Give Satisfaction

But it was not gone.

When I brought him his breakfast tray. Flicker.

When I lit his cigarette. Flicker.

When I took his coat as he returned from the Drones Club in the late evening, his expression shuttered for a moment, then bobbed back up into a sunny smile with blank eyes, which I found extremely disturbing. I could entertain his self-destructive shyness no longer. I poured him a nightcap once he was settling in, then put myself in his way, standing in front of his favourite armchair, close enough that he was forced to look up at me.

"Tell me, sir."

He looked very white and frightened when I said it, and chewed his lip, but he nodded. "I thought... if I want a thing, generally speaking, I just buy it. There's not much I could be said to be missing. The flat has all we need, what?"

"As you say, sir."

"And I thought. Well, if I need something from you, I just ask. And you set the fish-fed intelligence on it, or you issue the nolle prosequi and it's boomps-a-daisy either way.

"The only things left are things I can't ask for, and things I can't buy. Things it really might not be alright, morally, to try to buy. Unless I'm sure the other chap is going to say yes." He was playing with his hands, eyes half-closed in what I was coming to recognise must not be pain at all.

"Oh, Jeeves. Go to bed with me? Only if you want. Separate from your valet duties. And paid separately. On any scale you fancy. Whatever you ask for... you saw the numbers. Make it work in the accounting and it's yours."

Imagine hearing a young child make a wish on a star — could a compassionate person scoff and shame that child if the wish is for something simple and easily attainable, even freely given? I could no more deride my gentleman's (apparently quite fervent) desire. He was pitiful and beautiful and a little unseemly, and I found myself altogether inclined to indulge him. "Will you be interested in any special services, sir?"

His eyes glazed over, and he squirmed in his seat. "I think I might. Something traditional to start with, perhaps. We could go from there."

"One pound per kiss, sir. I expect you to keep count, and there will be a penalty if you lose your place. Fifteen for manual pleasure. Twenty-five for oral pleasure. Fifty for anal intercourse. An additional thirty-five for object insertion, bondage, or dressing." The numbers were all extemporaneous, of course, meant only to provoke, but it seemed effective.

"Jeeves," he gasped, "I need to write this down! Wait, what's dressing?"

"The wearing of costumes or erotic clothing, sir. In addition, any act involving urination would be another fifty pounds."

His eyes, which had been squeezed nearly shut in dreamy concupiscence, flew open wide at that. He seemed not to know what to do with his hands, settling for shoving them between his thighs. "Good-oh," he said in a creaky voice.

"Twenty pounds if I bring you off with my voice alone, sir. Fifteen for each time you touch yourself, alone in your bedroom, thinking of this." I was engaging in this financial fantasy largely for his benefit, but the last detail held considerable appeal.

"Please bring me my billfold, Jeeves," he said. When I complied, I could not help being amused at the panic in his posture as I approached him, as though he might break and run. He opened it with unsteady hands and counted out fifteen pounds.

"I would prefer not to make a habit of accepting cash, sir. The funds should go into an incidental account, to which I will have full and unquestioned access."

"Oh yes, of course."

I leaned down and took the money anyway, my weight on the arm of the chair, my heartbeat quickening when I smelled his arousal. Abstractions were little to me, but he was most enticingly real. "I will bankrupt you like this," I murmured.

Bertram made a maddened noise, took my hands, and kissed them, knuckles and palm. "Oh Lord," he said dizzily, "are you really saying yes? My own Jeeves, would you really?"

He was so desperate. I framed his face in my hands, his fingers still clinging to my wrists, and kissed him slowly, tightly controlling the pace. I tasted his mouth, wondering if there was anything I would actually refuse him.

When I paused to take a breath, he whispered, "One."

"Good, sir. It's late, don't you agree?" My gentleman gasped against my cheek, and nodded quickly. "Allow me to take you to bed."

He was shaky and aroused as I undressed him in his bedroom, his eyes lingering on my hands and face. I gave him some impassivity as I performed my usual duties, leaving him in the sleeveless undervest and short pants rather than offering him pyjamas, then allowed myself to relax slightly as I untied my own tie.

"This is how you may distinguish one role from another, sir," I said, somewhat thinking aloud to him. He sat on his bed, watching with fascination as I pulled the tie from my collar and stripped off my jacket.

"I was afraid you'd be angry that I asked you for something like this, dear man. I know it's completely improper."

"I was aware that what you had to say was something of a sensitive nature, sir, but I still asked you to reveal it. I am not set against the concept. I have been subject to far more degrading requests in the course of my career."

"Degrading!" He shrank back. "By no bally means! You are without reproach! If that means what I'm trying to say. I respect you most extremely, Jeeves, and if you think I don't, I need to stop this here and now!" This gave me pause. I was already nearly as undressed as I had ever been in front of him, my waistcoat off and suspenders unfastened. Bertram gestured wildly at himself, at me, and generally, then finally said loudly, "I'm the degraded one!" and blushed absolutely crimson.

"Ah," I said, seeing all.

He looked terrified and pleased all at once. "You understand," he said softly. "I want what I don't deserve."

"You think you can't have me freely, sir?" I tested, "Or perhaps it inflames you, imagining that you couldn't?"

He drew up his knees and hid his face, and it was answer enough.

"So I should tell you, sir, how unseemly I found it when you offered me money. How desperate you looked."

His head came up. "Jeeves, I do not want to have to give you just twenty pounds tonight," he complained, cut off when I took him by the shoulders and pushed him onto his back. I left my shirt and trousers on his floor and put myself over him, gratified by his overwhelmed, pleasured face. Close contact with his body was arousing me greatly, as was his obvious desire.

"Money is not enough. You're going to earn what you receive tonight, sir." I had narrowed down to two from a great many inspired ideas, and was deciding which order they should happen for maximum effect.

He was nodding again, frantic. I held him still to kiss him and press us together, warm and real and deeply affectionate beneath the trappings of something bought and paid for.

"Two," he said. I moved off him and took down my underwear, reaching for the jar I knew was in his bedside drawer. He made an undignified noise and snatched the jar from me, then immediately gave it back, saying, "So sorry, old thing. Do whatever you like, I'm sure."

"Strip, sir," I said offhandedly, and he scrambled to comply. I poured a bit of the gel in my hand and touched his erect prick, rubbing it on him thoroughly as he sat against me, panting and naked. That accomplished, I took more and reached between my thighs to press a finger into myself.

"Oh, my god," said my gentleman, like it was him I was fingering. "Oh, Jeeves." When I felt capable, I wiped my hand on one of the handkerchiefs also in the drawer, and drew him to me.

Up until the point where he slid his cock inside my body, I had command of the situation. I was running with a plan to please him. I was pursuing mutual pleasure, in a hypothetical way. Up until that point I was aroused but not jarred, not cracked open by the love that I keep tightly wrapped, that not even sincere kisses could quite disturb.

When Bertram pushed inside me I lost my impartiality. When he fucked me, showering me in disjointed praise and muffled expletives, I could only be fucked. When he strained and spent himself inside me, I felt deeply changed. Afterward he murmured nonsense to me, and kissed me many times, and wrapped me in his arms so tightly that I felt he found the crack and was holding me together, an impermanent but well-intentioned fix.

"Did I hurt you?" he whispered to me, after I failed to compose myself.

"Not at all," I replied.

"Are you unhappy?"

"I... think I am happy. Sir."

"You just need a moment, what? Oh, my dear. You're alright. Here. Let me." He petted my belly and kissed my prick, and said, "Twelve," in a most cheering voice, then took me in his mouth in a warm, wet, and extremely encouraging fashion. That was very nearly to my plan. It came to an imperfect but satisfying end when I tapped him to pull off, then tugged him down and came off against his throat, smearing him with spend from chin to chest. I felt vastly improved after that.

"Jeeves..." he said, sitting up, his eyes comically round. He truly was filthy, sweaty and dishevelled. I let my expression warm, looking at him, and his warmed right back. "Alright, old thing, your point is taken. And I owe you ninety-seven pounds, if my maths are correct."

"Sixty-two by my count, sir."

He counted on his fingers, looking as thoughtful as he is capable of doing. "Twelve kisses at one pound each, fifty for anal, and thirty-five for oral, isn't it?"

"Oh. You're right, sir."

"I say! I suppose I've scrambled you thoroughly."

"You may have, sir."

He rolled off the bed and went to wash up, the partition standing open as he ran the water. He peeked back at me. "You must think I'm depraved to have propositioned you like this."

I was amused by his projection. "Was that not your intention, sir?"

"My dodgy taste aside, I do feel as though I should explain a bit. I've done this before. Just a game of sorts, with my pals. When Uncle Willoughby shuffled off the mortal whatsit and I first went from allowance to inheritance, it stressed me. I was on my own managing it. I handed some around to the lads — Bingo, Boko, Stinker. And I didn't want the money back, so I took it in favours, don't you know. Bingo was the first to say, 'Do I have to pay it back, or should I just come over?' You know what he's like. Boko declined, he's kept me supplied with those nice writing notebooks instead, but Stinker was keen, came back several times, and it's just... something I do, I suppose. I know it isn't what a preux chevalier ought to do, especially across classes, Jeeves, but I hoped. Well, I hoped we were there. Close enough, in our way. I've gone about this quite stupidly, but when you said yes it gave me hope." He dried himself and brought me back a cloth, climbing into his bed, cozy beside me. "I've never paid à la carte but obviously I'm entirely willing. I mean to say, what's the dosh for, if I can't use it to benefit my lo— my friends! Not that that necessitates the carnal ...what-have-you."

I thrilled to what he didn't quite say, back on solid ground. "You should not feel obliged to make excuses to me, sir. We have already passed a significant threshold of intimacy."

"I'll say." He smiled, invoking paintings I've seen of people bathed in angelic light. "I wanted to make it abundantly clear that you needn't, though, if you didn't like it. Even if you like it but don't feel like... you know."

I couldn't pull him close by a tie, as he wasn't wearing one, so I settled for taking one hand and kissing the fingertips. "I have no interest in letting you out, sir. I will ruin you," I said in a deliberately smooth voice, and watched his pupils flare. "By the end you'll need to take work as my valet."

"By the end..? I say, how long would it take to run me out of the current fortune, at roughly a hundred quid daily?"

"Approximately forty-two years, sir."

---

Note:
£1 in the early 1920s ≈ £43 or $55 now
So £50 is about £2150 or $2,750