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Oh, Jeeves!
By David Shaw (david@f-e-mail.com)

***

A parody of the popular mini series on PBS "Jeeves and 
Wooster. Only this episode would never make it onto 
television. Maybe video? (MF, humor, parody)

***

The ghost of Sir Pelham Grenville Wodehouse is going to 
haunt me for this!

***

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 a Chicago musician carrying a violin 
case covered in gun oil stains. 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 
fiancés, 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 
Estonian 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 playing 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 
Pederson's 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 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 
taxi, 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... hmmm... her pants again."

"So at the very least, Jeeves, the good old noblesse 
oblige of the Wooster's requires me to escort her 
downstairs and to open the taxi 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 Wooster's, 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, but 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 male 
slave 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-fiancées 
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 Pederson's 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 intake of 
breath 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 amply 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? 

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 pinstripes. 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 Wooster's 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 press-ganged 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 ice fields 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 fucked 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? Not 
just sex, of course, so what was the magic ingredient?

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 thunderstorm of inner 
delight'."

"Really? Have you... 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 has 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."

"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 that the 
brew has infused enough."

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 them until his steamer trunk had San 
Francisco 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

(If you enjoyed this piece of silliness, stop by at 
www.f-e-mail.com sometime and see what other strange 
stories are gathering dust on the shelves!)

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
It's okay to *READ* stories about unprotected sex with
others outside a monogamous relationship. But it isn't
okay to *HAVE* unprotected sex with people other than
a trusted partner. You only have one body per lifetime,
so take good care of it!
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Kristen's collection - Directory 37