If he were to look over, he would be able to tell that my hand was in the general region between my legs, but could not see that it had disappeared into my clothing, and I could still pass it off as a casual sitting position. I turned my grunt of pleasure into a cough as smoothly as I could. I caressed my heated length, rubbing my palm up and down it, not yet grasping, just petting.
The risk of getting caught had my adrenaline surging. The physical sensation was rather overwhelming, but mentally, I felt like I was flying. I was keyed up and ready to yank my hand back if I had to, run if I had to, I even had the wild thought that I would fight off a policeman if I had to.
It occurred to me then that, as speakeasies are known for their illicit goods rather than their fastidious hygiene, my hand couldn’t exactly be considered clean. Normally, this would have disgusted me and stopped me from proceeding any further. But tonight was a different sort of night. In many different senses, it was a night to embrace repugnance, to luxuriate in depravity. Shamefully enough, my prick leaked at the very thought. My hand’s continuous motion spread the slickness all over.
All this time, my attention was trained on my tortured master. Just from the look on his face I could read his agitation. I knew the bulge in his belly must be making him feel filled up, on the brink of bursting. He was letting out small sighs of displeasure at random intervals. As I watched, he stretched out his legs in front of him, even though his feet now stuck out from under the table. He must know this would make us marginally more likely to be caught, but apparently the risk was worth it to him for the modicum of relief it would give him.
“Jeeves,” he said, his voice strained, “I find myself stuck between a rock and a hard thingummy.”
“How so, sir?” I said, managing to keep my voice normal.
“On one hand, I don’t want to get arrested. I already had to pay Stilton Cheesewright’s uncle ten blasted quid for the last time I was caught up in one of these raids, and I haven’t forgotten the sting of that. But on the other hand, I can’t do this forever. I don’t want to…ah…I certainly can’t…here, you know, in front of you.”
I murmured sympathetically.
“It’s bally anguish, though.”
“I am sorry to hear that, sir.”
“I know this isn’t exactly proper, old fruit, but would you excuse the young master’s imperti-whatsit for a moment?”
“Of course, sir,” I said, although I didn’t know what I was excusing.
Mr. Wooster then pressed a hand to his crotch with a groan. I couldn’t help but stare. I had never seen him grab at himself this way, and even though I was currently doing an even more intimate, inappropriate version of the same thing, I still flushed at the sight of him clutching himself so firmly. Something about seeing his fingers curl around his most private parts flustered me greatly.
“Great Scott…” he moaned. “When we’re free I’m probably going to be at the urinal for a dashed eternity.”
This frank talk did not improve my flustered state. “Shouldn’t be much longer now, sir,” I said—a hollow assurance since I of course had no clue how long it would be.
“Oh Lord, I hope so. I can’t wait much longer. It’s going to feel so bloody good…”
I felt my traitorous body react ardently to his cursing and moaning.
He bent his knees again, placing his feet flat on the floor. I tried not to stare at him this time, pretending instead to look intently ahead. In my peripheral vision, I saw him glance surreptitiously at me, then position himself in a similar way to how I was sitting. And then, unless I was much mistaken, I saw his hand slip into a similar position to where mine now was.
It was deliciously mortifying to reflect on the scene: my master and I, huddling together, so close that our knees were actually touching, each with his hand groping himself inside his trousers. Very different reasons drove us—lust for me, desperation for him—but somehow that only made it even more arousing to me.
For the first time, I felt that I could actually come off if I chose to. It wasn’t inevitable yet, but I suddenly could tell that it was an option. That hadn’t been my intention this whole time; I had just been following an impulse, not working toward a goal. Mr. Wooster wasn’t fondling himself, just keeping a tight static grip, trying his hardest to maintain control. By contrast, my hand had been stroking steadily for several minutes now, at a slower speed than I would normally employ for this activity so as to remain discreet. That moment where idle, non-productive touching could transition into an uphill climb toward climax had snuck up on me.
But—no, that would be preposterous. As magnificent as the idea was of each of us deciding to let go, giving each other permission to finish, finding our different versions of release right here, right next to each other, perhaps simultaneously, or perhaps instead taking turns, so each could have his chance to show off and his chance to watch…as marvelous as that would assuredly be, I needed to banish such lewd thoughts from my intentions and relegate them to the safe realm of private fantasy.
For that, I needed to stop touching myself. But that was easier in theory than in practice. This instinctive, reflexive process is inertial; the closer you are to the end, the harder it is to stop. I just had to gather my willpower and simply resolve to—
“That’s it, I’m going to the restroom,” Mr. Wooster declared, beginning to stand up.
I swiftly pulled my hand off my cock and grabbed his free wrist, holding him in place. “No, sir! Remember how much trouble it caused when the word got out that you had been caught in that raid last time?”
“I don’t care, Jeeves!” he burst out, his voice cracking. “I mean, I do, but I-I have no choice!”
“Shhh. You’re doing so well, sir, just hold on,” I encouraged him. “And if you can’t, it’s okay. Accidents happen.”
“What?! How could you suggest—? No!” He wrenched his wrist from me and scrambled out from under the table. I watched his progress as far as he was still visible, but his form disappeared into the dimness soon enough. I listened intently and didn’t hear any sign that he had been spotted; maybe he would get away with this after all.
Imagining the relief he was soon to experience made me feel profoundly jealous. I also felt intensely stimulated. I knew that if I was going to relinquish my self-control and make this foolish choice, I had only a few moments.
My hand slipped back into my trousers and I picked up a much quicker pace than previously. My head fell back and I closed my eyes; there was nothing to see here in this darkness anyway.
Now I was free to picture Mr. Wooster yanking his trousers open, reaching in, freeing his cock. His hand gripping it, shaking with exertion and anticipation. I envisioned him not in the bathroom, but here in front of me, kneeling between my feet, spreading my knees apart, and leaning over me. In my mind, he took careful aim and directed his steady stream right to where my hand was furiously pumping. I would gasp and gape in disbelief as the wetness spread down to my skin. He would watch me as my hand, prick, trousers, and lap became copiously soaked. All the while, his expression would reveal him to be as stunned and stirred by the proceedings as I was.
Back in reality, my breathing ceased. The tension gathered within me, crested, broke, and my release swept through me in a series of strong, rhythmic pulses. I held on and grunted through the ecstasy as quietly as possible.
I had barely a moment to come back to earth before I heard footsteps. In fact, the last throbs of pleasure were still being wrung from me as Mr. Wooster appeared and ducked back under the table. I felt them ebb from me even as his gaze fell upon me. I didn’t dare extract my hand, which would surely bear unspeakable evidence. I angled my leg and hunched slightly in order to obscure myself.
“The coast is clear!” he said. “We can sneak out the back.”
As he spoke, I could still feel a twitching aftershock or two. “Excellent news, sir. Lead the way,” I said as calmly as possible, making to stand up and hoping he would turn away.
“Need a hand up, old thing?” he offered instead.
“No—thank you, sir.” I swiftly wiped off my hand as best I could as I pulled it free and emerged from under the table.
Mr. Wooster had a funny look on his face, like maybe he had caught a glimpse of something and was puzzling out exactly what it was that he had seen. “You, er, have to go, too, Jeeves?”
“I’m fine, sir,” I said curtly. “I trust you’re feeling better now?”
“Ohh, loads,” he sighed contentedly. “You couldn’t imagine the relief I feel.”
Fill: Relief (Part Two)
The risk of getting caught had my adrenaline surging. The physical sensation was rather overwhelming, but mentally, I felt like I was flying. I was keyed up and ready to yank my hand back if I had to, run if I had to, I even had the wild thought that I would fight off a policeman if I had to.
It occurred to me then that, as speakeasies are known for their illicit goods rather than their fastidious hygiene, my hand couldn’t exactly be considered clean. Normally, this would have disgusted me and stopped me from proceeding any further. But tonight was a different sort of night. In many different senses, it was a night to embrace repugnance, to luxuriate in depravity. Shamefully enough, my prick leaked at the very thought. My hand’s continuous motion spread the slickness all over.
All this time, my attention was trained on my tortured master. Just from the look on his face I could read his agitation. I knew the bulge in his belly must be making him feel filled up, on the brink of bursting. He was letting out small sighs of displeasure at random intervals. As I watched, he stretched out his legs in front of him, even though his feet now stuck out from under the table. He must know this would make us marginally more likely to be caught, but apparently the risk was worth it to him for the modicum of relief it would give him.
“Jeeves,” he said, his voice strained, “I find myself stuck between a rock and a hard thingummy.”
“How so, sir?” I said, managing to keep my voice normal.
“On one hand, I don’t want to get arrested. I already had to pay Stilton Cheesewright’s uncle ten blasted quid for the last time I was caught up in one of these raids, and I haven’t forgotten the sting of that. But on the other hand, I can’t do this forever. I don’t want to…ah…I certainly can’t…here, you know, in front of you.”
I murmured sympathetically.
“It’s bally anguish, though.”
“I am sorry to hear that, sir.”
“I know this isn’t exactly proper, old fruit, but would you excuse the young master’s imperti-whatsit for a moment?”
“Of course, sir,” I said, although I didn’t know what I was excusing.
Mr. Wooster then pressed a hand to his crotch with a groan. I couldn’t help but stare. I had never seen him grab at himself this way, and even though I was currently doing an even more intimate, inappropriate version of the same thing, I still flushed at the sight of him clutching himself so firmly. Something about seeing his fingers curl around his most private parts flustered me greatly.
“Great Scott…” he moaned. “When we’re free I’m probably going to be at the urinal for a dashed eternity.”
This frank talk did not improve my flustered state. “Shouldn’t be much longer now, sir,” I said—a hollow assurance since I of course had no clue how long it would be.
“Oh Lord, I hope so. I can’t wait much longer. It’s going to feel so bloody good…”
I felt my traitorous body react ardently to his cursing and moaning.
He bent his knees again, placing his feet flat on the floor. I tried not to stare at him this time, pretending instead to look intently ahead. In my peripheral vision, I saw him glance surreptitiously at me, then position himself in a similar way to how I was sitting. And then, unless I was much mistaken, I saw his hand slip into a similar position to where mine now was.
It was deliciously mortifying to reflect on the scene: my master and I, huddling together, so close that our knees were actually touching, each with his hand groping himself inside his trousers. Very different reasons drove us—lust for me, desperation for him—but somehow that only made it even more arousing to me.
For the first time, I felt that I could actually come off if I chose to. It wasn’t inevitable yet, but I suddenly could tell that it was an option. That hadn’t been my intention this whole time; I had just been following an impulse, not working toward a goal. Mr. Wooster wasn’t fondling himself, just keeping a tight static grip, trying his hardest to maintain control. By contrast, my hand had been stroking steadily for several minutes now, at a slower speed than I would normally employ for this activity so as to remain discreet. That moment where idle, non-productive touching could transition into an uphill climb toward climax had snuck up on me.
But—no, that would be preposterous. As magnificent as the idea was of each of us deciding to let go, giving each other permission to finish, finding our different versions of release right here, right next to each other, perhaps simultaneously, or perhaps instead taking turns, so each could have his chance to show off and his chance to watch…as marvelous as that would assuredly be, I needed to banish such lewd thoughts from my intentions and relegate them to the safe realm of private fantasy.
For that, I needed to stop touching myself. But that was easier in theory than in practice. This instinctive, reflexive process is inertial; the closer you are to the end, the harder it is to stop. I just had to gather my willpower and simply resolve to—
“That’s it, I’m going to the restroom,” Mr. Wooster declared, beginning to stand up.
I swiftly pulled my hand off my cock and grabbed his free wrist, holding him in place. “No, sir! Remember how much trouble it caused when the word got out that you had been caught in that raid last time?”
“I don’t care, Jeeves!” he burst out, his voice cracking. “I mean, I do, but I-I have no choice!”
“Shhh. You’re doing so well, sir, just hold on,” I encouraged him. “And if you can’t, it’s okay. Accidents happen.”
“What?! How could you suggest—? No!” He wrenched his wrist from me and scrambled out from under the table. I watched his progress as far as he was still visible, but his form disappeared into the dimness soon enough. I listened intently and didn’t hear any sign that he had been spotted; maybe he would get away with this after all.
Imagining the relief he was soon to experience made me feel profoundly jealous. I also felt intensely stimulated. I knew that if I was going to relinquish my self-control and make this foolish choice, I had only a few moments.
My hand slipped back into my trousers and I picked up a much quicker pace than previously. My head fell back and I closed my eyes; there was nothing to see here in this darkness anyway.
Now I was free to picture Mr. Wooster yanking his trousers open, reaching in, freeing his cock. His hand gripping it, shaking with exertion and anticipation. I envisioned him not in the bathroom, but here in front of me, kneeling between my feet, spreading my knees apart, and leaning over me. In my mind, he took careful aim and directed his steady stream right to where my hand was furiously pumping. I would gasp and gape in disbelief as the wetness spread down to my skin. He would watch me as my hand, prick, trousers, and lap became copiously soaked. All the while, his expression would reveal him to be as stunned and stirred by the proceedings as I was.
Back in reality, my breathing ceased. The tension gathered within me, crested, broke, and my release swept through me in a series of strong, rhythmic pulses. I held on and grunted through the ecstasy as quietly as possible.
I had barely a moment to come back to earth before I heard footsteps. In fact, the last throbs of pleasure were still being wrung from me as Mr. Wooster appeared and ducked back under the table. I felt them ebb from me even as his gaze fell upon me. I didn’t dare extract my hand, which would surely bear unspeakable evidence. I angled my leg and hunched slightly in order to obscure myself.
“The coast is clear!” he said. “We can sneak out the back.”
As he spoke, I could still feel a twitching aftershock or two. “Excellent news, sir. Lead the way,” I said as calmly as possible, making to stand up and hoping he would turn away.
“Need a hand up, old thing?” he offered instead.
“No—thank you, sir.” I swiftly wiped off my hand as best I could as I pulled it free and emerged from under the table.
Mr. Wooster had a funny look on his face, like maybe he had caught a glimpse of something and was puzzling out exactly what it was that he had seen. “You, er, have to go, too, Jeeves?”
“I’m fine, sir,” I said curtly. “I trust you’re feeling better now?”
“Ohh, loads,” he sighed contentedly. “You couldn’t imagine the relief I feel.”
“No, sir. I should think not."