Oh, Jeeves!

"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 icefields 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 sightseeing 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