“I suppose it could be worse, Jeeves,” I said, eyeing the surroundings. “We could’ve got the Mary and Joseph treatment.”
“No room at the inn, sir?”
“Precisely and been stuck sharing a manger with a donkey and our Lord and Savior.”
“I will be quite comfortable sleeping on the floor, sir. It is only for one night.”
“That’s taking the feudal spirit a bit too far, Jeeves. Noblesse oblige demands if anyone get their forty winks on the rug, it’s me, but, I say, this is rather the lavender-smelling country-inn bedroom of fiction, isn’t it? And that ark of a bed looks big enough for two of us. And after all, as you say, it’s only for night. We share.”
“Very good, sir.”
---
“By Jove, Jeeves, have a dip in this bed. It’s like lying on a cloud!”
“Exceedingly comfortable, sir. The pillows, too.”
“You’re a bit of human furnace, aren’t you, Jeeves? I mean, body heat and all that. I suppose it’s a thingagummy from all the brainwork you put in, gears turning, etcetera.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I’ll move further away.”
“No, please. It’s quite nice. Cosy, if you know what I mean.”
“Is this all right, sir?”
“Yes, Jeeves. That’s toppin’. Well, I suppose we have to get up at some beastly hour in the ack emma, don’t we? I mean, something earlier than a civilised half nine.”
“It is advisable, sir.”
“I’m going to need something like a wake-up call.”
“Would you prefer a wake-up call in the London style or the Shropshire style, sir?”
“Oh, well, I don’t rightly know. What’s London style?”
Jeeves gave the left shoulder a shake.
“And, uh, Shropshire style?”
And at this, I was treated to a pair of soft lips pressed to the left side of the Wooster neck once, twice, thrice followed by a sweeping caress of a tongue.
“Oh, well…” I stammered.
“That is upper Shropshire style,” whispered Jeeves in a low rumbly tone that turned my insides to jelly.
“And, uh, just how do they do it in the Midlands, Jeeves?” I managed to croak.
The mouth returned to work at the old swan stand, but then a warm hand slipped ‘round my waist and under my heliotrope pyjama shirt. A wet finger and thumb found the left bud and proceeded to coax it to hard bloom, if you catch my meaning.
Well, what could I do but turn my head and offer the mouth more land for developing and arch my back to get more of those magic digits? And moan a little, of course.
“Jeeves, does there happen to be a low Shropshire wake-up call?” I asked when I woke to the knowledge that the Wooster cock was as wooden as the bedpost.
“There does, sir, if you’ll excuse me for a moment.”
---
“Oh, God, Jeeves,” I groaned when he’d returned, sank his mitten down the heliotrope trousers, and wrapped it ‘round my baton. He gave the throbbing member an expert stroke or two, then stopped, and with his python still curled ‘round my goat, asked,
“And so, sir, what is your preference in wake-up calls?”
I twisted the onion, the better to look into those devilish blue eyes, and said,
“When in Rome, Jeeves. The Shropshire one, and the lower, the better, but, uh…”
The b. e.’s sparkled mischievously.
“I am told Mrs. Gregson looks very fine in her bathing dress. I believe it’s mauve with a tiny ruffle about the bosom…”
“Ugh! Jeeves!” I groaned, and not in the good way. My stately pine instantly transformed into a wilting fern in Jeeves’ hand, and he released it and rolled away.
“Good night, sir. Pleasant dreams.”
---
My dream was pleasant. I was a summer wildflower, being picked and, I think, put into someone’s collection. But before the prizes could be awarded, I surfaced, feeling a hot mouth sucking along my jaw line and an even hotter paw hoisting the sail on my very tall mizzen stand.
My first words were,
“Bugger all.”
The cheeky reply came swift, low, and sure.
“That would be the Manchester wake-up call, sir, which I’m afraid is not available at this location.”
I gave a naughty snort and felt a teasing nip to the side of my neck. Then the glory that is giving the new day the glad eye while having your own glad eye expertly stroked washed over me.
“Oh, Jeeves.”
He hummed.
And we might have continued on like that, but a preux chevalier never forgets his manners, even when he’s having his knob polished in a very low Shropshire manner.
“Jeeves, I don’t want to soil a lavender-smelling country-inn bed of fiction.”
“Of course, sir.”
That was when the tide turned, so to speak, and so did I, shucking off my pyjama trousers and climbing atop Jeeves’ chest and feeding him my cock.
When he’d swallowed, he said,
“Good morning, sir.”
I, for my part, slid down his frame, settled between his legs, and showed him just what Eton and Oxford can do for a boy.
I may have only won prizes for summer wildflowers and Scripture knowledge, but that’s only because fellating was never a category, the lads always going more in for flogging and whatnot.
When I’d swallowed, Jeeves pushed up on his elbows and looked down, like a stuffed frog whose caught the plumpest fly of his career.
Wake-up Call
“No room at the inn, sir?”
“Precisely and been stuck sharing a manger with a donkey and our Lord and Savior.”
“I will be quite comfortable sleeping on the floor, sir. It is only for one night.”
“That’s taking the feudal spirit a bit too far, Jeeves. Noblesse oblige demands if anyone get their forty winks on the rug, it’s me, but, I say, this is rather the lavender-smelling country-inn bedroom of fiction, isn’t it? And that ark of a bed looks big enough for two of us. And after all, as you say, it’s only for night. We share.”
“Very good, sir.”
---
“By Jove, Jeeves, have a dip in this bed. It’s like lying on a cloud!”
“Exceedingly comfortable, sir. The pillows, too.”
“You’re a bit of human furnace, aren’t you, Jeeves? I mean, body heat and all that. I suppose it’s a thingagummy from all the brainwork you put in, gears turning, etcetera.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I’ll move further away.”
“No, please. It’s quite nice. Cosy, if you know what I mean.”
“Is this all right, sir?”
“Yes, Jeeves. That’s toppin’. Well, I suppose we have to get up at some beastly hour in the ack emma, don’t we? I mean, something earlier than a civilised half nine.”
“It is advisable, sir.”
“I’m going to need something like a wake-up call.”
“Would you prefer a wake-up call in the London style or the Shropshire style, sir?”
“Oh, well, I don’t rightly know. What’s London style?”
Jeeves gave the left shoulder a shake.
“And, uh, Shropshire style?”
And at this, I was treated to a pair of soft lips pressed to the left side of the Wooster neck once, twice, thrice followed by a sweeping caress of a tongue.
“Oh, well…” I stammered.
“That is upper Shropshire style,” whispered Jeeves in a low rumbly tone that turned my insides to jelly.
“And, uh, just how do they do it in the Midlands, Jeeves?” I managed to croak.
The mouth returned to work at the old swan stand, but then a warm hand slipped ‘round my waist and under my heliotrope pyjama shirt. A wet finger and thumb found the left bud and proceeded to coax it to hard bloom, if you catch my meaning.
Well, what could I do but turn my head and offer the mouth more land for developing and arch my back to get more of those magic digits? And moan a little, of course.
“Jeeves, does there happen to be a low Shropshire wake-up call?” I asked when I woke to the knowledge that the Wooster cock was as wooden as the bedpost.
“There does, sir, if you’ll excuse me for a moment.”
---
“Oh, God, Jeeves,” I groaned when he’d returned, sank his mitten down the heliotrope trousers, and wrapped it ‘round my baton. He gave the throbbing member an expert stroke or two, then stopped, and with his python still curled ‘round my goat, asked,
“And so, sir, what is your preference in wake-up calls?”
I twisted the onion, the better to look into those devilish blue eyes, and said,
“When in Rome, Jeeves. The Shropshire one, and the lower, the better, but, uh…”
The b. e.’s sparkled mischievously.
“I am told Mrs. Gregson looks very fine in her bathing dress. I believe it’s mauve with a tiny ruffle about the bosom…”
“Ugh! Jeeves!” I groaned, and not in the good way. My stately pine instantly transformed into a wilting fern in Jeeves’ hand, and he released it and rolled away.
“Good night, sir. Pleasant dreams.”
---
My dream was pleasant. I was a summer wildflower, being picked and, I think, put into someone’s collection. But before the prizes could be awarded, I surfaced, feeling a hot mouth sucking along my jaw line and an even hotter paw hoisting the sail on my very tall mizzen stand.
My first words were,
“Bugger all.”
The cheeky reply came swift, low, and sure.
“That would be the Manchester wake-up call, sir, which I’m afraid is not available at this location.”
I gave a naughty snort and felt a teasing nip to the side of my neck. Then the glory that is giving the new day the glad eye while having your own glad eye expertly stroked washed over me.
“Oh, Jeeves.”
He hummed.
And we might have continued on like that, but a preux chevalier never forgets his manners, even when he’s having his knob polished in a very low Shropshire manner.
“Jeeves, I don’t want to soil a lavender-smelling country-inn bed of fiction.”
“Of course, sir.”
That was when the tide turned, so to speak, and so did I, shucking off my pyjama trousers and climbing atop Jeeves’ chest and feeding him my cock.
When he’d swallowed, he said,
“Good morning, sir.”
I, for my part, slid down his frame, settled between his legs, and showed him just what Eton and Oxford can do for a boy.
I may have only won prizes for summer wildflowers and Scripture knowledge, but that’s only because fellating was never a category, the lads always going more in for flogging and whatnot.
When I’d swallowed, Jeeves pushed up on his elbows and looked down, like a stuffed frog whose caught the plumpest fly of his career.
“Good morning, Jeeves.”