Chapter 8

I'd discovered that an internal mantra had been my only available tool to retain my sanity during the course of this trying day. It had come to me, first, when Mr. Wooster had wandered into the kitchen while I was preparing dinner, only to untuck his crisp, linen shirt.

This presented me not only with his shirt-tails, which he proffered to be examined, but a breathtaking view of the soft planes of his lower stomach. His smooth skin, lightly furred and tapering into the finespun of his trouser-waist, gave rise to the hills of his hipbones, and I was momentarily deaf to his voice.

"...Do you think you can fix this, Jeeves? Or shall we take it in to the tailory?"

My eyes snapped to the torn buttonhole, the bottom one on the shirt, and before thinking, I reached a hand out to finger the material. To touch his shirt was only natural, of course, to determine the extent of the necessary repairs. The fabric was warm from where it had pressed against his skin all day, and soft. The backs of my knuckles accidentally grazed the soft skin of his stomach, and it vaguely occurred to me to wonder why he had chosen not to wear the undershirt I had set out for him this morning. His stomach contracted a little at my touch, then he seemed to lean a little closer, so the back of my hand made further, electric contact with the area just below his navel.

In my mind, a stern and horrified voice suddenly admonished, 'I will not allow my body to react. I will simply renounce my hormonal response.'

"I should be capable of making the repairs, Sir. I don't believe it to necessitate a trip to the tailor shop." I withdrew my hand, turned to the stove, and forcibly focused my attention on seasoning the soup. The mantra had worked, after a fashion. But it would certainly not be the last time that evening that my mind recited it.

An age and a half passed after dinner, while I waited for the earliest appropriate time to excuse myself. Safe behind the heavy oak of my door, I breathed a sigh of exhaustion. After years of falling into the practice of cloaking my reactions to my employer, I would have thought I would have become more adept. Clearly I was having an off day, after the debacle on the night previous. With a shudder of mixed pleasure and unease, I retired with an improving book.

"This term [sodomy has its origin in the story (narrated in Genesis, ch. xix) of Lot's visitors whom the men of Sodom desired to have intercourse with, and of the subsequent destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah. This story furnishes a sufficiently good ground for the use of the term, though the Jews do not regard sodomy as the sin of Sodom, but rather inhospitality and hardness of heart to the poor (J. Preuss, Biblisch-Talmudische Medizin, pp. 579-81), and Christian theologians also, both Catholic and Protestant (see, e.g., Jahrbuch für sexuelle Zwischenstufen, vol. iv, p. 199, and Hirschfeld, Homosexualität, p. 742), have argued that it was not homosexuality, but their other offenses, which provoked the destruction of the Cities of the Plain."

I paused in my reading, and rested the gentle heft of Ellis's well-worn volume against my chest, staring at the window opposite my bed. I sat propped against the iron of my headboard, attempting to banish my disquiet from the day with a reassuring treatise of mental health.

The lamp was low, and the room quiet and pleasant. At first, I didn't notice the door ease open, lost in thought as I was. Mr. Wooster was barefoot, and his tread was light against the carpet.

When I turned to see him, my fingers gripping the cover of the book against my chest tightened in surprise. He stood just inside the door, smiling slightly, with his face freshly scrubbed and slightly reddened. He wore his pajamas, and a dressing robe, and I noted that the low amber of the lamp played over his hair with enticing golden gleams.

"Did you have need of me, Sir?" I asked, and heard in my voice a quality of realization-- a strange sort of change that was occurring, shifting and taking form on this night, which must have explained for my own reluctance to stand at my usual defenses to address him.

"Doing some light reading, Jeeves?" he said, brushing the pads of his feet against the floor as he walked slowly nearer.

"A little, to quiet the mind," I said, in the stillness of the room. All was motionless except for his steady glide towards my bed.

"What is it you have there?" he asked, eyeing my book.

"Nothing of consequence, Sir."

"Is it? Really? Let me see."

"I promise you, it's nothing of any interest."

"Then let me see it," he was beside me, now, his thighs against the edge of the bed, and his grinning eyes fixed on the volume in my hands. He reached out for it, and before I could think, I pulled it away, out of reach. A childish instinct.

"Jeeves! Let me see!" he laughed, and lunged for the book. His knee was on the bed, now, as he reached further over the bed to grab at the volume. I held it as far as my reach would allow, unsure why I did not desire for him to glimpse the book, and distracted at his nearness as he lunged for it, over my body.

Laughing, he gave up after a moment, and his hand, which had reached to grab at my book, fell limply to my chest. I was aware of his knee still dimpling the coverlet, and then his thumb began to make soothing swipes over the dip in my collarbone, bared by the neck of my pajamas. His expression had become serious, his eyes heavy-lidded and fixed on my own.

'I will not allow my body to react. I will simply renounce my hormonal response.' But the internal mantra hadn't prevented my long, slow blink, and my hand holding the book to fall to the bed. I heard the book thud against the floor as it fell between the wall and bed.

"Jeeves," he murmured, and suddenly his knee rolled and he was on the bed from hip to ankle. His hand slid from my chest to my stomach, and my breath fell a little more rapidly from my parted lips. His eyes had fallen to my mouth.

His lips curved in a sweet smile, and he brushed them against my cheek, before they traveled featherlight along my jawline. The heat of him radiated against me like lapping waves, as his other leg curled to join it's partner on the edge of my bed.

I held still as a hunted deer.

' Iwillnotallowmybodytoreact. Iwillsimplyrenouncemyhormonalresponse.' But oh, it was useless.

I could feel him nuzzle my neck below my ear, and then the vibrating purr of his voice.

"What were you reading about, Jeeves?" and his voice was low and heady, and who was that man in my pajamas who was breathing as if he had run a race?

Below the covers I was undeniably aching and needy. On the bedspread, my hands had started contracting in slow clenches in an effort not to touch him. I had been reduced to a creature of pure want, and in moments, I was going to break, and Mr. Wooster was going to be shocked at having unleashed all the years of desire I'd retained for him.

Was he prepared? Had I induced his realization prematurely, with my impatiently nudging him to face Dr. Ellis's diagnosis? Was I even capable of continuing to follow this preventative line of reasoning when his tongue was darting out to moisten his lips, and grazing the lobe of my ear? Not in the slightest.

In a moment, my hands were gripping his upper-arms, and pulling him fully onto the bed. My lips fell open against the curve of his neck, where I breathed raggedly.

"Sir... Sir... You're going to have to declare your intentions, this evening. I... I'm going to need to hear it," I rasped against the warm skin below his ear. The tremble in my voice was tempered by his own gasp, and the clutch of his fingers into the fabric of my pajama top.

"Jeeeves..." he murmured against my temple. "I want to stay here, with you. If it's not too much trouble..."

I set my teeth for a moment. "You wish to sleep beside me, Sir?" I asked, with a deliberate note of incredulity. My breath came fast, in a tinny whine.

"Wasn't exactly the extent of my plans, Jeeves," he said, and I could feel his breath on my ear again. The man may have been considered to be mildly dim in certain situations, but I was beginning to suspect that in one particular area, he possessed a natural adeptness that stemmed from his well-developed sense of empathy. To no-one had I ever before revealed the extent of my aural sensitivity, as it were, but he'd manage to cotton on to that bit of information with the speed and skill of a prodigy.

"I'd had a mind to... seducing you, Jeeves, if you wouldn't mind too terribly," he whispered, and something about the earnest way he said it, with his body suddenly very still, convinced me of the solemnity of his offer.

It was enough, to break me from my stranglehold with my own reserve.

I pulled him atop me fully, and met his grinning mouth with my own lips. As loquacious as I often find my interactions with Mr. Wooster, for this I would allow the words to fail me, beautifully. It was perfect, and it wasn't enough, somehow, and I parted my mouth against his to lunge forward again and again and taste his mouth, first his soft pink bottom lip, slightly moist, then the point in his upper lip. His teeth were like wet pearls and I was drowning in the satin of his soft mouth and the slight scrape of the growth since this morning's shave. I was drugged in the brush of our noses and the feel of his hair at the nape of his neck, clutched in my fingers to draw his face closer to my own; In the sounds he made, soft undulating gasps that broke to the surface when our mouths parted briefly to come together again in alternating fast then slow collisions and duels.

His hips were rocking against my own. The scent of his clean nightclothes mingled with the earthy smell of his skin, and rose up between us to choke me. I could feel the hard length of him alongside my own arousal, pressing close. My fingers smoothed down from his neck to the lapels of the dressing robe that was coming off one shoulder. Mindful, blearily, of the fine material and careful lapel crease, I eased the other side off his shoulder, and felt a dizzying jolt of arousal as his arms became pinned to his sides. I hadn't expected my own reaction to his confinement, and I tried to clear my mind to examine it, when I felt the full weight of him atop me, and realized that he was wriggling frantically out of his robe. He managed to pull his arms free, and then his hands were cupping my jaw again, to angle my face to his lips.

Kissing him seems to free my hands to do as they would without instruction from my mind. My fingers traveled town his lean back, to where they encountered the shucked material of his robe, still hanging from the tie at his waist that had begun to slip. I fisted the material in my hand and tossed it from the bed, with a moment's thought for the well-being of the material, before my hands slipped, shaking, over the rise of his gluteal muscle. There, lightheaded, I gripped him while I softly bit his lower lip, and ground his hips hard against my own, causing us both to moan.

It was proceeding at a drugged pace, and yet the speed of things seems beyond my control. Mr. Wooster was slipping the ivory buttons through the holes of my pajama top, and rubbing the tip of his lightly freckled nose against the skin as it became bared. Breath slipped in and out of my lips at an alarming rate, and I swallowed hard to moisten my mouth and attempt some control. He had reached my ribcage in seemingly no amount of time, and then my shirt had parted and he was urging the sleeves over my shoulders. I sat up with a speed that nearly dislodged him, and shrugged out of the material, my eyes on the hasty progression of his fingers down the length of his own buttons.

And there we were, two men kneeling shirtless and facing one another on a ironframed bed in a small apartment, panting slightly and moving slowly to press our bodies together. His hands traveled maddeningly up the curve of my spine, and the warmth of his naked arms around my sides was enough to make my mouth curve a little against his temple. His movements seemed reverent, hesitant and yearning at once. It seemed to mirror the vibrating nervousness in my breast, and I brought my hands up to curve around the bones of his hips. The feeling was not unlike the night previous-- the muscles no less scintillating, the soft downy skin above the waistband of his pajama bottoms no less electric.

His own hands traveled back down the length of my spine, where his thumbs hooked into my own waistband, and began to pull downwards.

"Jeeves," he panted against my clavicle, "May I?"

"By all means," I returned, "If I may reciprocate?" My voice was uncharacteristically breathy, but I found myself unable to muster sufficient concern over the breach in decorum.

In moments, we were shifting our weights from one knee at a time to remove the last remaining garments, and then we stilled, facing each other.

Nude, my employer's long limbs and lightly muscled frame is all freckled, satin skin and soft furred junctions. I'll admit to dressing him well to set off the beauty of his frame, but I'm satisfied to keep to myself how startlingly beautiful he was, kneeling and flushed and unadorned. He'd leaned back a bit on the balls of his feet, to regard me in turn. The movement tightened the muscles of his stomach, and set off my salivary glands. His right hand made a slow progression across the space between us, to bump against the meat of my thigh, where the backs of his fingers smoothed up against the grain of hairs there, rising to comb through the denser hairs at the base of my hips. I trembled on my knees, grateful I wasn't standing.

I was taking short bursts of breath through my nose, and clenching my teeth from the pleasure of his touch. His eyes were fixed below, intent, which allowed me to study the planes of his face in deep concentration. His mouth had fallen open a bit, and his tongue came out to moisten his lip, and then, with a flick of his wide blue eyes to my own, his hand closed around the width of my arousal, and I let go a choking cry. With a slow, measured movement, he leaned his hips forward, until my erection was snug between his perfect thighs, and his stomach met my own, with his own pulsing hardness trapped between us. His hands fell to my shoulders, and the warmth of the full press of our bodies was intoxicating. My arms came around him to press him yet closer, and I heard his gasp of pleasure as the pressure increased. In response, he tightened his knees, pressing my hardness between his thighs, and the feeling was so exquisite, that I thrust against him, penetrating his thighs and clamping his erection between our stomachs again. His fingers dug into my shoulders, and his forehead came to rest against the side of my neck. I could feel his shaky breathing against my chest with every delicious thrust. Above my shaft was the softness of his scrotum, and the sweat of his thighs made my way slippery between the taught femoral muscles. At the apex of each thrust, the very tip of me brushed against the underside of his buttocks, and at each downstroke, the skin of my stomach grazed over his own arousal.

His hips thrust minutely in double time against my stomach, and I began to increase the rhythm of my own movements. My head fell back in pleasure, and my hands gripped his sides as we began to move frantically against one another. His fingers dug into my shoulders, and his voice was keening in time with his breathing, a desperate sound.

Without thought, I moved so I was gripping the back of his neck, and brought his forehead to my own. We continued to thrust against each other, my shaft stabbing between his thighs as he thrust up against my stomach, and I willed him to open his eyes. As if I'd spoken, he did so, and we were locked in a gaze, close enough that his eyes were all I could see. I began to thrust erratically, whimpers escaping the back of my throat, but the close look held. His forehead pushed against my own, and I watched his eyes widen, as if in panic, and he thrust against me hard, before a warm wetness pulsed up my stomach, bathing me from navel to sternum. His voice choked on my name again and again. It was too much, to stare into his eyes as he reached his apex, and thrusting frantically, I, too, achieved my finish, releasing between his thighs.

With tired, erratic movements, we slowed against each other. He was trembling, curled against my chest. My knees ached, and my hands shook violently, as I smoothed them over his back in a comforting manner.

I silently urged him to turn and lie on his side against me in the bed. Once there, we continued to spasm slightly in dizzy aftershocks, enjoying the warmth and comfort of post-coital intimacy. I could feel his smile appear and re-appear against my neck, and I knew him to be well-pleased with himself. I had to concede that he had every right to be.

I would not allow the feudal guilt I felt creeping along the edges of my bliss. I had been thoroughly seduced, and I intended to relinquish any concerns until morning, at least.

For now, I had far better things to concern myself with. Primarily, there was a patch of skin along my employer's neck that was in need of a thorough examination. After that had been explored, I had a letter of gratitude to pen, to a particular psychological researcher, but that could wait for morning.

The End

Author's Note: All done now! What they just did is called "intercrural sex," or "femoral sex." Look it up! It's a classic greek sex act involving fucking one partner between their thighs. Very hot.

Thank you to everyone reading! I hope you enjoyed it.

Special thanks to Si, who helps me tone down my Jeeves, and suggests sex acts.

Ta!