It was well enough to frolic with my man in our flat behind a door with two locks, or at least I thought so, but with less homelike circumstances came an amount of unacceptable risk to such pursuits. Also an amount of missing Jeeves's proximity, and after a few days at my dragon Aunt's abode, the latter was getting to be an unmanageable pile.
So when he made to trickle out after running my bath of a morning, I caught his hand.
"Sir," he reproached me soupily, but I didn't let go.
"Dash it, are you mine or aren't you?" I snapped, and in an instant I watched his demeanour undergo a sea change, into something rich and strange, and open. And waiting.
"I am," he said. Brows up, mouth slack, eyes shining, rosebuds on the damask cheek.
I kissed him. I gave two or three gentle presses straight on before coming at an angle for the corner of his lips, his right side where his smile turns down instead of up.
He fit his mouth against mine, opening so that I tasted him and felt his soft, coaxing tongue. I slid my own alongside to get acquainted, and one of my feet got away from me rather and kicked up behind while I wasn't paying attention. He smelled like an absolute dream, clean and delicious, as though home was actually wrapped up right there in valeting togs with all the smarts and muscles and corking softness. I gave him one more, firmer kiss, something we could feel for a bit after parting, then a little peck to the underside of his jaw simply because I adored his chin.
I stepped back.
"Thank you, sir," he said with shining sincerity. He was already starting to hide it under a bushel, and of course he had to for our safety. But I was happy to have glimpsed it at all.
"Thank you, Jeeves," I said, savouring the thingness zipping between us like a skilled game of ping-pong. He blinked slowly, catlike, and shimmered out.
Another dashed successful advantage, taken.
❧
Upon returning at last to Berkeley Mansions, Jeeves decamped again for bridge at the Junior Ganymede, his just reward for tolerating Aunt Agatha gnawing his ankle as she so often does. Not that he has to earn his evenings off — I may be using my manservant carnally on occasion, like some evil nobleman out of a pulpy and borderline illegal novel, but I'm not a monster! Probably.
Grateful as I was to be home, I was restless, too. I had been trying to manage my thoughts about the circs since time had padded our last experience with some doubt and anxiety. Grappling with the thing, and with some brandy, I reviewed the core truths: Jeeves refuses things he doesn't want. He looks at me like I hung the moon when I take liberties with him. And he said he's mine.
The Code of the Woosters forbade dishing out unwanted attentions, and all but mandated giving wanted ones. For once in my life, my code of honour seemed to be giving the green light exactly where I wanted to go. The rest was up to me.
I wandered into my bedroom and put the jar from my nightstand drawer in my jacket pocket, then changed my mind because it disturbed the silhouette. I tried to read a few different books, but nothing caught my attention. I planted myself in view of the door so I could catch him returning, but it was only eight o'clock. I smoked. I snacked. I sat at my desk and wrote for a while, then had to squirrel the results away in a secret spot because it was the first few pages of this very story. I got sleepy and washed up for bed and changed into my aubergine pyjamas.
Then I stopped dithering. It was time to take another risk.
My hand had not touched the doorknob of his Lair since the unfortunate incident of the banjolele, and prior to that, not since the ante-Jeeves era. Leaving the door ajar, I crossed to his bed and slithered in, tucking myself against the wall. The sheets were soft and cool and smelled like a kiss. I descended into the dreamless like a professional sleeper.
It seemed only a few moments later that I heard water running. I cracked one eye and saw light coming through the door of the washroom off his bedroom, but closed it again, drifting. Jeeves sighed, quite close by, and the bed dipped, a rush of cool air circulating under the covers when he lifted them. His leg moved my knee to make room for him to settle in alongside me, not cuddling up, but definitely not flinching away either.
When I opened my eyes again I was alone, there was sunshine streaming through his curtains, and I had come off in my sleep.
❧
The day after I intruded in Jeeves's sacred domain, I was constantly alert for another opportunity to make free with his person. I even sidled into the kitchen while he was preparing dinner, but the upright figure of my valet made a quarter turn where he was standing at the stove, and cast a burning eye upon me.
I sidled directly back out. A line had been drawn — no fire, I assumed — and I found that entirely fair.
With one thing and another it was almost bedtime again by the time an opportunity arose. I shuffled in from the w.c. in shirtsleeves as he made ready to slip me into the old nightwear, when a sudden inspiration arose to throw him down on my bed. I slowed in my undressing, watching his face as he picked up the slack. I saw the exact moment he noticed I was getting hard.
I took a step into his space.
"Undress and get on the bed," I told him, but it came out in a tender half-whisper that had my ears and cheeks flushing up. My heart was banging around in its ribcage, as if trying to escape. There are moments where life doesn't seem quite real. I was in one as I watched Jeeves unbutton his waistcoat and shirt and hang them with his jacket in my own wardrobe. His underthings were just a little charmingly old-fashioned, when he had peeled down that far. The union suit, well, suited him — he looked like one of those desserts that comes in a paper wrapper.
I caught his face for a kiss when he finally climbed into my bed. His lovely shape and general appealingness distracted me for some time from my specific mission to make him put his uniform back on with my spend up inside him. I spent a while with my hands on his prick, stroking him, aimlessly feeling about, exploring various bits with fingertips and mouth, and enjoying the sensory feast. When I touched behind his plums I heard his breath flutter.
"You've been waiting for this," I teased him, though I wasn't ready for how eager and overcome he looked. I fished out the jar and got myself slippery. He took a finger easily, his head dropping back, and as I was testing the stretch with a second he pushed back onto my hand.
When I was sure he could take it, I arranged him on his front with his knees under him and myself behind, a convenient angle to get on top of and inside him all at once. The actual getting inside made me shake, the tightness and heat of him, feeling him open to me. It had been the better part of a decade since I'd tried something like this, and I didn't remember ever thinking before that it was something I couldn't live without, but I could see I was going to need a steady supply. Everything else got lost in how it felt, how his body gripped me and gave as I moved in him.
It was for him, but it was for me, but it was for him, he got so much pleasure from me pushing him, but I wanted him so much. I put my back into it, driving him down into the pillows. It had been some time since my rowing days too, but the exertion was not dissimilar. I heard him groan beneath me, and added some extra motion at the end of the thrusts, my hand grasping for him underneath.
Even with all I was doing to him, I was still surprised when he came off. His legs dropped us both down flat on the bed, his inner muscles squeezing me tightly. I brought my hand out from beneath him covered in his spend. After that I just concentrated on getting myself there, almost too aroused and sensitive to bear it.
"Please," I heard him say, "please, I need it."
I trembled, and kissed his back, and made such a mess inside of him.
It embarrasses me to record this, as many rude friends and relations have vouched for the Wooster intellect being only the stillest and smallest of puddles, but it gets dashed quiet in my head in these moments. Anxieties flee for the hills and even the music that plays in there most of the time gets dampened down. I've never been one to fool around with beazels, but even if I wanted to, I think I really couldn't, because my decision-making deserts me at the peak of pleasure and I'd probably get someone in trouble. Poor Jeeves looked as though he might be having a similar pleasure-afflicted moment, collapsed face-down in my pillows with no small amount of bodily fluid in and around him.
When I had extracted myself and could work the limbs again, I trundled to my washroom to do the things one must do after such ventures, and I expected my man to be queuing for the same right behind me, or tottering off to his bath and bed. My expectations were dashed; when I returned to slide into bed, Jeeves was still there, unbestirred — if that is in fact a dictionary word — and emitting gentle snores with his head nestled right between the two pillows on my bed. I felt thwarted in a way, as this meant he would be unlikely to put his uniform back on in this sullied state. I resolved to stop waiting for opportunities and impose them instead.
I bunged myself into the lemon silk pyjamas, fit my longish, narrowish shape around his more solid one, and turned off the lamp. I fell asleep planning. And holding him.
❧
Dallying with Jeeves right before bed, I was finding, made me even more wanting the next day. It was unaccountable, but apparently that was how it worked. I went all day with the jar in my pocket, silhouette be damned.
I seized the moment after lunch as he was handing me a postprandial b. and s. to say, "Jeeves, a word."
"Yes, sir?"
I cocked my head and looked up into his eyes. "Did you use my toy? That night."
He looked around, left and right and left again, as though preparing to cross a street. I could understand the impulse, although of course we were alone in the flat.
"I did, sir," he admitted.
"Wishing it were the real thing?"
"Such a fantasy would be unavoidable, sir, as it was borrowed from you."
I was verging on lightheaded, the blood abandoned my upper reaches so quickly. "Is the carpet clean to your satisfaction, Jeeves?"
"It is, sir." Lowering himself down to his knees with swiftness, he positively thumped the floor.
I grinned. "How was yesterday for you, old chap?"
"Possibly too enjoyable, sir."
"You'll have to brace yourself, I'm afraid, as it may yet improve with some practice." I was unfastening my trousers as I spoke, and when I slid down to join him on the floor, took down his as well. He looked rather pink in daylight from the windows, and went where I put him, bent over the seat of the sofa without complaint. I slicked us again and put my knees between his own, checked the climate with one finger, then held my prick to get into him. Quick and hard seemed right for the occasion.
"Don't spend on the floor, you'll just have to clean it up," I said, and for some reason he seemed to like that quite a bit, throbbing inside as he attempted to access his handkerchief. I gave him mine instead. "Can you bend down a little more?"
He could, and did, and the friction and feeling were better. I felt I could get a bit rough after that, pulling him against me with some abandon. I let him attend to his own prick but we seemed to coincide, and he said ah, and gah! and his head thumped down on the cushion around the same time I finished. I tried to slip out of him with an eye to leaving most of the stuff inside, although a bit trickled out anyway. I tugged his trousers up, tucking in his shirts neatly and buttoning the back of his suspenders for him.
"There you go," I said, with a pat, feeling accomplished.
"Thank you, sir." Jeeves dropped slowly down to sit on the floor, his hair tousled. He had a look that was nearly awed, which had me feeling absolutely wild to do it again. I must be hitting the spot, I mean to say.
"You wouldn't let anyone else do this to you, would you, Jeeves."
"Certainly not, sir."
I followed my impulse, since those had been serving me so well, and put my arms around him. "Good."
FILL: Jeeves and the Commanding Personality (2/4)
So when he made to trickle out after running my bath of a morning, I caught his hand.
"Sir," he reproached me soupily, but I didn't let go.
"Dash it, are you mine or aren't you?" I snapped, and in an instant I watched his demeanour undergo a sea change, into something rich and strange, and open. And waiting.
"I am," he said. Brows up, mouth slack, eyes shining, rosebuds on the damask cheek.
I kissed him. I gave two or three gentle presses straight on before coming at an angle for the corner of his lips, his right side where his smile turns down instead of up.
He fit his mouth against mine, opening so that I tasted him and felt his soft, coaxing tongue. I slid my own alongside to get acquainted, and one of my feet got away from me rather and kicked up behind while I wasn't paying attention. He smelled like an absolute dream, clean and delicious, as though home was actually wrapped up right there in valeting togs with all the smarts and muscles and corking softness. I gave him one more, firmer kiss, something we could feel for a bit after parting, then a little peck to the underside of his jaw simply because I adored his chin.
I stepped back.
"Thank you, sir," he said with shining sincerity. He was already starting to hide it under a bushel, and of course he had to for our safety. But I was happy to have glimpsed it at all.
"Thank you, Jeeves," I said, savouring the thingness zipping between us like a skilled game of ping-pong. He blinked slowly, catlike, and shimmered out.
Another dashed successful advantage, taken.
❧
Upon returning at last to Berkeley Mansions, Jeeves decamped again for bridge at the Junior Ganymede, his just reward for tolerating Aunt Agatha gnawing his ankle as she so often does. Not that he has to earn his evenings off — I may be using my manservant carnally on occasion, like some evil nobleman out of a pulpy and borderline illegal novel, but I'm not a monster! Probably.
Grateful as I was to be home, I was restless, too. I had been trying to manage my thoughts about the circs since time had padded our last experience with some doubt and anxiety. Grappling with the thing, and with some brandy, I reviewed the core truths: Jeeves refuses things he doesn't want. He looks at me like I hung the moon when I take liberties with him. And he said he's mine.
The Code of the Woosters forbade dishing out unwanted attentions, and all but mandated giving wanted ones. For once in my life, my code of honour seemed to be giving the green light exactly where I wanted to go. The rest was up to me.
I wandered into my bedroom and put the jar from my nightstand drawer in my jacket pocket, then changed my mind because it disturbed the silhouette. I tried to read a few different books, but nothing caught my attention. I planted myself in view of the door so I could catch him returning, but it was only eight o'clock. I smoked. I snacked. I sat at my desk and wrote for a while, then had to squirrel the results away in a secret spot because it was the first few pages of this very story. I got sleepy and washed up for bed and changed into my aubergine pyjamas.
Then I stopped dithering. It was time to take another risk.
My hand had not touched the doorknob of his Lair since the unfortunate incident of the banjolele, and prior to that, not since the ante-Jeeves era. Leaving the door ajar, I crossed to his bed and slithered in, tucking myself against the wall. The sheets were soft and cool and smelled like a kiss. I descended into the dreamless like a professional sleeper.
It seemed only a few moments later that I heard water running. I cracked one eye and saw light coming through the door of the washroom off his bedroom, but closed it again, drifting. Jeeves sighed, quite close by, and the bed dipped, a rush of cool air circulating under the covers when he lifted them. His leg moved my knee to make room for him to settle in alongside me, not cuddling up, but definitely not flinching away either.
When I opened my eyes again I was alone, there was sunshine streaming through his curtains, and I had come off in my sleep.
❧
The day after I intruded in Jeeves's sacred domain, I was constantly alert for another opportunity to make free with his person. I even sidled into the kitchen while he was preparing dinner, but the upright figure of my valet made a quarter turn where he was standing at the stove, and cast a burning eye upon me.
I sidled directly back out. A line had been drawn — no fire, I assumed — and I found that entirely fair.
With one thing and another it was almost bedtime again by the time an opportunity arose. I shuffled in from the w.c. in shirtsleeves as he made ready to slip me into the old nightwear, when a sudden inspiration arose to throw him down on my bed. I slowed in my undressing, watching his face as he picked up the slack. I saw the exact moment he noticed I was getting hard.
I took a step into his space.
"Undress and get on the bed," I told him, but it came out in a tender half-whisper that had my ears and cheeks flushing up. My heart was banging around in its ribcage, as if trying to escape. There are moments where life doesn't seem quite real. I was in one as I watched Jeeves unbutton his waistcoat and shirt and hang them with his jacket in my own wardrobe. His underthings were just a little charmingly old-fashioned, when he had peeled down that far. The union suit, well, suited him — he looked like one of those desserts that comes in a paper wrapper.
I caught his face for a kiss when he finally climbed into my bed. His lovely shape and general appealingness distracted me for some time from my specific mission to make him put his uniform back on with my spend up inside him. I spent a while with my hands on his prick, stroking him, aimlessly feeling about, exploring various bits with fingertips and mouth, and enjoying the sensory feast. When I touched behind his plums I heard his breath flutter.
"You've been waiting for this," I teased him, though I wasn't ready for how eager and overcome he looked. I fished out the jar and got myself slippery. He took a finger easily, his head dropping back, and as I was testing the stretch with a second he pushed back onto my hand.
When I was sure he could take it, I arranged him on his front with his knees under him and myself behind, a convenient angle to get on top of and inside him all at once. The actual getting inside made me shake, the tightness and heat of him, feeling him open to me. It had been the better part of a decade since I'd tried something like this, and I didn't remember ever thinking before that it was something I couldn't live without, but I could see I was going to need a steady supply. Everything else got lost in how it felt, how his body gripped me and gave as I moved in him.
It was for him, but it was for me, but it was for him, he got so much pleasure from me pushing him, but I wanted him so much. I put my back into it, driving him down into the pillows. It had been some time since my rowing days too, but the exertion was not dissimilar. I heard him groan beneath me, and added some extra motion at the end of the thrusts, my hand grasping for him underneath.
Even with all I was doing to him, I was still surprised when he came off. His legs dropped us both down flat on the bed, his inner muscles squeezing me tightly. I brought my hand out from beneath him covered in his spend. After that I just concentrated on getting myself there, almost too aroused and sensitive to bear it.
"Please," I heard him say, "please, I need it."
I trembled, and kissed his back, and made such a mess inside of him.
It embarrasses me to record this, as many rude friends and relations have vouched for the Wooster intellect being only the stillest and smallest of puddles, but it gets dashed quiet in my head in these moments. Anxieties flee for the hills and even the music that plays in there most of the time gets dampened down. I've never been one to fool around with beazels, but even if I wanted to, I think I really couldn't, because my decision-making deserts me at the peak of pleasure and I'd probably get someone in trouble. Poor Jeeves looked as though he might be having a similar pleasure-afflicted moment, collapsed face-down in my pillows with no small amount of bodily fluid in and around him.
When I had extracted myself and could work the limbs again, I trundled to my washroom to do the things one must do after such ventures, and I expected my man to be queuing for the same right behind me, or tottering off to his bath and bed. My expectations were dashed; when I returned to slide into bed, Jeeves was still there, unbestirred — if that is in fact a dictionary word — and emitting gentle snores with his head nestled right between the two pillows on my bed. I felt thwarted in a way, as this meant he would be unlikely to put his uniform back on in this sullied state. I resolved to stop waiting for opportunities and impose them instead.
I bunged myself into the lemon silk pyjamas, fit my longish, narrowish shape around his more solid one, and turned off the lamp. I fell asleep planning. And holding him.
❧
Dallying with Jeeves right before bed, I was finding, made me even more wanting the next day. It was unaccountable, but apparently that was how it worked. I went all day with the jar in my pocket, silhouette be damned.
I seized the moment after lunch as he was handing me a postprandial b. and s. to say, "Jeeves, a word."
"Yes, sir?"
I cocked my head and looked up into his eyes. "Did you use my toy? That night."
He looked around, left and right and left again, as though preparing to cross a street. I could understand the impulse, although of course we were alone in the flat.
"I did, sir," he admitted.
"Wishing it were the real thing?"
"Such a fantasy would be unavoidable, sir, as it was borrowed from you."
I was verging on lightheaded, the blood abandoned my upper reaches so quickly. "Is the carpet clean to your satisfaction, Jeeves?"
"It is, sir." Lowering himself down to his knees with swiftness, he positively thumped the floor.
I grinned. "How was yesterday for you, old chap?"
"Possibly too enjoyable, sir."
"You'll have to brace yourself, I'm afraid, as it may yet improve with some practice." I was unfastening my trousers as I spoke, and when I slid down to join him on the floor, took down his as well. He looked rather pink in daylight from the windows, and went where I put him, bent over the seat of the sofa without complaint. I slicked us again and put my knees between his own, checked the climate with one finger, then held my prick to get into him. Quick and hard seemed right for the occasion.
"Don't spend on the floor, you'll just have to clean it up," I said, and for some reason he seemed to like that quite a bit, throbbing inside as he attempted to access his handkerchief. I gave him mine instead. "Can you bend down a little more?"
He could, and did, and the friction and feeling were better. I felt I could get a bit rough after that, pulling him against me with some abandon. I let him attend to his own prick but we seemed to coincide, and he said ah, and gah! and his head thumped down on the cushion around the same time I finished. I tried to slip out of him with an eye to leaving most of the stuff inside, although a bit trickled out anyway. I tugged his trousers up, tucking in his shirts neatly and buttoning the back of his suspenders for him.
"There you go," I said, with a pat, feeling accomplished.
"Thank you, sir." Jeeves dropped slowly down to sit on the floor, his hair tousled. He had a look that was nearly awed, which had me feeling absolutely wild to do it again. I must be hitting the spot, I mean to say.
"You wouldn't let anyone else do this to you, would you, Jeeves."
"Certainly not, sir."
I followed my impulse, since those had been serving me so well, and put my arms around him. "Good."
❦