It certainly wasn’t my intention to be frantically rubbing against Jeeves in the potting shed. And it wasn’t my intention to be frantically rubbing against Jeeves in the potting shed when we could hear the gardeners talking about the need to wear the azaleas on the other side of the wall.
What can I say? Since my manservant and I began our carnal relationship, I have been a bit...eager, shall we say. I never know when I’ll need to engage in an act with Jeeves. It had simply been too much for me this afternoon, watching Jeeves serve tea in the library in his impeccable uniform, white gloved mitts passing tea and biscuits to assembled family members. So when that afternoon he stopped outside for a cigarette, I pounced and dragged him off to the potting shed. This Wooster should be ashamed of himself, but when the need hits, well, shame takes a holiday.
It’s not as if Jeeves objected—not to the act itself, but to the suitability of performing it in the potting shed within earshot of some hearty working class types. He stood, not moving. But his blue eyes rolled up to the ceiling.
“Reg,” I gasped, feeling the bulge in his trousers against the bulge in my trousers. “Reg, I couldn’t stand it—watching you—“
“Sir,” he whispered, “Do lower your—voice—oh—“
“There’s something about the way you say, ‘would you like cake madam?’ that sets me on fire. Jeeves, Jeeves, Jeeves, you gorgeous man, you amazing man, oh god, oh dear me--”
“Bertie, please.” He put his strong hand over my mouth, stifling my most ungentlemanly grunts and gasps. This only made it worse. I wanted to scream!
I felt his body go stiff, and then he moaned as his orgasm hit. I followed, exploding, and dropped my head on his broad shoulder.
“Thank you, Reg,” I whispered, trying not to collapse. “Now let’s hide behind the shelves until they go away.”
“Bertram, my love, if only you could hold out until we reached the woods,” he whispered back.