Bertram shivered also, from passion and from chill as his man’s clever fingers returned the gift of unbuttoning, finding the long-familiar pathway from fly to undershorts to brush that most tender spot between shaft and scrotum, the one where the long vein teased the nerves. Bertie had always been sensitive there, and his lover had always been the most observant and clever of chaps. It had taken… not long at all… for Reginald Jeeves to learn the trick of transforming Wooster into wobble with a single precise stroke.
It was a skill that only improved with practice. Much practice.
He might not be as clever, but as a Magdalene grad He could swot when a topic demanded. Anatomy – the anatomy of one R. J. in particular – was a topic worthy of a king’s scholar, and Bertram had applied himself to the laboratory of the bedroom with a master’s devotion.
Their lips locked, muffling the passionate pledges that could not be withheld.
Bertie wrapped his fingers over the round thickness, pulling stroke after stroke in the pace taught in those college days. His man’s rapid breaths served as the boatswain’s chant, encouraging Bertie’s grip on the oar of love.
In answer, the broad fingers moved back. Ghosting between rear cheeks to circle and plunge. Lightning sparked from that beloved finger, racing up Bertie’s spine, setting off joy after joy in a twist of sensation and memory.
Bertie shattered.
His body dropped limp against his man’s broad chest. His palm twisted one last time, gripping their treasure of shaft and balls together in loving heat.
Jeeves groaned, surrendering all even as he claimed all, arm wrapped around the arms wrapped around him.
Bertie breathed deeply of his one true oxygen. Of that mix of wool and hair oil and Reginald – Reginald Jeeves – his Jeeves.
The niche was cold, slick stone and worn wood, and even in these dead hours no true privacy. They would have to move soon. Life would demand that they pull their outer trapping back to propriety. Wash in the chill dribble of the janitor’s sink. Comb their hair and straighten their masks. Double-lock the entry door and double-lock their hearts.
Tomorrow would be one more day of holding on to the need to just hold on, of hoping to perhaps find a reason to hope. Of doing one’s duties. Of doing without. Of doing what must be done in denial of what one would and perhaps even what one should. Another day at war within a world at war.
In this tsunami of history carrying them all a minute of mortal flesh, of kisses and tears, was nothing. But for the moment – for this single moment – it was almost enough.
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Date: 2013-05-04 06:18 pm (UTC)It was a skill that only improved with practice. Much practice.
He might not be as clever, but as a Magdalene grad He could swot when a topic demanded. Anatomy – the anatomy of one R. J. in particular – was a topic worthy of a king’s scholar, and Bertram had applied himself to the laboratory of the bedroom with a master’s devotion.
Their lips locked, muffling the passionate pledges that could not be withheld.
Bertie wrapped his fingers over the round thickness, pulling stroke after stroke in the pace taught in those college days. His man’s rapid breaths served as the boatswain’s chant, encouraging Bertie’s grip on the oar of love.
In answer, the broad fingers moved back. Ghosting between rear cheeks to circle and plunge. Lightning sparked from that beloved finger, racing up Bertie’s spine, setting off joy after joy in a twist of sensation and memory.
Bertie shattered.
His body dropped limp against his man’s broad chest. His palm twisted one last time, gripping their treasure of shaft and balls together in loving heat.
Jeeves groaned, surrendering all even as he claimed all, arm wrapped around the arms wrapped around him.
Bertie breathed deeply of his one true oxygen. Of that mix of wool and hair oil and Reginald – Reginald Jeeves – his Jeeves.
The niche was cold, slick stone and worn wood, and even in these dead hours no true privacy. They would have to move soon. Life would demand that they pull their outer trapping back to propriety. Wash in the chill dribble of the janitor’s sink. Comb their hair and straighten their masks. Double-lock the entry door and double-lock their hearts.
Tomorrow would be one more day of holding on to the need to just hold on, of hoping to perhaps find a reason to hope. Of doing one’s duties. Of doing without. Of doing what must be done in denial of what one would and perhaps even what one should. Another day at war within a world at war.
In this tsunami of history carrying them all a minute of mortal flesh, of kisses and tears, was nothing. But for the moment – for this single moment – it was almost enough.