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Subject: {ASSM} "OH, JEEVES!" (M/F: British humour) By David Shaw
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"OH, JEEVES!" (M/F: British humour)

By

David Shaw
david@f-e-mail.com

www.f-e-mail.com

THIS STORY IS INTENDED FOR ADULT READING ONLY

------------------------------------------------------------------------

It's high time somebody told the truth about Bertie and Jeeves. No,
you're quite wrong. Bertie wasn't that sort of young master at all.
Despite the modesty of his memoirs Bertie Wooster actually covered more
women than 'Vanity Fair'. Abetted and definitely aided, of course, by
his never flagging gentleman's gentleman.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

Whatever dramas may have arisen from time to time in life, Jeeves' grip
on the morning saucer has always remained firm and unshaken. Whether
conveying news of political friction in the Balkans or of irrupting
aunts on the doorstep the man has always carried a beautiful cup of
tea. So when I heard the ominous clink of crockery I knew the world's
foundations were quivering even before I opened my eyes.

"What ho, Jeeves. Nice morning, what?"

A fairly safe opening, I thought, given that the newly drawn curtains
were admitting a whole treasury of golden rays to brighten the interior
of the Wooster bedroom with their cheerful glow. Yet the springing
sun's touch was clearly failing to pluck at Jeeves' manly heartstrings.
Framed in the halo of sunlight he loomed over me like Jehovah about to
inflict a plague of pyramid scheme salesmen on both the upper and lower
Nile. One look at the height of his raised left eyebrow and I felt as
apprehensive as if the morning refreshment was being served up by the
Borgia's butler. Any valet displaying an irate eyebrow in that openly
disapproving fashion towards the young master was clearly as impervious
to polite chit chat as Vlad the Impaler in the grip of a hangover.

The thing was, I couldn't imagine what could have caught the man so
fully on what was clearly the rawest of raw spots. I'd never seen him
in such a state before, not even when a gang of red revolutionaries had
turned up at the apartment at five o'clock in the afternoon for an
anticipated feast of scrambled eggs and sardines. Although, to be fair,
on that occasion it had been the sight of Bingo Little's false beard
which had unmanned Jeeves to the extent of forcing him to clutch at a
table for support. But the premises were currently pest free and
without trace of either Bingo, any of his many fiancées, or even
revolutionaries of any hue. The only thing visible which might have
been described as slightly irregular was the decidedly well shaped leg
which had somehow escaped from underneath my rather disordered bed
clothes -- a female leg, in point of fact, if you see what I'm driving
at.

Yet there was nothing in that which should have been responsible for
poor old Bertie getting his hot tea handed to him in a frozen mitt.
Jeeves knows very well there are some services which even the best of
gentlemen's gentlemen cannot provide for the young master and none of
my modest domestic debaucheries has ever drawn a hint of disapproval
from the great man before. Indeed, whereas we have frequently failed to
see eye to eye in the matter of floral cummerbunds or purple socks,
Jeeves has uniformly approved my choice of women. I like females who
laugh a lot -- well, what other sort would consort with a certified
half wit like Bertram? But whatever their shape, size or inclination to
lots of giggles after generous doses of champagne, Jeeves has always
greeted each and every one of them into the apartment as warmly as if
they the proverbial flowers in May.

I daresay that may be because the relationships are always of a
transient nature.  A pair of spats in old Etonian colors I'll wear as
often as Jeeves will let me get away with, but no girl need expect an
invitation to linger in Abernathy Mansions once the trysting's done and
completed to everybody's satisfaction. Truth to tell, ever since
Cynthia Wickhammersley nearly sank one of her floating ribs laughing at
my tentative offer of a joint canter to the alter rail I've decided
that the life of a bachelor gay is what suits Bertie Wooster best. It's
true that I've been greatly scorned by many of my contemporaries who've
boldly set off along the tempting highway of marital life but I'm also
duty bound to record that several of them have since ended up with
their offside wheels very deep in the ditch. Enough at least for Bertie
to reflect that there are worse fates than being stupid and single,
provided one has -- as I have -- a considerable private income and
Jeeves' unparalleled problem solving abilities to keep us both in our
present happy state.

So, to labor the point, why was I waking up to find myself underneath
eyes of terrible aspect, prying through the portage of Jeeves' head
like brass cannon? Where was the usual feudal spirit of goodwill
between master and man, between valet and valeted? It suddenly occurred
to me that I might gain an insight into the developing plotline by
asking him that very question.

"Something wrong, Jeeves?" I asked lightly, pretending not to be aware
of the storm clouds gathering in a black line on the horizon.

"Might one inquire as to where you happened to meet the young lady,
sir?"

This was a decidedly rum question, a blatant expression of curiosity as
far distant from Jeeves' usual disinterested behavior as it was
possible to imagine: I felt as if I was watching an Old Bailey Judge
enter his courtroom with his face blacked up and strumming a banjo --
the senses reeled, as you might say. But I rallied and responded.

"It happened to be at Goodwood. In the private enclosure, if it
matters."

There was some emphasis on the last words, a firmly implied measure of
rebuke. After all, where does one get off if the domestic staff feel
entitled to an full explanation of their employer's activities? Apart
from anything else it was dashed embarrassing to have somebody else
listening to one being cross examined by one's manservant as to one's
doings, if one gets one's drift. Fortunately, apart from the
eye-catching leg, the only other thing visible from underneath the
bedding was a tangle of blonde hair and the only noise coming from the
night's partner was a regular series of snores. And, don't you know, I
felt quite bucked up: there's nothing like a love sated girl as
compensation for the fact that Bertram's life had been singularly free
of any kind of formal prizes since my collection of pressed flowers was
judged best in class at infant school.

"And may I assume that the lady was wearing her travelling coat at the
time you met and kept it on until you returned home? And may I further
assume that she disrobed in the dark?"

By Jove, that collapsed my self confidence in short order. No one has
more respect for the raw horsepower residing in Jeeves' fish fed
cerebral cells than Bertie, but even I had never suspected that his
intellect was of positively Sherlockian caliber.

"Good Lord, Jeeves, how did you know that?"

I'm sure that for a second he was on the point of saying, 'Elementary,
my dear Wooster' but even the most insidious temptation has always
found it hard going with a personage of Jeeves' strong character.
Instead of speaking he simply pointed to a set of nether garments
thrown over the back of a chair and revealed to a disbelieving world by
the rising sun.

"Good God," I choked, "Trousers!"

"Or slacks," Jeeves suggested icily.

"She's an American -- pants," I adjudicated, and then seized the cup of
tea with fingers that trembled a great deal more than Jeeves had. "I've
escorted a woman wearing pants around the private enclosure of
Goodwood. If anybody ever finds out about this I'll be the laughing
stock of London -- no, but wait, she was wearing a skirt underneath her
coat. She must have been, because I could see her ankles and calves.
I'm sure of that because I remember admiring them an awful lot."

Jeeves picked up the feminine abominations and showed them to me as
undeniable evidence for the prosecution.

"Sir, allow me to point out the numerous wrinkles around the lower legs
and the knees. I believe that the young lady initially tried to enter
the private enclosure with her pants in full view underneath her coat
and was very properly turned away by the enclosure stewards for being
inappropriately dressed. Normally, that would have been an end to the
matter, but being an American and quite without shame, I believe she
simply retired to some private place and there rolled up her trouser
legs, perhaps securing them with string or in some other extemporized
fashion, and then entered the enclosure by another gate. Of course
nobody would have dreamed that she was not wearing a skirt underneath
her travelling coat."

"Good God, Jeeves." I hadn't been so shaken since Aunt Agatha had
blithely announced that I was under starter's orders to marry Honoria
Glossop. "Imagine if one of those confounded leggings had come adrift
and unrolled down as I was talking to her -- I'd have been warned off
the turf for life. No decent bookie would have accepted one of Bertram
Wooster's wagers ever again. It's all the fault of those blasted
Americans for not taking a hard line with their womenfolk from an early
age. Just because they can get away with outlandish behavior in
California they think they can do it in civilization. This has been a
lesson to me, Jeeves, a very firm lesson to stay away in future from
any girls with any hint at of sun tan. Not unless we're at the Casino
at Roville-sur-mer."

"A wise decision, if I may venture to comment, sir. But I fear you've
failed to grasp the situation in its entirety. If you met this young
person in the private enclosure at Goodwood, then may I assume she has
a certain social status which requires she be allowed to leave in a
manner befitting such standing?"

They say that no man is a hero to his valet, and has the implications
of Jeeves' words sank in, I must have looked more like a stunned mullet
than any human being has a right to. For he was absolutely spot on; had
I been entertaining a chorus line girl it would have been a simple
matter to dress her, pop a couple of crisp fivers down her cleavage as
marks of appreciation for a night well spent and to gently push her out
through the door with expressions of mutual good will. But in this case
. . .

"Jeeves, dash it all, she was carrying a letter of introduction to one
and all in society signed by Freddie Threepwood -- you remember Freddie
Threepwood?"

"Certainly, sir, the second son of Lord Emsworth of Blandings Castle.
He married Miss Niagra Donaldson, the daughter of the founder of
Donaldson's Dog Biscuits company of Long Island. A most successful
union, I am led to believe."

"That's as maybe, Jeeves, but whom we have here is Annette Pederson,
the daughter of the family Pederson, with which is associated the
family enterprise of Pederson's Prophylactics of San Francisco, rubber
goods as sold at all good barber shops and drug stores. Every time an
American on the West Coast gets the urge the necessary item he reaches
for first is almost certainly to be a Pederson manufactured
prophylactic. And if the Americans out West are anything like the
Americans we've met in New York I daresay they get the urge an awful
lot. The essential point, the nub of the conversation I'm trying to put
across is that the Pedersons have more dollars to scratch themselves
with than all the consumers of Donaldson's dog biscuits put together
have fleas. Reading between the lines of Freddie's letter it seems that
we're talking about a family business which every day fills entire
trains of boxcars with rubber necessities intended to keep the size of
the population of the United States within reasonable limits."

"Doubtless a worthwhile aim, sir, though not perhaps achieving quite as
much success as one might wish for in an ideal world. None the less,
from what you've said it's clear that we cannot simply put Miss
Pederson out into the street. She must be escorted back to her
residence with all due politeness, or at least seen into her taxicab,
if so she chooses to depart. Therein lies the difficulty. As you may
have already observed, today is distinguished with remarkably clement
weather. So clement indeed that I fear there is no possibility of Miss
Pederson wearing her coat -- nor do I think she would be amenable to
any suggestion of rolling up her . . . hmm . . . her pants again."

"So at the very least, Jeeves, the good old noblesse oblige of the
Woosters requires me to escort her downstairs and to open the cab door
for her. Is that the way you see the scenario unfolding?"

"I fear so, sir."

"Are you seriously suggesting that I appear in public on the pavement
of Berkeley Square with a woman wearing pants? I'll swim in blood
first!"

Fear had gripped Bertie's palpitating organs in a grip of steel. For I
knew, I just knew, that fate would decree the moment I stepped out into
the sunlight would be the moment that Aunt Agatha would loom over the
horizon.

Aunt Agatha, the curse of the Woosters, who dated the start of the fall
of the Empire from the first raising of a skirt hem above floor level.
Aunt Agatha, widely known as the fiery harridan of the Fernie Hunt ever
since a female huntress of advanced ideas had been observed riding
astride a horse instead of using a side saddle as nature intended. If
Aunt Agatha saw Bertram on the streets of London escorting a trouser
clad female the resulting invective would make Lloyd George at his
rabble rousing noisiest sound like a soft breeze brushing the tree
tops. Within hours the entire mass of Wooster matriarchs would be
trampling me underfoot, invariably bringing in their wake Sir Roderick
Glossop and the certificate of lunacy he'd been itching to inscribe
Bertram's moniker on ever since the unfortunate affair of the cats, the
fish and the stolen hat. Another by product would probably be a sinking
of Anglo-US relationships to a level not known since 1812, though such
diplomatic niceties would mean nothing to a man being hunted down by an
Agony of Aunts.

Or, even worse yet, what if one of my fellow members from the Drones
Club espied me in the streets with a trousered female: the thought was
enough to make me cringe like a beaten puppy: "What ho, Bertie, taking
your girl rat catching, what?"

My name would be stricken from the Club records and made a hissing and
mockery amongst London society. Instead of being a proud adornment to
my fellows because of my achievements I would be shunned and passed on
the other side of the street. No longer would people remark on sighting
the elegant Wooster frame: "You wouldn't believe it to look at him, but
that chap can throw a bread roll further than any other man in London."
Instead, it would be: "You wouldn't believe it to look at him, but that
chap was once seen in broad daylight in Berkeley Square with a colonial
female dressed like a chap herself. By Jove, they should have treated
him like Oscar Wilde and thrown him into Reading jail."

I stared at the glowing window like those soothsayers in the fiery
furnace awaiting their doom: "No chance at all of rain, Jeeves? Not
even a hint of a cloud anywhere in the sky?" I pleaded forlornly.

"None at all, sir. The weather forecast on the wireless was emphatic on
the uniformly fine sunshine which may be expected for the next twenty
four hours. No doubt we can rely on the veracity of the British
Broadcasting Corporation."

I felt like sobbing: "No rain, not a drop -- in England, of all places.
Dash it all, Jeeves, it's hard, it's dashed hard. I feel like a Bedouin
camel herder drowning in the only deep oasis in ten thousand square
miles of desert because I never bothered to learn to swim."

"An elegant description of your difficulty, sir."

"No, wait a minute, I see a way out. You can escort Annette down to the
street yourself and hail a taxi for her. I'll say I've sprained my
ankle or something."

Jeeves drew himself up to his full height with graven mien: he regarded
me with hooded eyes and the expression of a Roman Senator arriving home
unexpectedly to find his wife trying on a new gladiator for size.

"I fear, sir, that such an undertaking would be totally incompatible
with my position as Grand Master of the Worshipful Guild of Personal
Retainers."

So there it was, mutiny above decks in broad daylight, shameless and
flagrant, with poor old Bertie cast in the role of Captain Bligh. With
any other servant I would have sprung from the bed with an angry cry
and shown him the way out. But that had been Captain Bligh's response
too, and look where that got him, cast adrift in an open boat. Which
was where I would end up too, floating aimlessly on the sea of life
without Jeeves as my guiding star. No, I must put my faith in the man's
genius to get us out of this spot.

"Then what's to be done, Jeeves, what's to be done?" I demanded in
desperation.

"Well, sir, it would be quite easy to buy a dress: the problem which
presents itself is in persuading Miss Pederson that she must change her
apparel because she cannot possibly appear on the streets of London
wearing pants. Do you feel she might take the suggestion amiss?"

I shuddered: "Jeeves, this is a girl who apparently flies her own
aeroplane, hunts mountain goats with a rifle through the Californian
high country and is on first name terms with everybody in Grosvenor
Square from the US Ambassador on down. Apart from which her father can
apparently call up President Hoover whenever he likes by mentioning two
magic words, 'Campaign Funds'. If we insult her there'll be a huge
scandal, not to mention that we might end leaping from rooftop to
rooftop around Berkeley Square like goats ourselves, dodging Miss
Pederson's gunfire. No, blast it, I can't simply tell her that while
she might be appropriately attired for the High Sierras she's currently
the essence of high farce in high society."

"Then we must depend on the psychology of the individual. You, sir,
must rise immediately and repair immediately without bathing to the
Maison de Mode dress shop in Cumberland Street. It's only a few minutes
walk away. I will give you a note for Madam Juin, the proprietress, to
explain the situation.  She will immediately select something suitable
and you will bring it back. You will then tell Miss Pederson that you
rushed out and bought the garment as a token of your appreciation for
the pleasure of her company during the night. Then you must beg her to
try the dress on and see how it looks. We may hope that she will be so
pleased with the spontaneous presentation of your gift that she will
keep on wearing it when you take her out to her taxi."

"Go out, unbathed and unshaven -- into a female dress shop. Jeeves!" It
was a cry of anguish torn from my soul.

"Should you meet any of your friends, sir, you can explain away your
appearance by saying that you've spent all night at the tables at
Crockfords, and have just finished breaking your fast at a
costermonger's coffee stall in Covent Garden. As for Madam Juin, she is
discretion herself, and so are her staff. Your secret will be safe."

"Safe! And what if one of Bingo Little's ex-fiancees arrives in the
Maison De Mode whilst I'm there? The story will be spread around the
whole Metrop before I've finished signing Madam Juin's check."

"The likelihood of any such encounter is extremely remote, sir," the
man said loftily, rather like Zeus having to explain his grand plans to
a slow witted mortal.

"Remote! Do you know how many girls Bingo has been affianced to in his
time? Laid end to end they'd stretch the length of Rotten Row."

"Considering the general quality of Mr Little's selections that might
be an appropriate venue for the event, sir. Though I'm bound to say the
sight would probably frighten the horses rather badly."

"Ah!" I said. Fear had lent wings to my normally sluggish brain and
exposed the flaw in Jeeves' strategy. "You're forgetting, I can't buy a
dress for Miss Pederson without knowing her dress size. So that puts
paid to that idea."

"Not at all, sir. We shall simply lift the bedclothes off Miss Pederson
and I will be able to judge her requirements by eye."

Had anybody else bar a master tailor made such a claim I wouldn't have
believed it. Yet I'd had it proved to me time and time again that
Jeeves could indeed name my clothing sizes to within a fraction of an
inch with a single glance. That the talent might extend as far as
female bodies was something I'd never considered, but presumably he
knew his own abilities best.

"She . . . she hasn't got any clothes on at the moment, Jeeves."

"Then my task will be so much the easier, sir."

Crushed -- I was fairly crushed underneath the dead weight of his
reply. Not that they'd been any insolence at all in his reply, nor did
there need to be, after the stupidity of my remark. Poor old Bertie was
a very embarrassed employer indeed as he slipped out from underneath
the covers without a stitch to cover himself and prepared to help
Jeeves throw the bed clothes back from the figure still underneath
them.

It seemed that the Pedersons were a family who liked their sleep almost
as much as they liked collecting federally printed autographs of the
Secretary of the Treasury. Deprived of the warmth and shelter of the
blankets, Annette curled herself up on her stomach like an uncovered
dormouse in the depths of hibernation and continued to put plenty of
solid spadework into her snoring.

Dash it all, though, noise apart, she was a vision which would have
been worthy of any painters' brush work, even Rembrandt's. A kind of
pocket Venus De Milo, with all those curves and enticing handfuls that
are creation's most interesting mystery. The good thing about looking
at her on top of the mattress was that her breasts were tucked out of
sight underneath her, which let you admire her hips and bottom without
being afraid you might be missing out of a glimpse of something even
better somewhere else. All in all, taking a look at the little blonde
bombshell, any impartial male observer would have to agree that Annette
Pederson had more attractive trimmings on her than any Christmas tree
you ever saw. Which begged a couple of questions, such as why she'd
ended up in bed with silly ass Bertie, and where the devil was her
chaperone on this holiday jaunt of hers across Europe?

Considerations which went completely out of my mind as Jeeves leaned
forward and tickled the bottom of Annette's right foot. She made a kind
of ingrowing breath noise and rolled over on her back. Two delightful
mounds of faintly freckled flesh swung and heaved together in graceful
arcs before gently settling into the gentle swaying motion. A pair of
large brown nipples rose and fell with her breathing, like fishing
floats on a moving sea twitching with the promise of hidden life below,
if only a man could haul them in. Then her eyelids opened and her vivid
blue eyes glanced incuriously at me before turning toward Jeeves. I
tried to think of something I could possibly say but only managed a
kind of choking gargle.

"Good morning, Madam," Jeeves said cordially. "Could you possibly
oblige me by sitting upright so that I can obtain a clearer impression
of the size of your bosom?"

"Huh . . . sure."

You know, over the years I've had to put up with a great deal of loose
gossip about how I let Jeeves make too much of himself, and how I talk
a lot of nonsense about what strength of character he has. So, let the
record show that when Miss Pederson was subjected to the Jeeves'
treatment she was as much putty in his hands as poor old Bertram has
ever been, for all of her own undoubted personal strengths. Summoned
straight from the depths of sleep and confronted with Jeeves' iron
will, you may as well try to argue the toss with the Recording Angel,
should you happen to find him in the bed chamber writing down the names
of all your tribe.

So, to resume the narrative, Annette heaved herself up, leaned back
against the bed head, put her hands underneath her well developed
charms and displayed them to my valet as calmly as if they were a pair
of second hand bolsters with dubiously hued antimacassars.

"Will that do?"

"Thank you, Madam, that view is quite sufficient," Jeeves answered with
due deference and some considerable degree of understatement. "Now that
I know your approximate dimensions I can work out your displacement and
run your bath to the correct level and temperature. I will call you as
soon as it is ready. Would you wish me to leave a cup of hot coffee
beside the tub as well?"

Annette lay there, as naked as she could be, bar her earrings, and
smiled at him as calmly as before: "That sounds like a great idea. You
wouldn't like to give me a hand in the bath as well, I suppose?"

"I have done such services for other ladies, Madam. Many of them have
been kind enough to congratulate me on my skills as a masseur. Though I
cannot recall any of them as your equal in pulchritude. Naturally, if
called upon, I will endeavor to give every satisfaction within my
power."

"Pulchritude?"

Annette arched her eyebrows in question marks and joggled herself at
Jeeves with both hands. I had a vague sensation of a locomotive letting
off steam somewhere between my ears. One of the big American Pacific
class steamers.

"I was merely stating the obvious fact that Madam is the fortune
possessor of a great measure of extremely enticing physical beauty.
Madam will excuse me?"

Jeeves inclined his head like Gladstone doing the polite by Queen
Victoria and vanished in the same uncanny way that he seems to arrive,
appearing and disappearing into the atmosphere with the facility of an
errant wisp of steam in a Turkish bath. Personally, my flabber was
entirely ghast, as you might say.

First of all there was that cunning little diversionary tale about
needing to see Annette naked so as to judge the right level for the
bath, and then there was that casual flash of the bat sending a six to
the boundary as Jeeves talked about his services to other ladies -- his
services, mark you, and what ladies might they be, I wondered?

And come to think of it, hadn't there been a lot of girls through the
Mansions who'd left envelopes behind with Jeeves' name on them? Minor
gratuities for minor services, I'd always assumed, but how minor, that
was the moot point. Dash it all, none of them had left any keepsakes
for Bertie Wooster, the official and duly appointed resident Romeo in
these premises.

These were deep waters, especially for a naked man with only a few sips
of tea in his system and an urgent need to drag on his clothes before
taking urgent flight to Madam Juin's. Deep waters which suddenly became
deeper and murkier.

"That must have been Jeeves, I suppose?" Annette asked me.

Quite an unsettling question to put to a chap when a chap is standing
on one leg and trying to put the other one into the correct hole of his
flannel bags. I mean, I was well off balance to begin with.

"Jeeves? yes, that was Jeeves, but how come you to know his name?"

Annette leaned back and put her hands behind her head: watching the
effect on her body, I nearly tore the gusset out of my trousers.

"Bertie, everybody knows about Jeeves. Freddie Threepwood made me
promise I'd meet Jeeves whilst I was over here. He said that Jeeves and
Westminster Abbey were the two things in London I mustn't miss out on,
no matter what."

"Well, confound his cheek," I grumbled. "He's got no business telling
people to meet my valet. Dash it all, there'll be a plaque outside the
next thing you know, 'JEEVES LIVES HERE', with Bertram opening the door
for visiting tourists wanting to go sightseeing around one of the
stately retainers of old England."

"Don't be so grumpy on such a nice morning, Bertie. Everybody thinks
you're so clever to have found Jeeves for yourself. I think you're very
clever to, and very handsome."

Well, that put a different complexion on things, don't you know? What
with Annette's magnificent contours on display, and her honeyed words,
well I'd begun undressing again given half a chance. But duty called,
so I kept on buttoning up.

"Where are you going, Bertie, and in that state? I doubt if Jeeves will
let you out looking like that."

I drew myself up to full height, displaying the haughtiness that the
Woosters have always been able to call on ever since Sir Bertram De
Wooster fell off his steed in full armor at the battle of Agincourt and
landed on top of the High Constable of France, thereby instantly
reducing him to the Low Constable of France.

"Jeeves is not my keeper, and if you knew my business, you would
entreat me go rather than stay."

Annette fluttered her eyelids: "Yes, Master Petruchio. In any case it
seems that I'm taking over your bath, so you may as well make tracks
until I've finished wallowing in it."

"Look, Annette, it is important that I have to go out now, dashed
important," I said diplomatically. The realization had come back to
haunt me about how I was going to have to sweet talk this squawking
squaw into dressing with some degree of decorum before she issued forth
over the Wooster doormat.

"Sure, take as long as you like, I won't be offended. Can Jeeves cook
-- a breakfast, I mean?"

"Of course, anything you want, and to perfection. He'll look after you
until I get back."

Annette slid down into the rumpled bed and heaved a great sigh of
pleasure: "I'm sure he will. Did you hear him say I had pul  . . . pulc
. . . whatever?"

Watching the effect of the sigh on her breasts was having a hampering
effect on my own breathing: "Yes, well he's right, you've got bags of
charm."

"Have I really, Bertie?"

"Oh yes, by Jove, I can see two of them at least from here, don't you
know?"

She giggled and threw a pillow at me: "Don't be gone long, Bertie.
After I've had a bath and some breakfast I may need another lesson in
English lovemaking."

Well, that was an inducement I badly needed as I sidled out of the
Mansions by the tradesman's entrance, collar turned up and shoulders
hunched in fear of detection. After I'd travelled the length of the
street with people staring after me as though I was wearing a mask and
had a bag marked "SWAG" over my shoulder, I realized that what might
suit James Cagney in the Bronx after he'd fled the Big House at the
dead of night might not be quite the thing on a sunny Mayfair morning.
It was the lack of a shave which was really undermining the Wooster
morale and impeding my thought processes to no small extent.

Anyway, I shall simply record that the next hour was one of the
grisliest ever suffered by your correspondent. Bad enough to be
sneaking through the streets in desperate fear of being arrested as a
vagrant at any moment. Worse yet to be standing in Madam Juin's
establishment of frills and fripperies with blasted girls appearing
from behind screens in all directions to gape and giggle at Bertie as
he presented Jeeves' note and was in turn presented with a selection of
dresses to choose from, as though I knew or cared anything about any of
the deuced things. Most depressing of all was the sight of the
telephone on the counter of the shop and the far too late realization
that I could have simply phoned through an order and arranged for a
messenger to deliver it to the apartment. But perhaps Jeeves thought
that my chances of getting Annette to take me to her heart would be
improved by Bertie bringing the bacon home personally, as you might
say.

At any event I decided to take three different dresses and to hope that
one of them would appeal to the brazen hussy who'd accepted an
invitation into my home and hearth without warning me of the appalling
state of her apparel. So you may consider my state of apprehension as I
tiptoed back home through the streets, not only unbathed and unshaven,
but clutching three large be-ribboned boxes to my chest and trying to
hide my face behind them. Vague talk of returning from some prolonged
nocturnal roistering might have served before, but what was Bertram
Wooster doing creeping around the streets with the sun well over the
yardarm, dressed like an organ grinder, smelling like his monkey, and
carrying an assortment of Madam Juin's finest creations? Let that
question be bruited around amongst London's fashionable inhabitants and
Sir Roderick would be packing up his collection of little rubber
hammers and calling around at Berkeley Square with a couple of white
coated assistants faster than Bingo Little could get himself engaged in
a ballroom full of drunken debutantes.

Bearing that thought in mind, you'll appreciate the shock to the poor
old Wooster system when I opened the door to my apartment and found two
burly men in scarlet coats and wigs standing to attention in the
hallway like extras in a Regency play. Whilst I was still gaping at
this unexpected turn of events one of the unidentified retainers
stepped forward and neatly scooped Madam Lafarge's packages out of my
limp arms.

"Welcome home, Mr Wooster," he said, rather like the Biblical Patriarch
giving the formal greeting to the Prodigal Son.

"Er, yes, thank you."

Truth to tell, I was rather keen on knowing why my front hall was being
cluttered up with ornately dressed servants who certainly were not part
of the Wooster household. The difficulty was that when it came to
questions, it was rather a case of dealing with a embarrassment of
riches -- or a richness of embarrassment.

One might, for example, have also turned to the matter of the silver
tray being held by one of these magnificently turned out menials, a
tray well nigh covered with packets of what I recognized as Pederson's
Prophylactics. Recognizable to me even though I'd never been West of
West Point because Annette had been carrying several similar packets
inside her handbag and had insisted, like the man in the soap
advertisement, that I should use no other. No wonder a family with such
faith in its goods did so well on the retail side, but, whatever their
sterling qualities, I was unaware that Pederson's useful rubber goods
were on sale anywhere in the sterling area, so their sudden appearance
on a salver in my London apartment, was, like that of the scarlet
jacketed retainers, shrouded in mystery.

Still, leaving that aside, one might also wonder these footmen were
also shrouded in clouds of vapor as though the Wooster premises had its
own private peasouper: but this was steam I was seeing, not fog, coming
from the opened bathroom doorway. Along with a sound like a pair of
kippers being beaten into pulp against an elephant's flank. All in all,
Bertram's brain was as misted up as my front hall seemed to be. It was
a relief when one of the men in red gave tongue.

"My name is Woodend, sir, and this is Chataway. We are part of Sir Max
Hobden's household. Sir Max is away at the moment, sir, in America, and
we are here because Mr Jeeves asked for our help."

Sir Max Hobden -- well, everybody knew who he was. The most successful
actor ever to leave the West End Theatres to seek fame and fortune in
the film lots of Hollywood, a search which had turned up more treasure
for the titled thespian in the role of Long John Silver than any
buccaneer had ever buried.

"Mr Jeeves is aware of the fact that Sir Max greatly favors the
Pederson brand of prophylactics, sir, an habit he acquired in
California, and Mr Jeeves requested that I bring around some of Sir
Max's stock as a matter of urgency."

Good God, was there nothing that the Servant's Hall didn't know about
who did what with who and with what upstairs? That was a revelation, I
can tell you but bigger and better shocks were coming. This was an
earthquake which had just begin to shake things up.

"But, dash it all, Woodend, why bring the bally things here?"

"Apparently there's a young lady who's eager to enjoy herself, but who
needed to be reassured that a adequate supply of Pederson Prophylactics
was at hand before she would consent to begin."

I gaped at him, and then turned and gaped just as inanely at the
direction of the bathroom, where a sound vaguely reminiscent of a
wolverine going through a particularly difficult birth was making the
clouds of steam quiver. The thought occurred that none of this was
doing the flock wallpaper any good -- the further thought occurred that
what I was hearing was Annette either in total agony or in total
ecstasy.

When I looked through the bathroom door and waved aside the strata of
hanging steam I saw her standing behind the massage table and leaning
forward over it with both arms stretched out stiffly in front of her,
one cheek against the leatherwork, hair twisted around her forehead and
ear in damp curls, calling out a name very loudly and dribbling out of
the corner of her mouth like an infant. The owner of the name was
standing directly behind her, naked himself except for his washing up
apron, which was lifted up and spread out as a kind of concession to
modesty over Annette's haunches as she thrust herself back wildly
against his own matching movements.

Jeeves nodded deferentially at me across her back, an act which seemed
definitely incongruous, especially as he was slapping the flats of his
hands against her cloth covered bottom like an tribal drummer beating
on a Tom-Tom. Rather a good rhythm he was keeping under the
circumstances, too. So now at least I didn't need to ask what was
making the 'elephant assaulted by kipper' sound.

One query which did cross my mind was why my valet was giving my female
guest what seemed to be the experience of her life, as unsheltered as
that life seemed to be.

Jeeves nodded again, seemed to slow his own stroke rate to half of what
it had been and then pressed down hard against Annette's buttocks,
holding her to ransom for her own satisfaction against whatever
movement he chose to give her. Annette wailed in despair at being
restrained, wriggled around like a trapped rabbit, curled her hands
into fists and then thumped them down on the massage table as if she
was throwing a tantrum.

"Jeeves . . . please!"

"Be quiet, Madam. Otherwise no more treats for you. Excuse me for
taking this liberty, sir, but I had no choice. I'm afraid that Miss
Pederson was awake during our conversation after all, and eventually
expressed her deepest conviction to me that she would not change her
clothes merely to save you some minor embarrassment. So I was forced
into a change of tactics."

"Jeeves! Fuck me! Now!"

I suddenly found that the American girl's call of the wild was being
answered. Two more shapes appeared in the doorway, displaying an
startling amount of untanned flesh between eyes and knees. In fact
there are few more unsettling sights than seeing two men suddenly
appear in your bathroom, especially when they're wearing nothing but
wigs and silk stockings.

"Ah, Woodend and Chataway. I think Madam needs a gobstopper if you can
find one of a suitable flavor."

"Certainly, Mr Jeeves, certainly. My pleasure."

The duo of domestics walked in, surrounded the table, each slipping a
hand under Annette and seizing hold of a breast each. As far as both of
them were concerned Bertie Wooster might as well have been one of the
fixtures and fittings. Dashed high handed, I thought, as well as low
handed as well, but at least I wasn't having Annette's troubles.

I saw her eyes bulge wide open in surprise, and then even wider as she
found her lips being pushed opened by the Woodend family's pride and
joy, and if Woodend wasn't exactly a fully qualified footman he went
almost three quarters of the way at full stretch towards matching his
job description. He was certainly well enough endowed to keep Annette
completely out of the conversation. When Jeeves gave her a couple of
quick beats to the bar the only response which came out around the
Woodend scepter of masculinity was a series of gargles vaguely
reminiscent of a plumber's mate being applied to a well blocked drain.

Meanwhile Bertie was leaning back against the tiled wall feeling as if
he was already facing the inevitable firing squad. Not that I've any
objection to orgies as such, but one has to be so dashed careful about
whom one sends the invitation cards to -- and Annette hadn't even been
invited to this one, simply pressganged into it by all appearances. By
the time she'd finished having her most intimate mysteries delved into
by a valet and two flunkies she was likely to be as sore as a gum boil.


By Jove, if this got into the courts it would be a matter of rapine,
mass rapine, with three further offences of stealing policemen's
helmets on boat race nights to be taken into consideration in the
sentencing of Childe Bertram to durance vile.

"Dash it all, Jeeves, what have you done. How? Why?"

"Well, sir, since Madam is determined to leave in her pants the only
thing we can do is to delay her departure until dark. So I asked her if
I could massage her shoulders as she lay on the table in a towel. Mmmm,
excuse me, sir."

The blighter blinked his eyes, took a deep breath, rose on the tips of
his toes and lunged into Annette like a matador striking for the bull's
neck: her eyes rolled back in their sockets as if Jeeves had scored a
winning stroke off the cush with both of them.

"Madam has remarkably tight vagina muscles. I can't keep her in play
much longer. Fortunately Woodend and Chataway are here to keep the
momentum going until we can begin a new innings."

There were things to be said here, including a definite refusal on
Bertram's part to bowl any googlies onto an already well dampened
wicket. But before I could give voice to any of these matters of pith
and substance, Jeeves took his pressure off Annette's bottom. It was as
though he'd released the mechanism on a life-sized clockwork doll: she
thrashed herself against him and moaned like a gale from the icefields
tearing through the shrouds of a clipper ship rounding Cape Horn. Not
that I've ever actually been to Cape Horn of course, but at least I can
say for sure that Annette Pederson was as close to Jeeves' horn as a
girl could be: until they both ran aground on each other, anyway.

Jeeves said: "Thank you, Madam" as he finished his work. Annette,
typically American, made more noise than a speakeasy being raided and
ended on a higher note than Louis Armstrong finishing off a bracket.
Then Jeeves stepped back and smoothed out the wrinkles in his apron. I
sincerely hoped he wasn't going to be still wearing it when he finally
got around to cooking my breakfast.

"Well done indeed, Madam. You are a truly enjoyable partner. Now please
go into the master bedroom with these two friends of mine and let them
play at being your masters for a while."

Annette half turned and stared back at him as if he was the most
marvelous thing she'd ever seen. Freddie Threepwood would have been
pleased if he'd been there to see the excellent results of his advice,
although I doubted if Annette would ever look at Westminster Abbey with
the same expression of awed respect that she was directing at Jeeves.

"Jeeves, do the Chinese thing for me again, please -- pretty please . .
."

"Not until you've obliged both of these stalwart lads to the extent
they can't stand up. Then you can have it again, only even better than
before."

Her eyes lit up with delight. Here was a conundrum which baffled
Bertram as much as the Times crossword had ever done. What is it that a
millionaire's daughter needs so desperately and can't get elsewhere
that she has to beg for it from Bertie's domestic staff? No to put too
fine a point on it, what Chinese thing?

Whatever the answer, it had a galvanic effect on my guest. She stood up
with remarkable energy, seized hold of Woodend and Chataway's jutting
appendages and then walked backwards out of the bathroom, the two
footmen putting their best feet forward with urgent necessity as she
led them to the bedroom like a pair of greyhounds being paraded around
the stadium before they were let off the leash. I noticed that
Woodend's wig was already well askew and would probably fall off in the
first lap.

"The Chinese thing, Jeeves? What is the woman talking about? Does she
have some kind of a fetish for stroking my Ming vase?"

"No, sir. Madam was referring to my demonstration of a certain
technique of using my fingers inside her body whilst applying my tongue
to her clitoris. The method was developed in the Forbidden City of
China as the ultimate source of satisfaction for the female nervous
system and practitioners of the art were often granted secret access to
the Empress of the day and her ladies."

"Huh . . ." Bertie was well and truly stumped. "That's a useful thing
to know Jeeves. Does it have a name, this hmmmm . . . technique?"

"Certainly, sir. The Chinese know it as 'Pan-chiu hu-t'ung wei-hua
p'i-p'a', which roughly translates as 'The making of a woman's heavenly
thunderstorms of inner delight'."

"Really?" I drew a hand across my puzzled brow. "Have you ever been to
China, Jeeves?"

"No, sir, I have not had that pleasure. But I was once in service as
Under Butler at Seend Palace, the residence of His Grace the Bishop of
Ching and Wye. And His Grace had spent many years in the East as a
missionary."

"The Bishop taught you about this heavenly thunderstorm business?" It
was my morning for asking stupid questions.

"Certainly not, sir," Jeeves replied in a dignified rebuttal quite
remarkable for a man wearing only an apron. "But His Grace was kind
enough to provide practical demonstrations of the technique to the Head
House Maid, the Head Still Room Maid, two upstairs maids, one nursery
maid, one scullery maid and the resident Governess. And they, in turn,
were kind enough to teach me how to achieve the same ends with their
own nerve ends."

"Bless my soul," I said, astonished. "Always a seeker after knowledge,
hey, Jeeves?"

"One tries, sir, one tries."

"Dash it, Jeeves, remember that business at Twing Hall, the Great
Sermon Handicap? If the Bishop had been speaking on his favorite
subject he could have cantered in while all the other clergy had long
since de-banned and gone into the clubhouse, and still not a muscle
would have twitched in the congregation. Spell-binding stuff, what?
Especially with a Sunday afternoon at hand to allow time to try out a
little laying on of hands before a general laying after the service."

"An interesting thought, sir, although I fear the ecclesiastical
authorities might be a little prurient about broaching such matters
with the laity. Would you like to take a bath now, sir? And perhaps a
fresh pot of tea would be in order?"

"An excellent idea, Jeeves. Away you go and infuse the tea leaves until
your trained senses tell you they have infused to a nicety."

He left, I undressed and slid into the still steaming bath. I didn't
care who'd used it before, nor did I pay more than minor attention to
the grunts, groans, feminine cries and creaking bedsprings echoing
across the hall. For Bertie had much to think about: perhaps the
greatest mystery in life had been solved, which was, of course, how
come there are so many totally ugly and totally awful men who seemed to
have total control over so many woman?

Now perhaps I understood why. Perhaps there was a club of privileged
males who had been made privy to this woman shaking secret and were
able to make themselves known to the distaff side of society by some
mysterious means. Perhaps it was all done by handshakes, like the
Freemasons, with every woman knowing the secret existed and just
waiting with repressed eagerness until some Eastern trained adept
arrived in her circle and made himself known.

Mmmm, put that way it didn't sound very likely. I would need to consult
Jeeves on the matter. And it was at that moment, thinking of nerve
shattering thunderstorms, that a nerve shattering thought crossed my
mind like lightning flickering across the accursed heath and
illuminating the witches -- well, one witch at least. For I'd seen the
look in Annette Pederson's eyes when she'd demanded that Jeeves work
his magic manipulation on her again: if it had been Freddie's
alternative sight seeing destination she'd been gazing at instead of
Jeeves I'd be harboring great fears about seeing the whole edifice
eventually shipped out to California in large crates labeled:
"Westminster Abbey -- fragile -- this way up." But she'd been looking
at Jeeves, not the Abbey, and Jeeves might be a lot easier to transship
to the orange groves of the West Coast than a cathedral.

No, the old Wooster brain box might not be the deliver of Nobel Prize
type insights, but even it could see that there was every sign of a
sudden takeover raid being launched against the majority shareholder in
Jeeves incorporated, i.e. the young master himself, Bertie. As I
moodily plied the sponge around my trembling torso I found my thoughts
turning to Lord Bittlesham. When that elderly peer had found himself
liable to lose his much treasured cook to a higher bidder he'd taken
the drastic but effective counter-attack of marrying her. A capital
notion, but I could hardly keep Jeeves out of Annette's claws by
marrying him. Not even at the Drones Club could I get away with that.
Nor could I hope to win any kind of financial bidding duel with a girl
who had access to the Pederson family purse. No, if Annette was
determined to take Jeeves away and if he had any weaknesses at all she
would find a way to exploit it until his steamer trunk had San
Francisco destination labels stuck all over it.

Then it suddenly occurred to me that if only Jeeves could be induced to
teach his Chinese chicanery to some other chap then Annette could take
the other chap back to California instead and everything would be
tickety boo again. But was there anybody I knew who would be a cad
enough to want to learn such dirty tricks and then to use them to play
the gigolo for a domineering American female? Was there anybody from
the old school so low down, so lacking in moral fiber, so desperate for
money that he'd even consider doing such a despicable thing?

"Jeeves," I shouted. I needed to because Woodend and Chataway seemed to
be doing something complicated with a Annette in the bedroom which
involved a three way lift, lots of grunts and some vaguely hydraulic
sounds.

"Sir."

He'd done it again, materializing out of nowhere. But at least he was
properly dressed again.

"Jeeves, consult the telephone directory and lay it down next to the
instrument."

"Sir. And am I looking for any particular name, sir?"

"Ukridge", I said smugly. "Stanley Featherstonehaugh Ukridge."

 THE END

-- 
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reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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