Let The Kinkiness Begin!

[cuddyclothes]

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!

And remember:

Complete rules for posting are on the group's profile. To protect members' privacy, entry posting is by members only.  However, prompts and fills are made anonymously, which means non-members can respond!

Rules

1. No underage characters

2. No RPF/RPS

3. No bashing other people's kinks.

4. Please use content warnings. Put them at the start of your prompt. I.e. Prompt (Content Warning: Attempted Suicide)
Please warn for:
Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Major Character Death
Rape/Non-Con
Suicide
Attempted Suicide
Incest


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Comments

[(Anonymous)]

Prompt: Jeeves has a fling with Bertie's sister, or Bertie with Jeeves's brother (or something similar). Awkwardness, jealousy, and/or incest ensue.

[(Anonymous)]

Bertie starts lending Jeeves to his friends for more than just practical/problem solving purposes.

[(Anonymous)]

Unfff, hot.

[(Anonymous)]

Jeeves likes to do a private, more humourous than serious, strip show for Bertie.
https://www.dailymotion.com/video/x5v0vfk
Watch from 8:50, it‘s superb :)

[cuddyclothes]

OMG that is HILARIOUS! Yes, I do wish it was Jeeves!

[(Anonymous)]

omorashi, Jeeves/Bertie, POV of the desperate one

FILL: Niagara - part 1

[(Anonymous)]

Jeeves-- my valet-- is nearly always a welcome site. Baring the presence of bicycles I would say always. On the night in question he cut a striking figure when he met me in the lobby of the Drones to walk me home. As handsome as he looks in uniform, the sight of Jeeves dressed to the nines is second to none. He told me once that evening wear has a stimulating effect on the morale and on this we agree-- consider me stimulated. It’d become routine lately, his collecting me from my club. I wondered why he does it. Makes one compare oneself to a damsel in need of an escort. Not that I’m complaining, mind you. The damsel’s role suits me as much as the white knight’s does Jeeves. He nodded at me and said,

“I trust you had a good evening, sir” as he handed me my hat and stick, which he must have retrieved from the porter. Sometimes he can be too dratted efficient-- I had hoped to visit the lavatory before departing but here he was, looking so dashing out of uniform and waiting for me to take my belongings and walk with him-- I could wait.

“Yes Jeeves, topping. And before you say anything, the hat you admonished me for donning this evening was quite the thing among the drones. They all wanted to know where I’d bought it.”

“Is one of the gentlemen involved in a production of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland in the coming weeks, sir?”

The obvious sarcasm should have caused indignation but I was starting to find it rather endearing. What a frightfully Basset-esque development. Still, I must parry the insinuation lest I let him take an inch, as there aren’t enough miles in the world for Jeeves to take in return. Although if I’m being honest I’d give him all of my inches, if you get my drift.

“What rot Jeeves, you are not the only arbiter of taste in the metrop. One wonders whether one doth protest too much. Anyway, I hope your night was as spiffing as mine?”

“A most enjoyable function, thank you sir.”

We walked in companionable silence as I fought against the urge to take his arm. There has been what I can only describe as a frisson between us lately. I’ve been attracted to him since he first entered my service, but the emergence of the tender pash had complicated matters. I find that I when I visit a country house, as I am wont to do, I want nothing more than to ankle round the grounds with Jeeves, and those who I’d purportedly come to visit can go hang. For the last few months I have felt a twinge of regret when he stops undressing me, wishing he’d continue until I’m fully nude. Instead of bunging me into bed with a book I imagine him bunging himself in right on top of me. For so long I’ve harboured these fantasies and guiltily indulged them alone at night, I fancy I could frig myself for England.

Recently however, I’ve begun to sense the one thing I’d never dared to hope for-- reciprocation. I know it sounds barmy, but have I been imagining the lingering glances during bath time? The fingers that hold a proffered glass a few beats too long and brush against mine as he hands me my cocktail? Not to mention coming into the lobby of the drones to collect me on his nights off-- I have it on good authority that sometimes he waits over an hour. My lust has caused me to be hyper-vigilant, as one must always be when one is an invert. I might not be known for my powers of observation, but when the consequences are as grave as they are for someone with my proclivities, even I can rise to the occasion.

Speaking of rising to the occasion, I needed to be careful. All these thoughts of Jeeves and his arms and me in the role of his damsel were threatening to have an effect. I focused for just a moment on my cock, willing it to behave and remain au repos, which is when I noticed that the call of nature had become louder. I regretted not visiting the facilities before departing but thought little of it as it was a short walk.

A short walk indeed. Quite uneventful bar the lecherous thoughts about Jeeves that grew harder to keep at bay with every step. If only the same could be said about the lift. We had no sooner started our ascent to the third floor when a loud clang rang out and we jolted to a halt. Jeeves reached out to steady me but otherwise appeared unruffled, which was good because I was as ruffled as one of those Dutch chappies in those dreary old pictures. He called out to the doorman, who replied something I couldn’t quite catch. Then he turned to me and said reassuringly,

“Sir, I’m sure an engineer will be summoned in good time.”

“Oh, rather.” I answered absently, looking around the small enclosure as if I actually expected to find a heretofore unnoticed secret door, perhaps to a lavatory.

I was in a bit of a pickle. I was increasingly aware of the results of the nights’ festivities sloshing around inside me, but I was relieved that it was only Jeeves with me in the lift. Relieved. Good lord. I don’t want to sound vulgar but I really did need to relieve myself quite badly.

“May I enquire, sir, if you have given any more thought to a prospective sojourn to North America this autumn? You might enjoy driving the new Auburn Speedster through the...”

He continued, no doubt extolling the virtues of whatever it was that he wanted to do, which he would try to trick me into thinking I wanted to do, so I stopped listening as a matter of principle. Jeeves was in the midst of another campaign to convince me that it’s in my own best interest to take a holiday, the upshot being that my holidays involve him accompanying me. He is not subtle. Just this morning he left a brochure artfully tucked within the folds of the morning paper that featured a spectacular looking rushing body of water of supposedly great scientific interest. I wasn’t sure when he’d stopped talking but supposed that conversing about travelling was preferable to focusing on certain other goings on, even if I was giving in to his manipulations.

“I say, Jeeves, what’s the name of that water thingummy you want to visit the next time we venture to New York?”

“Niagara Falls, sir. It is actually comprised of three waterfalls, which together have a flow rate of six million cubic feet of water per minute. It is purported to be quite a spectacle.”

“Six million, you say? Golly--”

“Yes, sir, one of the highest flow rates in the world. The sound of that quantity of water crashing down onto the rocks below and the feel of the spray from even a great distance is meant to be quite invigorating. In fact,--”

I felt a spasm as I imagined myself as the source of the waterfall and Jeeves bearing the brunt of the spray, so to speak. I needed to think of something else immediately.

“Thank you, Jeeves. Jolly good. Enough about waterfalls for now, what?”

“Very good sir.”

Now, Jeeves has ‘very good sir’d me countless times before, but this time it sounded rummy. My nerves, already stretched to the point of unravelling, could hardly stand up to a Jeevesian inquisition. He knew something was amiss.

“Forgive me for saying so sir, but you no longer seem to be in high spirits.”

I knew I couldn’t hide my predicament indefinitely. Besides, as humiliating as this situation was, Jeeves had made a bit of a habit out of solving my problems. One of his brilliant wheezes would be just the ticket.

“Your powers of deduction never cease to amaze me, Jeeves. The young master’s spirits are indeed low. I’m afraid I have to admit something rather embarrassing--”

I stammered, not sure how to continue “--you see, the reservoir is full, but the deluge continues. The river is set to burst its banks. The dam is holding for now, but a flood is imminent. That is to say, nature is no longer merely calling. She has sent bounty hunters who are banging down the door as we speak!”

Now that the cat was out of the bag I saw no harm in giving in to crossing my legs a tad. A hand might have drifted down and briefly pressed against my cock for good measure.

He didn’t look surprised, but a reply was not forthcoming. It’s not often that my valet is rendered speechless. His eyes widened as he breathed in slowly, ran a finger between his collar and neck, and bit his lip. I admit I was staring. Not many things could distract me from my need, but the site of Jeeves’ bottom lip caught between his teeth was one of them. How many times had I pictured that very same lip caught in my teeth?

The brief spell was broken when he caught my eye.

“One solution does present itself, sir.”

“Well, present it to me post haste, my good man.” I clapped my hands together as I said this, as if it was my eureka moment instead of his. Salvation was close at hand.

Jeeves cleared his throat and shifted on his feet. He never looks nervous, even when outlining his most hair-brained schemes, so I was on high alert.

“You could urinate into your hat, sir.”

“Now, I say, Jeeves, that is simply not on. I know you disapprove of this particular style, but that’s no reason to wish it to be sullied beyond-- ”

He interjected.

“I am only thinking logically, sir. If you allow nature to, as you say – take it’s course – the result will be sodden trousers and a puddle on the floor. Given that maintenance engineers will certainly be present at the time of our eventual egress, there would be no concealing that outcome. This also holds if you simply relieve yourself on the floor. The freeholders may very well levy a fine or speak of it at the next leaseholders meeting.”

I had to admit the chap was right, but didn’t quite follow how my hat was involved.

“But Jeeves, surely--”

He interrupted again. Of all the bally liberties!

“However, sir, a hat with a jacket draped over it will, I believe, provide sufficient cover for us to exit the lift in the presence of engineers while being spared any undue humiliation. I would, of course, offer my own, but I fear that my simple homburg would not hold the required volume.”

He uttered that last phrase with the least convincing attempt at regret I’d ever heard.

“As ever, your logic is impeccable. In normal circs I’d never entertain such a preposterous notion, but...”

I trailed off, unable to form a coherent response. These were not normal circs. On one hand, he had a point. On the other hand, I suspected machinations were at play that went beyond the emelior-whatsit of my suffering. And I was suffering indeed. My thoughts were jumbled and my ability to speak began to falter. Words flowed out of my mouth but in all the wrong order, spiralling as if circling a drain. Good lord, what I would’ve given for a drain right at that moment. I felt a few drops escape and lost all semblance of control as I grabbed myself with both hands while ineffectively scrabbling at the buttons of my trousers.

Tears might have been pricking at the corners of my eyes. I might have cried out in pain, humiliation, or both. The only thing I was sure of was Jeeves’s hand on my shoulder, anchoring me as he said softly,

“It’s okay Sir, let me help you.”

[(Anonymous)]

omorashi, Jeeves/Bertie, one is desperate and the other one is totally helpless against what that makes him feel, he risks secretly touching himself hoping the desperate one is too distracted to notice

[(Anonymous)]

Ooh yes I feel very inspired by this one. I think I know exactly what I'll write, I just need to find the time to sit down and do it...

[(Anonymous)]

[(Anonymous)]

Bertie is the same but a woman and Jeeves is the underbutler at Brinkley court .... basically this is an excuse for het sex.

[(Anonymous)]

Jeeves and Bertie are in a dom/sub relationship, this is the first time Bertie needs to use his safeword. So a story about that and the aftercare/comfort afterwards pretty please.

[(Anonymous)]

I second this! Can whatever they're doing be pretty rough/intense? I could use some hardcore submissive/masochist Bertie in my life.

[(Anonymous)]

Bertie getting fucked in turn by a selection of Ganymede's club members while Jeeves watch, and gently encourage him, then fuck him after everyone had their way with him. extra points if Bertie get double penetrated at some point.

Fill: Ganymede

[(Anonymous)]

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!"

[(Anonymous)]

Let Jeeves and Bertie hug because after that one fill we all need it .

[(Anonymous)]

I agree!

[(Anonymous)]

Honoria seduces Gussie, who's into it.

[(Anonymous)]

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.

[(Anonymous)]

Bertie gains a little weight and Jeeves LOVES it.

Fill: Gain

[(Anonymous)]

“Jeeves, where is my grey suit with the little specks of colour?”

“Our heather mixture lounge, sir?”

“Yes, that’s the chap. Thought it would be rather the thing for today but it seems to have disappeared.”

“It's at the tailor’s, sir, I shall pick it up tomorrow. Do you require anything else, sir?” I asked, hoping that was the end of that discussion.

“The tailor’s? I didn’t notice that it needed any mending. Is he patching up a hole or something?”

I cleared my throat to buy myself a little time. “No, sir. Some minor alterations to improve the fit.”

Mr. Wooster’s eyes narrowed. “What was wrong with the fit before?” He was standing in his bedroom peering inquisitively into his wardrobe. Having exited the bathtub just a few minutes earlier, he was clad only in a towel wrapped around his hips. I usually leave the room to give him privacy while he changes into the clothes I have laid out for him, but today he had called me back in.

“Well, sir, the waistband of the trousers needed to be let out slightly.”

“The waistband needed…? What are you saying?”

“One aims for the trousers to lay with proper tensity about the waist, sir.”

“Of course, Jeeves, I know you have all kinds of fruity ideas about the fit of trousers. But why the sudden need for a change? Do you mean to tell me that I’ve gained weight?”

“Yes, sir.”

Mr. Wooster looked skeptical. His arms crossed in front of his bare chest defensively. “No, that can’t be right. I haven’t gained an ounce since I was at Oxford. It’s a curse, really, always being so bally gangly. Used to get teased for it at school.”

I remained silent as he shifted to stand in front of the mirror. He scrutinized his reflection, turning to view his silhouette from the left, the right, over his shoulder, then straight on. He placed a hand on his chest, then ran it down to his belly, rubbing it appraisingly. He drew in a deep breath and pulled his shoulders back, straightening his posture. Then he exhaled and let his shoulders drop. All the while he stared at the image of his abdomen in the mirror. “By Jove, maybe you’re right. Perhaps there is more Wooster now than there used to be.”

He sounded a little dejected. I knew I needed to play this carefully. “Merely a few additional kilograms, sir. If you’ll pardon the liberty, the gain suits you.”

Rarely had I uttered such an understatement.

Mr. Wooster’s form has always been a secret source of furtive, private pleasure to me. The gratification I derive from it contains a curious paradox: when I look at him—which I do as often I think I can get away with it—I see two different visions simultaneously, as if overlaid upon one another. One, I am perfectly capable of recognizing, is quite average, a standard, middle-of-the-road sort of young male. I know it is this vision that most people see. There is nothing wrong with my eyesight—I can see it too—I understand what the world means when it calls him gangly, lanky, or, most charitably, slender.

However, somehow, there is another perspective that is apparently mine to enjoy alone. Superimposed upon this unremarkable young man, I see a divine creature that has captured my imagination and invaded my fantasies. I know that he’s ordinary, but he’s also extraordinary. His figure only appears average if your eye is not attuned to real beauty. If your aesthetic discernment can transcend the mundane, like mine can, you will see that his build is actually exquisitely balanced: a lissome yet sturdy frame, a supple yet strong physique.

I am always careful to not be caught staring because my first slip-up could very well be my last. If I had enough willpower, I would not allow myself to take such risks. But I feel that I truly cannot help myself. His body attracts my gaze like a magnet and I am powerless to resist.

And now, something that I already saw as a perfect ideal had somehow been enhanced further. He had indeed gained a noticeable amount of weight in recent months—noticeable, that is, only to someone watching as closely as I. His chest and upper arms looked no more muscular, but a little fuller. His abdominal muscles had never been sharply defined, but his stomach had been flat, whereas now there was a bit more heft about his midsection. His angular facial features had softened by a barely perceptible degree. Something about the overall effect was furiously, maddeningly alluring to me. He looked a little older, less of a boy and more of a man. It provided him a kind of poise, a new sense of gravitas.

“You think it suits me?” he echoed, and I was able to enjoy the sight of his blush spreading not just upon his face but also a little on his bare chest.

“Yes, sir.” I didn’t trust myself to go into any further detail.

“How did you even know I had gained weight?”

“I noticed, sir.”

“You were just…looking at my—at me? And you saw?”

“It is part of my duties to make sure your attire is appropriate in all aspects, including fit, sir.”

“Where exactly did you notice it on me?”

“Sir?”

“Come here so you can tell me.” I moved closer until I was standing just behind him. We made eye contact only via the mirror. “Did you notice it here, on my stomach?” He patted his hand on his belly again. “Or my chest?” His hand glided up to his breast, brushing over one pectoral, then through his chest hair to graze the other. “My arms?” He clasped his opposite bicep.

Although the room still felt humid from his recent bath, I felt a shiver run through me. The flat seemed unnaturally quiet. His reversed image in the mirror looked so like him but just slightly...off. The uncanny effect made me feel off-balance.

“Can you tell from my face, here?” he asked, now holding his own smooth, freshly-shaven jaw. He turned his head to one side, then to the other, making the tendons in his neck stand out, but didn’t break the steady eye contact with me. “Or my legs?” His hand dropped down. The towel that was wrapped around his waist hung down to his knees, so he had to reach up under it slightly in order to seize his thigh.

All I could do was stand there mutely, gripped with tension, and watch. It took all my powers of self-control to betray nothing of what was happening inside me.

“Or here?” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. His hand slid to the back of his thigh and then upward, taking the towel with it. More and more of his leg was unveiled until his hand reached its final destination. I watched it grasp his bared buttock.

“Yes, sir,” I breathed into the back of his neck, my hand covering his and squeezing hard.

[(Anonymous)]

Bertie and Jeeves get married, it's legal for whatever reason, Bertie just didn't know it was possible or he would have asked years ago, the law just changed, it was never illegal in the first place... your choice!

Prompt Filled In Separate Post

[cuddyclothes]

thesad chicken has answered this prompt with a June 6 post of their own,"Nuptials Of A Native".

[(Anonymous)]

Jeeves/Bertie: Bertie takes a bath before going to bed, Jeeves decides before cleaning to make use of the bathtub himself... ;)

[(Anonymous)]

To clarify - Bertie takes a bath, then goes to bed, then Jeeves takes a bath in the same tub? What else, do they somehow run into each other or peek or something?

[(Anonymous)]

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

[(Anonymous)]

Have you already read this? https://archiveofourown.org/works/17845055

[(Anonymous)]

Bertie masturbating with Jeeves' gloves

Fill: (G)love

[(Anonymous)]

Hello there, old thing. I have a somewhat odd question for you. Have you ever made a reckless decision that you didn’t really understand and couldn’t really explain? Have you ever felt compelled by an urge too tempting to resist?

My apologies; I know I haven’t begun this properly, but absolutely nothing about this situation is proper, so I figure, why not embrace the theme?

Anyway—when I say reckless, I don’t mean impulsive. “Impulsive” is not controlling oneself all day, waiting patiently and with premeditated forethought to make one’s move, like I did today. When I say reckless, I mean ill-advised. Audacious. Dangerous.

Today, when it came time for the y. m. to m. his m., he hesitated for a brief moment. I felt this compulsion, yes, but thinking about what I was about to do caused me no small amount of horror. Not to mention, it was one of the least preux actions a chevalier ever did undertake. There were a million reasons not to act and only one reason to act.

That one being: I really, really wanted to.

When I was finally alone, I snuck into the one room in the flat that is not mine. I say snuck; it’s not much of a sneak when you’re already alone. And I say not mine; it’s mine in the sense that I own this entire flat, but the servant’s quarters are just that, the servant’s. Let me be clear on this point. Just because I employ a chap, it doesn’t mean I own his soul. It doesn’t mean I’m entitled to everything that’s his.

It doesn’t mean I’m entitled to sneak into his room and steal his gloves.

I hurried back to my room, my ill-gotten gains clutched in my shaking, pilfering hands. I sat on my bed and removed my tie. I doffed my shirt, feeling my heart pounding beneath my trembling fingers as they made short work of the buttons.

That done, I examined the gloves. They were made of supple cattle hide leather, sleek ebony in color with fine black stitching. Intricate embroideries and embellishments revealed that this was a high-quality item. I thought to myself, as I had many times before: despite not being a wealthy man, Jeeves always seems to have the best of the best when it comes to apparel and accoutrements, which just goes to show the man’s consistently bang-on priorities.

I noted that the gloves were rather large in size, which is not surprising, seeing as their owner is an all-around large sort of chap. I slipped the right glove onto my corresponding hand and flexed my fingers experimentally. It was a decent fit, though a little roomy, as men’s gloves often are on me. I wiggled my fingers in a continuous wave, exploring the slight stretch and give of the soft fabric.

I held the other glove, the left, up to my face and steeled myself for what I was about to do. I then inhaled deeply, imbibing the rich smell. It instantly conjured up sense-memories, like that Proust fellow with his madeleines. Or were they éclairs? Some sort of fussy French confection, anyway. In this case, this smell in the Wooster beak evoked in the Wooster brain memories of jaunts in the park…excursions in the city…long drives down country roads spent watching my man's hands resting on the steering wheel, guiding our way.

With these visions in my mind’s eye, I laid back on my pillow and laid that left glove over my face so that its scent could surround me, fill me. With my begloved right hand, I caressed my own bare chest. The leather tugged slightly at the wiry hairs. I reveled in the texture of the fabric on my skin. I pinched one nipple, then the other, and they stood obediently at attention. I swept my hand down my stomach and rubbed on the front of my trousers, coaxing the arousal that was just starting to wax as my nerves began to wane.

I held my breath and dipped my hand into my waistband without undoing the fastenings. I like to do this to myself for some reason; it would be easier to move my hand if I removed the trousers or at least unbuttoned them, but I seemed to prefer to make it harder for myself than it needed to be.

Is that not a perfect metaphor for my whole bally life?

My hand found what it sought and I let out a quivery breath. The sensation of the leather on such sensitive skin drove home the reality of what I was doing, and the meaning behind it.

The gloves: Jeeves's. The bed, the hand, the face, the prick: mine. I was sullying this glove and likewise this glove was sullying me. My loins and my heart had piped up, naughty students at the back of the class who only raise their hands when they have some prankish mischief in mind, offering this foolhardy suggestion, but it was the gloves that had obliged me to take action. I knew it was my choice alone to steal these items and secretly desecrate them, but on some level, I blamed the gloves themselves, for there would have been no crime without the temptation they provided.

But never mind, it’s too late now to point fingers. Speaking of fingers: my wrist’s movement was constrained but my hand stroked as best it could, rousing my cock in languid self-seduction. I lifted the left glove off my face for a moment to watch the rhythmic rise and fall of cloth as the back of my hand tented and un-tented my trousers. There was something strangely erotic in just that, just the visual of the bulge moving up and down, obscured but unmistakable evidence of the wicked act of lust in which I was engaged.

I replaced the left glove and let my head fall back. My hips began rolling of their own accord, helping to accomplish what my constricted hand was struggling to achieve.

I became aware of an excess of friction, but employing the usual solution was not an option. My plan had been to take care of this sordid business as discreetly as possible and then return the gloves before they were missed, leaving their owner none the wiser. I knew lotion or oil would surely stain them, so I had to find another solution.

When my mouth opened in a quiet moan, a leather finger slipped inside. I sucked on it, picturing his finger inside it, gliding in and out between my pursed lips, pushing a little deeper in every time, patiently pursuing the back of my throat. He might hook that finger over my lower teeth, prying my jaw open further. Then he might resume his plundering of my mouth, but with two or three fingers this time.

Presently, I sucked a few more fingers into my mouth, although the limp fabric left a lot to be desired compared to the thrusting rigid digits of my fantasy. I tongued the cloth and tried not to think about whether saliva stains leather.

Meanwhile, the right glove's friction was becoming increasingly problematic. I gave in and undid my trousers clumsily. I tugged them impatiently down to my knees and resumed stroking myself, more lightly this time. I tried to fondle gently in the same way that my manservant touches everything when he wears those gloves. He uses a dexterous grip, performing every task he undertakes with a characteristic smooth, nimble grace.

That is what started all this, you know. For me, these gloves have come to represent skill, competence, and self-assurance. I watch them and wonder—how did he come to be so adept? Did he cultivate it in his years of valeting, or did he have a natural aptitude that was only enhanced by years of professional practice?

I was getting too aroused too quickly. I ran my hand over my belly, my bollocks, and my thighs instead, keeping myself at a low simmer so I wouldn’t boil over. I wanted to… No. Dammit, yes. I wanted to spend from the touch of this glove, onto it, into it. I wanted to cover it in my seed, contaminating it, and then clean it all off so Jeeves would never know, and then every time I saw him wearing them from then on, I would feel a private thrill from my sick, filthy secret.

Thinking about the next time these gloves would be worn made me contemplate the last time they had been worn. Though they appeared to be clean, I know they are regularly worn outdoors, where they come into contact with all manner of unsanitary things, and therefore should not be considered hygienic. The thought should have disgusted me, but instead it did quite the opposite. Now I was thinking about the dirty glove shoved in my mouth and the dirty glove wrapped around my prick; embracing the filth was so contrary to my nature that it made me feel like all my inhibitions were gone and anything was permissible. It made me feel base and foul, immersed in shame and, thus, beyond shame.

I could feel my prick leaking. I took a moment to examine the right-hand glove and saw it was a little wet. I wiped it onto the sheets and the signs were gone. But I still knew.

It's not right. I’m well aware. It's not a nice thing to do, to force another man to be involved in this perverted act without his knowledge or assent. I didn’t want to do that to him. I just didn’t know how I would ever in a million years find the words to tell such a man what I think about his gloves, his ingenious hands, his ingenious self.

I didn’t know what to do. The sensation was so beyond topping, but if I kept on like this, I risked soiling the glove and ruining the whole scheme. I had no idea how I would explain the glove being either ruined or suddenly disappearing. The only sensible thing to do would be to take it off. But I just…couldn’t. I couldn’t part with that exquisite, illicit pleasure. It scared me to feel so out of control, so thoroughly engrossed in my obsessive fixation. Every time I’ve thought about those blasted gloves lately I’ve felt a stab of passion, a rush of longing. The fervor of my craving whipped me up into such a state as to completely override my good judgment.

What I needed to do and what I wanted to do were at war with each other. I was afraid that I knew which one was going to win.

I forced myself to focus on a thought that was meant to repel me: Jeeves’s horrified reaction if he found out. But again, the result was the opposite of what I intended. The image my mind supplied of his shock at my revelation nearly made me come off right then. That is what made me realize that I wanted to be found out.

This desire to express myself was the truly insane part of all this madness. It would be too impossibly humiliating to speak of this aloud, but nonetheless, I wanted to confess. Maybe I could make him see that it wasn’t perverted. No, it was perverted, but maybe I could make him see that perverted isn’t necessarily monstrous. Abnormal isn’t necessarily immoral. I may be vile, but I’m not evil. I’m unusual, yes, but maybe, just maybe, I’m not unique.

So, here we are. After what I’ve done, it’s too late to turn back, so I might as well just come out and ask you.

Well...what do you say, Jeeves? I know all this must be dashed surprising for you. But is there any chance that you are unusual like me? Do you see the peculiar yet wondrous beauty of it all? Can you look beyond the conventional, if only just this once, and join me in the realm of the strange-yet-stupendous?

If you’re still reading this, and I know you are, I appreciate it. I thank you heartily if you are even considering tolerating my impertinence. Either way, I would be greatly obliged if you would please respond at your earliest convenience.

Your affectionate, hopeful, and terrified employer and friend,
Bertie

PS. In the box beneath this note is a pair of brand-new gloves. If you still want your old pair, despite what I’ve done to them—or better yet, because of what I’ve done to them—they’re lying on my bed, waiting for you. And so am I.

[(Anonymous)]

Jeeves/Bertie fisting with Jeeves leather gloves.

[(Anonymous)]

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

[(Anonymous)]

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.

[(Anonymous)]

This is adorable. I actually am already writing another story that involves sleepwalking, different from your prompt but still fluffy.

[(Anonymous)]

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

Fill: Darling sir

[(Anonymous)]

„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.

[(Anonymous)]

Bertie‘s and Jeeves‘s love life is constantly disturbed by their new cat.

[(Anonymous)]

Right now I'm working on another fill, but once that's posted I might try writing something for this!! I LOVE THE CAT IDEA SO MUCH

[(Anonymous)]

Jeeves/Bertie dancing, pre-relationship please

[(Anonymous)]

This is such a cute idea :'-)

[(Anonymous)]

Jeeves/Bertie: one is stuck sitting on the other's lap for some reason

Lap Fill, Rating: Teen

[(Anonymous)]

“…a bit strange, I know, but sometimes ol’ Jeeves here likes to fancy he’s a chair, and so I sort of oblige him, what?” I squirmed in my seat and patted the arms. “It’s the preux thing to do.”

Honoria Glossop shot us a look that said she was chuffed to have dodged the bullet engraved ‘Mrs. B. W. Wooster’ and legged it.

I looked over my shoulder.

“That was close, Jeeves! We’ve got to get that diamond-and-emerald necklace back in the safe before anyone notices it’s missing! Be a chap and retrieve it from under me and stick it in your pocket. I’ll cover for you, then shuffle off to buffalo toot sweet.”

“An admirable plan, sir, but I fear another problem has,” Jeeves coughed, “arisen.”

“Great Scott, Jeeves, I don’t think I can take any more! What now?”

“Well, sir, your movements and the resulting,” he coughed again, “friction has left me in a condition.”

“Jeeves, you don’t mean to say that hard thing prodding the Wooster seat isn’t a precious stone?!”

“Lamentably not, sir. I fear there would be great embarrassment for us both if you were to vacate my lap at this moment.”

“Egad! I’m dashed sorry, Jeeves.”

“You couldn’t have foreseen the consequence of your restlessness, sir.”

“True, but we can’t sit here all night, Jeeves!”

“No, sir.”

“And if we don’t want to spend the rest of our lives in chokey, we’ve got to act! I don’t suppose bringing your state to its natural conclusion is the right answer.”

“I think not, sir.”

“Well, you’ve just got to think of something sobering. How ‘bout Aunt Agatha in her bathing dress?”

Jeeves hummed.

“That turquoise-and-silver bolero tie George Caffyn sent me from New Mexico?”

Jeeves closed his eyes and shuddered.

“It’s working, sir. Thank you.”

[(Anonymous)]

Jeeves/Bertie; chubby!kink.

Jeeves has a serious Thing for chubby men. He likes Bertie, but Bertie's svelte physique is definitely not his type... that is, until Bertie starts gaining weight (accidentally? purposefully? as a result of Jeeves' sneaky extra home cooking? You decide!), and soon, Jeeves is reduced to an absolute puddle of lust. Mutual realisations and sexytimes ensue...

[(Anonymous)]

Bertie/Jeeves soulmate AU