indeedsir_backup | Fic: Weakness (NC-17) (Reply)

Sometimes I need to do a one part fic to recharge when working on a long one. Sorry to everyone who was hoping this was the next chapter! Soon, I promise.

There’s no harm in looking, is there? That’s what I’ve always thought, anyway. Especially when one isn’t expecting you to look where you are looking. What I mean to say, you see, is that a man’s eyes are meant to rove about a filly’s curves when he is being a cad, and settle upon her profile when engaged in chivalrous admiration. While I have, on occasion, admired a girl sideways, as one would a fine work of art, I never lingered. People don’t think of me as the type, you know, which is dashed useful, when all is said and done, for my eyes are most often drawn to the male of the species.

Men, ah, you see. One cannot betray such thoughts after school, you know, and not always even then, for there were boys who were game to play, and those who would just as soon thrash you, and the ones likely to kick were often the handsomest of all; broad, muscular, strong, lovely young men; gleaming eyes, sun-bronzed skin, chiseled faces on chiseled bodies that arched and sprinted and moved in all sorts of sporting ways. Good lord, what I used to do to be in the company of such young gods! I even took up rowing, a grueling practice which left me sore, hungry, and much too tired to enjoy the scenery. Still, it gave me fodder for dreams, and that was often enough, and some of the athletic chaps turned out to be good eggs. My passion often cooled after knowing them a time, and I think that is likely for the best.

I must have been blind at first to not see Jeeves for the fine specimen which he is, perhaps blinded by his brilliance. He was so unlike myself, after all, clever and wise, so unlike the men I’d lusted for so long. He was a servant, as well, and that sort of thing just is not on. At least, so I thought.

It began as it often does with a woman, when I find myself engaged. Jeeves does have a rather marvelous profile, you know, with a rugged bent nose on a smooth, handsome face; his skin like alabaster against the black of his uniform, his eyes cool, like the sea. Such a large man, as well, at least three inches on me, with massive hands that would serve a gangster well; and yet- they were refined hands, you know. Everything about him seems weightless, as though he glides about like one of those Indian mystics I’d read about as a boy. It was fascinating to watch him, comfortable to confide in him, and his company became, in a very short time, more than enough to keep me content.

I believe the trouble began the day he returned from his first holiday, healthy and bronzed, clad in a tan seersucker number which made him look like a different man altogether, or rather, a man to begin with- gone was the drab mask of the uniform, and the scales fell from my eyes. I had been harboring this in my home for months, and I had failed to appreciate it!

From that day forward, I couldn’t help but look. I would never impose on the man, or course, but a glance here and there I couldn’t resist. I saw past the uniform, indeed, it became exciting in and of itself. Anything his body touched would be beautiful in my mind, at that point. Dearest man, dearest friend, dearest, dearest! My breath would catch, I would blush, and I would make myself bury my thoughts, avert my eyes, feeling certain that he would know; and he must never know. Never know the perverted lusts of his idiot master, never feel uncomfortable in my presence, never, ever leave me. I felt as though I had caught up a precious butterfly in a jar, a rare thing one can keep, but never touch, for fear of destroying it, as my cousin Angela and I had once done as children (purely accidentally, of course). I could look, though. I could steal glances when he wasn’t looking, what?

I often found myself thinking that if he were a woman, I would have dropped to my knees and eloped at once. I would never let him from the marriage bed. I would keep his belly full with child, if only he were a woman, and if only I were a man who loved women. A man who loves another man can only growl in frustration, and a man who lusts for a servant is a cad and a devil. Yet… he can look, can’t he? Yes, he must. There are no other men, after all, not anymore, and when the desired object is living in one’s won flat, one must look.

And then I became careless, and looked once too often, and once too openly, and once and twice while in my cups… and the adored object turned on the young master, and demanded the meaning of the glances, the stares, the wandering, damned hand. The foolish cad begged mercy, and cried unmanly tears, and offered up to half his kingdom if the adored one would only forgive and forget…

And the servant-god pulled the drunken fool up by his lapels, and kissed him, roughly.

There is a tie that binds, he reminded me.

There are times when the tie that binds is wound so tightly about my heart that I feel it might slice it in two, when my man is on me, the weight of his body, the warmth of his breath, the heft of his cock , hard and hot. I lace my legs tightly around him, this marvel whose Viking blood and English civility blend seamlessly, like the scent of his skin mingled with the clean starch of his collar and the sweet, earthy smell of tea.

“Sir…” he groans, in that low, lovely voice. “I need you, sir, inside me, my master.” His voice is halting, and desperate.

And for once in my life, I am not pathetic, foolish, stupid, or useless. For just a few bally well glorious moments, I am a man.