The bally train is two hours late. I don't know why I didn't take the motor car. Wait. Of course I do – it's having its upholstery re-done. McIntosh rather tore into it with his teeth last time we had him in there. Blasted hound. It was rather splendid red leather upholstery, too. I do hope they replace it in the same colour.

I don't go back to the flat right away. I feel it more prudent to pop by the drones for a snifter or three. Bingo, Chuffy and the lads have missed me, naturally, and I spend a good three hours there, catching up on events and knocking back glassfuls of the needful with considerable gusto.

I should've been tireder, perhaps, though I'd slept for a spot on the train back. There were distinctly rummy dreams, I vaguely recall. In one, I'm sure I was at the drones playing dinner roll cricket with Jeeves, who was wearing my heather-mixture lounge suit. He hit the roll quite hard, and as it struck me in the chest it split open and burst like a cow's stomach, splattering gore all down my favourite pinstripe. I recall thinking, 'Gosh now. How's Jeeves ever going to get this stain out?' Then Chuffy Chuffnell rode by on a zebra. I woke with a feeling of foreboding, and something of a headache.

By the time I arrive at the old homestead, in upshot, it's past six. It being Midsummer, it's still fairly scorching outside, though I find that the living room curtains are closed. The early-evening light through the drapes rather gives the place a queer, warm, underwater feeling, which is only enhanced by the fuzzy tingle in my limbs from the drinks at the club.

Quite what I'll do when I see him again, I'm not desperately sure.

I've tried not to trouble the old onion with it too much since last night. The more I think of it, the more I feel a little like that time I swam out too far in the River Wharf on a camping holiday and got sucked under by a strong current. When I finally managed to struggle to the surface, I found myself a mile-and-a-half downstream. It shook me up, I can tell you.

And last night I got carried away by a frightfully powerful tide of sorts, I'll admit. To labour a meta-whatsit, I'd been considering dipping the Wooster toes in the water for a fair amount of time. Looking at Jeeves, I mean, and wondering if the quiet, intent looks he gave me were any indication of a fascination beyond the feudal. I've heard tell of the sorts of chaps who mess about with the Help, don't you know, and dashed if I wasn't keen on being one of those, though if the Help wanted to mess about with the Young Master then perhaps it wouldn't be such a liberty.

It was partly the chap's fault himself, as it happens, that I took the plunge at all – for the past seven-month he's been standing staring at me in the mornings, stock-still, holding that bally tea tray for an age or three before he coughs to rouse me. I crack my eyes open just a slit and see him, with the oddest look on his face.

It's been getting on my last nerve, to be perfectly truthful.

And things rather came to a head, if you will, at Totleigh.

The whole weekend was, in brief, a form of living hell. The weather was so blasted hot that I was sweating like a broiled salmon even in the lightest of suits. Aunt Dahlia introduced me to a perfectly amiable but rather insipid girl with an underbite by the name of Deidre and began to suggest wedding venues, and to top it all off I turned my ankle on a ceramic hedgehog in the corner of the ornamental garden. As a result, I wasn't quite myself when it came to Sunday night's dinner. The meandered into the territory of matrimony and whatnot, as it is wont to do when there are Aunts present, and Aunt D. looked set to announce my engagement to Deidre without so much as a 'May I, Bertram?' or a 'By your leave'.

It wasn't a pattern to which I was at all un-used. I can't think, then, why all of a sudden I was seized by a sense of supreme injustice halfway through the veal cutlet and said, quite loudly,

'Do you know, I don't think I shall ever get married? The Fairer Sex is all well and good, what, but it's the bachelor life for me, don't you know?'

Aunt Dahlia, I believe, was quite unprepared for this improprietous blow, and remarked in a hesitant tone to the party assembled,

'Of course, Bertram hasn't been himself of late. I think the heat disagrees with him. Doesn't it, Bertram?'

I don't know quite what had come over me – perhaps it was the heat – but I exploded with,

'No, it jolly well doesn't. Nor does Deidre. Nor does that dashed ceramic hedgehog in the corner of the garden. In fact, none of this agrees with me, and I agree with none of it. Tootle-oo.'

With that, I took my leave. After five glasses of Bordeaux at dinner, the drive to the nearest guest house was fairly hairy to say the least, but I made it in one piece. Feeling not a little fragile, I then knocked back a good seven-and-a-half brandy and sodas in my room, and began to think on Jeeves, and to eye the phone on the bed table with some fascination.

And now.

Dash it.

Now that I've heard Jeeves' voice say things I'd never even entertained in my rummiest daydreams, I just don't know. Don't you know?

I just don't know where we will go from here.

I'm not sure I want to know, if it means that I'll be disappointed.

'I say, Jeeves,' I call out, eyeing the kitchen door with some trepidation, 'The curtains are drawn. Has someone died?'

There is no answer. The place is deathly quiet. Nowhere is there hide or hair of faithful manservant.

I worry for a moment that perhaps someone has died. Perhaps that feeling of foreboding on the train was a little tinge of the psychic whatsit.

Or, perhaps he has left me.

Perhaps it will be easier this way.

Though I will have to pour my own drinks. Which I do, with all due haste. I mix myself a brandy and soda (not all the soda) and sip at it pensively, standing in the middle of the empty living room, studying the closed curtains.

I nearly jump out of my skin when the phone rings.

Shoving my b & s down on the coffee table, I charge over to the phone and slap the receiver against the Wooster eardrum.

'What ho?' I say, hoping with some desperation that it isn't Aunt Dahlia. I shall, I know, have to prostate myself before her in apology, at some point or other. If 'prostate' is what I'm groping for.

'Good Evening, Sir,' says a familiar voice. It sets the heart thundering in the Wooster chest.

He sounds, however, not at all like he did last night.

He sounds, in a word, perturbed.

'Jeeves, my Man,' I say, the voice-box a little quivery. 'Where the devil are you?'

'I am in the telephone call box at the end of the street, Sir,' he says, his tone distinctly soupy. I suppose it has every right to be. I can hear the hum of the traffic in the street behind him.

'The telephone call box?' I ask, repeating his words in that rummy way one does during a telephone conversation. As though one might have an audience that's missing the other half of the chat, and you want to fill them in. 'Why on Earth?' I ask.

'I felt it would be prudent to speak with you once more over the telephone, Sir, before we met again face-to-face.'

'You are coming back then, Jeeves? I mean, you've not...'

'No, Sir. I will return presently. I must admit that I have been monitoring the flat, watching for your return, for the past three hours.'

I let out a breath I didn't quite know I'd been holding.

'I thought you'd biffed off,' I say, at last, with something of the mournful in my voice.

There is a long pause.

'I had considered it, Sir.'

'I thought you might've done,' I admit.

He falls silent for an age or three. Eventually I whack up the ginger to say,

'Jeeves, I-'

But he interrupts before I can get going.

'-I crave your assurance, Sir, that things will be no different between us from this point onwards. I do not think I could continue, Sir, if anything was to change as a result of our conversation last night. This is of utmost importance to me, Sir.' He speaks rather as though he were impressing upon me the necessity of wearing the blue tie with the brown suit.

I must say I'm not awfully surprised. But, as I've said before, perhaps it will be easier this way. To truly do as we discussed on the phone last night. Carry on as before, I mean.

I believe I can do it. I must do it. If I'm to function. And it goes without saying that I can't function without Jeeves. He's the cork that keeps me afloat, what?

And if I can never quite look at the fellow in the same way again – never think of him without thinking of his description of himself half-undressed and tugging on himself – then what of it?

What of it, indeed?

'Well, absolutely. Absolutely, Old Thing,' I say. 'Say no more. I shouldn't have said what I did, you know. It was wrong of me. I was fairly well under the surface, last night, and... I mean. It was probably not cricket of me to drag all of that up. Not cricket at all.'

'Perhaps not, Sir.' His voice sounds rather more distant than it did last night, even though he's a hundred miles closer to me.

'We will say no more,' I go on, feeling as though I'm babbling dreadfully. 'Of it. No more. Of it. Shall be said. By either of us. Ever again. It's done, and it's said, but it shan't be spoken of again. We'll be just as we were. Biffing along with jollity. We'll go to Japan in a few weeks, what? Just as we planned? Eat some sushi, or live snakes, or whatnot.'

There follows something of a pause. I wrap the phone cord around my little finger and get it rather tangled. It takes a few seconds to extricate myself. My little finger is rather red at the end of it.

'Thank you, Sir,' he says, at last. He does sound genuinely grateful. I'm pleased that I've pleased him – it happens so rarely, don't you know?

Still, I can't help but feel something of a pang.

It's just that...

It's just.

Ever since I was knee-high to a grasshopper, something about the whole 'let's play weddings – you be the groom and I'll be the bride' wheeze felt 'off.' And playing Doctors in the potting shed with Cousin Angela never did appeal, you know.

And about a year ago, I fell down with influenza. And Jeeves shoved a thermometer in my mouth and laid the back of his hand on my scorching brow, and I recall knowing, even through the dementia of fever, precisely how I'd like to play Doctors, and with whom.

The telephone last night. That was the first attempt I've ever made towards making something of what I feel. And I feel rather pipped at the post, don't you know? Like a favourite who's fallen at the first hedge.

It's strange, what's descended upon me in the last few days. A sense, I feel, that, despite all my goods and chattels and life of ease and whatnot, I don't quite deserve the rum hand that I've been dealt. And I feel all of a sudden compelled to do something about it. Take a stand, like those fellows on their soapboxes at Speaker's Corner.

I think on this for some time. And my mind – for all that it's not my most efficient organ – rather comes to a conclusion.

'Don't mention it, Old Thing.' I shove the receiver back down onto the telephone.

Then I move to stand very close to the door, just to the right of it. I wait. I count seven minutes and thirty-three seconds on my fob watch.

And then I hear Jeeves' key in the lock.

He pours himself into the flat, immaculately got-up in his valet's togs, but looking a little strained around the eyes. His features look strangely defined in the shadowy room.

I take him rather roughly by the shoulders and press his back against the door. It impacts with rather a rummy 'thump.'

He gasps in a species of surprise and wrenches my hands from him, and we wrestle for some seconds, until I have his wrists pinned up against the wood. I feel the steady thump of blood against my palm. It might be the pulse in his wrist, or the pulse in my own hand. Or both.

We breathe heavily into each others' mouths for some moments. I look rather closely at his mouth. So very near to him, I can see even the tiny thread of spittle that stretches between his top left incisor and one of his bottom teeth, like the gossamer strand of a spider's web.

'Is your stomach really sensitive, Jeeves?' I ask – a question that has been waiting to pop out of my throat like a tightly-sprung jack-in-the-box since yesterday night.

'Ahhh-' he says, quite distinctly, as though it were a word. The strand of spittle snaps.

He wrenches his wrists free of my hands and I catch them again. We reach something of an impasse, me holding his hands up in the air, he pressing back with all his strength, trying to force me away from him. I am surprised to learn that he is not stronger than me. We would be fairly equally matched in a prize fight, I'm certain. I'd have always put my shirt on Jeeves at four to one, before this moment.

His cheeks are growing rather flushed. I look at his eyes, and see that the pupils are wide and expanding – pulsing outwards into his blue-grey irises like anemones.

I move towards my mouth with his, but he jerks his head away. I make another attempt and he works the same bally manoeuvre, evading my mouth, but his own falls open in a hungry sort of expression. For a goodish while we spar like this. I feint to the left and then lunge to the right, and he almost falls for the wheeze, pulling away just a fraction of a second before our lips collide. But they don't. Collide, I mean.

He leans against me for balance and I feel the thick-ish bulge in his trousers press up against my left leg. At once I release his wrists and drop to my knees, catching him in a tight hold about the waist before he can move away.

I have his arms pinned by his sides, in the circle of mine. My hands rest just on the upper curve of his buttocks, the fingers of my right hand gripping the wrist of my left, my knuckles pressed quite painfully against the hard surface of the door.

I look at the front of his trousers, the tip of my nose just touching the lump hiding beneath them.

'Let me see it,' I say, between awkward, panting breaths. 'Is it like you described it?'

He lets out the same noise I've heard him make upon discovering a breakfast egg stain upon my pyjamas. Then I am pushed backwards with some force. I land on my rump upon the carpet and, before I can register my surprise, Jeeves has made his way towards the drinks cabinet, straightening his clothes as he goes.

'A brandy and soda, Sir?' he asks, his voice soupy, but strained. Like strained soup, if you will. 'Your journey must have been tiring.'

I gather myself.

'I'm sorry, Jeeves,' I say, looking at my feet, feeling a little like a child whose ice cream has fallen on the floor. 'I didn't mean to do that.'

'Light on the soda, Sir?' he asks. Even his back seems disapproving.

'It's alright though. I won't do it again, I promise. We can carry on like before. Don't worry.'

He crosses back over to me and presses the drink into my hand, ensuring that out fingers don't brush, and retreats quickly. By the time I've scrambled to my feet, he is rearranging the perfectly-arranged cushions on the chaise longue.

'Jeeves, I...'

'Please do not speak, Sir.' He finishes arranging the cushions and stands to attention. 'The gammon I prepared for luncheon is now cold, though it might be savoury with some mustard, and I have boiled some new potatoes.'

'French mustard?' I ask, 'Or English?' I toss back my drink and place the glass on the floor beside me. Then I walk towards him.

'I beg of you not to come any closer, Sir.' His eyes appear glazed – staring into nothing, past my shoulder, like a waxwork at Madame Toussaud's. Then they flick to meet my own and meet them with such an intense stare that I can scarcely hold his gaze.

'I only have salted butter, Sir, for the potatoes – it may be too much with the salt of the gammon-'

We are inches apart now, close enough to smell each others' aftershave. I can hear that his breathing is shallow and erratic. My own is just as laboured.

I take one more step towards him, so that our chests very nearly touch.

He bends his head ever so slightly to the right. I lick at my lips. They're as bally dry and cracked as desert mud. My tongue tastes like aspic. Which is strange, as I haven't eaten any aspic in months or more.

'I wish we could talk, Jeeves,' I say. 'I wish we could talk again. Like we did...' He draws in a trembling breath. I feel his breath on my face like the touch of a hand. '...Like we did last night.' He closes his eyes, perhaps in exasperation, perhaps in recollection. 'You said such wicked things,' I go on, unable to stop myself. 'Such wicked things.' His whole form is shaking ever so slightly. 'You make me feel so wicked, in general, don't you know?'

He does not say anything. He wavers there, a solid but slightly unsteady shape between myself and the chaise longue, the curling pattern of the curtain embroidery cast across him by the sunlight behind.

Then he takes a step back and heads for the kitchen.

I sink into a comfortable chair and pour myself another B & S. I'm getting rather used to this 'pouring my own drinks' lark. I feel dashed proud of myself. Perhaps I might be able to manage jolly well without Jeeves, after all.

When Jeeves emerges from the kitchen bearing a plate of cold gammon and mustard, boiled potatoes, green beans and some species of sauce he's concocted, I move to the dining table and take a seat.

He shoves the victuals down before me with his usual precision, though as he pours the wine (a very nice Burgundy), his hold on the wine bottle wobbles, and he spills a few drops.

They bloom to the size of ha-pennies on the perfectly white tablecloth.

Before I can utter a cheerful, 'Fear not, accidents happen and all that,' he has snatched up the plate of dinner and the wine glass again. He disappears back into the kitchen and reappears in a split second, his hands empty. Then he grasps the business end of the tablecloth with both hands and whips it from the table in one sharp tug, with all the flair of a chap doing a conjuring trick. He biffs back into the kitchen, his arms full of soiled satin.

When I edge the corpus through the kitchen door, I find him at the sink, with his back to me, and his shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows. I can hear the cacophonous gush of the tap running hard into the sink. His shoulders are moving with a rapid, angry sort of shudder, as though he were strangling a cat. As I approach, I notice with relief that he is not in fact strangling a cat, but rather working a bar of carbolic soap furiously over the wine stain on the tablecloth, staring at the blots as though they were blood from a murder.

'I am attempting to salvage it, Sir,' he says, his voice low, rough and intent, 'Though I fear it may be ruined entirely.'

I must admit, I'm a little unnerved by his frantic scrubbing and the desperate tone of his voice. It's more emotion than I've seen wrung from the man in all the years I've known him.

'Yes, well,' I say, attempting an upbeat attitude. 'Not the end of the world, what?'

'Red wine seldom comes out, Sir,' he says, in a way that implies, 'It most certainly is the end of my world.'

'Not to worry, Old Thing,' I say, a little more soothingly. 'I've never liked that tablecloth anyway.' Which is an outright lie. I'm very fond of that bally tablecloth.

He continues to scrub like the Dickens.

'Take the value of the tablecloth from my wages, Sir,' he says.

'I don't think I'll need to do that, Jeeves,' I say.

'I insist that you take it from my wages, Sir. Please.'

'I shan't,' I say, approaching peeved, now. 'You must pick out a nice new one and we'll call it "quits", what?'

'Sir!' he says, with such sharpness that I start a little. 'This is an expensive item of luxury table linen. You must take the cost of it from my wages.'

'Jeeves,' I say, 'would you stop scrubbing for a moment?'

He continues to scrub. His hands are growing so red and his knuckles so raw-looking that I fear they might start to bleed.

'Jeeves,' I say, with all the authority I can muster. 'Stop scrubbing, Man.'

'It may be that I can salvage the item for use at the breakfast table, when we have no company, Sir.'

I plunge my hands into the foamy sink, grasp the end of the tablecloth and tug hard. It slops from the depths like a great anaemic sea serpent, splashing a good quantity of water over the kitchen top, Jeeves' shirt front and the tiled floor. Jeeves maintains his hold on the other end of the cloth, and the thing pulls taut between us as I step back and attempt to wrest it from his grip. I tug harder, my hackles now risen to an altitude that would make hot air ballooners reel in fright.

Jeeves tugs harder still. I can see him spread his legs apart and plant his feet firmly on the floor. When his gaze meets mine, it's fiery and freezing all at once, like when you burn your tongue on an icy pole trying to stick it there.

We wrestle like this for quite a time, every muscle in our bodies tense, but neither of us moving more than an inch. The cloth grows so taut between us that near every drop of water has wrung out of it. I look at Jeeves' soaked shirt front, and then up at his face, and I notice that a drop of sudsy water is hanging from his left ear.

Then I make the horrendous error of moving my right foot to gain better purchase on the floor. I step upon a small puddle of water and my leg slips out from under me. I drop the tablecloth quite suddenly as my foot catches Jeeves', and throw my hands out to take hold of his elbows to save myself from falling quite hard to the floor. The damp cloth is trapped in between us, and he draws it out, holding it to one side. I look at his soaked shirtfront. I imagine his under vest and, beneath that, his nipples, stiff with the chill of the water and our proximity. And then I cannot stand it any longer. I bring my hands up to his shoulders and down to the buttons of his shirt, as he turns his head away, as though he wishes to be disassociated from anything I do. I hear him hiss, though, when I quickly open his buttons from the top to the bottom and use my fingers to claw the top of his vest down to expose his right nipple, latching upon it with my mouth and suckling. It is cold and hard, all the tiny dark hairs around it standing to attention upon goosebumps.

When I tug his shirt down to expose his other nipple and latch upon that, I hear the tablecloth slap down into the sink, and feel his hands bunch in my hair, gripping it firmly, as though he might begin a new tug of war with that.

And he does tug hard, pulling my head up until it is level with his, and opens his mouth, slightly, almost reluctantly, as though someone might be about to feed him a spoonful of medicine.

Then he opens it a little wider. I feel my own jaw drop to mirror his. He moves his mouth closer by increments, panting all the while through his nose in a queer, shaking sort of way, his cool breath washing across my cheek and tickling the hairs above my right ear. When there is barely an inch between his mouth and mine, his tongue pokes out, a little at first, and then retreats. Then it pokes out again, a little further.

My own tongue feels restless and fidgety in my mouth, and before I know quite what I'm doing, it is poking out to meet his. But his own tongue draws back.

At long last, our tongues peep out at the same moment and brush, almost accidentally, against each other. This emboldens us to poke them out again and let them touch more firmly. And our tongues press against each other like this, outside our mouths, twitching and trembling, for several long moments. His hands are still tight in my hair. I draw my own tongue back into my mouth, rolling the taste of Jeeves' saliva against my palate. Then he releases my hair with one hand and uses it to claw at my chin, dragging my jaw down and my mouth open so that he can suck my tongue from my mouth like a winkle from its shell.

He lets out a sound – somewhat impassioned, perhaps relieved, certainly impatient.

Then he tears his mouth from mine.

'Go into the living room, Sir,' he says, softly, his voice hoarse. 'Stand by the divan and wait for me.'

I nod, reluctant to leave him even for a moment, but unable to find a reason to question him.

I wait by the divan for three minutes, before he emerges once again from the kitchen, moving towards me. His shirt is fastened again.

'Perhaps we could just speak of the things we would care to do to each other, Sir,' he suggests, his breath coming rather quickly. 'Perhaps that might be enough.'

Then we come together at the same time with open mouths and thrusting tongues, panting heavily through our noses. My hands come slapping down upon his back, flat against the cool fabric of his shirt and the hot flesh beneath. I draw my tongue back from his mouth and suck his own into mine. He makes a muffled, protesting sound, as though he objects, and then relents, relaxing his mouth, moaning softly and briefly in consent. I attempt blindly to undo his shirt again, but reach only the second button.

'Sit down, Jeeves,' I say.

'I cannot,' he says.

I put my hands on his shoulders and press him down to sit on the chaise longue. Then I drag my hand through his hair, roughly, firmly, and down to his neck, spreading the shining oil of the brilliantine down to his collar. I push him backwards and position myself awkwardly on top of him, my knees astride him, and rid myself of my own suit jacket, dropping it to the floor beside us. Then I lower myself until our chests are pressed together.

We lie like this, sprawled on the sofa, all arms and legs and pieces of partly-undone clothing, and begin to kiss in earnest. Desperately, for a while, and then more gently. Fiercely, for some seconds, and then sloppily, gracelessly. With only lips and then with lips and teeth and tongue. We kiss each others' noses, chins and tongue – not the little piddling sort of kisses one bestows upon a maiden's damask cheek, but wet, biting, sucking kisses that leave our flesh sore. I lick at his nose. He chews on my chin until I fear it might begin to bleed. I bite on his bottom lip.

'We should not, Sir,' he says, wrenching his mouth away, 'It is too improper.' Then he lunges back at me and takes a bite of my mouth like it's a ripe apple.

We continue to kiss. And we are not silent. Our lips smack and our throats rumble with groans of pleasure and impatience. I never imagined the sounds, before, when I'd pictured this. Such marvellous sounds. I pull back from him to look at his face, and a string of spittle stretches between his mouth and mine. I find this so utterly topping that I thrust my tongue into his mouth again.

'Talk to me, Jeeves,' I ask again, pulling back without warning. 'I was just thrilled to Dickens by the stuff you spouted last night.'

But he will not.

I bite at his earlobe, lick at his neck and undo the rest of the buttons on his shirt.

He looks at me, his eyes lidded, his hands clenched upon the fabric of the sofa to his sides, as though he's afraid of what he might do with them, if they weren't gripping that.

'I wish you'd tell me, Jeeves,' I say. 'I wish you'd tell me what I should do.'

I suck at his neck like a vampire. He takes my face in his hands and twists my head so that he can look into my eyes.

'I am prudish, Sir,' he says. 'And I am scandalised. How are you not?' I suspect, though, that it titillates him somewhat to make this claim.

'You're not prudish, Jeeves,' I say. 'You said such things to me. You could write French Literature, you've such a depraved mind...'

I unwrap my legs from his, stand and pull him to his feet and he makes to move, I'm, not sure where, but I pull him back to me, so that his back is flush against my chest and my arms are around him. I feel for his nipples beneath his undervest and when I find them I circle them with my fingertips. He takes my hands in his and pushes them down to the hem of his vest, lifting it, pushing it upwards and placing my hands on his bare stomach. I rub at the soft skin there – he has a paunch, but it is firm, and his clothes must hide it, for this is the first time I've been aware of it.

'Sir,' he says. 'Touch me there, Sir.'

I do, rubbing my hands in slow circles, and he shudders.

He takes the middle fingertip of my right hand and guides it towards his navel, moving it in slow circles around its perimeter, and then inside it. As my other hands strays towards his belt line, I feel an insistent pressing against its underside, and realise at once that it is his member, standing so erect, desperate and firm that it is drawing the front of his trousers up into a tent.

'This is what you want, then, Jeeves?' I ask, circling my finger more firmly inside his navel. 'This is what rouses you?'

'Yes, Sir. I'm afraid, Sir.'

'I didn't know it would. So much.'

I sense, now, that we've passed niceties. He seems to have resigned himself to the circs. in which we find ourselves. Though he does not go limp and pliant in my arms, I do feel that something has altered. He is under the spell of something-or-other, and no longer cares.

'It always has, Sir. It is... a peculiarity.'

This gives me what you might call 'pause.'

'Have you ever... before?' I ask. 'This sort of escapade? I mean... with another cove?'

'No, Sir. Nor with a woman.'

'You do this to yourself then, Jeeves? When you... You use one hand to rub your stomach and the other to-'

'What do you think, Sir?'

'I think you do. I'm imagining it. I'm thinking of you, in your little room, doing just that. Doing all sorts of depraved things to yourself. Would you tell me some more of them?'

He pulls away again, and I realise that he is heading for his own bedroom. For a moment I fear that he is retiring to bed on his own, however, when he reaches the doorway he looks back at me, and I know he wishes me to follow him.

The bed in his room is awfully small. Though perhaps he cannot bring himself to lie upon the master's bed. Perhaps he wishes to lower me to his station, rather than attempting to rise to mine. Perhaps he is simply fond of his own mattress.

He closes the door behind us and, rather bizarrely, locks it, though the front door of the flat is locked, too.

There are now two locked, solid doors between us and Berkeley Square. Between us and the passers-by, in the corridor, in the street below, who pass by oblivious to the fact that a master and his manservant are doing all sorts of unspeakable and indecent things to each other in the darkness of the small, secluded room so close by.

I lie down upon the bed without asking, and he kneels over me and begins to remove my clothes, precisely and methodically, looking upon my flesh as it is revealed as though it is the flesh of some exotic, un-tasted fruit. His hands shake very slightly as he pulls down my underpants over my cockstand, and he watches it intently as it springs free, slapping damply up against my belly, hot and rosy and harder than I've ever known it to be.

I remove his clothes, making something of a hash of it. I twist off one of his shirt buttons accidentally, and get his trousers caught around his knees. But he doesn't help. He lets me struggle, face flushed and brow creased, until he is entirely bare.

His knees are almost knobbly and his legs long, his feet large though rather slender. He has plenty of hair upon his legs, though his chest is almost hairless, and his hips have a small cushion of fat upon them. His cock, as hard and erect as mine, is thick but not overly long, emerging an embarrassed red from a thick bush of dark pubic hair.

I wonder what on Earth he thinks of me. I feel the cold air on my skin, and feel rather exposed.

The first thing he does, upon having us both bare, is lie down on top of me, bringing our entire fronts into contact and squashing the breath from me. His skin is so warm that it feels fevered. Then he lifts my left arm, buries his nose into my armpit and takes a whopper of a great, heaving breath.

'You know, Old Thing,' I say, quite taken aback, 'You're a strange one.'

He doesn't seem in the least offended by this accusation. He pokes out his tongue and licks at the sweat under my arm, sending rather a shiver through me from my head to my toes. Then he says,

'Most decent people would think we had surpassed strangeness many hours ago, Sir,' and I can't deny the truth of it. I let him lick at my armpit all he wants. 'I find this very strange,' he says, pulling away, 'Do you not?'

'Rather,' I say. And then, more absently, 'Rather.'

The thing that has happened here is that we've Passed the Second Drink. You see, when one sets out for a night with one's friends with the determined thought that you'll have a couple but come home sober, there comes a point, after the second drink, when you can't remember why you shouldn't have a third. And from that point onwards, you descend into a haze of half-remembered exotic cocktails, piggy back rides, dancing girls and champagne glass waterfalls.

I feel that this analogy is pertinent.

He bites at my mouth again, pushing his tongue inside, and I taste my own sweat. It is rather unpleasant.

'Talk to me, Jeeves,' I try for a third time, pulling my mouth away. This time it seems that attrition has worn him down.

'-Have you ever done such things before, Sir?' he asks, spreading his legs ever so slightly, so that his knees lie either side of mine. His prick is pressing into the hollow between my legs, the wet tip of it just touching my testicles, and it has happened so unceremoniously that I am almost disappointed. 'With another man?' he asks.

'Not in the least. I mean. In the potting shed, you know – I used to have a bit of foolery in there with Cousin Angela, what? But not past fourteen. And not properly. Not in the least.'

'What did you do with your cousin Angela in the potting shed, Sir?'

'Oh, you know, what? Few kisses. Looked down her knickers. On one occasion it was proposed we play Doctors.'

'Doctors, Sir?'

'Doctors, Jeeves.'

He draws himself up on his knees, his hands on his thighs. I can see clearly now that his cock is so stiff that it holds itself upright against his belly.

'Would you like to play Doctors with me, Sir?'

I think that this is the most thrilling suggestion in the universe.

'Oh yes. Yes. I rather would. Very much, in fact.'

He looks at me heatedly, wetting his lips with the tip of his tongue.

'I shall lie back, Sir,' he says, and I can see that he is lost now, utterly, beyond embarrassment or self-censorship, 'and you may examine me.'

'I'd like that,' I say.

We slowly shift positions on the bed, he taking my spot, me taking his.

'How did your games go, Sir?' he asks, looking up at me, his chest rising and falling with expansive breaths.

'How did they go?' I try to remember.

'How?' he asks.

'She'd have a pain,' I say. I look at his smooth, pink, unblemished form and cannot invent any ailment.

'I have a pain, Sir,' he says, without hesitation. 'Here,' he says, moving his hand to his stomach, just above his navel. I notice that he has said 'Sir' and not 'Doctor.' I don't correct him. It would be churlish.

'Do you?' I ask, my mind whirring, searching for anything to say, unsure whether I am more amused or aroused by this role playing.

'Yes,' he says. 'Such a terrible pain. Can you help me?' He is moving his fingers in a slow, tight circle over his skin, arousing himself shamelessly. I watch his prick jump and spill a drop of liquid in his arousal.

'Let me see,' I say.

I reach out and move his hand aside, taking up the motion myself. He closes his eyes and swallows wetly.

'Does that hurt?' I ask.

'Yes,' he says.

'What else should I do?' I ask.

'You are the Doctor, Sir,' he says. 'You could listen.'

Suddenly the idea of pressing my ear to his hot stomach is delicious. I lean down and bend my head, lowering it until my ear is flat against his belly, my earlobe just touching the top of his navel. His flesh scalds mine. I can feel the tiny, downy hairs on his skin against whole curve of my ear, and the light sheen of sweat, sticking my skin to his.

I can hear his stomach gurgling, quietly digesting the remains of his lunch.

'It's a mystery,' I whisper. 'Everything sounds...' I turn my head and lick at the spot, causing his stomach to contract with a jolt.

'Does it hurt anywhere else?' I ask, in a voice I feel may be desperate.

'Yes,' he says, fingering his hipbone. 'Here.'

I lick at his hipbone.

'Here,' he says, brushing the top of his thigh with his fingertips. I kiss the flesh there. 'Here,' he says, touching his right knee. I lick at it.

'And I have a pain here,' he says, 'Sir.' I can scarcely believe it when he lifts his knees, spreads his legs apart and uses his hands to part his buttocks, exposing his tight, dark anus.

'Oh Lord,' I say, falling from the game like a child from a spinning roundabout, unable to stop myself from dropping to my front on the bed, taking his buttocks in my hands and pushing my face forward to see it more closely.

It pulses at the inadvertent puff of my breath.

'Ah,' he says, from above me.

I push my tongue forward to touch it ever-so-gently, and it convulses.

'Ah,' he says, again.

I fondle it with my index finger, and his knees draw up higher from the bed, his breath shuddering and heaving.

'What am I doing, Jeeves?' I ask. Blood is pounding in my ears. I fear I will miss his reply, the thundering rush is so loud.

'You're touching me, Sir,' he replies.

'Touching you where, Jeeves?' I ask, fearing I am pushing him too far. Fearing I will break whatever spell is cast over us.

'Touching my backside, Sir, and the hole in between.'

'What might a crude person call it? A peasant on a street corner?'

I can feel the word longing to groan out of him.

'My... my arsehole, Sir. You have your finger just inside my arsehole.'

'Do you enjoy it?'

'I do.'

'Do you want more of me in there than a finger?'

'I do, Sir. Have you thought of it?'

'I've thought of it. I've thought of my... prick in there. Right inside there.'

Now, as much as it can, it feels like we are two boys playing a forbidden game. We are trying out wicked words we've never dared to use before grown-ups. Baiting each other. Competing in our daring use of filth. Seeing how far the other will go.

'I am very hard, Sir,' he says. 'I've thought of you too. I've thought of your prick. How I'd like to coax it to stand hard and straight for me. And mine. Would you let me slip my prick between your legs?'

'I would. After I'd put mine inside you.'

He closes his legs all of the sudden, forcing me to sit back or have my head crushed by his thighs.

'Speak to me like I imagined last night,' he says, at once. 'Tell me something awful.' He catches my hands in his, though it seems more a gesture of combat than of affection.

'Gosh... I. Gosh.'

I think back. I try to remember what he wished me to say.

'You're... you're a servant,' I say.

'Yes, Sir.' He seems delighted. He lets go of my left hand. His fingers crawl up over his hip, towards his prick, stalling in the hollow of his groin. 'Yes. I am.'

'You're... low,' I say, rocking slightly on the bed, against nothing but thin air, using his straight, solid arm for leverage. 'You're reprehensible.'

'Yes,' he says, sliding his hand to grasp his prick fully, beginning to pull himself with slow, hard strokes.

'Oh God. Ah. Jeeves,' I feel the tip of my own cock touch my belly. It is throbbing with every pulse of my heartbeat. 'You look so depraved,' I say. I am warming to my theme. 'Lying there spread beneath me,' I go on. 'I could do anything I wanted with you, couldn't I?' He pulls on himself a little faster. 'I could order you. Order you to do anything I pleased.'

'You could, Sir,' he says, his eyes narrow slits. There is sweat upon his forehead.

'Your Mother's a cook, isn't she, Jeeves?' I say.

'Yes, Sir,' he says, the rhythm of his hand faltering, clearly a little thrown by this unusual avenue in the conversation.

'What makes you think that the son of a cook has the right to lie like that, underneath a man like me, Jeeves?'

'I don't know, Sir,' he says, his arousal clearly overcoming his surprise and discomfort, 'I can't imagine.'

'It's a bally liberty. That's what it is,' I say. I watch him touch himself, and I am aroused beyond belief. 'I'll bet you've thought all sorts of indecent things about me, too. Haven't you?' He does not answer. His eyes are glazed. 'Haven't you?'

'Yes, Sir.'

'It's disgusting. You disgust me.'

'Ah-'

'You're an invert. You're perverted. You're the lowest of the low. You're not fit to crawl on the-'

All at once, with surprising suddenness, long spurts of semen erupt from the head of his prick as it is squeezed mercilessly in his fisting grasp, splattering up across his belly, milky and thick. The sinews in his arms stand out like piano wire. He has a look on his face of intense concentration. Almost of pain.

After long moments, the convulsing stops, and I look at his filthy belly, strung with ribbons of his own seed.

I bend and lick it off him.

I lick all around his stomach, following the trails of his seed like avenues on a map until I have cleaned his entire belly of semen and it is glistening with my saliva instead of his ejaculate.

Then I lean up and kiss him with my mouth full.

As I do so, I part his legs with my hands and slide myself inside him. I feel him tense and cry out at the sudden intrusion, but he does not buck me off. I thrust three times before I come off quite violently, feeling a little as though I am about to throw up the remains of my breakfast.

I do not, though.

I fall on top of him, my arms splayed out to the sides, extremely aware of the points of his nipples prodding my chest.

I don't really know what to say, don't you know?

I suspect he doesn't really, either.

There are no words, you see, really. For this moment.