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While the situation could very well be defined as Bertie once more being in the soup, this time Jeeves, who usually got him out of it, was being no help at all. In fact, it could be said that Jeeves was the embodiment of this proverbial soup, or the instigator, or cook, to stretch the metaphor, of the whole dilemma.
It was Jeeves who had first suggested the medical relief for Bertie's clogged energy flow which had turned out to be an elegant, dignified, mindblowing handjob. Bertie's medical emergencies had since then progressed via hysteria machine treatments (absurd – he had no womb, after all – but neither of them seemed willing to point this out) to outright sodomy, in keeping with Freud's theory of the adverse psychological effects of sexual repression.
That was all well and good, and as Bertie was madly and irrationally in love with Jeeves, a man apparently incapable of engaging with his employer without the superficial veneer of intellect and propriety, he welcomed any and all excuses of medical complaints to get to roll in the hay – or, rather, in his own bed, the couch, the coach, or his Aunt Dahlia's second drawing room (locked) – with him.
This time, however, rising needs, medical or otherwise, must have clogged the flow of blood even to the mighty brain of Jeeves, because in retrospect crawling under Aunt Dahlia's dining room table late at night and simply assuming that no one would sit down for a late dinner had been, at the very least, ill-advised.
"I'm just glad that the cook still had some cold liver and an omelette for you, Tom dear," said Dahlia. Bertie could see the table cloth move and judged she had seated herself. He tried not to breathe, which was not terribly easy, so he tried to breathe shallowly.
"It's those sorry late trains," grumbled Uncle Tom. "They can't be trusted to cart a man home by dinnertime."
Such a sitch called for utmost delicacy. It was only their good luck that neither Aunt Dahlia or Uncle Tom were the sort to crawl on all fours looking under dining tables, or they would have been treated to the sight of their nephew in a similar position, with his trousers around his ankles and his man hovering over him, member still buried deep in said nephew's posterior. Bertie was fond of his Aunt Dahlia and Uncle Tom, and would have been loathe to cause either of them such a nasty shock.
"It's better for my system anyway," said Uncle Tom, sad as only man denied the chef Anatole's favours could be. Bertie saw his knees appear before him at the end of the table. They seemed to have sat at the opposite ends of the dining table – far enough away from the entangled two hidden beneath. Bertie breathed a sigh of relief, then caught himself and listened for any sign of his elderly relatives having overheard.
"I don't mind a little extra nibble myself," said Aunt Dahlia. "A woman my age needs to keep her strength up."
Bertie relaxed. As he did so, however, Jeeves' hand ran across his chest under his undone shirt and down along his belly.
Bertie stiffened, in more ways than one. He had rapidly turned flaccid at the first sound of Aunt Dahlia's booming voice at the doorway, but right now a stiffness was manifesting in a place that definitely was not his upper lip.
Jeeves rocked his hips forward. Bertie braced his elbows on the harsh woven hair of the carpet and grit his teeth against an exclamation.
Jeeves balanced himself on one hand and with the other touched Bertie's lips - a silent question.
Bertie didn't so much hesitate as consider the wisdom of continuing for a split second before throwing aside the obvious answer. He closed his lips around the tip of Jeeves' finger and sucked on it, tongue swirling around it. He could almost – almost – swear he felt Jeeves' breath quicken at his neck.
They were about to engage in coitus under Aunt Dahlia's dining table while she and her husband ate a late dinner on it. Freud would have to agree that they must both be mad as hatters, and then have a field day with parental figures and the phallic symbology of table legs. Bertie grinned and pushed back, and now he was sure he felt Jeeves swallow a gasp.
Jeeves rolled his hips back and then forward, and it was Bertie's turn to swallow a gasp. Freud would probably be able to explain this better too, but all Bertie knew that being buggered by Jeeves felt like being skewered on a rod of pure pleasure, and he wanted the buggering to go on and never stop. He pushed back, rocking, begging without words, and Jeeves supplied to forward momentum, and the backward momentum, and oh god, the slightly rotating, buttock-clenching, wonderful momentum. Bertie bit his fist, but not before a sound leaked out.
"What was that, Dahlia?" said Uncle Tom between mouthfuls.
"Pardon, dear?" bellowed Aunt Dahlia from the other end of the table.
"I thought you said something."
"I thought I heard you burp. How is your stomach?"
"Half-empty and likely to stay that way," Uncle Tom complained. "It's those young people you always have coming and going around here. The tendency of the young to scarf their dinner and leave no leftovers is becoming quite disgusting."
Bertie's fingers raked the carpet. How Jeeves managed to skewer him this hard and not hit his head on the table was beyond him. They rocked faster and faster. He could hear the clatter of knives on plates and the steady drone of Uncle Tom talking about the lining of his stomach, as close as he'd sat to Dahlia at dinner, close enough even to smell the pipe-smoke on him, and they didn't know, couldn't know.
We're going to stain the carpet, he thought erratically as Jeeves reached around him and began to pull on his throbbing member with infinite skill and attention, a round rubbing motion culminating in a flick at that sent Bertie's mind reeling. Two, three, four and on five the world exploded into stars and table legs and salt shakers spewing milk and crumpets.
He did leave a stain, a big wet one that would puzzle the upstairs kitchen maid exceedingly later that night but, having dried, would be barely noticeable by morning. Jeeves was more discreet.
Bertie lay in a heap on the carpet, panting in a choked sort of way, a wet mess under the dry immaculate picture of poise that was Jeeves at all times, even post-coital. He was almost certain that he had made some rather loud noises there towards the end.
Blinking away stars, Bertie could see no evidence of aunts or uncles writhing in any sort of a fit on the floor. In fact, Uncle Tom's legs were nowhere to be seen.
"Jeeves," Bertie whispered, "are they gone?"
"They are, sir," said Jeeves. He had already found a dignified way of crawling out from under a dining table, one that still eluded Bertie, who banged his head on it while pulling up his trousers. "Mr Travers' stomach complaints caused them to withdraw at an early hour."
Bertie climbed out to see the remains of the meal still lying on the table. "By Jove, what a blessed thingummy. Coincidence. Something to say for the old guardian angel, eh, Jeeves?"
Jeeves coughed discreetly. "I must admit I took the liberty of mixing some mild laxatives in with the milk, anticipating the timing of our session."
Bertie stared at Jeeves. "I say, what!"
"I thought you might appreciate the novelty, sir. There are some extensive texts in recent psychological journals on the relevance of the so-called 'forbidden fruit' in the make-up of one's repressed self."
"Jeeves?"
"Yes, sir?"
"Never leave me."
Something almost like a smile shivered at the edges of Jeeves' mouth. "Not intending to, sir."