Give Satisfaction

Bertie jerks away with a guilty jolt. This is as flustered as you have ever seen Jeeves—that is to say, not much, but almost nearly visible. He appears to have been in the middle of straightening up the wardrobe.

“I beg your pardon, sir, miss,” he murmurs as he swiftly sets aside his work and moves to oil out the door.

Bertie can only gape in silence, but you chirp brightly, “No problem, Jeeves! I say, would you please bring us a bottle of wine?”

He hesitates only a moment before replying, “Certainly, miss,” and departs.

You reach for Bertie again but his flusteredness is perfectly visible. “Oh, that was terribly embarrassing! How inappropriate we acted. I hope he wasn’t too offended.”

“Nonsense,” you say dismissively, “why would he be?”

“Why would he be?” Bertie repeats in disbelief. “You bally well are a remarkable girl.”

You pounce on him again and although he feels uncertain, he can’t seem to pull himself away. You introduce a nibble of his lip and he relents. You’re still at it when Jeeves returns. Bertie disengages again, though not as expeditiously as the first time. Jeeves pointedly avoids noticing what you were just doing.

“Thanks, Jeeves,” you say, still acting like nothing unusual is happening. The valet looks on disapprovingly as you take up the task of pouring the wine yourself. You pour out three glasses and hand one to him.

“That’s very kind of you, miss, but I must decline.”

“Oh, do go on!”

“I’m sorry, miss, it would not be proper to imbibe while on duty.”

“Get off duty, then.”

“No, miss.”

“Oh, all right,” you concede. Disapproval is radiating off him in waves. “Don’t let us keep you from your work, then.” You nod toward the wardrobe, prompting him to get back to straightening up.

You fancy that you can see the turmoil within him, torn between objecting to the improperness of remaining in the presence of a canoodling unmarried pair and not wanting to abandon his duties. Duty wins out, and he busies himself with the wardrobe.

You sit Bertie on the edge of his own bed with his wine and perch next to him with yours. He is now so uncomfortable it’s impossible to ignore. You chitchat with him softly, trying to relax him, finding excuses to touch his shoulder or knee. His eyes keep drifting over to the wardrobe. He must feel odd being intimate with someone else in front of his love.

You politely request that Jeeves fetch you an extra pillow and he biffs off again.

“Your man does a lot for you, doesn’t he?” you ask carefully.

“Oh yes, he’d do anything for me. Nearly anything, I suppose.”

“He seems terribly concerned with what is and isn’t proper, though.”

“Indeed, he is filled to the brim with the feudal spirit.”

“I bet that gets in the way sometimes.”

“What do you m…?” he begins slowly, but trails off as Jeeves re-enters, carrying a pillow.

“Much obliged, Jeeves. Could you please place it on the floor at Bertie’s feet?” you ask innocently. He complies without question.

You gather your courage, dismount from the bed, and kneel on the pillow facing Bertie. Your head is now level with his lap. You run your hands up and down his thighs. He is too stunned to object. You apply the remaining reserves of courage toward reaching up and undoing his trousers.

The tension in the room is palpable.

You manage to keep your voice neutral. “Jeeves, could you give me a hand with your master’s clothing?”

The turmoil is there, suffusing his demeanor, now closer to visible than ever. “…Miss?”

“If you’d be so kind.”

He makes up his mind. “Very good, miss.” He does as you requested quickly and clinically. The two men don’t make eye contact. You can hear each of their minds whirring frantically. “Stay close by in case I need you again, won’t you?”

“As you say, miss.”

Bertie’s trousers are open, revealing a glimpse of fabric underneath. You move in closer, pull up Bertie’s shirt slightly, and drape yourself upon his lap to kiss his firm stomach, following the trail of sparse hair from navel down toward the waistband. His ragged breathing catches when your mouth reaches the burgeoning harness beneath the remaining layer of material. You continue teasing, coaxing it to grow. You can’t actually see Jeeves standing off to the side, but you know he’s watching. After enough enticement, you pull Bertie’s now impressively stiff length out into view.

“Jeeves, would you please assist me with this?”

The last piece of your plan falls into place as he drops to his knees beside you and, wordlessly, obediently, takes Bertie into his mouth.

Bertie’s head falls back; he gasps. His hands, which had been gripping the edge of the bed tighter and tighter, release the sheets and curl instead around the back of Jeeves’s head.

You begin to whisper instructions, telling Jeeves how deep to go, how hard to suck, where to swirl his tongue. You use Bertie’s helpfully and delightfully vocal reactions to guide your directions. You tell him to use his hand, to speed up, to thrust further down his throat.

At first, you stay close; you get the feeling that you’re the excuse, the rationalization for this new behavior; this only makes sense with you, would all fall apart without you. You work as a team, adding your own spit to the wet mess Jeeves is creating. You lick at the bollocks while Jeeves works the shaft. At your command, he takes it all the way down, nose buried in the thatch of hair at the base, and you kiss his full, bulging throat. When he comes back up for air, you kiss his lips. He kisses back hungrily, showing that he is also a man capable of a variety of attractions. You grab his arse firmly and pull his hips to grind with yours. When he starts to miss Bertie’s taste, he twines a rough hand in your hair and pulls you away so he can dive back in and continue what he started.

Eventually, they get so swept up that you can back off and leave them to it. You get up and go lie on the bed, watching the dark head move in the live lap, listening to the groans rise in pitch and volume, the noises of slurping and suction and humming. You focus on the sights and sounds before you and let your hand, reaching under your own dress, take care of the feeling. Somewhere low between Bertie’s legs, Jeeves’s clever right hand must be doing something similar; you can’t quite see from this angle, but whatever it is makes him twitch and moan.

Losing control suits Bertie beautifully. He is shaking, overstimulated, insensate. He is captivating when debauched. As he approaches his peak, his hips roll, snapping into Jeeves’s mouth, and he alternates mumbling both of your names. He holds Jeeves’s head in place and gasps out his completion. He shudders and lays back, panting, his head landing in your lap. Your hand is still busy there and he shifts over to watch you with glazed eyes as he comes back down to earth.

Holding fast to Bertie’s hips, Jeeves has drunk him down with the expert proficiency he brings to the performance of all his duties.

Or has he? When Jeeves stands up, his mouth is carefully closed. He kisses you again but this time you taste a bitter viscosity. He lets it drip into your mouth. You’re shocked as much by his audacity as by the wave of arousal it gives you. You swallow and feel yourself blushing.

Ever considerate, he offers to attend to you next and starts to lift your dress. Instead, you affectionately wipe the corner of his mouth and tell him to lie back on the bed. You kiss Bertie once more to re-energize him and command him to return the favor he has just received.

“What about you, [Reader]?”

“I’m going to bed,” you say, reluctantly rising and straightening up your appearance in case you encounter anyone while sneaking back to your own room. They flatter you by making disappointed sounds. There is a lot more you want to say to them, do with them, and watch them do, so you really don’t want to leave. But you know that, at least this first time, you need to give them space to acknowledge what’s going on between them without having your presence as a pretext. You’ve helped them take the crucial first step; the rest is up to them. “We will definitely talk again soon,” you promise with a wink.

You’re looking forward to seeing what they think of your marriage-of-convenience plan. Something tells you to anticipate a positive reception. Knowing that it could possibly consist of more nights like this has redoubled your own enthusiasm for it.

“Well, if you must, old thing! Toodle-oo!”

“Thank you very much, miss. Good night.”