Give Satisfaction

Bertie's hands gripped the armrests tightly. He kept glancing out the window, then wrenching his gaze back inside to stare straight ahead, then glancing out the window again, and repeating the whole process. He couldn't decide which was worse, to witness the terror that was about to unfold before his very eyes, or to remain unaware until it hit him.

When the airplane finally started rolling down the runway, he let out a yelp and grabbed a knee on either side of him. His window seat neighbor gave him a dirty look and he sheepishly let go of the stranger’s leg. His aisle seat neighbor, however, just quirked his lips sympathetically. The man covered the hand with one of his own and murmured, "It's all right, sir. You'll be okay."

"Oh, I know, Jeeves, of course you're ri—"

The rest of his words were cut off as the plane lifted off the ground. He ended with a sort of whimper instead as his stomach plunged. Jeeves stroked his hand reassuringly.

Privately, though, Jeeves was scared too, just doing a much better job of concealing it. He had researched enough to assure himself that these new commercial flights between London and New York were as safe as they were expensive (that is, exceedingly). But neither of them had ever been on an airplane before; he was no more experienced with this increasingly popular form of transportation. Even though he had read up on the science behind it, it still seemed essentially like a miracle to him. Or an impossibility.

Bertie found that his solution to the problem of where to look was to simply not look anywhere at all. His eyes were squeezed shut and he muttered bitterly to himself as the plane gained altitude. "They call this the blasted Golden Age of Air Travel, do they? This is supposed to be dashed golden? Bung me back into the bally dark ages, if it's all the same, thanks..."

The other passengers seemed largely unconcerned. Many of them were experienced flyers, mainly businessmen traveling on their companies’ expense accounts. Dressed to the nines in natty formalwear, they chatted and laughed, smoking cigars and drinking endless amounts of booze, a swanky cocktail party in the sky.

Bertie and Jeeves both found it difficult to maintain their states of trepidation in such a gay atmosphere. They gradually relaxed as slim young stewardesses came simpering down the aisle with drinks and food. It was quite cold in the cabin, however, and they asked for blankets to throw across each of their laps. This had the added benefit of enabling Bertie to keep his hand on Jeeves's knee discreetly.

"Well, if we must make our final resting place in a watery grave, I suppose we'll at least do it in style."

"As you say, sir."

"We had a good run, though, didn't we?"

"Most assuredly, sir."

Jeeves took a moment to reflect on the twenty years that had elapsed since they had broken the bonds of propriety and shared their mutual confessions. It had been the scariest thing he'd ever done by far, admitting his improper feelings for his employer after six years of hopeless pining. In his mind, there had been no best case scenario; the only outcomes he could imagine were bad and worse. Thus, it was the surprise of his life when his feelings were reciprocated enthusiastically. The arrangement they had devised took advantage of their respective stations: outwardly, they appeared to continue living as gentleman and valet, but privately, they lived as equal partners, ever since.

Bertie's face was now more lined and his hats covered a thinning patch on the top of his head, but he was spry for his fifty years. At sixty, Jeeves still held on to every last hair on his head, but was a little self-conscious about the weight that had added to his frame in the intervening time. He could never manage to feel too insecure about it, though, because of the ample evidence that Bertie was as attracted to him as ever and the flattering lengths to which Bertie still regularly went to illustrate his affection.

Jeeves glanced sideways at his companion, who was looking handsome in his suit, distinguished with his greying hair, and adorably vulnerable in his abating fear. Jeeves was still holding on to the hand gripping his knee; he now slid that hand slowly up his own leg, tracing the inseam of his trousers. He received a matching heated glance in response. Once the hand could travel no further, the two shared a delicious, illicit thrill. All their attention turned to enjoying the ensuing gentle grope, their anxiety pushed further from their minds with every capable caress.

Jeeves could have been content to leave it at that, the quiet rustle of skin on fabric on skin. Instead, seized by an ardent impulse, he abruptly stopped the motion. He leaned in and breathed, "Wait a minute, then follow me." He stood, straightening his clothing, and with a grace immune to turbulence, glided to the bathroom at the back of the cabin.

Bertie gulped and surveyed the scene. The passenger seated on his other side was dozing. The rest of the passengers were distracted. He lingered, his anticipation mounting. Finally, he surreptitiously scooted to the back of the plane in a sneaky manner that was a good deal more conspicuous than if he had just walked normally.

But no matter; a swift kiss welcomed him into the small room as soon as he had closed and locked the door. Familiar lips pressed against his, eager and demanding, pinning him to the wall. The kiss slid from his lips to his jaw down to his neck, making him shudder. Skillful hands made the kind of short work of his trouser fastenings that could only be attained through decades of practice. The garment was yanked down to his thighs.

Jeeves had initially planned to drop to his knees, but the room was too small and his knees didn't appreciate that sort of thing as much these days, anyway. Instead, he spun Bertie around and rocked his own hips forward, grinding his clothed crotch against the bare arse possessively. He spat into his own hand, reached around, and began stroking the hardness he found growing.

Bertie's deep moans were barely audible over the ambient roar of the plane's engines. He gasped at the sensation of amorous kisses to the back of his neck, bites to the backs of his ears. As his lover worked him towards a blissful peak, he trembled with exertion and arousal and fear and love, and knew that he was indeed living in a kind of Golden Age, after all.