, it seemed more appropriate to call me by these names instead of Bertram or Bertie. And really, even now he uses the his „darlings“ at odd times in conversation, and I suspect that he just replaces his usual „sir“ with a term of endearment.

Not that I don’t like it, mind you. I am not ashamed to admit that, spending most of my youth as an orphan in relative’s houses, it is rather soothing for the y.m.‘s soul to be somebody’s darling, or love, or sweetheart.

When we’re in public though, Jeeves of course still calls me „sir“; but it sounds somewhat fond now, you know. Like it was a term of endearment itself.

Speaking of the public and relatives and stuff, didn’t I start writing this with th intention of telling about some rummy business I recently experienced? Ah, yes, Jeeves was calling me „darling“ once more, or rather shouting it from the salle de bain where he had been bathing before starting to prepare dinner.
And although the Wooster heart often starts to flutter a bit at hearing the pure cotton —or velvet?— voice of this marvel of a man, there and then it started to race as if it was the odds-on favourite at Ascot.

Because, unfortunately, during Jeeves’s abscence the doorbell had rang and when I had opened, half of the chaps from the club had swept in, demanding drinks and cigarettes before going to a show in the evening.
So it was not only me who heard this Jeevesian display of affection, but also young Bingo, Tuppy Glossop, Barmy, Gussie Fink- Nottle and about six other birds. They were all looking rather baffled, I can tell you.

„Right-o, Jeeves“ I said, blushing quite a bit. I felt that I should warn him, lest he was planning on calling me some other things or was not properly dressed.
„Er, well, I say“ I tried. „Look who’s all here, Jeeves!“

Jeeves now shimmered into the crowded living-room and quirked an eyebrow at the sight of the fellow Drones.
„Good evening, gentlemen“ he said and once more I had to admire his nerves of steel.
„Would you like some refreshments?“
And with this he ankled off towards the kitchen. The other chaps turned to me again.
„Bertie, old horse-face, I say! Did…did your man just call you „darling“?“ Bingo Little asked after a while.

„Ehrr“ was all I could manage to answer, but thankfully Jeeves returned just in this moment and saved me from starting to babble.
Going round with a tray with b. and s.‘s on it, he said: „If you are referring to my earlier calling, sir, I can assure you that I was in fact looking for Mr Wooster’s new cat.“ He turned to me. „Have you by any chance seen “Darling” anywhere this afternoon, sir?“
Thank Scott for the quick brain of my good man and splendiferous lover. I don’t know how I deserve such a genius.
„Why, no Jeeves, she must be hiding somewhere again, that beast“ I said and took a glass from him with a wide smile.

—•—•

Later, when the other chaps had left and I was sitting on the chesterfield, I pulled Jeeves, who was still looking mortified and rueful, into my lap and gave him a smack on the cheek.

„I’m sorry, sir“ he mumbled into my neck.
„Nonsense, Reg. It’s not your fault, I should have warned you earlier. And nothing of that sirring now, please. I like the other names better, you know, dear thing.“
„All right, love“ my personal, wonderful, lovely gentleman said and kissed me.

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Let The Kinkiness Begin!

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