Jooster Fic: Jeeves and the Club for Inverts (Part 3)

[triedunture]

As it turned out, I didn't have to say anything. Jeeves had beaten me by a mile, and he was back in his valeting togs and relieving me of my gentlemanly accoutrement as I came in the door. He spoke before I had a chance to.

'While you were out, sir, I conducted an inventory of household supplies and found your new bath soap to be almost unused. Do you dislike the brand? I might endeavour to find a suitable replacement.'

'What? Er, no, Jeeves. The soap is fine.'

'Very good, sir.'

'Jeeves?'

'Yes, sir?'

'Do—do I have anything to apologise for? To you, I mean.' I scratched my head in a worried manner.

Jeeves was the opposite of nonplussed. Plussed, I suppose you could say. 'No, sir,' he said smoothly, 'I am not aware of any outstanding transgressions on your part. Will that be all, sir?'

'Yes, Jeeves. That will be all.'

But that was bally well not all!

Over the course of the next few days, there was a noticeable strain in the air at the Wooster abode. Jeeves conducted his valety offices with all the efficiency and grace as usual, but he didn't do it with relish, if you get my meaning. Perhaps I was over-analysing the whole sitch, but he appeared to be more aloof than before, if you can credit it. For example, it was one of our normal wheezes that, upon waking and drinking my first cup of the day, I would ask, 'Jeeves, what sort of day is it?' And Jeeves would give me a detailed report on the weather, touching on the fluffiness of the clouds, if there were clouds, and the chances of rain, if there was to be rain. I was under the impression that Jeeves enjoyed telling me about what the day would bring; why else would he do it so thoroughly?

But the morning after we'd danced at The Black Cloak, I awoke, took a sip of the tea Jeeves had just delivered, and said, 'Jeeves, what sort of day is it?'

To which Jeeves replied, 'A Monday, sir.' He seemed too preoccupied with setting out my shoes to pay me any more mind.

So I pressed him. 'Will there be any rain, do you think?'

'I cannot say, sir. I have not had an opportunity to consult the barometer this morning.' He took my suit coat from its hanger and brushed an invisible load of lint from its sleeves.

I frowned at this. I didn't even know we had a barometer. But that made sense, I suppose; Jeeves couldn't be plucking these weather forecasts of his from the clear blue sky. And what the devil was keeping him so busy that he couldn't glance at the bally barometer, if that indeed was what he usually did in the mornings.

I was going to ask him all of this when Jeeves turned from the wardrobe to open the bedroom curtains. A shaft of morning sun sluiced across his map, and I daresay I jumped out of bed faster than if a porpentine had wandered into the bedclothes.

'Sir?' Jeeves asked as I peered closely at his now-illuminated face. 'Is something the matter, sir?'

I dropped my gaze and sighed. 'Sorry, Jeeves. I thought I saw, erm, a spider.' I shuffled toward the bathroom. 'I could tuck into a rasher of bacon for breakfast, Jeeves, if there's any on hand.'

'Yes, sir. Very good, sir.' And Jeeves trickled out to prepare the morning repast.

I watched him go. And wondered why he was wearing stage makeup to conceal the dark circles under those intelligent eyes.

It wasn't something one would have ordinarily noticed, of course, but I have quite a few friends who work in the theatre like Cyril, and I'm aware of the effect that a thick pancake or rouge can have on an actor's cheek. And I had been tracking Jeeves like a hawk, hoping his expression would betray some clue as to what the bally hell was going on. Now I worried. Was he losing sleep? What was the matter with him, and how could I fix it?

The most frustrating part of this whole business was that I couldn't just talk to Jeeves about it. He had shut me down like an old oil lamp factory when I'd tried to broach the subject the night before. It was clear to me that I had to wait to talk to the one person who could help me: Victor.

When he was playing at being Victor, Jeeves was so much more open. He would speak to me like an equal, and he wouldn't need to hide behind his profession. I hoped that Cyril would roll up to the flat and again insist we pay a visit to the Cloak, but he didn't. I telephoned him that afternoon to see if perhaps I could persuade him to go, but he would hear none of it.

'I'm never showing my face in there again, Bertie,' he moaned through the 'phone. 'Do you have any idea what that beast Geoffrey did to me?'

'I'd rather I didn't, actually,' I said with a grimace.

'After we'd made love, I asked him to escort me home, and do you know what he said?' Here, Cyril took on the rolling Yorkshire accent of the elder gent. '"Oh, Sebastian, I fear it's quite impossible. I've only just met you, dear boy, and I shan't remove my mask in front of you yet, you understand." I mean to say, what sort of rubbish is that!?'

'Perhaps he's very famous,' I suggested.

'He is jolly well not famous,' Cyril seethed over the line. 'He's a miserable old man who must rely on this stupid mask game to make it seem as if he has some mystery about him! I hate it, and I hate him, and I'm not going back there.'

'Well, erm, Cyril,' I looked round the sitting room, but Jeeves was nowhere in sight, so I turned back to the receiver. 'I rather wanted to go back sometime. Maybe this coming week-end? I wanted to speak to that Victor fellow once more.'

'What? YOU?' Cyril sputtered. I held the 'phone away from my ear until he was done screeching.

'Yes, me.'

'And that tall, dark chappie?'

'Well . . . .'

'He's a bit on the handsome side for you, isn't he? I say this as a friend, Bertie. Maybe you should stick to your own league.'

I pinched the bridge of my nose between two fingers. 'Cyril, I just want to talk to the man. That's all. Will you please come with me?'

'Sorry, old thing, but there's no way I'm going to face Geoffrey again after what he said to me.'

'I'll give you a fiver and pay for all your drinks.'

'. . . So is Saturday night good for you, then?'

I spent the rest of the week at the Drones for the most part, soaking up the familiar atmosphere of a place filled with old friends. I played a few rounds of darts and dinner-roll cricket, and enjoyed myself thoroughly. But I couldn't shake the nagging thought that none of them save Cyril knew this thing about me, this thing that I hadn't thought was very important until now. And I couldn't speak to a soul about it.

Saturday rolled round and Jeeves dressed me for my evening out. He did so in relative silence, and when he was finished, I made quite a pretty picture. I tugged on my white buckskin gloves and sized myself up in the full-length mirror.

'A magnificent effort, Jeeves,' I proclaimed.

'Thank you, sir.'

'I'm going to be venturing forth with Mr Bassington-Bassington once more. We shan't go to the Drones, I don't think. We'll go, erm, elsewhere.' This was my rather sloppy attempt at letting him know my intentions. After all, if he didn't appear at the Cloak that evening, it would be a wasted opportunity. 'And I imagine I'll be out rather late.'

'Very good, sir.'

'This is your evening off, isn't it? Will you be motoring round to any shindigs, Jeeves?'

'I cannot say, sir.' He stepped behind me to give the old shoulders one final sweep with the lint brush. 'I have made no definite plans.'

I screwed up the Wooster courage and said in what I hoped was a light tone, 'It would be jolly good fun if you could come paint the town red tonight, Jeeves, don't you think?'

Jeeves met my eyes in the mirror, over my shoulder, and then looked away. 'I prefer to spend my evenings with—'

'—an improving book,' I sighed. My shoulders slumped a bit dejectedly.

'Indeed, sir.'

I wanted to spin round and shake him by the arms and cry, 'This is madness! Why are we speaking like this when you and I have laughed together, drank together, shared our cigarettes and our lighters? Why can't we be like that now!?' But it was plain why we couldn't. He was Jeeves, and I was a Wooster.

'Tinkerty-tonk, then, Jeeves,' I said as I took my sorrowful leave.

I met Cyril on the pavement and we made our way once more to The Black Cloak. My old friend chatted airily the entire way, but I was consumed with the idea that Jeeves would not be making an appearance tonight at the club, and I would never have a chance to apologise to him for overstepping my bounds. I was losing all hope of things ever going back to normal.

Cyril noticed my morose mood, eventually. Once we were inside the club with our masks fitted to our faces, he declared that we were going to, quote, get as tight as two bally owls could possibly get, endquote.

'I really can't,' I said, craning my neck to peer pathetically round the crowded room. 'I need to speak to Victor first.'

'Do you see Victor here, Bertie?' Cyril asked.

'No.'

'And do you see the bar over there?'

'Yes.'

'Well?'

I admit he had a point.

I bought the two of us a round of stiff b. and s.'s, followed by a few martinis. I was almost beginning to enjoy myself when Cyril stopped in the middle of telling a joke to gawk over my shoulder.

'Oh, gawd-help-us,' he sneered, 'Geoffrey's here.'

'Just ignore him, then,' I said.

Cyril only ignored me, of course. 'Come on, Bertie. Let's join those birds over there.' He pointed to a table of dashed good-looking men who were drinking what looked like pure green neon.

'Oh, I'm not sure if that's—'

'This will teach Geoffrey a thing or two. Sebastian Croft is not to be trifled with.' Cyril steered me toward the enclave of green-swilling chappies and gave them all a friendly what-ho. I will say this about Cyril: though he can be an absolute pain in the gluteal region at times, he is tops when it comes to slipping into a party in progress. Within minutes, he had secured us chairs at the table and the man on my right was pouring me a drink from his bottle. Dashed odd cocktail, really. He first poured a bit of the green spirit into a glass, then over that he placed a tiny slotted spoon with a cube of sugar on top. He then carefully dripped some ice water over the whole thing. Once the sugar had dissolved into the glass, turning the green liquid cloudy, he took away the spoon with a flourish and told me bottoms up. 'I brought it back with me all the way from Paris,' he said to urge me on.

'Thanks awfully,' I said, sniffing at the milky liquid with suspicion. But Cyril shot me a rum look that told me in no uncertain terms that I was to drink up, so I did.

I don't know if you've ever had absinthe? It's a hellfire of a drink, I must say.

It tasted of anise and sharp sugar. It made for a unpleasant mouth-sensation, in my opinion, but once I swallowed it down, I was suffused with a feeling I'd never had with gin or brandy. I was tight as an owl, no doubt about it, but my head felt strangely free of muddled thoughts. It was very much like one of those dreams where you're standing rather outside of yourself, if you get my meaning, and clearly watching yourself as you go about your business.

It also had the effect of loosening my tongue, I daresay.

Cyril leaned across his new friend's lap and asked me, 'Bert— I mean, Nicholas, I've quite forgotten. Why are we here again? Didn't you need to do something, something important?' His eyes were a rummy sort of red; Cyril had always been given to bloodshot eyes when he was in his cups.

I leaned across the man sitting between us as well so Cyril could hear me. 'I need to find Victor,' I said. 'I'm daffy for him and I'm afraid I've mucked the whole thing up.' The words hadn't even tumbled from my lips before the other me, the one watching me make a fool of himself, slapped a hand over his eyes and moaned at the state of the Wooster brain. Daffy? Me? For Jeeves!?

My brain suddenly sped up to a thousand miles an hour. Yes, me, daffy for Jeeves. Was that so mad? Had I not been fascinated with him since the moment he'd stepped over my threshold? I was enamoured of him, of the way he moved, the clever way he spoke. Dash it, I'd written whole novels dedicated to his unending brilliance! It should come as no surprise to you, Wooster (my addled mind said to me), that you are h. over h. for your valet's brain. But ever since I'd seen him here at The Black Cloak, I'd discovered a whole new side to Jeeves. One that I quite liked just as much as the first side. I was suddenly taken with the thought that perhaps Jeeves had a million sides; many deep intellectual types do, you know. And it occurred to me that I wouldn't be at all upset if I was tasked with peeling back all the layers of the marvel known as Jeeves, even if it took a hundred years.

That sealed it, then. I, Bertram W. Wooster, was finally falling in love. I closed my eyes in bliss at the idea, resolved to float on the wondrous cotton fluff that had invaded my being.

But then:

'Victor!?' the man in the middle squawked at me, causing my eyes to fly open. 'Why, Victor doesn't go in for that sort of thing. Not these days. You'd be better off with someone who doesn't have a heart of stone, what?' He laid a friendly hand on my knee.

I swung my bleary gaze in his direction. 'What's your name?'

'Simon.'

'Well, Simon, I must tell you that I will not be better off with someone who doesn't have a heart of stone, not that Victor does anyway. Also, you smell of beeswax, and I find that unappealing. And furthermore,' I pushed forward my empty cup, 'you should be pouring so as to make yourself useful.'

I'm not usually so frightfully rude, and never in the presence of new acquaintances, but the spirits had made me bold, and the fact that Jeeves was not there when I wanted him to be gave me the pip. So it all came out a bit harsh, what? But the men gathered at the table must have seen the humour in the thing, because they all gave in to raucous laughter, Simon included. He retracted his hand with an apologetic flourish and set about pouring more drinks.

I had a few more of these green cocktails, all while laughing and trading jokes with Cyril's new pals. They were a lively bunch, and soon we were all singing one of the new songs from that show, what's the chappie? Well, I've quite forgotten now. At any rate, it was around the second chorus that I felt a heavy hand on my shoulder.

I looked up from my absinthe glass and there was Jeeves, looking none too pleased. I could tell even with the mask. The literal domino mask, I mean, not the metaphorical mask he wears while valeting about the place. Still, he looked fantastic in his arrow collar and tails.

Leaping from my chair, I forced myself to remember where I was and what I should address him as. 'Victor, I'm so glad you're here,' I began.

'Yes, Victor, you must have a drink with us!' Simon butted in.

Cyril and the other tablemates all joined in by shouting the invitation, but Jeeves inclined his head at them. 'I'm sorry, but I do not believe I would enjoy anise spirits.'

'Well, have you ever tried it? It's not so bad once you get over the first rough patch.' Cyril pointed out. 'Here, we'll pour you a snootful, and you can talk to Bert— I mean, Nicholas about whatever important thingummy he wanted to talk to you about.'

I cringed as I watched Cyril carefully pour the water over the sugar spoon. Did he have to speak so bally plainly?

Jeeves turned that piercing gaze on me full-tilt. 'What did you wish to discuss, Nicholas?' he asked, and I felt my tongue swell up like a bally sponge in bathwater.

'I just wanted to— Erm, that is, well,' I stammered. While the idiot version of me went on incoherently, the version of me that was watching myself was throwing his hands up in the air in defeat.

'Tell him you're sorry, you nincompoop!' that part of me yelled at my feeble brain.

'I'm sorry,' I finally got out, 'about the other night. With the dancing, I mean.'

Jeeves only looked at me and didn't say anything in return, so I babbled onward, trying to make a joke of it. 'I daresay I must have been the worst dance partner in the world, the way I ran you off at the end. I'm terribly sorry, old thing. Perhaps I shouldn't take the lady's role next time. Got all mixed up, what?'

Our conversation was interrupted by Simon and Cyril, who had found an extra chair somewhere and were directing Jeeves to take it. I was pulled back into my own seat, which was next to Jeeves, and Simon poured the whole table another round of absinthe. Jeeves took his glass with what looked like great disdain, and I scooted closer to him to try my hand at an apology one final time.

'Please don't be cross with me,' I whispered so that no one else would hear. 'I couldn't bear it. Really.'

'I am not at all angry with you,' he returned softly, still examining his cloudy white cocktail. 'My abrupt departure the other night was an unfortunate necessity. Believe me when I say you were not to blame.'

I let out a relieved sigh. 'Cigarette?' I snapped open my case and offered it to him, and he selected one with what I interpreted as a gesture of goodwill.

Cyril banged on the table just then and raised his glass high. 'Cheers, gents!' he bellowed, and everyone took their swig. I followed in due course, shooting Jeeves a glance over the rim of my cup. He gave me that rummy little almost-smile of his, and drank his portion down as well.

Everything seemed to be back on track, I mused in that swimming-drunk way that one sometimes does in the thick of a party. Jeeves and I were chummy once more, and perhaps I could delicately broach the subject of my tendre at some later date, when we'd become more accustomed to each other's friendship, and when I had an inkling whether he might possibly return my feelings. Yes, I only needed to be patient and wait.

Which is why I found it so strange to be kissing Jeeves a few hours later.

If I were strapped into an interrogator's chair and told that a boatload of kittens would die if I didn't cooperate, I still couldn't tell you exactly how it happened. I do know that more glasses of absinthe were involved, and perhaps a few other cocktails to wash them down. I'm fairly sure I goaded Jeeves into trying to keep up with me, though he did tell me he wasn't much of a drinker. 'It dulls my mind, and I can find no pleasure in that feeling,' he said, but I said phooey to that and nudged him to drink up. There was a very matey feeling at our little table, and the time seemed to fly by. One minute I looked at my pocket watch and it was 11:42. Only a few seconds later that same watch told me it was clearly 2:15. I imagined that the happiness I felt at sitting beside Jeeves and having such a fine time shortened the hours greatly.

At some point, I felt I should use the gents', and I rose on shaky pins to make my way thither. I was attempting to get sensible directions to the W.C. from Cyril, who couldn't even tell his left from his right by then, when Jeeves offered to guide me.

'I would also like to avail myself of the facilities,' were his exact words.

So we toddled through the crowd, I swaying to the music that was playing on a gramophone, and Jeeves walking sedately at my elbow. I believe he thought I was going to tip over at any moment, but I actually felt very alert. I told him several times not to worry about my balance as he led me down a quiet hallway toward what I assumed was the washroom. We passed several of the little alcoves on our way, and my face heated as I recalled our short time spent alone in one.

I looked over at Jeeves. Besides a faint flush on his cheek, he didn't look any different, as if the many drinks had taken no toll on him. His head still bulged at the back with the weight of that massive brain, and his eyes still took in the world with that calm gaze.

That gaze turned to me, and he caught me staring. 'Something wrong, Nicholas?' he asked.

Yes, I realised. Something was wrong, and I sought to make it right. I grasped the points of Jeeves' shirt collar in my hands, and I backed him against the wall using a technique known as blind luck. And before he could protest to being manhandled, I kissed him.

Now, it would be very easy to blame this all on the absinthe. And surely the other drinks I'd consumed that evening hadn't helped the Wooster brain in making informed decisions of any sort. But I tell you, readers of this tale, that my mind felt as clear and certain about kissing Jeeves as it did about walking or speaking or a hundred other natural things. I knew that I wanted this, wanted him, wanted the taste of him even masked by cigarette smoke and sickly sweet liquor. I kissed him only for a moment, not even enough time for him to reciprocate (if indeed he wanted to). A group of men were chattering their way down the hall, and my lips left Jeeves' to wait until they'd passed us by, and we were left alone in the dark hallway once more.

We stared at each other. 'This is wrong,' Jeeves said and the very same moment that I said, 'Let's make love.'

My hands has drifted upward to frame his face, and Jeeves caught those wandering hands of mine in a bruising grasp. I wouldn't say he exhibited open-mouthed shock, because he didn't. You'd only notice his extreme reaction if you knew him like I do; a widening of the eyes, a slight parting of the lips, told me all.

'What?' he whispered. 'No. No, we've both had much to drink, and—'

'Please.' My hands regained their freedom and clutched at Jeeves' immaculate stiff shirtfront. 'Oh my Lord, if you knew what you did to me—' My skin felt a size too small, and my blood was flaring like the dickens. I felt invincible, yet I was convinced I had to go through with this or else I'd die. I nuzzled my lips against the pale column of his throat. 'If only you knew, you wouldn't refuse me.'

Poet johnnies are often saying things like 'what happened next was all a blur', and I've never quite understood what they're on about. I mean to say, if you're going to have a pivotal scene, you should attempt to bally well describe it. However, I fear this Wooster cannot follow his own advice in this instance. All was, as they say, a blur. One moment I'm crushing Jeeves against a wall in a dark corridor and throwing myself at his proverbial feet, and the next we're barrelling our way into an empty alcove, quite attached at the lips and tearing at each other's clothes as if they were soaked in some deadly contagion and we were properly concerned for each other's safety.

Jeeves released me from his kiss for a moment, just long enough to growl, 'I could never refuse you.'

I beamed at the man and then kissed him again. Jeeves reached behind me and flung the privacy curtain closed, practically ripping it from its rings in the process. I became vaguely aware of our graceless sprawl across the cushions in the alcove, Jeeves underneath me, his arms wrapped round me, his hands moving up and down my spine. My fingers, which had taken on a life of their own, were tearing at his shirt studs, while he unknotted my tie from its perfect butterfly shape. That strange watching-myself-from-another-place feeling took hold again, and I was sure that this was a hallucination brought on by drinking too much of the green stuff. I had heard rumours that it would do that to you, but I was inclined to say dash it and carry on.

What happened next was nothing short of a frenzy. Muscles corded and flexed, fabric most certainly tore, and mutual biting and nipping replaced kisses for the most part. I was trying to touch Jeeves everywhere I could with my hands and mouth, and my energy must have been infectious, because he repaid me in kind. Before I knew it, Jeeves had shoved my coat and shirt and waistcoat and braces from my shoulders, and I tried to do the same for him. Jeeves had to sit up, of course, to cast off the offending garments, which meant that I was now straddling Jeeves' lap. Which, if the intensity of our next labial press carried any meaning, was just fine with the both of us. I bent to let my tongue take a swipe at Jeeves' left nipple, which was as dark as a bit of toffee, just as I'd always imagined. He threaded his fingers in my hair and arched into me with a groan that was downright obscene.

I don't mind telling you this all felt very strange, as if time had become as immaterial as a wraith; we could have been at it for hours or mere seconds by that point. And I wanted it to last as long as it could.

So when Jeeves reached up to caress my face, and his fingers brushed against my domino mask, I froze. The Wooster brain, which was admittedly not firing on all cylinders, shouted that this was a bad turn of events. Here I was, finally enjoying Jeeves' touch, and it was all under this guise that I had taken on. If he took away my mask, my drunken mind reasoned, the spell would be broken; he'd see it was just the same stupid young master whose socks he folded and whose trousers he pressed, nobody special; he would leave, just as he had after that waltz we'd shared, and I couldn't allow that.

'No! Please!' My hands flew to my mask, keeping it firmly in place. 'Let me keep it on. Please.'

This outburst of mine seemed to stop the Jeeves Express right in its tracks. His hands halted in their explorations, and Jeeves withdrew them completely. His eyes, which had been fastened to my map with all the intensity of a general going into battle, suddenly dropped.

He spoke, his voice low and somewhat small, if you can credit it. 'As you wish.'

I was mildly pipped that he should be so stalled by my mask; after all, he knew how necessary the dashed things were in this place. I made up my mind to make amends the surest way I knew how.

'Here, I know what will wipe away that sullen pout,' I said, pausing to nip at Jeeves' well-formed earlobe. 'Why don't you sit back for a mo' and let me do you a kindness.'

I half-slithered, half-flopped in a rather ungainly manner to the floor, where my knees struck the bare floorboards with a crack. A lesser man might have whimpered, but not this Wooster. Though I suppose I might have been a little numb to pain under the circs. Still, I knew it was going to leave a bruise, and I didn't care. I reached for Jeeves' flies, eager to have him for myself. I could clearly make out the shape of his member, hard in his trousers, and so I assumed my little venture would be a welcome addition to the evening's activities.

I know I said before that a gentleman doesn't kiss and tell, but without naming names, I can say that I have practised this manoeuvre before. In my youth, I'd gotten quite accomplished at it with certain chaps (let's call them Lingo Bittle and Pinger Guckthwaite), and, well, that was the extent of my inverted indiscretions, if I'm honest. But I was resolved to exert myself to the limits of my talents for Jeeves.

He seemed less than keen, though. His hands got all tangled up in mine, effectively jamming my attempts to loosen his flies. I gave a harrumph to show my displeasure, and he bent to capture my lips in a kiss that was as searing as all the previous ones we'd shared.

'What, exactly, do you imagine you're doing?' he asked against my neck when we parted. He sounded not quite as mocking as those words might lead you to believe. On the contrary, Jeeves' voice seemed to hold nothing but concern.

I drew back to look him in the eye. I sensed this was of great import. Caution was the ticket, I knew. Caution and sensitivity. 'I know you've been cell . . . cellophaned . . . ?'

'"Celibate" is the word you're looking for, I believe.'

'Yes, thank you. I know you've been celibate for awhile now, but maybe it's time to give it up, what?' I traced a fingertip down the curve of his cockstand, still straining against the fabric of his trousers; Jeeves gasped a breath before regaining his composure somewhat. I couldn't believe my own boldness, so I forged onward. 'Nothing lasts forever, you know.'

My argument must have been built upon sound logic, for Jeeves caved like a flying nocturnal rodent. His hands gave up their fruitless task of keeping me from my goal, and his eyes closed within the black eye-holes of his domino mask.

'Nothing lasts,' he agreed quietly.

I thought it best to make my move while Jeeves was so pliant. In a jiffy, I had got his flies unbuttoned and his prick well in hand. I rested my cheek against the top of his strong thigh like a languid subject in a Victorian painting, and I tracked the movements of my hand up and down the shaft of the thing. I glanced up at Jeeves' face after I'd completed a few back-and-forths, and he was looking down at me with the most curious expression painting his visage. He seemed to be thinking, in that silent and stuffed-frog way of his, the same thing that I was thinking, the thing was making my heart pound like a bally percussionist in my chest.

This couldn't be real. This couldn't be happening.

I felt incredibly light, and the little alcove we were in seemed very quiet, and the air felt very sluggish, like we were underwater. I held Jeeves' gaze with my own, and I tipped my head closer to his arousal so that my tongue could lick at it. Jeeves clamped a hand over his mouth to perhaps muffle a cry, and his other hand went to my shoulder. This, I surmised, was a positive reaction. I very much wanted Jeeves to enjoy this, especially after going without human contact for so long like he had. The elation I felt that I was the one providing said h. c. was beyond description. I allowed a self-satisfied smirk to play across my lips before sitting up straighter on my knees and really having a go.

I don't recall much of what I did in detail; I only remember it was dark, and Jeeves smelled wonderful, like an animal's musk, and I was so absorbed in giving him as much pleasure as I could that I licked and sucked at him quite frantically with very little finesse. As I took him in my mouth, I was obliged to open my own flies to release my erection before I burst. I hadn't felt so hot under the collar since my days at school, when nothing more than a stiff wind was liable to bring the Wooster corpus to military-like attention.

Jeeves must have sensed my pressing need, because when I lazily opened my eyes, I saw him staring down at me, alternately watching my mouth working at his cockstand and my hand working at my own. I softened my gaze as our eyes met once more, and I hoped he could read what I wished to say there: that he was so wonderful and I treasured him like none other.

His hand slid from my shoulder into my hair, where his fingers carded gently through my disarrayed curls. I waited for his grip to tighten, but it never did.

'S-stop,' he said all of a sudden. 'Please, no more.'

He was close to his peak. I could tell from the way his hips rose to meet my mouth and the way the muscles twitched in his thighs.

I pulled back enough to say, 'It's all right. You can finish.'

Jeeves' fingers trembled in my hair. 'I cannot,' he choked out softly.

'Finish for me,' I murmured against the damp skin of his cock.

And so he did, the moment I took him back in my mouth. I followed but two seconds later, spilling an embarrassing amount of fluid over my fist and down the front of my trousers. I ended up gasping for air on the floor, slumped against Jeeves' legs. As my eyes drifted shut, I remember his hand still resting on my head. I reached toward the gorgeous warmth of him on instinct and it all went black from there.



Continue on to Part Four.