Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Really, Bertram, this… dillydallying around must cease! You are nearly 32 years of age, you must marry a suitable woman and have heirs to the Wooster estate. It’s not a good look on the church, having their only priest unmarried and wasting his time at his little clubs.”

Ah, there I go again, starting in the heat of things, what? It rather seems to be a habit of mine, dear reader. I’m never quite too sure when to start these things, you see; too early and I’m discussing my life as a tot; but too late and I… Well, we get there when we get there. I wouldn’t want to spoil you, now would I?

Let’s try to start at the beginning of this particular conflict, what?

First, the characters. There is of course, one Bertram Wilberforce Wooster, me, don’t you know. Though I really should say that only dastardly aunts call me Bertram, I’m much more partial to the much warmer ‘Bertie’.

Through a small series of unfortunate events six years ago, which I shan’t get into now of all times, my family’s quaint little church was found without a priest, and my dastardly Aunt Agatha thought me the perfect replacement.

I could’ve argued otherwise until the cows came home, since this Wooster much prefers social whirls with a drink in one hand and a gasper in the other, not the life of a priest living in a rectory (I still live my life as I did before the title was rudely thrust upon me, but I did have to sell my flat), but I couldn’t weasel my way out of this particular arrangement. I have a… family reputation, you see, of getting out of arrangements made by friends and family, particularly of the marital variety.

Which is exactly the particular arrangement which is the crux of this story.

My Aunt Agatha seems to have ‘finding a wife for old Bertie’ as her number one priority, what? But don’t think that I want to be shackled to some poor beasel for the rest of my life! I much prefer the bachelor life, this Bertram Wooster.

“Aunt Agatha, I simply can’t marry, I much prefer the bachelor life, this Bertram Wooster.” I crossed my arms, putting my foot down against it.

My aunt simply scowled at me, “I have found you a woman of high class. She is well read, and level-headed, she will put you on the right path. I have taken the liberty of organising the wedding, this coming Sunday. If you try to weasel your way out of this, as you have so many times before, Bertram, then I will be cutting my monthly donations to the church—“

I say, well, if you pardon my language, the bally nerve, roping the church into this.

“— And, you will be cut from the Wooster estate- oh will you stop gawping!”

I’ve been told I wear the face of a dead fish when I hear the arrangements of my friends and family, as this Wooster’s face can be read like an open book.

So that is my predicament, dear reader.

I am 6 days away from a loveless marriage, and I really can not weasel my way out of this one, not this time. I weasel out, and not only does this boat of comfort I live on go down, I take the entire bally church down with me.

The Code of the Woosters simply would not allow me to pull down a community like ours, what? I’ve been with that church all my life, as have so many others. It simply would not do, no no!

So I hit a sort of impasse, you see. I spent most of my free time at the Drones, my gentleman’s club, head storming with rum thoughts about my future if I weasel my way out versus my life if I don’t.

If I do manage to weasel my way out, well, I could disappear and live in a cabin in the woods with the amount of the ready I have lying around. I would have to part with many of my luxuries, such as my clubs and my night life, but it could be done. It wouldn’t be my ideal life, but it is infinitely better than living in a loveless marriage, sharing a bed with a beasel and having kids with her. That just is not the life for me.

On the other hand, the church losing its main donor means that we couldn’t possibly continue helping our community as we do. There are families we help that, if we lose those donations, we would have to turn away. Not to mention the people I’ve known all my life, and those who knew my parents long before I was ever a blot on the landscape. They loved that church, it’s the only bally thing I have left of them, I couldn’t just leave their memory in the dirt like that. It’s not proper. But I couldn’t possibly both keep up with those donations and live in an unpowered cabin in the woods, and the Code of the Wooster’s tells me that I must not turn away people in need.

Rum sit., what?

If this arrangement didn’t have so much on the line, I could whip up one of my many corkers of a plan. If they didn’t work, I have enough friends that surely one of their ideas would fish me out of the soup.

But I just couldn’t bring myself to get fished out.

There was a lot more than just my head on the chopping block, what?

I met my future wife over tea on Thursday, following four days of not much else but sulking. She was a short woman, on the plumper side of things, brown hair with a protruding chin. She appeared to be a meek woman, but she wanted to control my entire life! I could see why Aunt Agatha thought her suitable, for she wanted me to lose my drinking and my gaspers and my club, because she loved the idea of a puritan priest, of all the nerve.

I sulked through the front door of my rectory feeling deflated, and at the end of my rope. I simply couldn’t find my way out of this one without pulling down others with me, others that couldn’t spare to be pulled down with me.

I went to bed feeling the familiar feeling of dread rising in my throat, and Morpheus didn’t come to me easily that night.

I couldn’t have gotten more than four hours of good rest before the sound of frantic knocking woke me up. Let it be said that I find my forty winks to be very important to me, and if I don’t get my good eight-but-preferably-nine hours of sleep, I am quite inhospitable to good company for the day. I do try to cover it up, as I have a reputation to uphold, what?

I slip on my gown and my slippers, smooth my hair down, my locks never seem to play nice, you see, when I don’t get my f. w., and open my front door to Mrs. Withersmith, an elderly lady who has been with my church many, many years, longer than I’ve got years on this earth, I think.

“Mrs. Withersmith, may I ask why you’re knocking at my door at…” I turn to squint at the old clock to my right, “Seven-thirty in the bally morning?”

“It’s my son, he’s gone off his nutter! Insane I say!” Her face was red hot, rage bubbling under her skin.

Simon Withersmith was a man who made my night life look prudish in comparison. He was a man I knew well, as did everyone at the Drones unfortunate enough to be roped into his schemes. He’s about my age, kicked from the club for an incident I can not repeat in polite company, you see.

“Well, come in, old thing. Sit down, sit down, make yourself at home. You wouldn’t mind if I went and had a quick bath and dress, would you?” Mrs. Withersmith seemed to steam out the anger in her face, nodding. “Topping. I’ll be back before I left.”

I would have preferred to have a good hour-long soak in the old bathtub, but duty calls, what?

I got dressed into my vestments, as ‘all good priests should’, if I were to quote my Aunt Agatha. It’s not personally my tastes, far too drab for my complexion, but the old man upstairs didn’t hear that from me, eh? They are awfully comfortable, I will say that. I washed my hands, murmuring my prayers, before walking out into the living room, where Mrs. Withersmith was munching on the biscuits gifted to me by another church goer at our last Sunday service.

“Awfully sorry about that, Mrs. Withersmith. I’ll be better company now, I find. Tea?”

“Oh, thank you Reverend Wooster, that would be lovely.”

“I’ve told you before, just Bertie is fine, you don’t need to give me any fancy titles. Now, you were saying something about Simon?” I put the kettle on the stove, “What scheme has he gotten into this time?”

“We found him at the crossroads outside our flat this morning, inconsolable! He tried to… oh, I can’t say it, I really can’t, Reverend. Not in the company of the Lord.”

I sit across from Mrs. Witherspoon, covering her hand with my own. She locked eyes with my necklace, before shutting them tight. She whispered so faintly I had to strain to hear it.
“He tried to summon a demon, Reverend.” She dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief, “I apologise, give me a moment.”

I may have the title of a Reverend, but let it be known, dear reader, that I don’t have a very strong connection to the big man upstairs. God, I mean to say. I find the church more of a place of connection than a place of worship.

I am still a man of worship, mind, but I still eat meat on Fridays and Saturdays, I don’t fast on Good Friday and Ash Wednesday, I still eat pork. But I know there are a lot of people in the Church who take their worship a lot more seriously. Mrs. Withersmith is one of those people, she and about 10 other people go to confessionals regularly, even for the smallest of sin. They study the bible together on Sundays, and are some of the kindest people I’ve met.

But I’m getting sidetracked, what?

What I mean to say is, the very idea that her son could even think about trying to summon a demon scared the dickens out of her. We sat in silence for a moment or three, as she took the time to collect her thoughts. I stepped out to steep the pot of tea, something I’ve gotten very good at over the years— six years ago I wouldn’t have made heads or tails of making tea, but good tea can bring everyone together, I say. I plopped the teapot on a tray with two cups and saucers, and before long, Mrs. Witherspoon was tearless with a hot cup in her hands.

“I feel like I’ve done something wrong, to either Simon or the Lord.” She murmured into her tea, eyes distant. I looked up from my own, but didn’t say anything. “I’ve tried my best to be a good mother, but no matter what I do, Simon gets into more trouble.”

“It’s not your fault.” My lips move before my brain has time to process what I’m trying to say.

“Maybe so, but God knows all, doesn’t He?”

I put down my tea, dipping a biscuit in it, “Do you know why—“

“He told me he got tangled up with some bad men. That he was going to try to fix it. Did I really raise such a bad son that—“ she sniffled, crying into the handkerchief again.

I chewed my biscuit in silence, piecing together my response.

“Simon’s, well, he’s a troubled soul. But we forgive, what? If you try to push him away, he’s only going to get worse. I say, try and give him the hospitality you would give him if he, well, if he were a better man, maybe he will come around.”

She stared at nothing in particular.

“What if he does not?”

“Well, we can only try, what?”

She seemed to think it over, before nodding, “I suppose so.”

She thanked me as she left, and I felt the consequences of getting about sixteen of the forty winks I require creeping up on me, and Mrs. Withersmith’s troubles couldn’t leave me be.

Simon’s apparent woes had stuck with me, as much as I wished they hadn’t. As lenient I am with my worship, I still felt as if I was crossing a boundary by even entertaining the idea of… well, you can probably connect the dots, what?

I was going to ask a demon for help to get me out of this rum sit. I found myself in, like Simon tried to do.

I sat and thought about what was going to happen in a couple days' time. I couldn’t leave the church in the dust, I just couldn’t.

But it was completely selfish of me to even think about what I was planning to do, but what else was I to do?

A couple hours later, I found myself at the door of an old friend, Ginger Winship, still in my priestly togs. I know that Ginger likes to stick his nose into books and essays and whatnot, boring, academic ones and not the spine-chillers and mystery I usually stick mine in.

I knew he had the essay I was looking for, and if he was surprised at me of all the people looking for it, well he didn’t say anything. I had bid him a cheery, albeit brief, ‘toodle-pip!’, the essay in question tucked carefully under my robes.

When night fell, I sat curled around the fireplace, a b. and soda in my glass. I read the passage that one Ms. Emily Garand wrote down in her essay about how to summon a demon.

It’s worth a shot, what?

That’s how I found myself, at the late hour of just past 2am, at the crossroads near the church. I rubbed one thumb over the copper coin clutched in my hand, and another over the cross necklace around my neck, bowing to my knees.

If this didn’t work, today would be the last day I walked a free man. I didn’t know what to think.

I wondered what God would have thought, to see a man of worship stoop so low. So scared of a future I shouldn’t be scared of. A man, a man of God, so scared of matrimonial responsibility that he would rather summon a demon and pay his price.

I drew the circle with the chalk in my pocket, before offering the coin as payment. I closed my eyes, reciting the incantation written in the essay.

The wind picked up, biting at the skin around my knuckles. It fluttered through the trees, sounding an awful lot like rain.

I waited, and waited… and waited, what felt like hours. I sighed, pressing my forehead against the pavement. I felt unshed tears burning the back of my eyes.

I didn’t pray before I went to sleep that night.

——

I dreamt of the copper coin taken by shadowy hands, and a figure in the distance, bigger than me, taller than me.

I found myself avoiding meat on Saturday. I couldn’t tell you why. Maybe I was getting ready for marriage. Or maybe it was guilt. I’m not sure, really.

I found myself sitting in the confessional alone for most of the day, rubbing the cross hanging from my neck, reading the old Bible in the booth. By the time I made my way home, the sun had long set past the horizon.

The living room had a thick layer of… something in the air that made uneasiness sink in my stomach. I found myself frozen in the middle of the room, and I couldn’t stop the tremble in my body.

I felt inhumanly cold, in that moment, like all the energy and heat was being sucked out of me.

My mouth felt like sandpaper as a nail traced around my collar, sharp as a knife. I couldn’t find the energy to yell, scream, shout, anything.

A cold breath exhaled in the shell of my ear, and the rumble of a content hum. I felt the mass of a man behind me, familiar to me, but I couldn’t wrap my head around why.

The nail scratched up the column of my neck, and I felt my teeth chatter in the cold. The nail dug into just under my jaw, and I couldn’t seem to even choke out a yelp as I felt the heat of blood pool around the wound.

“A man of God comes to my aid.” His voice was rich, echoing around my entire head. “How hotly he bleeds, how afraid he smells.”

“Are you…” I wince at how weak I sound, and the… demon?— behind me hums again.

“You must be truly desperate if you have sunk this low, to ask for my assistance, Reverend Wooster. I can smell your fear.” The nail dug into my jaw slips away, and I feel an icy tongue lap at the wound. I flinch.

“I— I… I’m due to be married tomorrow morning, else I lose access to my estate and the church loses their top donor. I’ve tried everything in the book to get out of it, but there’s too many people who rely on the church and I—I…” My mouth is running against my will, and the icy hands press feather-light against my necklace and the Bible, “Please, I’ll give you anything, just get me out of my wedding tomorrow. Please, help me.”

I can feel the expression on the demon’s face from behind me, the tiniest of smirks, for only a moment

“Very well, sir. All I require is a small fee.”

“Anything, anything you want, it’s yours. But please, just leave the church out of this.”

“…Very good, sir. As you wish.”

I don’t remember ever making it to bed.

——

I wake up in my sleepwear, tucked into bed like nothing untoward had occurred the previous night. I rubbed at my jaw, where an icy nail drew blood.

It’s just as smooth as the rest of my skin.

I take my usual time to rub the sleep from my eyes, before dread settles on my shoulders.

The wedding.

I stumble into the bathroom, and when I stare into the mirror, I lock eyes with a pair of deep grey eyes over my shoulder.

I jump in my skin with a yelp.

“You need not worry about the wedding anymore, sir. It has been… dealt with, accordingly.”

“You’re… you’re the—“

“Quite right, sir.”

I suddenly feel very faint, and would you believe it, before I know it, a glass of water is being pressed into my hands. I drink it all in two gulps.

“What’s… what’s the fee?” I choke out, and the man is taking the glass from my hands.

He smiles, if that’s even the word for how minuscule it really is, a quick rise of about an eighth of an inch upwards on one corner of the mouth. I note his charmingly crooked nose, his jet black hair gelled down, his black and white suit.

“It is not proper to discuss such things, sir.”

Before I could ask him what the dickens he meant by that, he was gone.

I get the news before the Sunday Mass starts, Aunt Agatha storms into church with a scowl on her face.

“She’s dead, Bertram.”

“Pardon?” I shake my head in surprise.

“They found her dead this morning. Died in her sleep. You live an unmarried blot on the landscape another day, Bertram.”

What? I mean, really, what?

How I managed to get through Mass astounds me. No one seems to notice how I don’t stay back after everything is done for the day, or if they did, they didn’t say anything.

When I return home, the man is standing in the living room… ironing my clothes. The whole rectory feels cleaner than since I had moved in, like he’s dusted everything.

Now, dearest reader, if you are to take one thing away from this tale, please let it be that Bertram Wooster might be a little dull around the edges, but I can still put two-and-two together.

“You… You killed her.”

That bally smirk again washed over the man’s features, for a split second before vanishing back behind the expressionless mask he liked to wear.

“You… I wasn’t expecting you to…”

“If I may say so, sir, you did smell exceptionally desperate when we met. I felt it was in your best interest, sir.”

“The fee, it’s not… it’s not going to involve you…” The words turn to ash in my mouth.

“If you are asking, sir, if my fee will involve the harm of any member of your church, I can assure you, as per your word, that none will come to them, unless they do something to personally harm you, sir.” He resumes his ironing, as if it was the world’s most common task for a demon.

I sink into the chair facing the fireplace, and a thought enters my brain. I furrow my brow.

“Why are you calling me ‘sir?’”

The man does not look up from his ironing, “Sir, it is the proper title a valet must call his gentleman.”

Forgive my repeating, but what?

I believe I was gawping, catching flies and whatnot.

“I… I don’t…”

“If I recall, sir, you had asked for assistance to escape your eventual marriage, but the last words you had said were simply for me to help you. You did not specify what you needed help with, sir.”

“I didn’t know demons and genies worked on the same logic.” I grumbled.

He smiled that smile of his, and said nothing.

———

It wasn’t until the third day of this demon becoming my valet, that I even got his name.

“You may call me Jeeves, sir.”

“Jeeves, right-o then.”

I often spent the nights praying to God wishing for a spot in heaven still. I doubted God would even entertain the idea, now that I have meddled with fallen angels, dealt with demons, all for my own selfish gains.

I still kept up my worship, for we can but keep asking for forgiveness and only hope we get it, what?

And I often asked Jeeves what he felt when I said grace before eating the food he served me.

“I could not say, sir.” He would always say.

And oh, the food he cooked. It was the tastiest food I’ve ever had in my entire bally life. And my Aunt Dahlia has this amazing French chef in her employ.

He would always bring me tea in the mornings too, telling me the type of day it was.

I was not a fan, however, of his rule of my wardrobe. All of my, quite spiffing, might I add, accessories and other bits and bobs, seemed to go missing shortly after Jeeves came to stay as my valet, and replaced with colours of blacks, blues and tans.

Awfully boring, I say.

Dear reader, you’re probably asking yourself ‘Why, Bertie! Whatever was that fee that Jeeves asked for?” and all I must say is, patience!

I’ll have you know, though, that I am a man who knows my scriptures. And there’s one thing that a demon wants most, no, needs most of all.

Tempting man to sin.

And like everything else Jeeves does, he does a dashed good job of tempting this one Bertram Wooster.

The little cold touches he gives me when he dresses me, the miniscule icy caresses he gives my cheek when he shaves my stubble.

It was intoxicating.

I have never been tempted by the male form like the way Jeeves’ does. The way his hands are roughed with callouses and scars, but their touches, soft.

And the way he took care of me made me feel powerless in a positively thrilling way. I no longer needed to control my life, I didn’t have to worry about the clothes I wore, or sending telegrams, or budget my money, or cook, or clean.

I'm aware that it is awfully sinful, against the nature of God and His creations, but that’s what Jeeves wants, doesn’t he? He wants me to feel the shame of thinking of such a perverse act with another man. It's sinful, not to mention illegal. Two years of hard labour if I were to be caught. Not to mention that my church would be in ruins if any one knew that I summoned a demon and was tempted to sin by him.

But Jeeves wants me to take a bite of the forbidden fruit. It’s his nature.

And I was a weak man.

So when I came home from a pleasant walk around the church grounds after the next Sunday Mass to Jeeves doing the dishes, his shirtsleeves rolled up in a positively topping way, before I knew it I’m lunging at his mouth, feeling his sly grin against my lips. The warmth in my body seems to melt away when I feel his tongue press against my own and slide deeper in my throat. He pulls me by my necklace, twisting it in such a way it constricts my breath.

It’s hard to explain what happens next, you see. This kind of wheeze is dashed hard to write about, but I’ll do my best, what?

I pull at the threads keeping his apron on his corpus, and it falls to the floor noisily. I feel his cold hand wrap his fingers in my hair, and I can’t stop the throaty moan that escapes me when he pulls violently.

I think about how we must look, if anyone could even see us. Me, in my priestly togs, being snogged silly by a man. A man of perverse sin.

I wonder what God would think. I’ve dedicated my life to Him, only to show him that I am not immune to the sinful temptation of a demon.

His tongue is dashed distracting, the inhuman length of it pressing against the plush bits at the back of my throat. It’s as cold as the rest of him. The sounds of my high whining doesn’t feel like they're coming from me.

I pull back as the burning feeling of not being able to breath becomes unbearable. I can feel saliva drip down my chin, and I hang my head as shame curls around my chest.

Get it together man! A voice in my head screams, this is a demon, a bally fallen angel of sin. You should be—

Said voice is hushed as two sharp-nailed fingers pull my chin up to meet cold blue-gray eyes, a hungry expression swirling in them.

I fear if he started consuming me, I would give my body up and let him.

Let my body be bread, and my blood be wine, says I. I would let him eat and drink until I was nothing left.

I had already taken these liberties against God, against my community. Surely it’s what I deserve, being a sinner this low.

“What would the Holy Father think,” a cold pad of a thumb traces my lips, red and swollen, “seeing a man of His worship, debauched on the kiss of a simple demon? How short it took him to tempt you into sinning. In your vestments, in the broad daylight for anyone to see.”

All I can bring from my lips is a deep moan, and my tongue starts to lap at the finger resting on my lips. My mouth is watering something fierce, and I barely note the sly smirk on his features. He holds my chin delicately, scratching the underside with his nail.

“What would your community think, if they were to cross this window now, and see their Reverend, fellating my hand like a lowly flapper, in his vestments, even.”

The cold hand at the back of my head traces down my throat, pushing his nail into my pulsepoint, painful, but never breaking skin. The touches continue down, until he pulls my vestments up, bunched around my middle. He slips his icy hand down my waistband, and I moan again.

He presses a kiss to the shell of my ear, before tracing his tongue around it. His tongue is so much hotter than when it was plundering my mouth, and I realise it’s because I am hot, too. I moan whorishly, completely unaware of the pleasure that action gave me. He presses his tongue in, and the action makes me weak at the knees. More loud moans escape my lips, but all I can hear are the wet sounds of his tongue and his husky breath.

I can feel the fine tip of Jeeves’ tongue hit the drum of my ear, and I keen. The rest of Jeeves’ tongue is thick and long, and it spends its time writhing away at the rest of my ear, quite like a snake without its head.

I had never experienced pleasure such as this. This. This is sex, I think. I would have been scantilised at the notion of sex before marriage, if I hadn’t already taken too many bally liberties against God.

“Jeeves… please…” I don’t know if the next words to leave my mouth would be to stop or keep going. He presses his thumb against my tongue, before pushing me down to my knees.

I look up through my eyelashes at Jeeves, and I can’t stop myself from mouthing his member sloppily through the fabric. His face is unreadable, as he holds my head between his hands.

“You look stunning like this, Bertram. Why does a man of God look so perfect for taking my cock?”

And oh how those words affected me so. I could do nothing but watch eagerly as Jeeves pulled out his cock, red and… is brimming the word I want? He’s long and thick, and somewhere in my catalogue of scripture knowledge I note that demons can take any form. I wonder how often Jeeves uses that power.

He rests it on my bottom lip, watching with a certain thinginess, as he smears sticky fluid on my face. It’s the first time anything of Jeeves’ is warm, I can feel a pulse under his skin. He sucks the warmth from my own body as he slides in, pushing his nails into the back of my head. He gives off a low growl.

He tastes of smoke, it fills my head in such a way that it’s intoxicating, like if I was standing in the wind next to a bonfire. He’s thick and heavy on my tongue, I feel the soft pulse right under his head. I screw my eyes shut as my throat squeezes in protest, and I find myself gagging on it.

He does not stop.

“Breathe, Bertram.”

And if he ordered me around in that tone of voice again, calling me Bertram like that, well. I would do so without delay, what?

He pushes so far down I feel him press against the back of my throat, and with a harsh growl he slams my head into the musky hair at his base.

We stay there, like that, for just a moment. He rubs at my throat, dissented from the last inch or so of his length. I’m making some awfully gross gagging noises, so full of demon and sin that I was certain God would never entertain the idea of my worship ever again, for my sin was carved so deep into my bones that my descendants will atone for them.

I furrow my brows as I realise the idea does not terrify me as it once did.

If God didn’t take my worship, well, I found someone who would, what?

“Such a good boy, wearing your collar for God.”

Well, I say. That certainly made the grey matter turn to soup. I swear it would start leaking out the ears at any given moment.

He pulls my face back, until his hot head is worrying at my lips, so red and stretched they bleed. He wicks away a drop from the corner of my mouth, before taking it to his lips and sucking. His moan echoes through my head.

“Such a sweet flavour, I haven’t tasted anything like it. So good for me, Bertram.”

I buck against nothing at his words, struggling to find any sort of friction against my own aching need. I meet his eyes through my lashes, and the burning, needy gaze he gives me gives me such pleasure.

He thrusts into me with such force I nearly pass out. His smell, his taste, his words, all equally intoxicating. I can feel my spittle ooze out of my mouth in what I can assume in pints.

I realise, deep down, that this is everything that I wanted, everything I needed. Jeeves could use me all he required, and I would let him with nary a complaint.

He takes, and takes and takes, as demons are wont to do. I shouldn’t, but I let him. His control over my house, his control over my finances, his control over my wardrobe. His control over me.

It’s all I ever needed.

“Such a perverse man, walking around in articles of worship. If God could hear your thoughts, he would be disgusted. Ashamed.”

All I can do is moan, dizzy on his cock. My throat burns, my mouth stings.

All the pain melts away when I see Jeeves. I would worship him for all eternity if I could, I would kneel at his feet, utter prayer after prayer. In my head and my heart always, Jeeves.

I suppose that was the fee he took, what? My devotion. I understood now, and I think he knew that I knew that. He wore that smirk, before letting it fall away.

“You’ll drink it all for me, Bertram. My wine, only to be tasted by the most devout.”

I nodded, and he pressed my face into his base, giving me absolute gallons worth, unbearably hot and smoky and salty. All I could do was close my eyes and drink. I prayed, not to God, but to Jeeves. I felt his seed drip down my face, mixing with the blood and the spittle. It was…

It was beyond me.

He held me there, grinding my face against the wiry hair of his cock, before stepping back and tucking himself away. He gazed down at me, on my knees, praying… to him, as I gasped for breath.

My need for him was unbearable at that moment, and when he leaned down to slide his cold hand down my waistband, I came apart with nary but a touch.

He cupped my jaw with his clean hand, before pressing a finger against my tongue, covered in my own release.

“Taste it, Bertram. Taste your devotion to me. So you do not forget who you belong to.”

And what could I do, but simply follow? I kneeled there, fellating his hand, tasting my own release on his fingers. And when he stuck all four fingers in my mouth, curling them in a way that tickled my palate, I moaned again.

I could feel Jeeves take the warmth from my body still, and I would not complain if he took it all until I was freezing to death, because then I would die knowing my life was filled with worship.

He pulled his hand away after a moment, covered in a thick layer of saliva. He wiped it over my face.

“I… I understand now, Jeeves.” My jaw was sore, stinging and cracking with every syllable and my voice husky, “What your fee was. When I… summoned you that night.”

Jeeves picked up the apron off the floor, wiping away at the creases in the fabric, “Indeed, sir?”

“I… I fear no amount of confessionals will make God forgive the sins I’ve committed, old thing.”

He smirked, “Indeed not, sir.” He pulled out a handkerchief from his chest pocket, wiping away at my face tenderly, like my face was covered in specks of dirt and not a bally awful mixture of semen, blood and saliva. “Maybe a bath is in order, sir?”

“That’s… what a corking idea, Jeeves.”

“Indeed, sir.”

And when I ate the dinner he had so thoroughly prepared that night, instead of saying Grace and praying to a God who would never forgive me, I prayed to Jeeves, and when he took me roughly against the kitchen counter, I thanked him for the liberty.