Let The Kinkiness Begin!

[cuddyclothes]

And we're off! Don't hold back! It's anonymous so let your freak flag fly! Not confident about your creative skills? Practice here!  The fills can be anything you want. Fics, videos, artwork and anything else that strikes your fancy. Prompts do not have to be Bertie and Jeeves only! All of the other characters are fair game (Honoria and Madeline tentacle sex, anybody?). As are characters from other books and stories. This meme might be slow to start, so please spread the word!

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Please warn for:
Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Major Character Death
Rape/Non-Con
Suicide
Attempted Suicide
Incest


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Comments

[(Anonymous)]

I know it's just a tag but " I say! What are you doing with that whangee" seems like a nice prompt to start :D I would prefer Jeeves/Bertie but go wild!

FILL: The Gentlemanly Art of Spanking

[(Anonymous)]

‘I say! What are you doing with that whangee?’

‘You shall knock on the table three times if you wish this to cease, sir. But you are not permitted to speak, unless it is to thank me for disciplining you –’

Oh, dash it. I have made the exact same floater that I’m always trying to avoid; you know, getting off the mark like a scalded ape, starting right in the middle of things, all that rot. It’s the snag I usually come up against when I'm trying to tell a story. If your public can't make out what you're talking about, it’ll just wave dismissively and walk right out on you.

In these cases, I usually feel that I have to hark back a bit. But here, for this particular story, weighing this against that, I suppose I shall make an exception. I mean to say, if a sentence like ‘I say! What are you doing with that whangee?’ doesn’t grip you and ignite your curiosity then quite frankly I don’t know what sort of reader you are.

Right ho, then. In this story young Bertram is bent over the kitchen table with his trousers and underthings pooling around his ankles, and he is looking up at Jeeves, and he is saying, ‘I say! What are you doing with that whangee?’

Jeeves is holding up said whangee, an utterly hungry expression on his handsome face. ‘You shall knock on the table three times if you wish this to cease, sir. But you are not permitted to speak, unless it is to thank me for disciplining you –’

I heard the sound of it carving the air, the misleadingly gentle whoosh, and for a second my whole body shook like a leaf. Then the pain came, stinging, white-hot. I cried out – it was not an entirely manly cry, I’m afraid to say – and held on to the table as if my life depended on it.

‘You have not behaved like a proper gentleman, sir,’ Jeeves said.

There was silence. I realised a moment too late that he was waiting for me to agree. A sharp pinch on my already sore backside made me jolt and nod feverishly. ‘I’m sorry, Jeeves!’

‘I am afraid I must punish you, sir. It is for your own good.’

‘Yes, Jeeves.’

‘You will thank me every time I strike you.’

‘Yes, Jeeves.’

He struck again. By Jove, what exquisite agony! It was with sincere gratitude that I cried, ‘Thank you, Jeeves!’ In fact, I wished he would hurt me more, grab me by the hair, hold me down and take me right then and there. But as I dare say you know, Jeeves is a patient man. He tapped the back of my thighs lightly with the cane, and I trembled, waiting for the next blow.

‘Spread your legs,’ he commanded.

I did as I was told. It was humiliating and wonderful, the cane against my bare buttocks, Jeeves standing behind me, tall and threatening, my thighs spread for him. He struck once more, and I thanked him again, although the pain made my eyes water.

He brought the cane down again and again, drawing burning lines across my backside. I thanked him as best I could, but a few blows in and I was a whimpering mess. I shuddered so strongly that Jeeves had to steady me with a hand on my hip. The touch made me moan. I ached for him. The evidence of my desire hung hard and heavy between my legs. I felt Jeeves shift behind me.
‘I see you are enjoying this, sir,’ he said. He reached around my waist and wrapped his hand around me. I nearly wept with pleasure.

‘Please, Jeeves, I –’

I heard the cane hit the floor, and before I could speak another word Jeeves had struck me with his palm. I felt my skin ripple with the force of it, and I knew then that he had been holding back with the cane, that those powerful blows were nothing compared to his true and full strength. The thought made me feel quite faint.

‘You will not beg, sir,’ Jeeves whispered in my ear, ‘you will take your punishment.’

‘Yes, Jeeves,’ I whined.

He stroked my hair tenderly, but it only lasted a moment. After that he pulled away from me and spanked me again. He did not use the whangee anymore – just his palm, landing mercilessly on the young master’s abused bottom. I loved every moment of it, and told him so repeatedly. My moans filled the room. Jeeves inflicted this marvellous punishment upon me until I feared I would come undone.

I believe it was then that he joined me on the very edge of pleasure, because he turned me over, pushed me onto my knees and whipped out his throbbing length. I took it in my mouth eagerly, stroking myself at the same time. It was not long before I felt his seed on my tongue, and swallowed it greedily. I reached my own climax only moments later.

At this point we were both looking quite dishevelled, panting and leaning against whatever we could (for Jeeves, the table – for the y. m, Jeeves’ thigh). I looked up at him.

‘Jeeves?’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘That whangee –’

‘I shall keep it in the bedroom at all times, sir.’

‘Thank you, Jeeves.’

[(Anonymous)]

Jeeves and Bertie first time. Only problem: Jeeves is insatiable. This can cause problems in their daily life or PWP or whatever.

FILL: Insatiable, Part One

[(Anonymous)]

“Jeeves, would you...kindly step away a bit?”
“Sir?” Jeeves remained where he was, impassive as is his wont. Except for his Rock of Gibraltar pressed firmly against my back whilst I sat at the piano. Not that I didn’t enjoy having his Rock of Gibraltar pressed firmly against my back, but I was dashed exhausted and—
Blast, I’ve done it again. Started in the middle and leaving my readers why Bertram’s valet was using his prick as a back-scratcher and Bertram too tired to appreciate what to many would seem a gift from the heavens above.
Jeeves and I had recently reached an understanding—a gentlemen’s agreement—a—oh, bother, we’d been making the beast with two backs for two weeks now. Ever since Jeeves noticed that my own stiff-stander was very stiff indeed while he was doing up my cufflinks. We had tumbled into bed, years of repression gone to merry hell as Jeeves tore my clothes off with an avidity that astonished and pleased me. Jeeves was large, pink, and quite well built, made for the Wooster hands to grasp and stroke and the Wooster mouth to lick, kiss and bite. His prick was the biggest I’d seen since my Oxford days. (We don’t need to go into that.) After several rounds of delightful rogering, we collapsed and slept.
Understand that I am a man in the prime of youth, with a virility few give me credit for. However, I was no match for Jeeves. From that first night, he was as a man possessed. Any hour not devoted to sexually gavotting with the young master was a waste of time, in Jeeves’s opinion (excepting, of course, his duties. But they were being performed at a pace that astonished). I could hardly keep up! The man recovered from an orgasm in five minutes flat! He couldn’t be tired out! I’d fall asleep only to find myself being nudged awake by another enormous erection.
Please understand that I was also subject to the constant fires of lust. Anyone would be if they found themselves with a delectably naked, eager Jeeves. So I would rise on the stepping stones of my dead self to higher things, which often meant buggering Jeeves again. The feel of my hard prick sliding into his hole, the sound of the slapping together of our bodies, the delicious smells and sounds, his muscular body under mine straining toward climax—well.
That first weekend we didn’t put our clothes on at all.
There was that first time on the kitchen table. I walked in to request a cup of tea. Almost instantly Jeeves pounced, laying me flat across the kitchen table. He unbuttoned my waistcoat and shirt, pulled down my vest and proceeded to suck my nipples! Helpless against this assault and instantly hard, I flung my legs around him. Jeeves pulled me into a sitting position and proceeded to grind against me, hair falling into his eyes, grunting in a primitive way that sent shivers through my shoulders. Our stiff-standers ground together through our wool trousers, a rough sensation that is hard to describe but that I heartily recommend. My own petit morte hit within moments, but Jeeves continued to frot against me for another ten minutes before his hit, so violently he almost pulled me off the bally table! Would you believe that I had no sooner cleaned myself and fixed my clothing when the maniac turned me around, pulled down my trousers and proceeded to bugger me? With nary an apology!
“Were you always such a beast, Jeeves?” I asked one night as he crawled into bed with me, his eyes glittering with desire.
“I would hardly describe myself as a beast, sir,” Jeeves replied, rolling me over onto my back and grasping my prick in a large hand.
“Then—maybe—ardent?” I gasped as his attentions took effect.
He looked vaguely offended. “I have had no cause for complain, sir,” he said. Then Jeeves proceeded to engulf my prick with his talented mouth, and I was willing to let the matter lie.

To Be Continued...

[(Anonymous)]

Clothing kink. Bertie has just picked up some new items and Jeeves really likes how they feel.

[(Anonymous)]

Have you read this? https://archiveofourown.org/works/728179

[(Anonymous)]

After one of Jeeves' schemes Bertie has wound up feeling under the weather. Not really sick, but run down. Jeeves tends to be carefully, and takes has temperature just to be sure he's alright.

[(Anonymous)]

This may interest you... https://wodehouse-kink-meme.dreamwidth.org/1327.html#BertieThermometer

[(Anonymous)]

Asphyxiation/breathplay.

Sweet Dreams

[(Anonymous)]

Let it never, ever be said that my man is not willing do whatever it takes to get a job done.

And yet, I would be just as remiss if I were to allow the impression to proliferate that yours truly isn't also known far and wide for his own unwavering persistence.

For example, late one evening recently, I was imbroglioed in an embroil — I think I've got that the right way round — of the type that all too often seems to be hell-bent on pursuing this Wooster to the ends of the earth. There's no time or need to get into all the nitty-gritty here; suffice it to say, a number of malicious actors were hot on my heels due to a misunderstanding that was utterly outside of my control and beyond the reasonable scope of my responsibilities.

Indisputably, the labyrinth-like corridors of Chokingham Abbey are beautifully designed and decorated, but I was traveling much too rapidly down them to fully appreciate the scenery. I swerved around a corner, tyres skidding, and parked at my destination: my chambers.

"Jeeves! Help! Please!" was all I managed to sputter.

He was waiting for me: he caught me by the shoulders and held me upright. I needed all the assistance I could get in this arena, for I was rather winded. In fact, I was panting so hard that I was a little light-headed. Perhaps I should consider introducing regular cardiovascular exercise into my routine if these sorts of high-jinks are going to keep cropping up in the old day-planner.

"I was almost caught stealing the donkey-shaped teapot, but I escaped before anyone saw me! Colonel Rippington is on the prowl though, and surely he suspects me. He and his entourage will be charging in here any minute now and I have no alibi!"

"I believe a solution presents itself, sir. If you were found in bed, deeply asleep, the Colonel would have no choice but to concede that you could not possibly have been anywhere near the antiques room mere moments ago."

"But Jeeves, I'm awful at feigning sleep! All he has to do is pinch me and I'll yelp and the whole souffle will collapse."

"That is why the unconsciousness must be real, sir."

"I suppose you're right. But I can't face being coshed on the crumpet yet again! I always awaken with a devil of a headache. Plus I can't imagine doing so supplements the long-term health of the old grey matter, which after all is in short supply to begin with."

"I have an idea that, while not without some degree of risk, should circumvent that issue, sir."

"You do, Jeeves? What unlimited reserves of grey matter you must have! What's this stratagem?"

Uncharacteristically, he hesitated. "Sir, do you trust me?"

"Of course!" I said with no corresponding hesitation to speak of.

"Then if you will please get in bed, sir, in order to set the scene."

I bunged myself between the sheets, grateful that I had attempted my reconnaissance mission in my pyjamas.

Jeeves had a look on his face that I had never seen before. I think it was...embarrassment? Was that possible? And why now?

This question was answered when he swung a well-dressed knee up onto my bed. Before I knew what was happening, the man was straddling my recumbent form.

I gaped at what was clearly a hallucination brought on by too many past biffs to the bean. "Please forgive the imposition, sir," he apologized.

Next thing I knew, his hands were closing around my neck. I was frozen in shock like ice on an electric fence; I raised not a finger to defend myself. Contributing to my immobility was his sturdy weight pinning me down to the bed. Immediately, I felt a pressure start to build in my cranium. It was not painful, only intense.

I was struck by the strength of his grip. He was not squeezing particularly hard, but his fingers felt like the iron bars of a tiny jail cell. A look of determination pervaded his countenance.

Because I do have my occasional bursts of insight, I was starting to get an idea of what his plan was. My windpipe wasn't constricted at all, however; he seemed to be attacking mainly from the side elevations. No sooner did I think, "The blighter's mucked it up, doesn't he realize I can still breathe?" than did I start to notice the edges of my vision going grey and fuzzy. I could breathe just fine but my consciousness was beginning to slip like a silk petticoat.

If I had had the luxury of expecting anything, I would have expected to feel a panicky, desperate sensation, like the survival instinct that kicks in when one is drowning. Or perhaps the kind of tum-wrenching that comes with getting the wind knocked out of one. But instead I just felt suffused with a wonderful feeling of peace, a calm sort of thrill. Or possibly a thrilling sort of calm.

Either way, a dashed pleasant sensation, to be sure. I felt loopy. Blood was rushing up to my face. Either I was already dreaming, or some of it was also rushing down to...

The last thing I saw was Jeeves' dark eyes boring into mine.

*

I woke up still feeling a little woozy and giddy, but besides that, rather spiffing.

A glance at the clock told me only ten minutes had elapsed. It was now past midnight. Jeeves rose from the chair next to the bed.

"Jeeves! Good Lord!"

"Sir, the plan worked. Colonel Rippington was completely convinced of your genuine unconsciousness, and thus, your innocence."

"Did he pinch me?"

"Yes, sir."

"And?"

"You remained nonresponsive, sir."

"Well, that is topping news! Thank you!" I hadn't woken up that morning expecting to end the day gushing with gratitude toward my manservent for suffocating the living daylights out of me, but I've found that life is sometimes unpredictable that way. "That, whatchacallit, assy-fixation wheeze was a real corker. How did you learn to do that?"

Jeeves paused for half a mo' before saying, "I gathered it from medical texts I have read, sir."

"So that was you putting theoretical knowledge into action for the first time?"

"...Indeed, sir."

"Bally incredible!" I hopped out of bed feeling, as I mentioned, a little dizzy, but besides that, unharmed. I happened to catch a glimpse of my face in the mirror and leaned close to the glass with a frown. "Say, has the Wooster dial always had all these little freckles?"

"No, sir. Those are what medical professionals term petechiae: minuscule marks indicating intradermal hemorrhage, that is, subcutaneous bleeding due to minor trauma."

"Good Lord, these patecky-whatsits are from the choking?"

"Strangulation, not choking, sir. Regrettably, yes. Fortunately they will fade completely within a few days at most."

"Oh. Quite."

I gazed again into the mirror. There was no bruising on my neck, but those tiny spots dotted my map, concentrated mainly around my eyes and temples. They weren't so unsightly, really. In fact, I actually had a measure of affection for the little chaps. They were a visual reminder of the narrow escape I'd made, a subtle souvenir of Jeeves's ingenuity. Even after I could no longer feel his hands around my neck, my skin still retained some memory.

I had a hunch that long after the spots were gone, I would still remember.

"So, er, old thing. Could you, that is, do you think you might, well — you see, would you possibly teach, well not teach, as such, I mean to say — just in case I ever need to?"

"I would be happy to pass on this technique if you would like, sir." For a question that had been torturous to ask, it appeared remarkably easy to answer.

"Rather!"

And then he was lying in bed.

Jeeves. In my bed. What a night for the anthologies this was turning out to be!

I clambered on top of him just as he had done me. I was feeling rather embarrassed myself, especially when I settled myself upon his hips and remembered what I thought I felt just before going under.

But Jeeves was professional as always. "Simply grasp around my neck with both hands, sir, and squeeze. The objective is to compress the carotid arteries and/or jugular veins on the sides of the neck without injury to the trachea. This serves to restrict blood reaching the brain rather than to cut off the airway, a manoeuvre which brings about the intended result in a much more expeditious and safe manner. Once syncope has been achieved, simply let go, sir."

"Right-o!" I settled my hands upon his throat tentatively.

"You must grasp harder, sir."

"Harder?" I squeaked.

"Much harder, sir... Harder still... It does not need to be very hard. But harder than that, sir..."

I knew I was barely squeezing at all, but it was near impossible to force myself to do something that ran so contrary to my instincts for Jeeves-preservation. As I stated at the beginning of this story, however, the mark of a Wooster is that he sees a thing through to the end, no matter how insurmountable the challenge.

"Now you're getting there, sir. Just a bit harder... You will not hurt me, sir. Harder. Hahhh..."

Why did he end the sentence so ungrammatically, you ask? I let the dreamy expression that settled upon his face answer that question.

Watching my man drift away beneath me aroused a multitude of different reactions at once. It was terrifying but also exhilarating. I could feel his pulse thumping away. I sometimes doubted that the man was flesh and blood, but the warm skin beneath my fingertips proved beyond all reasonable doubt that he was indeed human. Knowing that he trusted me to do this made me feel strangely honoured. And knowing the man's life was quite literally in my hands felt dashed powerful. A spark of aggression flared in the young master, who was previously thought to be properly domesticated.

As my man faded out, I noticed that he was experiencing the same reallocation of blood that I had felt, and I don't mean only in his face. That said, there I was, too, feeling it again, even though my arteries gave me no good excuse this time. Due to our positions, the stirrings were contiguous, and I think one had prompted the other, but I could not say which had started it. It was a chicken-and-egg sort of problem.

His eyes fluttered shut. I let go. I studied his inert form. He continued to breathe but was obviously out cold. It truly seemed as if he had just nipped off for a nap, albeit very abruptly.

I found myself grappling internally with a most unseemly urge. It may not have been at all preux, but I knew this opportunity would never again present itself. As soon as I realized this was (most likely) my one and only chance, the wild impulse overtook me. Before I could stop myself, I leaned down and pressed my lips to his. My eyes fluttered shut, just like his had, and I dreamed a sweet dream, just like he was.

[(Anonymous)]

Fairytale AU! Prince!Bertie is now a over-friendly cat having been transformed by a witch (Aunt Agatha ? ) he befriends knight Jeeves who ultimately after some shenanigans helps him transform back, they lived happily ever after the end.

Feline Frolics – A Bertie & Jeeves Fairy-tale PART ONE

[(Anonymous)]

Rating: Teen (just to be sure)
Tags: Fairy tale fare, animal transformation, Damsel in Distress!Bertie, Knight!Jeeves, Adventure, Quest
Words: circa 1,552
A/N: My first J&W fic! I hope you like the start of this fill Anon =^_^=

☆☆☆


Once Upon A Time a dashing Prince was enjoying a cuppa when his blasted Aunt blew in a blustering gale of rage.

Said Aunt was none other than my wicked witch Aunt Agatha. Now, don't think I am throwing about insults or unjust accusations. Aunt Agatha is really a witch and a bad one at that - no granting of three wishes or brewing healing potions! Oh no, A.A. was a true capital letters witch of the order: Wicked Witch of Weeping Willows.

Normally she lurked in her domain among her cavern of Willow trees, all gloomy and weeping; I should imagine from having my Aunt living under their branches.

Unfortunately, this morning, the Wicked Witch of the W.W, descended upon her innocent nephew as he relished a proper brew of tea.

I heard her spluttering about marriage even as she approached in a forceful gale of luminescent green smoke, (jolly impressive and terrifying I must admit), I did what any besieged nephew would do: I fled.

Alas, A.A. glimpsed my rather perfect purple shoes as I darted away, tea spilling as I went. Even angrier my Aunt actually transformed me into a cat!

I say, surely an overreaction, right?

Have you ever been turned into a feline? Well, it’s painful I must say - wouldn't recommend.

My bones cracked, my body shrank then elongated, a hot burning itch tickled its path up my spine as abruptly I gained flexibility in only the way a cat could possess. The sprouting of ginger fur made me yelp. At least it was a pleasant tickling feeling.

This was followed by the most dreadful sensation at the base of my spine, similar to the time where one of my woollen tunics scratched me most awfully, leaving a raw painful rash for days.

I twisted around to see what the fuss was and lo and behold a tail! Quite a fetching one in my mind.

It was all over in a jiffy and yours truly was now a domesticated cat, (or as domesticated as any cat can be).

Standing tall and rather frightening what with the violet hue to her eyes and the terrible grim reminiscent of a hungry werewolf, the Wicked Witch of the W.W. cackled. A bit stereotypical if you ask me, but even I was wise enough not to say that thought aloud.

“Now Bertie you shall remain so until I find you a suitable wife!”

Her triumphant grin accompanied by another cackle was intimidating and awfully ominous. Let it not be said that one fine feline prince was stupid, (or overly so at any rate), so I utilised some fancy feline footwork.

In a jiffy I sprang past her and landed magnificently on the window ledge of the window overlooking the front garden. Squeezing my way through the gap I landed with a slight merowl on the perfectly manicured grass. Seems like this cat thing was hit and miss, but I was determined to do better - once I was clear of wicked aunts and even more worryingly, prospective brides.

Without further ado I sped off relishing the speed. Aunt Agatha’s screeches were quite abrasive to my newly sensitive hearing, but fortunately after a while they faded to nothing as I entered the nearby forest.

Once beyond two gigantic oaks, very handsome and regal in their appearance, I paused. My triangular ears twitched, but picked up no tell-tale noise of angry witches, either stomping after errant nephews or popping into reality nearby. My delicate nose sniffed the air and no scent of smoke - the smoke of too many hideous experiments gone wrong - marred by nostrils. My paws could feel no vibration from the footfall of the Wicked Witch of the Weeping Willows so I finally relaxed.

Gazing about I saw that I had come deeper into the forest than I realised. The trees were all tall and ancient, the wonderful scent of green foliage and the lives of many animals wafted to my nose. Due to some sort of kitty memory I knew what they meant, which was rather wonderful. Mice and rats scampering amid the trees while birds flapped through the trees.

Foxes and wolves - oh I say, I best move on!

So I padded on, cheerful that my whiskers were able to dictate which gaps I could pass through. The sun cast a dappled light down here, the green and silver leaves like a fisherman’s net through which the sunlight had to pass.

I had fun glancing back at my tail as I padded along for it was ginger and white and fluffy. It flicked in surprise when I envisioned a brilliant blue bird calling to a beautiful emerald lady species. It went straight up and bristling when I smelled a wolf close. At that point you can safe to deduce I clambered up a tree faster than I believed possible and without thinking.

Exhilarating if scary.

Once the tall grey wolf strolled by, clever eyes considering all sorts of philosophical matters I should guess, I somehow got down with a bump.

Embarrassed I licked my fur and put on a big show of Not Caring a Jot, for whatever audience I might have in this terribly occupied forest.

As I was ordering my tail - removing a particularly friendly leaf - I heard the step of a horse and man. More, the distinct taint of steel. A Knight! Hopeful, I crouched and waited.

Can I tell you that I always thought those tales of Love at First Sight were rubbish? Well, I was wrong. Into my world stepped a most magnificent fellow. Tall and regal this Knight led his white charger as they walked through the sylvan gloom.

I flexed my claws and inhaled. Ah, his scent was masculine and earthy, the sweet bloom of flowers gracing him. This Knight clearly cared for his body. His helmet was off and attached to the saddle. His dark hair was swept back and groomed, while his face was clean-shaven with an aristocratic nose.

Yet most of all he was one of those bally folks you can literally smell and see kindness rolling off them. Here was a K. who just promised he was a good chap. So, while I was enjoying my stint as a cat, I decided to try my luck and see if this Sir Kind Knight would help a stray kitty.

Rising I meowed loudly and trotted over. Sir Kind K. halted and smiled, his dark eyes brimming with warmth.

“What have we here?”

I meowed and rubbed against his legs though the metal greaves weren’t the most comfortable.

Mr Knight removed his gloves and crouched to pet me. His large warm hands were gentle and affectionate, his voice full of tenderness.

“Sir Cat, may I ask where you have travelled from? Such a delicate feline ought not be wandering by themselves in this perilous forest.”

Arching my back under those miraculous hands I paused to gaze into those dark eyes full of curiosity.

“Well, my Aunt Agatha - a frightful woman Sir Knight - transformed me into a cat! She’s the Wicked Witch of Weeping Willows and feels her nephew - and nephews in general - should be married. I say, dreadful right?”

Astonishment flickered on the Knight’s face, but then he spoke calmly. “I have heard many tales of this Witch and indeed Sir Cat, I have faced her twisted minions.”

He scrutinised me carefully. “I see you bear her mark.” A careful finger touched my forehead.

“A patch of brown fur resembling a willow Sir Cat,” he explained. “Since that is the case Sir Cat I am beholden to help you. Come, we must undertake a journey to find a cure and face your Aunt.”

Face old A.A. the Wicked Witch of W.W? That made the old belly flop, but I meowed as bravely as I could, with only a slight tremble. I was happy however when Sir Knight lifted me up and onto his horse. He fashioned a little holdall for me from red blankets and there I curled up, still viewing the world.

“Sir Cat, what is your name if I may inquire? I am Sir Jeeves of Kindly Knots - a land devoted to rope and net making as well as the weaving of garments in general.”

I best not mention I was a prince quite yet. Didn’t want the chap not to fall in love, because of rank. (If I was lucky enough to snare him!). “Bertie will do, Sir Jeeves of Kindly Knots. A noble of some standing. I am grateful for your assistance and hope to celebrate our union after all this.”

I yelped at the realisation at what I said, though apart from a trembling of lips and a lifted brow the Knight was kind enough not to comment on my faux pas. Instead he recommenced his journey, now with one feline and former human in tow. I focused on settling down in my fortress, grateful the kindly knight had lived up to my wishes.

I must brag that I certainly chose the right chap!

☆☆☆

[(Anonymous)]

Bertie buys a nice cologne, but it just doesn’t smell that great on him. He’s disappointed but doesn’t want it to go to waste, so he gives it to Jeeves. It smells amazing on Jeeves, though—so amazing that Bertie keeps finding excuses to get close to him.

FILL: Eau de Lust Part One

[(Anonymous)]

I had admired Bingo’s new cologne. It was called something like Mouchoo de Monsieur. I’m not much of a man for colognes, but let it not be said that I am not adventurous. It did smell quite nice. So I toodled along to the Piccadilly Arcade and purchased a bottle. It really did smell quite nice.
But it didn’t smell quite nice on young Bertram. I’d slapped it on as part of my morning toilette. “I say, Jeeves,” I said from the bathroom, “this new scent of mine smells rather like damp cardboard. Come here and smell it, won’t you?”
Jeeves oiled in and sniffed the bottle. “It is most pleasant fragrance, sir. The base notes are civet, musk, iris and vanilla bean. The top notes are geranium, bergamot, lavender—“
“Yes, yes, yes. It has a lot of ingredients. Why don’t you take it, Jeeves? We don’t want it to go to waste.”
Jeeves inclined his head. “Thank you, sir.”
It was while he was serving me breakfast that I first noticed it. “I say, Jeeves, what is that wonderful smell?” My face was tingling. Suddenly I had no appetite. Not for food, anyway.
“It is the new cologne, sir,” Jeeves said as he poured my tea. “It is indeed pleasing.”
“I’ll say it is!” I blurted. “It smells ever so much better on you! I mean to say, it—“ With a start, I realized that I was blathering. I also wanted to bury my face in his neck. He was so tantalizingly close.
“Thank you, sir.”
When Jeeves left the dining room, I sat back and took deep breaths. On me: damp cardboard. On Jeeves: heaven. And something else. Jeeves without his shirt on. Jeeves naked. Jeeves lying beneath me, gasping with ecstasy—
“Stop it, Bertram!” I admonished myself. But I felt strangely compelled to follow Jeeves into the kitchen. He stood at the sink, scouring a skillet.

[(Anonymous)]

Bertie discovers that Jeeves has a secret lover. In the flat, out of the flat, wherever. It doesn't have to be love, but it has to be sex.

[(Anonymous)]

Public nudity. Wherever, whenever!

FILL: Another Wonderful Idea | Part One

[(Anonymous)]

‘Jeeves,’ I moaned, ‘there's someone in the bushes.’
‘Mister Little and Lord Chuffnell, if I am not mistaken, sir.’
‘Good lord!’ I cried, although the exclamation had more to do with the way Jeeves was coming and going between my thighs than with this newly acquired knowledge. ‘And should we… let them… watch?’
‘Yes,’ he whispered into my ear, ‘let them know that… you are mine…’

No, no, no – wait a minute. I've gone off the rails. I never know where to begin these dashed stories. Oh, well. It doesn’t really matter. I don’t think you’re here for the narrative, what? You want – as much as I do – to get to the heart of the matter. But I shall make a brief report nonetheless.

It was a cracking day; early spring, flowers in bloom, birds chirping and all that. We were spending the week at Chuffnell Hall, and young Bingo had been invited as well. I was having a spiffing good time – spending my days with the chaps and my nights in bed with Jeeves. And on this particularly cracking day, Jeeves had thought it amusing to tease the young master with his shapely thighs and perfect derriere.

Well, I say “tease”, but in all honesty the man isn’t to blame. No, it was those dashed trousers, clinging to him in such outrageous ways. Stripped of my senses, I followed him into the garden and kissed him against the greenhouse wall. He responded with the same enthusiasm, and before long I was shoved against the wall myself, wearing nothing but my shirt while the rest lay in a heap on the ground. Jeeves grabbed me by the waist and lifted me up, his trousers and smalls pooling around his ankles. I wrapped my legs around him.

Only a few hours earlier, we had indulged in, er, you know, certain activities which had left me quite prepared for what came next. You will forgive me for restating what I've said so many times before, but Jeeves is a wonder. An expert in everything he does – and this was no exception.
He held me against the wall and started slowly, with languid but precise movements that made young Bertram whimper with pleasure.

[(Anonymous)]

One of them has erection problems when something (not sexual) happens. The stranger the better. Foghorns, taxicab horns, jingling keys, McIntosh, whatever the writer wants to do.

[(Anonymous)]

Jealous!Bertie. Someone in Bertie's entourage is making inappropriate advances at Jeeves. Bertie finds out, gets very jealous, and then stuff happens ;) Kudos if it's pre-relationship!

[(Anonymous)]

Jeeves in wet clothes and Bertie gets turned on by that sight

FILL: Wet Clothes | Part 1

[(Anonymous)]

I’m not entirely certain of my facts, but I do believe it was a poet – or maybe a sculptor, or a professor of something or other, or perhaps a priest – who said that something good is always to be extracted from even the most distressing situations. I have discovered this to be true in the aftermath of a particularly embarrassing incident.

It was early summer and I was leaving London to spend a few days in the country with Jeeves. He drove, I sang, and after ten minutes of this he spoke of the merits of silence – to which I said ‘pish-tosh, I will sing another jolly tune until we arrive’. He heaved a mighty sigh and said, ‘very good, sir’.

Upon arriving I immediately pestered Jeeves into accompanying me on a walk by the river. He followed me on the unique condition that I should cease my singing and stick to ordinary conversation. I frowned and pouted and wagged my finger at him, but he was unyielding. So, naturally, I gave in. Jeeves’ company is worth a hundred songs.

We walked by the river, discussing this and that, until something very odd happened. I was telling Jeeves what rummy things clouds are, in the hope that he might explain them to me, and then suddenly all I knew was that the world was very cold and very wet. Jeeves later explained that I had been standing too close to the bally riverbank and that the bally earth had quite ruthlessly disappeared beneath my bally feet, melting into the water and taking me with it.

Now usually, a Wooster is quite the resistant chap, but this brutal cunning of nature, combined with the element of surprise, left me feeling powerless. This side of the river was deep. Panic and cold water seeped into me for a minute and I cried out in not an entirely manly voice.

Within seconds, however, two strong arms were wrapped around my chest and I was pulled out of the water and pushed up onto dry land.

The sun warmed me in mere seconds. I took a steadying breath and tried to shake the embarrassment away. There was no need for anyone to think that I had fallen into the river by accident. I was ready to turn around and say something along the lines of ‘ah, quite the enjoyable swim, what?’ but the words froze on my lips.

[(Anonymous)]

Believed to be beta Bertie discover he is an omega when he suddenly goes into heat his alpha lover Jeeves thankfully is more than happy to help him with the transition (and his first heat)

[(Anonymous)]

Bertie received a nice exotic plant as a gift what he doesn't know is that it shift into a tentacle monster at night and feeds off orgasms. bonus if Jeeves somehow marches on the scene and get caught too . double bonus if they bond over this and become a couple.

[(Anonymous)]

Jeeves having the ambition of fucking Bertie at least once in every room of the flat and working hard towards accomplishing that goal.

[(Anonymous)]

Jeeves/Bertie kiss chicken

[(Anonymous)]

What does this mean? Kissing a chicken?

[(Anonymous)]

sweaty!Jeeves

[(Anonymous)]

I've been thinking all day of what would be the best reason for Jeeves to be sweaty. It's been a good way to spend the day. Still haven't decided though.

[(Anonymous)]

Jeeves wearing black leather gloves, solo

[(Anonymous)]

This interests me strangely even though I'm not quite sure what it means. Any more details?

[(Anonymous)]

stalkerish!Bertie
Bertie has a dark secret. He likes secretly watching Jeeves in his room doing his morning routine. Bertie feels bad about it but it has become an addiction. He finally decides the only way out is confessing to Jeeves no matter what consequences.

[(Anonymous)]

It's been a frustrating few days, they've had no privacy so as soon as the last friend/aunt/annoyance is gone Jeeves has is way with Bertie and fuck him none too gently against the piano (they're both into it)

FILL: Against the Piano!

[(Anonymous)]

Those who know me will tell you without a moment’s hesitation that Bertram Wooster always receives guests, friends, cousins and aunts with open arms. It is a duty and a pleasure. Well, at least that’s what I thought before this unfortunate episode.

The truth is that sometimes guests, friends, cousins and aunts can be a bally nuisance. Imagine it was one of those topping mornings, and you had just climbed out from under the shower, and from the kitchen came the sounds and smells of breakfast. Imagine your valet – the most handsome chap you’d ever laid eyes upon – knocking at the bathroom door, and you opening it with a hearty ‘what ho, Jeeves!’

But then imagine the shock of hearing your valet – the most h. c. you’d ever laid eyes upon – cough uncomfortably and say, ‘Mister Fotheringay-Phipps wishes to see you, sir.’

‘Old Barmy?’ I said.

‘Yes, sir. He is waiting in the sitting-room.’

‘But it’s barely ten o'clock!’

‘I’m afraid Mister Fotheringay-Phipps was most insistent, sir.’

‘But – but, before breakfast?’

Jeeves sighed. There was nothing to be done about it, then.

You see, this was a short time after Jeeves had made me the happiest man alive. It happened one night in – oh, it's a long story, and I haven't time to tell you now, but the point is that we were a pair of lovebirds. In the privacy of our rooms we were like a couple of those Greek chappies. We spent a few hours alone together, every morning after breakfast and every evening after dinner, and those hours were the best of the day.

So you understand that this ill-timed intrusion was annoying, to say the least. I felt jolly well oppressed, to be kept away from my Jeeves by Barmy Fotheringay-Phipps at such an early hour.

‘Not much we can do about it, is there?’

‘I fear not, sir.’

‘Well then, Jeeves. This will be a trial of patience, what?’

I said it with a smile, trying to make light of the sitch. Had I known that after Barmy – who came begging Jeeves to solve a problem he had with his uncle – had I known that after he left there would be three more unwanted guests, I wouldn’t have been so willing to smile.

After Barmy came Tuppy, and after Tuppy my cousin Angela – they’d been quarrelling as usual. By late-afternoon we thought we’d earned our peace, and with eager fingers I reached to unbutton Jeeves’ shirt. But another tap at the door made us both start: it was my aunt Dahlia, and she proclaimed that she would be staying with us for a few days.

Everyone knows that an aunt’s will is a destructive force of nature. You do not fight it, you simply hope it will spare you and wait for it to pass.

The next few days were absolutely ghastly. I spent them sulking in a chair at the Drones, or sulking in a chair at home, or sulking while Jeeves bent over the table to serve us tea, my eyes watering at the injustice of it all.

The moment Jeeves closed the door behind Aunt Dahlia I sighed with relief. I opened my mouth to speak – ‘a trial of patience indeed!’ – but I was silenced by Jeeves’ lips against mine. I melted into the kiss, bringing my hands up to run them through my man’s hair. He steered me backwards, kissing me deeply, until my back collided with the piano and I brought my hands down on the keys, producing delicious sounds of discord. Jeeves’ hands were between my thighs, fondling me through my trousers. He captured my lower lip between his and pulled on it.

I was already aching, throbbing and stiff with desire. Jeeves was usually a gentle lover – he liked to take his time, and often asked me what gave me the most pleasure. But today he was impatient and forceful, handling my body like I was his property. The thought nearly drove me mad with lust.

He stripped me of my clothes, fast and eager, then he flipped me over so that I was facing the piano. My heart pounded in my chest. He had never been this rough with me before. I loved it.

He nudged my legs apart with his knee and bent me over the piano. I heard him undoing the buttons on his trousers and I shivered in anticipation. He spat in his hand and brought it between my thighs, moving his fingers slowly inside me. I gasped, trembling at his harshness, at the strength with which he gripped my hip.

‘It was agony to wait,’ he whispered as he drove his fingers in and out of me, ‘Agony – not being able to touch you...’

I spread my legs further apart for him, pushing back against his fingers with a wanton moan. Good lord, I wanted more. He must have deemed me ready, because he removed his fingers and I heard him preparing himself. I clutched the edge of the piano.

I gasped as he gave the first thrust. He was usually so patient, so careful – this was the exact opposite. I closed my eyes against the pain. I knew that he would stop if I showed the slightest sign of serious discomfort, but I was enjoying this. I wanted him to be careless and rough. With a second, more powerful thrust, he was buried inside me, and we both moaned.

He gave me less than a second to adjust, and then he started slamming into me, his fingers digging into my hips. I cried out in pain and pleasure. He slid one hand up my back and into my hair, and he pulled my head up, the slight change in position bringing him deeper inside me.

‘So tight…’ he groaned.

The piano was shaking with the force of his thrusts. I could feel every inch of him, large, throbbing, owning me with each mighty lurch. I moaned his name – this seemed to excite him even more; without warning, he struck my buttock with his palm. The sweet pain sent a new wave of pleasure coursing through me. He brought his hand down again, and I moaned louder.

Pinned against the piano, I was powerless. He could do whatever he pleased with me.

Still pounding into me, he reached around my waist, took me in his hand and began stroking me. I whimpered, pleasure taking over my body, and I knew that I wouldn’t last much longer. He shifted only slightly, but it was the perfect position: I felt him against that spot, once, twice, too much; I was so close, ‘oh Jeeves please don’t stop’…

I reached my climax and he followed only seconds later. We slid to the floor and lay there panting, limbs tangled, hearts racing. I was drifting off to sleep when he kissed my forehead lovingly.

‘I hope I was not too harsh?’ he asked, concern painting his voice.

‘No, you were perfect,’ I smiled at him.

He ran his fingers lazily through my hair. ‘Did you enjoy it?’

‘Rather,’ I laughed, gesturing towards the piano, coated with my seed.

‘Then perhaps it is an activity worth revisiting?’

‘Absolutely.’

He wrapped his arms around me with a tenderness I cannot describe, and in this sweet contentment we were blind to the world, seeing only each other and our perfect, perfect happiness.

[(Anonymous)]

cut!Bertie, uncut!Jeeves

[(Anonymous)]

Jeeves/Bertie: bladder desperation
Sorry, but these two are such a perfect pairing for this kink either way around.
No wetting, just one of them growing more and more desperate to go but circumstances don't allow it for some time. And the other one, to his shock is terribly aroused by it but does his best to encourage the sufferer to stay calm and hold out. A successful relief without accident in the end. The other one may watch.

FILL: In Lord Tinklewee’s Closet

[(Anonymous)]

We were well concealed inside Lord Tinklewee’s enormous wardrobe – I felt certain that we were in no danger of being detected. The man himself had at present completed his evening ablutions, shoved cotton into his ears and sat in bed reading a book. Mr. Wooster watched him through the slit of the wardrobe doors. He then turned to me with a sigh.

‘I suppose we’re stuck here,’ he whispered.

‘It would appear so, sir,’ I replied.

‘Why did I ever let Stiffy drag me into this rummy business?’ he complained, ‘‘No, Stiffy old girl, you shall have to steal your own bally pince-nez,’ is what I should have told her.’

‘Indeed sir.’

There was a moment of silence. Mr. Wooster slumped against the back of the wardrobe.

‘There’s nothing to do but wait now, what?’

‘I’m afraid so, sir.’

We waited quietly. Lord Tinklewee continued reading – I counted the pages by the sound of him turning them. Beside me, Mr. Wooster had started tapping his left leg against the wood. At first I thought nothing of it, knowing he had a tendency to fidget. But as the minutes passed, his unfortunate twitching increased, and I feared the worse.

‘Er, Jeeves,’ he said, scratching his neck, ‘do you have an inkling of how long we might be in here?’

I pursed my lips. ‘When we first arrived I had the chance to meet Perkins, the butler. He intimated that his Lord’s reading habits are something of a legend amongst the staff.’

‘A legend?’

‘Yes, sir. On one occasion, Lord Tinklewee is said to have sat reading for an entire night and half a day, barely stopping for food and water.’

Mr. Wooster went pale. I watched the bob of his Adam’s apple in his throat as he swallowed fearfully.

‘I see. Well, let’s hope the old man falls asleep before dawn then,’ he laughed nervously.

After that, the fidgeting intensified. He tapped his feet frantically against the wardrobe, then against each other. I coughed.

‘Yes, Jeeves?’

‘If you will forgive the indiscretion, sir, and allow me to ask; are you claustrophobic?’

‘Claustro-whatnow?’

‘Are you afraid of enclosed or narrow places, sir?’

‘Oh. No, not really, I don’t think. Are you?’

‘No, sir.’

Only a moment of stillness, then Mr. Wooster was bouncing on his toes. I raised my eyebrows at him.

‘Oh, dash it, Jeeves,’ he said, ‘I really must – I mean to say – I find myself in a rather, er, awkward situation.’

‘Sir?’

‘It’s embarrassing but – well, nature is calling, if you know what I mean, and I don’t think I can put off answering much longer.’

Despite the darkness, I could see his face, the way he bit his lower lip, the tension in his shoulders. I allowed myself to stare. He was very attractive in his distress. Something in me stirred – as it always did whenever we were this close – and then something more. Trapped in the wardrobe, our arms were touching. His eyebrows were drawn together in a frown, his pink tongue darting out to lick the corner of his lips…

I looked away. Shame painted my cheeks red, and I hoped he would not notice.

‘Most distressing, sir,’ I said quietly.

Mr. Wooster nodded slowly. I noticed his fingers clutching the front of his trousers. I felt suddenly very warm beneath my collar. He was taking slow, deep breaths, his eyelids trembling over a flustered gaze. The thought of him struggling to retain control was, for some reason, exceptionally arousing.

‘Good lord, this is agony,’ he whined.

At his words, passion flickered in my loins. I recoiled from my own depravity. He was troubled, and I was deriving cruel pleasure from it. I leaned my shoulder against his slightly, hoping it would be a small comfort.

‘Lord Tinklewee must be weary from the day’s exertions: you will recall, sir, that he took a brisk walk down to the village this afternoon,’ I offered.

‘Yes, you’re right, Jeeves. He’ll fall asleep any minute now,’ Mr. Wooster looked at me, a spark of gratitude in his eyes. I lowered my gaze to the floor, guilt wrapping itself around my chest, but I burned for him nonetheless. His thigh was twitching, almost touching mine. I could feel the warmth his body emitted.

We stood there silently, waiting. From time to time he bit his lip or moved his hips, and I could not stop my heart from pounding. I discreetly lowered my arm to cover the evidence of my desire – an unseemly bulge in my trousers that had formed, it seemed, almost against my will.

But my torment was far from reaching its end. Slipping his pretty fingers into his hair, Mr. Wooster closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the wardrobe, revealing his soft, pale throat. I could not look away; I was entranced by the arch of his neck, the curve of his eyebrows as he raised them beseechingly, as if begging… as if pleading…

My trousers had become painfully tight. I watched him shudder, watched his stomach and thighs quiver. Suddenly, a vision filled my mind: I saw myself standing in front of him, my lips teasing his neck, my palm pressed against his lower abdomen as he begged, ‘Please, Jeeves, I can’t…’

As if in answer to my wicked thoughts, Mr. Wooster bucked his hips and whimpered. I thought I would go mad with lust.

‘Oh Jeeves,’ he moaned, ‘I’m not sure I can bear this anymore.’

Neither am I, I wanted to answer. But I steadied myself against the side of the wardrobe, gathered my composure and said, ‘It should not be long now, sir.’

Mercifully, I was correct. Lord Tinklewee placed his book on the bedside table and turned off the lights. With a shuddering breath, Mr. Wooster opened the wardrobe door and we stepped out.

‘The window, sir,’ I whispered. I knew that Lord Tinklewee always slept with the key to his bedroom door hidden under his pillow.

We climbed down the window, both of us swaying on our feet. Once in the gardens, Mr. Wooster wasted no time – he did not even turn away from me. I watched his handsome profile as he undid his trousers. I heard the steady stream of his release. He heaved a sigh of relief, throwing his head back, a contented smile on his lips.

It was that image of him that remained with me late at night, in the privacy of my rooms.

[(Anonymous)]

Non-sexual ageplay/age regression: Bertie is a Little and Jeeves is his caregiver. Could be written as a Classification/BDSM AU or as something both men decide to explore at one point. Author's choice :)

[(Anonymous)]

Bertie likes the feeling of Jeeves's cum inside him, Jeeves decides as an experiment, to fill Bertie up with his cum and then plug him for the afternoon.

[(Anonymous)]

Jeeves/Bertie, Jeeves POV, fully clothed frot against the wall, Bertie active and Jeeves has to hold still and be quiet but Jeeves is so into it.

FILL: Adventures In The Potting Shed

[(Anonymous)]

It certainly wasn’t my intention to be frantically rubbing against Jeeves in the potting shed. And it wasn’t my intention to be frantically rubbing against Jeeves in the potting shed when we could hear the gardeners talking about the need to wear the azaleas on the other side of the wall.
What can I say? Since my manservant and I began our carnal relationship, I have been a bit...eager, shall we say. I never know when I’ll need to engage in an act with Jeeves. It had simply been too much for me this afternoon, watching Jeeves serve tea in the library in his impeccable uniform, white gloved mitts passing tea and biscuits to assembled family members. So when that afternoon he stopped outside for a cigarette, I pounced and dragged him off to the potting shed. This Wooster should be ashamed of himself, but when the need hits, well, shame takes a holiday.
It’s not as if Jeeves objected—not to the act itself, but to the suitability of performing it in the potting shed within earshot of some hearty working class types. He stood, not moving. But his blue eyes rolled up to the ceiling.
“Reg,” I gasped, feeling the bulge in his trousers against the bulge in my trousers. “Reg, I couldn’t stand it—watching you—“
“Sir,” he whispered, “Do lower your—voice—oh—“
“There’s something about the way you say, ‘would you like cake madam?’ that sets me on fire. Jeeves, Jeeves, Jeeves, you gorgeous man, you amazing man, oh god, oh dear me--”
“Bertie, please.” He put his strong hand over my mouth, stifling my most ungentlemanly grunts and gasps. This only made it worse. I wanted to scream!
I felt his body go stiff, and then he moaned as his orgasm hit. I followed, exploding, and dropped my head on his broad shoulder.
“Thank you, Reg,” I whispered, trying not to collapse. “Now let’s hide behind the shelves until they go away.”
“Bertram, my love, if only you could hold out until we reached the woods,” he whispered back.