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Ahem. Hello. Welcome again to my musings and ramblings.
I have begun this particular passage with the word "Ahem," as though I am putting pen to paper rather than delivering a soliloquy, I find the following subject matter is not one to which I am accustomed addressing. My writings, as well as my life as a whole, have trended towards, shall we say, general audiences. This has, to some extent, been due to my precarious position in society as a gentleman born to exactly resemble the shape of a lady, if one takes my meaning. Private interactions with members of either sex carry a heavy note of danger.
However, were I to be frank, this aspect of my life is hardly a hardship. I don't feel I've been missing out in spite of my peers' attempts to convince me otherwise, particularly as they've married themselves off. Domestic life, I am told, delivers with it a unique sort of bliss. I say (though not aloud), if there is any breathing creature familiar with domestic bliss, it is one Bertram W. Wooster. My household, comprised entirely of myself and my endlessly-more-intelligent man, must be amongst those most content of Britain!
To this point, Jeeves, my singular valet, had become aware of my aforementioned posish in s., and his response was to put me in contact with a German gentleman who brought me into communion with a magic potion-ish, oily substance which, when injected (by Jeeves) into the muscle of my shoulder, slowly-but-steadily produced miraculous effects.
My favorite, by way of example: a few months in, I seemed to come down with some form of limited and long-lasting cold; I came out the other side with almost precisely the voice I had been imitating since my first began to fall short. As it is now, I sound much like the few memories I have of my father.
Needless to say, I am incandescently happy with the state of my body and my trust in my closest companion.
Also.
My voice is not the only thing that has changed. And here begins the subject matter to which I am not accustomed.
I have spent my few decades merrily ignoring what one might call my genitalia, but some changes would be difficult not to note. In particular, a certain feature of my anatomy has increased somewhat in size while demanding attentions to which it had previously—as it were—turned its head. I find myself somewhat occupied when there is nothing to distract me from its wishes, though I cannot say the time is ill-spent.
I also find myself craving contact. Not of the salacious sort, though I'd forgive you for the above sentences leading you down that path. Rather, a compatriot's pat on the back or momentary embrace which would have once flowed over me without impact now leaves me aching for more of the same.
My friends are not the sort for extended touch, and I couldn't bare risking anyone's discomfort by asking. I would never expect Jeeves to oblige, his having always been a distant sort of chap. It is his position, after all, and as much as I push at his stalwart vision of propriety, I believe if I were to request a friendly squeeze from the man, he may collapse on the spot.
Still, I find myself straining towards him in our day-to-day routines. When he dresses me (a relatively new addition; he was fine with eschewing the duty when he believed it was my genuine preference, but upon the revelation that it was a choice made for safety, he made some rather compelling arguments), I must hold myself from melting beneath his horse-hair brush and his certain fingers. His calculating gaze too affects me. I have long been an admirer, but when that scheming twinkle pertains to self, it seems now to cause some manner of pleasant chill over my skin.
I've spent much time puzzling over these things, particularly as I fall to sleep, but it only seems to worsen my condition.
And so I come to that most vital routine of all: the biweekly injection, wherein I am reduced to my undershirt (with my trousers firmly in place, you understand) and attempt to relax as Jeeves pinches a large chunk of my arm, pierces it, and slowly pushes in the viscous fluid which has so dramatically and silently altered my life.
It was during a particular instance of said m.v.r. on an otherwise ordinary afternoon that Jeeves said something strange.
He'd just cleaned and covered my puncture wound, fingers massaging the small knot beneath my skin, when he issued unto the air, "Sir, with your permission, I may begin washing your bedclothes with more frequency."
Unsure of why he would pronounce such a thing, I answered, "Jeeves, you know as well as I that you require no permission, certainly not when regarding matters of the household. Why do you ask?"
"It is only that your sheets, sir, seem to absorb more fluid than they have previously."
I pondered.
"Fluid, Jeeves?" I asked, wanting to be sure I was pondering the right subject matter.
Jeeves confirmed, "Fluid, sir."
"Well. Of course you may, though I'm sure that is not why you raised the topic. I do believe I've been sweating more, and the scent can be rather pungent, but I'm not sure I can do much about that, unless you were planning to propose some brainy solution."
I'd been re-dressed by then, Jeeves packing away supplies as he answered, "The scent is not at all displeasing, sir, when tempered with regular bathing. It is not your sweat to which I was referring, sir."
Then he vanished before my very eyes, retreating to the kitchen and marking the conversation's end. A conundrum for me to solve, then, rather than an outright complaint. I planned to contemplate that night. Something to distract me from my man and the strange sensations in my stomach I was beginning to associate with his eyes and his hands.
Except, of course, that this was a profoundly Jeevesian riddle. I had settled into bed, cozy in my linen pajamas, and set about taking stock of my fluids. However, before long, I was instead pondering Jeeves. As frustrating as his roundabout methods of communiqué could be, I treasured his faith in my ability to puzzle them out.
I am no intellectual; at any given moment, my loaf contains either too many thoughts to hear any, or none at all. On the occasion that I am able to hone in, it becomes a near-permanent state, and anything outside my narrowed view transforms into a nonsensical annoyance. Nevertheless, I do have my moments of wisdom, and they arrive with just enough frequency to have convinced my live-in genius that I can, once in a while, be trusted to divine his meanings without a cheat sheet.
That night, my covered eyes insisted on showing me a selection of these rare moments. At their heels came visions of his incremental smile upon my finding an answer. The approval of Jeeves is unlike any of the meager portions I've been served elsewhere in my life. He prizes attributes of mine I'd been convinced from all sides were totally absent. It is exhilarating, and my taste for it only deepens with every spoonful.
Further from sleep than where I started, I flopped onto my belly, clutching a superfluous pillow to my chest. My sheets had gathered beneath me, and they then provided a certain… pressure. I may not have noticed it were my anatomy not uncommonly electrified. I found myself moving against the bedspread and rather unmotivated to stop. Only recently had I become familiar with these sensations, altered somewhat from those of the past in which I had never found much excitement. I squirmed, unmeasured and disorganized, and before long, the friction of my thighs felt slick with—
Then I realized. Fluid.
My pajama bottoms had felt oddly stiff some recent mornings. It occurred to me that I must have been thoughtlessly pleasuring myself in my sleep.
The shock had already halted my movements, mind racing in panic and shame until it stumbled upon the memory:
Jeeves had said he would be washing my sheets more frequently. He had in no way intimated that I should stop. If anything, his "request for permission" encouraged the opposite.
"He even complimented my scent," I said aloud, needing to hear it, as my brain (or my excuse for one) had gone as silent as a rabbit fearing a hawk.
I sat up, mulling over my next move. I stood and began to pace, mulling some more.
I could think of nothing. Nothing, that is, except his fingers pinching my arm, then soothing its wound, caring for the sore spot until it dissipated.
I put on my slippers, opened my door, and strode towards Jeeves' quarters. My journey was interrupted by Jeeves standing from the chesterfield, a modest snifter of whiskey innocent on the table beside him.
"Might I finish that, Jeeves?" I ventured, throat feeling rather dry.
"It is for you, sir," he answered, passing the rejuvenator to self, who readily accepted and downed it. "Am I given to understand, sir—"
"That I have solved your confounded puzzle? Only partially, I fear, Jeeves."
"Is there any way in which I may assist, sir?"
"Well," I began, enraptured and nerve-wracked by his stalwart form. "Well," I repeated. "I believe that is the very question you were asking me to begin with."
His familiar suggestion of a smile appeared. I was correct. I cleared my throat and dropped my gaze, feeling the anxiety to which I was very well accustomed cloak over me.
"Jeeves, I…"
"Sir?" he encouraged, half a step closer though he hadn't seemed to move.
"I don't know what you're expecting from me," I admitted. "I don't want to disappoint you."
"You couldn't, sir."
"I could," insisted I. "I have before."
"In passing ways, sir, all easily forgivable with time."
"You know I am uneducated in these matters."
"It is hardly a flaw, sir."
"The state of my anatomy is new to me."
"To me as well, sir; all the more reason for experimentation."
In another's mouth, it may have carried the weight of an insult, but I know Jeeves' experiments: cautious, precise, ardent, and exhaustive. When concerning my person, I have never felt that Jeeves may forget my personhood. Or, not in recent years anyway.
"I do not know if things will stay as they are. You know my usual habits. Or my lack of them, that is to say."
"The mind, sir, can undergo many changes. As I hope to remain always in your service, I expect much to come and pass, sir."
"Be all that as it may, I don't think I… I don't know if I would want to… erm."
Jeeves was waiting patiently for me to illuminate this particular concern, but I was finding it rather difficult to state straightforwardly. I racked my mind for easier phrases. None came to my rescue. The man who I would usually turn to for aid in softening challenging sentiments was the very one who needed the sentiment-ing, and so all I could offer were some half-voiced stutters.
Finally, Jeeves did what he could:
"Perhaps it would help, sir, if I communicated my own wishes."
"Yes please, Jeeves, thank you," said I, sagging in relief.
"I would like to stimulate you to orgasm, clean you, and leave you to sleep, sir. I can sleep alongside you, sir, if it is your strong preference, but I admit it is not mine."
"Oh," I breathed.
"Any offense is unintentional, sir. I merely find it easier to rest alone, sir."
"No offense taken, Jeeves! I'm just utterly relieved! At every turn you seem impossibly more perfect. I can hardly believe my fortune, that I may share my life with you."
"Your opinion is appreciated, sir, but not widely shared. It is possible that I would have married in my youth were I not as I am, sir. My nature, sir, is often offensive to those with whom I engage in intimacy."
I blinked, struggling to square my own familiarity with such troubles with the objective obviousness of Jeeves' excellence. Is that too many "with"s? I mean to say, it is easy to understand in the context of Bertram Wooster how a lack of affection could be met with tears, violence, and bloodshed, seeing as his personality and lifestyle offer little else. It is not so easy to imagine anyone allowing Jeeves to slip through their fingers for any reason, let alone so paltry a concern as bed-sharing.
(Upon later reflection, and when that reflection reflected on the endless conversations to which my friends have subjected me regarding the physical forms of their paramours and all the things they'd like to do with their p.'s p.f.s, I supposed I could understand how one might be disappointed to learn such a fine figure as Jeeves would not allow them to lick him from head to toe, par exemple. A foolish thing to make a thing about, nonetheless.)
"Jeeves," I finally declared, "your nature is your nature, and you are perfection, so your nature could be nothing else."
Being a chappie of starch, it is easier to notice Jeeves relax than the inverse, and I was happy to notice it then. My ability at comfort is greatly variable, and as well as I know him, the inner workings of Jeeves' mind remain mysterious to me.
"Thank you, sir. I might speak similarly about you, sir."
We beamed, each at our respective wattages.
Caught up in my stint as a lamp, I seemed to lose track of time. It was only reintroduced to me when Jeeves coughed—my sheep on a distant hill, though the hill in question was about three steps away.
"If I may be impertinent, sir—"
"The situation seems to call for it!"
"Would you care to return to your room?"
"Only if you'll be accompanying me, Jeeves."
"Certainly, sir."
He guided me by hand to sit on my bed; a feat I can usually accomplish myself, but in the moment, it seemed my limbs would undertake no action not directed by Jeeves. My blessed man wasted no time in stripping my body below the waist, which concluded with him eroding the knees of his irreproachable suit to kneel before me. Again, the Wooster corpus was his instrument to conduct (or orchestra? I wonder if a mere instrument could capture his music). Jeeves spread my thighs just far enough apart for him to situate himself between them. His gloves were compelling and soft on my skin, an aspect seemingly inseparable from the man.
Oh, forgive me if it seems I forget on occasion that he is a creature of bone, muscle, and flesh like the rest of us. If I do, it is only because that is the view he presents me.
There have been rare occasions where I might spy upon the man in revelry, amongst his peers on or off duty, deep in his cups or sipping a delicate tea while lost in the musings of brains comparable to his own. Through those few peeks, I have concluded that Jeeves is never portraying solely the soul our Lord granted him. He is always filtered, one way or another. I suspect from birth to adolescence, his train of thought must have featured a mantra such as, Now, Reginald, don't forget you are yet a mere babe, mustn't reveal your innate talents until they might be understood. Indeed, once he is buried in his grave, he may lie there, eyes shut, arms crossed, thinking, It is only natural that I be dead, and so I shall be until I am required elsewhere.
All to say: I do know that Jeeves is a human before he is a valet! It is only that Jeeves would seem to disagree, and there are few facts in the world on which he is mistaken.
Also, admittedly, I rather like him as my valet. I do need one, being a cove who requires some looking after, but I would rather learn to manage a household myself and allow my dear pal Reggie to ridicule my every error than to hire another valet. Fortunately for my education-adverse noggin, Jeeves had, many times over, proved his conviction as to maintaining his role as it was then and is now in perpetuity, regardless of changing fashions. Some of my more politically minded friends have admonished my keeping a servant in this modern age, but even they have had occasion to be thankful for his efforts.
My ponderings have gotten away from me. Rest assured, as I sat on my bed with my man kneeling hungry before me, I thought of nothing but his familiar, calming touch.
"If you would come slightly forward, sir," he requested to my immediate obedience. "Please do not hesitate to position yourself however is most comfortable, sir."
I was formulating some guff relating to how he always seems to know better than I how I'd be most comfortable, but was thoroughly distracted by Jeeves tracing my labia with his thumbs, gently parting them and revealing my glistening sex. Then, his examination seemingly complete, my disused opening was again concealed. I felt some relief.
His thumb stroked upwards through my soaked, thickly textured hair. I focused on his face, feeling always more grounded when observing Jeeves. He was breathing deeply, and I realized he must have been inhaling my scent. The sensation and his gaze (as sharp as an academic devouring a thesis) were so alien, I had the sudden urge to call the whole thing off.
Strangely, I felt as I did watching him cavort with his compatriots.
A voyeur peering at a world not intended for me.
Perhaps Jeeves noticed my shift in mood, as his focus flicked in an instant from the desperation-made-manifest between my legs to my expression, which must have looked unsure. His hands vanished, and my skin burned for their return as my lungs caught up on the breathing they'd been neglecting.
"Sir?" he prompted, giving me no out.
"I'm sorry, Jeeves," I sighed, attempting to dry my sweaty hands on my equally sweaty thighs. "I feel terribly out of place."
"Would you prefer we stop for the evening, sir?"
His phrasing comforted me some. He would not give up on me so quickly for a bit of unease. Still, I shook my head no and said as much aloud.
"Are you certain, sir? I wish only to take care of you, sir; do not discomfort yourself for my sake."
"Thank you, Jeeves. Have I mentioned lately how you are the lodestar of my life, if I might borrow a phrase from my more romantically-inclined friends?"
"You keep me well informed of it, sir."
Speaking low and earnest, I asked him, "Please continue. I trust you as I trust no one else in the world, and I don't think I could sleep now if I tried. This is unfamiliar territory to me, that is all."
"If you promise, sir, that you have no other doubts…"
"None, Jeeves."
His hands reappeared.
"Then I will continue, sir."
Emboldened by my assurances, he took a firm handful of my pubic hair and pulled it up towards my stomach. I gasped, the sensation briefly painful but not at all unpleasant, then realized what he'd accomplished: my aching, begging clitoris was freed to air while the rest of my vulnerable anatomy remained hidden. For a split second, it seemed to my eyes that Jeeves had given me a penis, humble as it was.
His tongue, broad and flat, licked over me, and any thought of terminology fled my brain along with the rest of them, aware only of warm, wet pleasure.
I am aware, if distantly, of Jeeves' breadth of experience in this domain. I suppose it can be no surprise that a good portion of the populace sees the same shimmering god-on-Earth as I, and rightly have no power to resist his advances or, indeed, the urge to fling themselves into his arms.
With my head tilted back in ecstasy, sweat adhering hair to face, I momentarily grasped the full gravity and fortune of his presence in my household. Of course, I am always grateful that he should think me a worthy employer, but it is different to frame the idea in the context of his theoretical marriage. Would he have had children? Likely, for the sake of propriety and/or his wife. Fatherhood, to children at least, is not his calling. Perhaps if they were born as young adults, he would be more in his element, though I doubt his wife would fare well through the ordeal.
(These were not my precise thoughts in the moment, you understand, merely representative. I admit it is an image that haunts me still.)
Presumably, Jeeves sensed both my troubled thoughts and that they did not merit a pause. In correction of this, in the midst of his tender-fierce tongue soothing and tormenting me, white cotton fingers meandered over my thigh until they found vulnerable flesh and pinched viciously. I cried out in pain, which seemed to incite tight suction that rendered my cry rather more wanton. The pinch continued—worsened, in fact—until his lips moved to pacify the blood-red skin. I endeavored to catch my breath.
"Good Lord, Jeeves," panted I. "Do you plan to keep hurting me and rewarding me for taking it?"
Jeeves kissed my throbbing skin, then met my eye.
"If you continue to permit it, sir. It has long been a custom of ours."
"Oh. That it has, thinking of it."
I considered contemplating asking him to stop, but the conception of a thought was plainly ludicrous. What sort of life would it be to live, if Jeeves did not have tyrannical control over my body and its afflictions?
"I suddenly feel I should thank you," I informed him.
"You are most welcome, sir."
With that, he returned to his ministrations. I may have been imagining things, but I do believe his grip on my sensitive hairs tightened.
"Thank you, Jeeves," I breathed with all my heart. "I would do anything for your happiness. I know I only ever want to stay at home, but—anywhere, anywhere you wish, you have only to say, or—" I laughed, a heady thing largely of carnal joy, "or to trick me into it, as you do so well—oh, Jeeves—"
And I departed. Being the only party able to confirm, I must assure any hypothetical reader that the Wooster heart ceased to beat, and the Wooster soul glimpsed the afterlife. Nevertheless, I remained aware throughout of Jeeves' mouth, no longer a source of stimulation so much as a provider of shelter from the outside world. I could have stayed happily there forever.
Instead, my arms collapsed behind me, and my back fell against my bed. With a parting kiss on my sensitized flesh that sent a shiver through me, Jeeves pulled away. He stood and, true to his word, had within minutes cleansed me of all sweat and sap, redressed me in clean pajamas, and slipped me between crisp sheets.
"What did I ever do to deserve you, Jeeves?" I murmured as he sent my room into darkness.
"Nothing you haven't done by nature, sir," he replied, and exited.