My first surprise of the evening was running into Mr. Wooster unexpectedly in a speakeasy; my second was the police raid that took place not long after I arrived; and my third—well, the third was a different kind of surprise altogether.
We had come to the same speakeasy coincidentally, with entirely different sets of compatriots, of course. Mr. Wooster had already been there for several hours when I arrived. There was something a little surreal about stumbling upon him that way. We had once before glimpsed each other out on the town, back when I was taking notes on the New York City nightlife for Mr. Rockmetteller Todd. That time, in that lively cabaret, Mr. Wooster had looked different to me, somehow. In the fraction of a second between seeing him and recognizing him, I perceived him as if he were a stranger: an anonymous, tall, lean young man, surrounded by friends, exceptionally well-groomed and well-dressed (but of course I liked how he was dressed—it was I who had dressed him, after all). In that moment, I was struck by his looks; seeing him every day as I did in the context of employer and employee, I didn’t think about him that way, so I wasn’t looking for it, so I didn’t notice it. But here, with no duty to uphold, no obligation to attend to him, I found that my attention was still drawn to him anyway. If I hadn’t known him, I would have wanted to go over and get to know him.
Then, that brief moment of non-recognition was over, and he appeared to me once more as he usually does. We had pretended not to notice each other that night in the cabaret and had never acknowledged the near run-in. Nevertheless, ever since that night, some piece of that brief, unfamiliar vision had remained with me. It was a reminder of how even those you know most intimately have sides that you never see.
On this night of surprises in the speakeasy, I experienced a similar kind of fleeting disorientation upon spotting him. This time, we happened to notice each other at the same moment, making direct eye contact, so we could not pretend we were unaware. He simply gave me a smile and a nod from across the room; he must have figured that the last thing a working man wants on his night off is to be unexpectedly accosted by his employer. I appreciated his thoughtfulness in not wanting to impose, but I decided to go over and say a fond hello. He seemed rather delighted by my approach.
I could tell that Mr. Wooster had already had a few drinks, and as we talked, we both had a few more. We got rather caught up in conversation, which I had not anticipated. In my professional capacity, I always err on the side of reticence, but tonight I found myself talking more than I ever had in front of him, and quite animatedly, too. It seemed we related in a whole different way when off the clock. Even though it was quite improper, it was oddly gratifying to feel that he respected me as a social equal. I found it flattering how he gave me his undivided attention and paid no heed to the friends he had come with, who drifted off gradually as time went on. Likewise, I was unconcerned about returning to my companions, although I wondered what they must think about our unseemly behavior.
Eventually, he politely excused himself, but had only taken a few steps when the shrill sound of a whistle cut through the sounds of music, chatter, and general revelry. Instantly, the music ceased and the crowd scattered. The Prohibition laws were inconsistently enforced, but it was highly advisable to avoid getting caught if at all possible. Startled, I froze; acting quickly, Mr. Wooster grabbed hold of my arm and we ran.
Owing to the layout of the speakeasy and the sudden swarming of policemen, it was impossible for us to reach either the entrance or the back exit through which many patrons fled, but we were able to scramble quickly into a concealed spot under a table. We huddled there together, side by side. The table was in a corner alcove that was somewhat isolated from the rest of the club. As long as we stayed tolerably still and didn’t make much noise, we had a good chance of being overlooked.
The voices and footsteps of policemen patrolling about echoed through the club. The lighting was dim, even more so under this table. I could see Mr. Wooster crouched next to me in the darkness if I turned my head, but if I looked straight ahead into the main room, I couldn’t make out much. We peered out into the gloom, waiting for a sign that the police had finished their raid.
“Rum sit., this, isn’t it?” Mr. Wooster whispered. He turned his head to speak to me, and due to our proximity, I felt his breath on my cheek. It made me shiver a bit.
“Indeed, sir,” I murmured.
The man is not known for his sangfroid in the best of circumstances; here, the adrenaline and nerves had him much more restless than usual. Before long, I could feel him fidgeting anxiously.
“Try to relax if you can, sir. We should be fine.”
“Oh yes, I’m not terribly worried about that. I just…” he sighed dolefully. “I was about to, er, make use of the facilities before this all happened, and I really do wish I had gotten the chance.”
I gulped. I was afraid he would say something like that.
You see, I lead a modest, chaste lifestyle. Although I have in the past had some involvement with a few suitable people, I have neither the time nor the inclination to seek out much in the way of intimate activity. Forgive me for discussing such matters so frankly, but abstinence does not mean I don’t feel the urge; on the contrary, I believe I feel it all the more keenly. When there is an excess of desire but a deficit of opportunity, that desire sometimes expresses itself in odd ways. Breath on one’s cheek makes one shiver, as a completely arbitrary example. One takes notice of subtle reactions in others. One feels entranced by small things that most would generally consider to be unrelated to sensual pursuits. There is one such quirk that has especially affected me, something impossible to discuss in polite company for many reasons, and his words had triggered it instantly.
This quirk of mine has made itself known in relation to Mr. Wooster a few times, but never to this advanced degree. In many ways, this was the utmost culmination of my proclivity, the realization of my fantasies.
Our hiding spot wasn’t far from the restrooms, but there was absolutely nothing to conceal someone venturing from one place to the other. We could still hear policemen systematically arresting patrons not far from where we hid; Mr. Wooster would definitely be apprehended if he tried.
I knew he must be suffering. His heart must be pounding, his breathing labored. I knew his slim waist and flat stomach must be rigid, taut. His innermost muscles must be contracting, resisting the pressure, putting off the inevitable for now but not forever.
I was sitting on the floor with my back to the wall, my elbows resting upon my bent knees. I casually let a hand drop between my legs to rest lightly on my crotch. My thigh would hide the motion from Mr. Wooster. I knew this was madness, but I simply couldn’t control myself. So close was he to me that I fancied I could feel his distress and embarrassment radiating off him in palpable waves. He quivered in discomfort. I risked a gentle stroke of the front of my trousers. The stirring beneath my hand was just in beginning stages but it would not stay that was for long. I did not know what I was going to do when it advanced, and at that moment, I really did not care.
I peeked at Mr. Wooster. He was still staring straight ahead, rocking slightly. I grew bolder with my touch and had to stifle a moan of repressed delight. It was so sinful, so wrong to be doing this next to him—right next to him. That thought itself roused me further. Quite a dangerous feedback loop was forming.
“D’you think they’ve gone?” he whispered. As if in answer, we heard heavy footsteps pass by, closer than ever. He let out of a quiet whine of disappointment, and the soft sound did more to harden me than anything my hand could possibly do. His pitiful tone inspired sympathy in me, yes, but also irrepressible lust.
With a furtive glance at him, I took a chance and slipped my hand inside my trousers.
Fill: Relief (Part One)
We had come to the same speakeasy coincidentally, with entirely different sets of compatriots, of course. Mr. Wooster had already been there for several hours when I arrived. There was something a little surreal about stumbling upon him that way. We had once before glimpsed each other out on the town, back when I was taking notes on the New York City nightlife for Mr. Rockmetteller Todd. That time, in that lively cabaret, Mr. Wooster had looked different to me, somehow. In the fraction of a second between seeing him and recognizing him, I perceived him as if he were a stranger: an anonymous, tall, lean young man, surrounded by friends, exceptionally well-groomed and well-dressed (but of course I liked how he was dressed—it was I who had dressed him, after all). In that moment, I was struck by his looks; seeing him every day as I did in the context of employer and employee, I didn’t think about him that way, so I wasn’t looking for it, so I didn’t notice it. But here, with no duty to uphold, no obligation to attend to him, I found that my attention was still drawn to him anyway. If I hadn’t known him, I would have wanted to go over and get to know him.
Then, that brief moment of non-recognition was over, and he appeared to me once more as he usually does. We had pretended not to notice each other that night in the cabaret and had never acknowledged the near run-in. Nevertheless, ever since that night, some piece of that brief, unfamiliar vision had remained with me. It was a reminder of how even those you know most intimately have sides that you never see.
On this night of surprises in the speakeasy, I experienced a similar kind of fleeting disorientation upon spotting him. This time, we happened to notice each other at the same moment, making direct eye contact, so we could not pretend we were unaware. He simply gave me a smile and a nod from across the room; he must have figured that the last thing a working man wants on his night off is to be unexpectedly accosted by his employer. I appreciated his thoughtfulness in not wanting to impose, but I decided to go over and say a fond hello. He seemed rather delighted by my approach.
I could tell that Mr. Wooster had already had a few drinks, and as we talked, we both had a few more. We got rather caught up in conversation, which I had not anticipated. In my professional capacity, I always err on the side of reticence, but tonight I found myself talking more than I ever had in front of him, and quite animatedly, too. It seemed we related in a whole different way when off the clock. Even though it was quite improper, it was oddly gratifying to feel that he respected me as a social equal. I found it flattering how he gave me his undivided attention and paid no heed to the friends he had come with, who drifted off gradually as time went on. Likewise, I was unconcerned about returning to my companions, although I wondered what they must think about our unseemly behavior.
Eventually, he politely excused himself, but had only taken a few steps when the shrill sound of a whistle cut through the sounds of music, chatter, and general revelry. Instantly, the music ceased and the crowd scattered. The Prohibition laws were inconsistently enforced, but it was highly advisable to avoid getting caught if at all possible. Startled, I froze; acting quickly, Mr. Wooster grabbed hold of my arm and we ran.
Owing to the layout of the speakeasy and the sudden swarming of policemen, it was impossible for us to reach either the entrance or the back exit through which many patrons fled, but we were able to scramble quickly into a concealed spot under a table. We huddled there together, side by side. The table was in a corner alcove that was somewhat isolated from the rest of the club. As long as we stayed tolerably still and didn’t make much noise, we had a good chance of being overlooked.
The voices and footsteps of policemen patrolling about echoed through the club. The lighting was dim, even more so under this table. I could see Mr. Wooster crouched next to me in the darkness if I turned my head, but if I looked straight ahead into the main room, I couldn’t make out much. We peered out into the gloom, waiting for a sign that the police had finished their raid.
“Rum sit., this, isn’t it?” Mr. Wooster whispered. He turned his head to speak to me, and due to our proximity, I felt his breath on my cheek. It made me shiver a bit.
“Indeed, sir,” I murmured.
The man is not known for his sangfroid in the best of circumstances; here, the adrenaline and nerves had him much more restless than usual. Before long, I could feel him fidgeting anxiously.
“Try to relax if you can, sir. We should be fine.”
“Oh yes, I’m not terribly worried about that. I just…” he sighed dolefully. “I was about to, er, make use of the facilities before this all happened, and I really do wish I had gotten the chance.”
I gulped. I was afraid he would say something like that.
You see, I lead a modest, chaste lifestyle. Although I have in the past had some involvement with a few suitable people, I have neither the time nor the inclination to seek out much in the way of intimate activity. Forgive me for discussing such matters so frankly, but abstinence does not mean I don’t feel the urge; on the contrary, I believe I feel it all the more keenly. When there is an excess of desire but a deficit of opportunity, that desire sometimes expresses itself in odd ways. Breath on one’s cheek makes one shiver, as a completely arbitrary example. One takes notice of subtle reactions in others. One feels entranced by small things that most would generally consider to be unrelated to sensual pursuits. There is one such quirk that has especially affected me, something impossible to discuss in polite company for many reasons, and his words had triggered it instantly.
This quirk of mine has made itself known in relation to Mr. Wooster a few times, but never to this advanced degree. In many ways, this was the utmost culmination of my proclivity, the realization of my fantasies.
Our hiding spot wasn’t far from the restrooms, but there was absolutely nothing to conceal someone venturing from one place to the other. We could still hear policemen systematically arresting patrons not far from where we hid; Mr. Wooster would definitely be apprehended if he tried.
I knew he must be suffering. His heart must be pounding, his breathing labored. I knew his slim waist and flat stomach must be rigid, taut. His innermost muscles must be contracting, resisting the pressure, putting off the inevitable for now but not forever.
I was sitting on the floor with my back to the wall, my elbows resting upon my bent knees. I casually let a hand drop between my legs to rest lightly on my crotch. My thigh would hide the motion from Mr. Wooster. I knew this was madness, but I simply couldn’t control myself. So close was he to me that I fancied I could feel his distress and embarrassment radiating off him in palpable waves. He quivered in discomfort. I risked a gentle stroke of the front of my trousers. The stirring beneath my hand was just in beginning stages but it would not stay that was for long. I did not know what I was going to do when it advanced, and at that moment, I really did not care.
I peeked at Mr. Wooster. He was still staring straight ahead, rocking slightly. I grew bolder with my touch and had to stifle a moan of repressed delight. It was so sinful, so wrong to be doing this next to him—right next to him. That thought itself roused me further. Quite a dangerous feedback loop was forming.
“D’you think they’ve gone?” he whispered. As if in answer, we heard heavy footsteps pass by, closer than ever. He let out of a quiet whine of disappointment, and the soft sound did more to harden me than anything my hand could possibly do. His pitiful tone inspired sympathy in me, yes, but also irrepressible lust.
With a furtive glance at him, I took a chance and slipped my hand inside my trousers.