It is the second night of Mr. Wooster's absence, and I am sitting in the straight-backed chair in the corner of my bedroom, halfway through both a book and a cigarette. I am startled slightly when the telephone rings.

I extinguish my cigarette carefully, so as not to ruin the rest of it, and prop it against the lip of my small glass ashtray. I take my leather bookmark from the side table and tuck it into my page and lay the book beside the ashtray. Then I make my way into the living room to answer the phone.

Mr. Wooster has been gone for only two nights, and yet his absence is palpable. I am unbalanced without the tiny things he leaves out of place. The cushions in which he leaves his imprint, the cigarette ends he leaves in cocktail glasses, the fingerprints he leaves on the piano lid. I miss the million tiny purposes he daily makes for me. Much of the time, there seems to be nothing to do with my hands.

I pick up the telephone on its seventh ring.

'What ho, Jeeves,' comes his voice, echoing and tinny in the bell of the earpiece. I can hear the soft, rumbling murmur of the many miles between us.

Mr. Wooster's telephone is an elegant machine. Its numbers are Bakelite, though its handle is ivory. It is perhaps a little ostentatious for my taste, though I cannot deny that it is pleasing to hold and to speak into.

I dislike the telephone, however, as a rule. I dislike the way it redefines the rules of polite conversation. The way it disguises so many small clues to the psychology of the individual. The way it distorts the voice and warps the intent of one's words.

'Good Evening, Sir,' I say. I cannot bring myself to begin a telephone conversation with 'Hello.' I greet him as I would do were we speaking face-to-face. 'How is Totleigh Towers?'

'Oh,' his voice resounds after a slight pause, 'I'm there no longer, Jeeves. Made my escape last night, don't you know? The Auntly One was planning to hitch-' his voice dissolves into a cacophony of crackles, resolving at last into, '-trouble than they're worth, what?'

'I fear, Sir,' I say, 'That there may be some interference on the line. Could you please repeat your last sentence?'

I also dislike the mechanical shortcomings of this technology. The difficulty it creates in communicating, when it claims to make communication so much easier. It is hard enough to say what one means without the hiss and the splutter of inadequate machinery as one's intermediary. I relish progress. Science. Discovery. But I am impatient for a time when the faults in this invention are ironed out. I view them with the same disdain as unwanted creases in Mr. Wooster's suit trousers.

'Sorry, Old Thing,' he says, speaking more loudly and deliberately now than perhaps he needs to. 'Think there's a whopper of a storm somewhere in the Midlands. Interfering with the line, no doubt. Never mind. Not important anyhow. Heading back tomorrow, in any case. I'll explain all then. How's the old homestead?'

'All is well, Sir,' I report. 'Somewhat quiet. I look forward to your return.'

'I too, Jeeves. I too.'

'When can I anticipate your arrival, Sir?'

'Around noon, I should expect.'

'Very good, Sir.'

I shall expect him around three in the afternoon.

'Have a pot of tea on for me, would you?' he asks. 'And get in some of those good Turkish gaspers. You know the ones I like, Jeeves.'

'Very good, Sir. What would you like for luncheon?'

'Any gammon hanging about?'

'I believe a joint could be acquired, Sir.'

'Topping good news.'

'Indeed, Sir.'

We lapse into silence for a moment. I cannot help but feel that there is some other reason for the call. He is impulsive, and would think nothing usually of returning early unannounced. Without observing his face, however, and the expression in his eye – the movements of his limbs and the tilt of his head – I cannot be certain of what he is hiding.

'Jeeves,' comes his voice, slightly reedy and urgent, 'Are you still there?'

'Yes, Sir,' I say. 'I was waiting for you to say something, Sir.'

'Were you?' he says, sounding surprised. 'Bit of pressure, what?'

'I intended none, Sir,' I say.

'Oh, I know that, Old Thing.' He clears his throat quite loudly. 'Always felt a bit rummy, to me, what?'

'Sir?'

'This contraption.'

'The telephone, Sir?'

'That's the blighter. Gives me the willies. Not being able to see the face of one's conversational partner.'

'It is somewhat disconcerting, Sir, I agree.'

'Sort of opens the back door and all the windows for the wily cat burglar of dishonesty, if you ask me.'

'In certain circumstances, Sir, that might indeed be the case.'

'Mind you, in others...' He falls silent again for a long moment, and I begin to fear we have lost our connection entirely. With this phrase, I realise that his voice is slightly slurred. It is not, as I had thought, the distortion of the telephone line. He has certainly been drinking.

'In others, Sir?' I ask, a feeling of foreboding tickling up my spine.

'In others, it might be easier, somehow,' he goes on. 'Easier to say things. Things that one never...' His voice trails off once more, swallowed up by the ghostly hiss and crackle of the line. I am unsure whether his words have been lost in the static, or whether he is simply lost for words.

'Is there something troubling you, Sir?' I say, at length. 'Any matter in which I might be of assistance?' I enunciate each word carefully, to be sure that it reaches him safe and whole.

'I say, Jeeves,' he says, 'Have you been smoking?'

This question is unexpected, and perturbs me slightly. I instinctively clear my throat, covering the mouthpiece so that he cannot hear my cough.

'I have, Sir,' I say. 'I was smoking in my room when I heard the telephone.'

I try my very best not to sound defensive.

'I can hear it, Jeeves,' he says. 'In your voice.' There is something in his voice when he says, this. Something low, and warm and approving. It strikes me as most peculiar, and makes me somewhat anxious.

'I apologise, Sir,' I say.

'Don't,' he says, at once. 'Don't apologise, Jeeves.' I hear the commotion of shifting fabric and creak of bedsprings in the background. His steady, slow breathing persists quietly beneath the static. 'I rather like it,' he says.

I feel at once as though I must sit down. My fingers tight around the ivory handle of the receiver, I step backwards and lower myself into the cushioned chair I know is directly behind me, beside the telephone table. I would never dream of sitting in Mr. Wooster's physical presence, and this feels very much like such a transgression. My palms begin to sweat slightly.

'I hope the facilities of the guesthouse are adequate to your needs, Sir,' I say, knowing that my voice sounds slightly forced and hollow.

'Topping, Jeeves,' he says. 'Topping. Good horseradish. No room service, though.' He coughs. 'Let's talk, Jeeves.'

'I was under the impression that we were, Sir.'

'Properly, Jeeves. I mean let's talk properly.'

'Do you not think it might be best to retire now, Sir' I ask. I do not add, 'To sleep it off,' though it is clearly implied.

'Tosh, Jeeves,' he says. 'I've had one or two, I'll not deny it. Completely compos-mentos, though, I can assure you.'

'I am relieved to hear it, Sir,' I say. I am, however, feeling increasingly tense and unsure. I am cut off from Mr. Wooster – I cannot see him. Miles separate us, and yawn like a chasm in between. Yet he is whispering in my ear, quite intimately. 'I feel I must ask, Sir,' I say, 'whether this is a private line?'

'Naturally, Jeeves,' he says. 'Naturally.' There follows another long pause, during which I hear the bedsprings creak once more, then the sharp snick of a striking match and the crackle of burning paper and tobacco. 'I'll be honest with you,' he says, at last. 'I've had more than one or two.'

'Indeed, Sir?' I attempt to sound surprised.

'Yes. Needed a bit of Dutch Courage, what?'

My heart palpitates rather unpleasantly. Several possible exchanges unfold in my imagination from this point, and I feel unequipped for all of them.

'Why would you need courage to telephone me, Sir?' I ask. Then, quite suddenly afraid of his answer, I continue to talk. 'All is in order here. Mr. Chuffnell called yesterday to enquire as to the date of your return. I gave him a forecast of three days, though it seems now it was inaccurate.'

'I've been wondering,' he says, rather dreamily. 'Wondering.' I have seldom heard him so contemplative. So strange.

'Perhaps we should continue this conversation when you return, Sir. It may be more appropriately conducted face-to-face-'

'-No, Jeeves. No. I couldn't do it face-to-face. I've thought about it. I've tried. I've almost... once or twice. But I think I could broach the subject now, what? The thing is, you see, that-'

'-Do you wish me to acquire some of the Bergamot soap, Sir, that you appreciated during our recent hotel stay in Harrogate? Or would you prefer your usual brand?'

'Really, Jeeves, I'd like you to listen to me for just a moment-'

'-I fear it may be difficult to find, but I might call the hotel and enquire as to their supplier-'

'-Jeeves, I do wish you would hear me out, Old Thing-'

'-Unless of course they order it in bulk from a catering supplier, in which case I could seek out a comparable substitute-'

'-I know, Old Thing, that you... you know. That you watch me.'

I swallow hard against a thickness in my throat.

Part of me had been holding out hope that perhaps he was leading up to a reprimand for disposing of his favourite lavender tie, or the announcement that the promised trip to Japan in July would now be impossible. Or that he was sick of me, tired of my arrogance, and had written me a severance check that would arrive in the post within three days.

'I haven't the least idea to what you're referring, Sir.' I keep my voice steady. Devoid of anxiety, defensiveness or displeasure. All of these feelings stick in my throat like fish bones, tearing at the flesh there, as I force the words past them.

'Yes you do,' he says, his voice low – almost a whisper. 'You know you do. You'll deny it. I knew you'd deny it. But you know what I'm talking about. You watch me.'

The ivory of the phone handle has grown very hot in my hand.

'I must object, Sir. Whatever you think you have perceived, you're mistaken. I-'

He interrupts, breaking every rule of conversational etiquette to smithereens. The telephone gives one an excuse to do such things.

'-You watch me in the mornings. Before I wake. Before I let you know I'm awake.'

I close my eyes and breathe in deeply. There is no other possible protest to make. No pretence I can construct that would deny it effectively.

'If you were aware of it, Sir, I cannot comprehend why you'd let me continue.'

For I do.

I do stand and watch him. In the mornings, I make my way to his room some length of time before he prefers to waken. I do not knock upon his door to rouse him when I bring in his breakfast tray. I open it quietly, and stand just inside the door, occasionally for upwards of fifteen minutes, before I step forward and cough gently, to alert him to my presence. It is difficult to say precisely why I do this. There is something indefinable about his softly breathing shape beneath the covers that arrests me. It has become habit to watch him in this way, and I find I must continue.

It is appalling, unthinkable and completely unacceptable, however, that if he has noticed it, he has chosen not to mention it for the several months since the habit arose. Even more unmentionable that he should choose to mention it now, when it seems very much like an accusation of something horrible and inappropriate.

'It's alright, Jeeves,' he says. 'It's alright. I don't mind in the least. That's what I wanted to tell you... I...'

And with that, he begins a confused and disjointed monologue that gradually reveals sentiments too meaningful, pertinent and shocking to entertain. His words are erratic, but far from nervous. They are uttered loudly, almost boorishly, with an unhappy, meandering sort of resignation, weaving and lurching from notion to notion, like a melancholy drunk staggering home.

'Beazels, Jeeves, I think you know that – it never felt quite The Thing, you know, and of course at Eton... Well. There was a certain Master... and naturally I was a fag, and these things – what I mean is... I've never felt quite... though I don't think I could keep it to myself any longer. Wouldn't be any sort of life, what? And it's a risk. But you're an open-minded sort of chap, aren't you? And even if you left me, and never came back, I don't think you'd go as far as to... You see, if you read The Portrait of Mr. W.H, I... And you will have done. You've read everything. I just feel so blasted... And you've helped me with everything else, Jeeves. Every other problem I've had, you've fished me right out of the soup and as I've no one else to turn to I thought that I might prevail upon you again. In this circumstance. I don't think that-'

'-You are rambling, Sir, quite terribly,' I interrupt, simply because I cannot bear to hear any more.

I am unsure of how I came upon the knowledge of human sexual desire and the ways of satiating it. No one – not my father, not my schoolmaster, not a friend or a priest or an uncle – ever sat me down and explained to me the Facts of Life. They dawned upon me as I grew from a child into a man – pieced them together from half-eavesdropped conversations, books fictional and non-fictional and the stirrings and urges of my own body.

At thirteen, whilst working at a girls' school, I befriended a fellow page boy for a time. A year older than me, he seemed a year younger, with a slight build, watery eyes and fair hair. During long nights in our shared room, I would sometimes listen to his steady, even breathing, and know that he was awake, pretending to sleep. Occasionally, when undressing, I would deliberately face him, so that he could see my privates as they were unveiled, before I dressed in my pyjamas.

One afternoon, he and I were locked together in a small, stinking outhouse as punishment for borrowing a book from the Music Mistress's private chambers without permission. I spent the entire three hours in a state of nervous excitement, my skin prickling with goose bumps, my breath coming fast and my heart thundering in my chest at the closeness of his form in the pitch black.

I seldom revisit these memories during the day.

Sometimes, however, in the quiet of my room at night, I wonder that perhaps these things might, if I had been determined enough, have evolved into something more intense, complete and fulfilling. Occasionally, when I look upon Mr. Wooster, in the mornings when I bring his tea, before I wake him by parting the curtains, thoughts of this time bloom in my mind like sleeping flowers opening. And the following night, in the quiet of my room, my memories mix themselves with thoughts of Mr. Wooster. My mind spawns fantasies too perverse to entertain in the daylight.

The things I think, I shiver to acknowledge.

'Please, Sir-'

'-I lie very still, Jeeves. I hear you. I know you're there. I know you're there for ever so long.'

'Please-'

'-Ever so long before I open my eyes. What are you looking at? Are you looking at my golden hair? My sleep-softened expression? My limbs, splayed in repose?'

'If you do not cease this line of questioning, Sir, I will end this call.'

'Are you looking at my cock tenting the bedclothes?'

I draw in a sharp breath at this. The obscenity stings me like a slap across the face, making me blink and swallow. My cheeks begin to tingle and a shivering, electric ribbon of feeling ties itself in a bow just above my groin.

'I know your darkest secret, Jeeves,' he says, with some bravado, the falsity of which is betrayed by a crack and a waver on the word 'secret.'

My breath is coming fast and heavy. Bouncing back at me, warm and moist from the mouthpiece of the telephone.

'It's that you're sensual. Wanton. You think and feel things you'd never want anyone to know. You have strange fantasies and wicked thoughts. The things you want I couldn't possibly imagine.' He might be reciting lines from a play. He has rehearsed this little speech.

'Sir,' I say, and the word is barely audible amidst my ragged breath.

'Tell me your worst one,' he demands, with a clear note of anxiety in his voice.

And it springs, fully formed, to the front of my mind. Vivid, gaudily painted, glorious and horrific. The one that I take out late at night, when I pant all on my own into my pillow. That I have never acknowledged in the daytime. The thought of voicing it is abhorrent.

'Fine,' he says. 'I'll tell you mine, shall I?'

Still I do not reply.

'I will,' he says. 'I'll tell you. I always imagine I'll be playing my piano – it doesn't matter what song – and you'll come in from the Junior Ganymede.'

'Sir, if you say this, we cannot-'

'-Only – don't ask me why, perhaps you were celebrating the birthday of a fellow member, or some such – you'll be drunk.'

'Sir-' I consider putting the phone down. I could, and retire to my room. Go to bed. But I am trembling. Truly trembling. In a way I never have before, without a fever for excuse. If I were to leave things here, it might just kill me, like a sudden shock into wakefulness might kill a sleepwalker.

'-Not fall-down drunk, not quite. But far enough under the surface that your cheeks are red and you're muddled and slow and can't quite walk in a straight line. And you're embarrassed, naturally, but too foxed to care too much. And I have to help you to bed. And on the way there's some talk, some revelation or confession and other such expositional necessaries – changes, this bit, sometimes you tell me you've loved me all along, sometimes you fall against me and feel that I'm hard – and the upshot is that when you fall into bed, you pull me down with you. And from there, you let me... You let me-'

This is the moment in which I lose myself and find my voice. It is partly irritation at the impertinence of his fantasy, partly anger that he has forced this awkward thing out into the open, partly fierce and inconvenient arousal that prompts me to say,

'Is this what you want from me, then, Sir? You want me helpless and incapacitated beneath you? Yours to do anything you want with? This is your fantasy?'

He entirely misses the anger in my voice.

'Yes,' he says, his tone ardent. 'Yes. God, yes.'

'I do not know what to say to that, Sir. I really do not.' I feel in a dream. I look at the whiskey decanter on the side table ten feet away, and think of draining the thing. I lay the phone down on the table.

'Say what you bally well feel, Man!' I hear leak quietly into the still of the room – a small voice from the abandoned telephone as I cross to the drinks table and pour myself two fingers of neat whiskey.

'Jeeves,' I hear his voice chirrup from the phone. 'Jeeves?'

I drink it in one, pour myself another and drink that, too.

'Jeeves? Where've you gone, Man?'

I pour myself four fingers and carry the glass back to the telephone. I sit again and pick up the receiver.

'Very well,' I say, with no apology for leaving him hanging. 'I feel you are drunk, Sir, and not in your right mind. I feel that anything you have said this evening will seem ridiculous come the morning.'

'No, you don't.'

'I do, Sir.'

'You feel differently than that.'

'I do not, Sir.' But I do. All the things I feel gather behind my clenched teeth, knocking furiously on the back of them to be released. The whiskey floods my face with warmth. My lips begin to tingle. My tongue feels thicker and looser with each passing second.

'You do, Jeeves. Out with it, Man.'

And so I do.

'I feel, Sir, that if you were to try and use me like that, no matter how drunk I might be, I would take you by the arms and turn you over and come down on top of you with such force you would be astonished.'

At this he lets out an odd sound – a low hiss like a kettle just beginning to boil. And from this point, there is no more pretence between us. No more hedging around the crux of the matter. There is no point. I know that he has decided subtlety is too exhausting, and I, too, am growing weary of the game. Tired of navigating the treacherous minefield of feudal respect. I never thought I would be.

I decide then, with startling suddenness, that I will allow this. This is how it will be. We will whisper these things to each other in the quiet of the night, with hundreds of miles between us. I will humour him, and unburden myself. We will purge ourselves of this thing. And then perhaps when we see each other once more, we can continue as we have done.

'I think about you like I shouldn't, Jeeves,' he says, his voice low and hoarse. 'For a while now. And if I can't bring myself to do anything about it, I can at least talk to you about it. Say the things I want. The things I want to...'

'If you feel you must, Sir,' I say, feeling everything I thought I was slipping away, speaking impatiently now, 'Then tell me. I cannot stop you. Could not. Tell me, Sir. Then we will never speak of it again.'

'Yes,' he says. 'Never again. Good Lord, I want you in so many ways, Jeeves. I've thought about us doing all sorts of things together. All sorts of wicked things...'

'What sorts of things, Sir?' My voice wavers. I take a swallow of whiskey.

'You know, Jeeves.'

'I do not.'

'You do.'

'I do not know. Let us be frank. Would you have us... kissing?'

'Yes, Jeeves. Yes. I would have us kissing. With open mouths. With your tongue in my mouth, and mine in yours.'

I am immediately, almost painfully hard. I feel almost sick with the suddenness of my complete arousal – it makes my head spin and my stomach lurch.

'Would you have us touching, Sir?'

'Yes, Jeeves.'

'Me touching you?' I swallow the rest of the whiskey in the glass, following the burn of it as it washes down my throat and knowing the moment it hits my stomach, leeching through the lining to set my blood on fire.

'Yes.'

'Where? Where would you like me to touch you?'

'My chest.'

'Your chest?'

'My legs.'

'Yes?'

'My stomach.'

'Yes?'

He falls silent.

'Your prick?' I ask.

'God. God. Yes. Jeeves. If you touched my prick...'

I can scarcely believe he is coaxing this talk from me. My vocabulary is extensive and my love of words passionate. There are some words, however, that I have never said, even on my own, at night into my pillow. Words that, when they do echo in my mind's ear, hollow, resonating, guilty whispers, I hurriedly muffle with thoughts of silver polish and the creases in suit trousers. I am saying them now, however. Now they are oozing from my throat like rancid meat churned out of a mince grinder. I can taste them, raw and putrid as they slide over my dry tongue.

'Jeeves. Please. Tell me your greatest fantasy. Tell me what you think of.'

'It would shock you, Sir.'

'It wouldn't.'

'It may.'

'I think not.'

'Besides, Sir, I have many. I have many. That I dip into and out of at my leisure, in the dead of the night. All of them atrocious.'

'Tell me, Jeeves. Tell me them all. One by one.'

'Do you have the patience, Sir?'

'Of a Saint.'

'Very well, Sir. The first one, Sir... My favourite. I am sitting by you at the piano.'

'Good.'

'Do not interrupt. I am sitting by you at the piano, and you are playing a song I dislike. Impertinently, I place my hands atop yours on the keys to still them. Then I lift one of your hands to my mouth and slide your finger – the index finger of your right hand – into my mouth, and suck upon it.'

'Good Lord.'

'I suck upon it hard. I can taste the polish from the piano keys and the warm, dusty flavour of your freshly manicured fingernail. I hold your hand and pull your finger into and out of my mouth. It is just this. For such a long time.'

'Just the finger, Jeeves?'

'Just that, Sir.'

'Another.'

I take a deep breath.

'In another, Sir, we are at Totleigh Towers. We are visiting. In the middle of the night, when the household is abed, I come up from the servants' quarters to find you in your room. I slide under the covers and rouse you with my mouth.'

'Good grief.'

'I am in my nightclothes, and so are you. I turn you over, my hands on your buttocks, and I open you. I spread you apart. I kneel behind you and look at your arsehole. You do not say a word, but I can hear you, breathing heavily, wanting me to. I lick at you, and you moan. I push my tongue inside of you, and you moan the louder still. I pull down my pyjamas and take out my cock and roger you...' I can hear him panting on the other end of the line, and I am panting just as loudly. There seems to be more breath pouring from me than words – syllables groan past like moaning ghosts, snagging with surprise on the sharp corners of consonants – 'All the while I think of your Aunt and your cousin Angela. Seppings and Anatole. All of them sleeping lightly, their dreams invaded by the steady, quiet thump of the bedstead against the wall as I bugger you.'

I could not stop now if I wanted to.

'In another, as I hold out your towel for you after you bathe, you sit up and open the front of my trousers, and I drop the towel and feed you my prick. You take it deep into your throat – so far that you gag and your mouth convulses around me. I do not let you go. You are enjoying it. I pull out – I see your spittle along my length – and slide back into you, and I am hard, so hard... so hard and so hot that I feel I might shatter like glass in a fire were your teeth to knock against me.'

'Oh God, Jeeves,' he says. 'You're making me mad.'

I am unrepentant. I am taking my revenge on him for leading us down this path. If he's greedy for me, I'll sate his hunger with more than he can chew. He can choke on me.

'Could you spend, Sir, just from listening to me? Just from hearing me talk about my hard prick in your mouth? How I'd fuck your mouth until your lips were red and its corners were sore and split?'

Perhaps, though, I have underestimated his appetite.

'I could, Jeeves,' he says, without hesitation. 'I could. But I'm touching myself. Are you?'

'Yes, Sir. I am sitting on the cushioned chair in the living room, with my trousers rolled down to my ankles. If you were here, you could see my socks and my suspenders and my spread legs. You could see my open shirt. I have my hand in my lap, and my prick in my hand. It is so hard, Sir. I can barely stand it... It is wet and it is glistening and it is red and I am pulling at it with long, firm strokes. It is leaking for you. With every stroke it grows harder. I am holding myself in check by the... the thinnest of threads.'

Every word of this is the truth.

'I say. I...'

'Tell me what you are doing, Sir.'

'I don't know whether I can.'

'Yes. You can. You will tell me.'

I thrill with the irreverence of it. Ordering him shamelessly. I do not know whether I wish to be the master or the servant. Either would please me, at this moment. Either would make my stomach clench and my cock stand straighter.

'I'm on my back on the bed,' he says. 'I have no jacket or waistcoat. My shirt is fastened but my trousers... My trousers...'

'This is no time to lose your nerve, Sir.'

'Dammit, I'm f... I'm frigging myself. I'm frigging myself so hard. Thinking of you. Can you hear me? Can you hear my hand slap against my skin?'

'Yes.'

'Now tell me your darkest fantasy. The one you daren't tell me. The one you think will shock me.'

'You may dislike me, Sir.'

'Then I'll dislike you. I'll fire you as soon as I get home.'

'Do not joke, Sir.'

'Tell me.'

'Very well. It is nowhere remarkable. In your bed, or mine. Yours. Let it be yours.'

'Fine. We're in my bed. Go on.'

'You are naked. I am naked. Our skin touches everywhere. You sit up on your haunches, the bedclothes around your shoulders like a robe. You tell me to touch myself. I am too modest. So you begin to persuade me. You talk to me. You say such things.'

'What do I say?'

'You call me a servant. And direct me. And order me. You sit heavy on my legs and do not let me move. You tell me I am cheap, and low, and reprehensible. And I touch myself to your words. Like I am touching myself now, I pull on my prick until it grows stiff and wet and aching for you, until I am on the edge. The very edge. And you talk to me all the while. I see you, looking at my prick, looking at me pulling at myself, and I see that you are aroused. After minutes of this, I come off, up across my belly. And you lean forward and take your hand and rub my seed into my stomach. My stomach is sensitive, Sir...'

'You're a strange old bird, aren't you?' His words are playful but his voice is thick and strained.

'And then when my stomach is wet and shining from my own seed, tingling, pink with the flush of pleasure, you dip your head and lick my seed from me.'

'Strange old bird.'

'Lick it all from my stomach, until my stomach is glistening with saliva, not seed. You do not swallow. You keep my seed upon your tongue, and you lean up to kiss me with your mouth full.'

I am pulling at my prick so hard that I fear I might hurt myself. And I can, indeed, hear Mr. Wooster. I can hear the slap of his hand against his skin, quietly, underneath his heavy, laboured breath. The telephone receiver is held tight between my ear and my shoulder, and my neck is bent at an uncomfortable angle. I am only dimly aware of the ache.

I let out a low, guttural sound and spend, powerfully, up across my belly.

Seconds later, the receiver emits sound so nearly identical that I think it is an echo. Mr. Wooster has spent too.

'Lord, Jeeves,' he says. 'Lord. Good Lord.'

I suck in desperate breaths, my head spinning, my neck hurting now quite keenly. I drop my prick and take the telephone in my hand. Looking down at the mess on myself, the thought of Mr. Wooster's tongue lapping it from me seems at once less keenly arousing and more disconcertingly perverse.

I should fetch a handkerchief. Tidy myself. Prepare for Mr. Wooster's arrival tomorrow.

Though I cannot imagine speaking to him face to face ever again.