Let The Kinkiness Begin!
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give_satisfactionAnd 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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Complete rules for posting are on the group's profile. To protect members' privacy, entry posting is by members only. However, prompts and fills are made anonymously, which means non-members can respond!
Rules
1. No underage characters
2. No RPF/RPS
3. No bashing other people's kinks.
4. Please use content warnings. Put them at the start of your prompt. I.e. Prompt (Content Warning: Attempted Suicide)
Please warn for:
Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Major Character Death
Rape/Non-Con
Suicide
Attempted Suicide
Incest
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HOW IT WORKS: All posts are comments. To make your request, reply directly to this post. To fill someone's request, reply to their comment.
TIP FOR FINDING FILLS: On the left side of each page is a list of posts. In this case, the fill titles appear so that you can find and click on them without scrolling through an increasingly long thread! You can also find Part Two of fills on the list. Another way is to check "Top Level Comments Only". Only the prompts will show. You can judge from the number of responses whether or not the prompt was answered.
ETA: If you have comments about a fill, there is absolutely no time limit on comments. Writers love praise!
ETA ETA: A post from May 21 says that members would prefer fills to fic recs. For more, click on the link.
ETA ETA ETA: Please do not delete your prompts once they are posted. Members might have been writing a fill, or simply enjoy reading them and imagining the scenarios.
And remember:
Complete rules for posting are on the group's profile. To protect members' privacy, entry posting is by members only. However, prompts and fills are made anonymously, which means non-members can respond!
Rules
1. No underage characters
2. No RPF/RPS
3. No bashing other people's kinks.
4. Please use content warnings. Put them at the start of your prompt. I.e. Prompt (Content Warning: Attempted Suicide)
Please warn for:
Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Major Character Death
Rape/Non-Con
Suicide
Attempted Suicide
Incest
NOTE: IP logging is off.
Comment screening is off.
The subscriber and posting access lists are hidden.
HOW IT WORKS: All posts are comments. To make your request, reply directly to this post. To fill someone's request, reply to their comment.
TIP FOR FINDING FILLS: On the left side of each page is a list of posts. In this case, the fill titles appear so that you can find and click on them without scrolling through an increasingly long thread! You can also find Part Two of fills on the list. Another way is to check "Top Level Comments Only". Only the prompts will show. You can judge from the number of responses whether or not the prompt was answered.
ETA: If you have comments about a fill, there is absolutely no time limit on comments. Writers love praise!
ETA ETA: A post from May 21 says that members would prefer fills to fic recs. For more, click on the link.
ETA ETA ETA: Please do not delete your prompts once they are posted. Members might have been writing a fill, or simply enjoy reading them and imagining the scenarios.
no subject
Date: 2019-05-29 08:25 pm (UTC)Fill: (G)love
Date: 2019-06-03 08:03 am (UTC)My apologies; I know I haven’t begun this properly, but absolutely nothing about this situation is proper, so I figure, why not embrace the theme?
Anyway—when I say reckless, I don’t mean impulsive. “Impulsive” is not controlling oneself all day, waiting patiently and with premeditated forethought to make one’s move, like I did today. When I say reckless, I mean ill-advised. Audacious. Dangerous.
Today, when it came time for the y. m. to m. his m., he hesitated for a brief moment. I felt this compulsion, yes, but thinking about what I was about to do caused me no small amount of horror. Not to mention, it was one of the least preux actions a chevalier ever did undertake. There were a million reasons not to act and only one reason to act.
That one being: I really, really wanted to.
When I was finally alone, I snuck into the one room in the flat that is not mine. I say snuck; it’s not much of a sneak when you’re already alone. And I say not mine; it’s mine in the sense that I own this entire flat, but the servant’s quarters are just that, the servant’s. Let me be clear on this point. Just because I employ a chap, it doesn’t mean I own his soul. It doesn’t mean I’m entitled to everything that’s his.
It doesn’t mean I’m entitled to sneak into his room and steal his gloves.
I hurried back to my room, my ill-gotten gains clutched in my shaking, pilfering hands. I sat on my bed and removed my tie. I doffed my shirt, feeling my heart pounding beneath my trembling fingers as they made short work of the buttons.
That done, I examined the gloves. They were made of supple cattle hide leather, sleek ebony in color with fine black stitching. Intricate embroideries and embellishments revealed that this was a high-quality item. I thought to myself, as I had many times before: despite not being a wealthy man, Jeeves always seems to have the best of the best when it comes to apparel and accoutrements, which just goes to show the man’s consistently bang-on priorities.
I noted that the gloves were rather large in size, which is not surprising, seeing as their owner is an all-around large sort of chap. I slipped the right glove onto my corresponding hand and flexed my fingers experimentally. It was a decent fit, though a little roomy, as men’s gloves often are on me. I wiggled my fingers in a continuous wave, exploring the slight stretch and give of the soft fabric.
I held the other glove, the left, up to my face and steeled myself for what I was about to do. I then inhaled deeply, imbibing the rich smell. It instantly conjured up sense-memories, like that Proust fellow with his madeleines. Or were they éclairs? Some sort of fussy French confection, anyway. In this case, this smell in the Wooster beak evoked in the Wooster brain memories of jaunts in the park…excursions in the city…long drives down country roads spent watching my man's hands resting on the steering wheel, guiding our way.
With these visions in my mind’s eye, I laid back on my pillow and laid that left glove over my face so that its scent could surround me, fill me. With my begloved right hand, I caressed my own bare chest. The leather tugged slightly at the wiry hairs. I reveled in the texture of the fabric on my skin. I pinched one nipple, then the other, and they stood obediently at attention. I swept my hand down my stomach and rubbed on the front of my trousers, coaxing the arousal that was just starting to wax as my nerves began to wane.
I held my breath and dipped my hand into my waistband without undoing the fastenings. I like to do this to myself for some reason; it would be easier to move my hand if I removed the trousers or at least unbuttoned them, but I seemed to prefer to make it harder for myself than it needed to be.
Is that not a perfect metaphor for my whole bally life?
My hand found what it sought and I let out a quivery breath. The sensation of the leather on such sensitive skin drove home the reality of what I was doing, and the meaning behind it.
The gloves: Jeeves's. The bed, the hand, the face, the prick: mine. I was sullying this glove and likewise this glove was sullying me. My loins and my heart had piped up, naughty students at the back of the class who only raise their hands when they have some prankish mischief in mind, offering this foolhardy suggestion, but it was the gloves that had obliged me to take action. I knew it was my choice alone to steal these items and secretly desecrate them, but on some level, I blamed the gloves themselves, for there would have been no crime without the temptation they provided.
But never mind, it’s too late now to point fingers. Speaking of fingers: my wrist’s movement was constrained but my hand stroked as best it could, rousing my cock in languid self-seduction. I lifted the left glove off my face for a moment to watch the rhythmic rise and fall of cloth as the back of my hand tented and un-tented my trousers. There was something strangely erotic in just that, just the visual of the bulge moving up and down, obscured but unmistakable evidence of the wicked act of lust in which I was engaged.
I replaced the left glove and let my head fall back. My hips began rolling of their own accord, helping to accomplish what my constricted hand was struggling to achieve.
I became aware of an excess of friction, but employing the usual solution was not an option. My plan had been to take care of this sordid business as discreetly as possible and then return the gloves before they were missed, leaving their owner none the wiser. I knew lotion or oil would surely stain them, so I had to find another solution.
When my mouth opened in a quiet moan, a leather finger slipped inside. I sucked on it, picturing his finger inside it, gliding in and out between my pursed lips, pushing a little deeper in every time, patiently pursuing the back of my throat. He might hook that finger over my lower teeth, prying my jaw open further. Then he might resume his plundering of my mouth, but with two or three fingers this time.
Presently, I sucked a few more fingers into my mouth, although the limp fabric left a lot to be desired compared to the thrusting rigid digits of my fantasy. I tongued the cloth and tried not to think about whether saliva stains leather.
Meanwhile, the right glove's friction was becoming increasingly problematic. I gave in and undid my trousers clumsily. I tugged them impatiently down to my knees and resumed stroking myself, more lightly this time. I tried to fondle gently in the same way that my manservant touches everything when he wears those gloves. He uses a dexterous grip, performing every task he undertakes with a characteristic smooth, nimble grace.
That is what started all this, you know. For me, these gloves have come to represent skill, competence, and self-assurance. I watch them and wonder—how did he come to be so adept? Did he cultivate it in his years of valeting, or did he have a natural aptitude that was only enhanced by years of professional practice?
I was getting too aroused too quickly. I ran my hand over my belly, my bollocks, and my thighs instead, keeping myself at a low simmer so I wouldn’t boil over. I wanted to… No. Dammit, yes. I wanted to spend from the touch of this glove, onto it, into it. I wanted to cover it in my seed, contaminating it, and then clean it all off so Jeeves would never know, and then every time I saw him wearing them from then on, I would feel a private thrill from my sick, filthy secret.
Thinking about the next time these gloves would be worn made me contemplate the last time they had been worn. Though they appeared to be clean, I know they are regularly worn outdoors, where they come into contact with all manner of unsanitary things, and therefore should not be considered hygienic. The thought should have disgusted me, but instead it did quite the opposite. Now I was thinking about the dirty glove shoved in my mouth and the dirty glove wrapped around my prick; embracing the filth was so contrary to my nature that it made me feel like all my inhibitions were gone and anything was permissible. It made me feel base and foul, immersed in shame and, thus, beyond shame.
I could feel my prick leaking. I took a moment to examine the right-hand glove and saw it was a little wet. I wiped it onto the sheets and the signs were gone. But I still knew.
It's not right. I’m well aware. It's not a nice thing to do, to force another man to be involved in this perverted act without his knowledge or assent. I didn’t want to do that to him. I just didn’t know how I would ever in a million years find the words to tell such a man what I think about his gloves, his ingenious hands, his ingenious self.
I didn’t know what to do. The sensation was so beyond topping, but if I kept on like this, I risked soiling the glove and ruining the whole scheme. I had no idea how I would explain the glove being either ruined or suddenly disappearing. The only sensible thing to do would be to take it off. But I just…couldn’t. I couldn’t part with that exquisite, illicit pleasure. It scared me to feel so out of control, so thoroughly engrossed in my obsessive fixation. Every time I’ve thought about those blasted gloves lately I’ve felt a stab of passion, a rush of longing. The fervor of my craving whipped me up into such a state as to completely override my good judgment.
What I needed to do and what I wanted to do were at war with each other. I was afraid that I knew which one was going to win.
I forced myself to focus on a thought that was meant to repel me: Jeeves’s horrified reaction if he found out. But again, the result was the opposite of what I intended. The image my mind supplied of his shock at my revelation nearly made me come off right then. That is what made me realize that I wanted to be found out.
This desire to express myself was the truly insane part of all this madness. It would be too impossibly humiliating to speak of this aloud, but nonetheless, I wanted to confess. Maybe I could make him see that it wasn’t perverted. No, it was perverted, but maybe I could make him see that perverted isn’t necessarily monstrous. Abnormal isn’t necessarily immoral. I may be vile, but I’m not evil. I’m unusual, yes, but maybe, just maybe, I’m not unique.
So, here we are. After what I’ve done, it’s too late to turn back, so I might as well just come out and ask you.
Well...what do you say, Jeeves? I know all this must be dashed surprising for you. But is there any chance that you are unusual like me? Do you see the peculiar yet wondrous beauty of it all? Can you look beyond the conventional, if only just this once, and join me in the realm of the strange-yet-stupendous?
If you’re still reading this, and I know you are, I appreciate it. I thank you heartily if you are even considering tolerating my impertinence. Either way, I would be greatly obliged if you would please respond at your earliest convenience.
Your affectionate, hopeful, and terrified employer and friend,
Bertie
PS. In the box beneath this note is a pair of brand-new gloves. If you still want your old pair, despite what I’ve done to them—or better yet, because of what I’ve done to them—they’re lying on my bed, waiting for you. And so am I.
Re: Fill: (G)love
Date: 2019-06-03 09:32 am (UTC)Re: Fill: (G)love
Date: 2019-06-03 09:58 am (UTC)"There were a million reasons not to act and only one reason to act. That one being: I really, really wanted to."
So very Bertie! Thank you for sharing!
Re: Fill: (G)love
Date: 2019-06-03 05:30 pm (UTC)Re: Fill: (G)love
Date: 2019-06-03 05:38 pm (UTC)Re: Fill: (G)love
Date: 2019-06-03 09:54 pm (UTC)Re: Fill: (G)love
Date: 2019-06-03 07:02 pm (UTC)Re: Fill: (G)love
Date: 2019-06-03 12:25 pm (UTC)Re: Fill: (G)love
Date: 2019-06-03 11:20 pm (UTC)Re: Fill: (G)love
Date: 2021-01-28 03:43 am (UTC)Re: Fill: (G)love
Date: 2022-01-22 07:16 am (UTC)Re: Fill: (G)love
Date: 2022-01-28 06:07 pm (UTC)