Oh, Jeeves!

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 Pedersons 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 ingrowing breath noise 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? And 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 Woosters 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 pressganged 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.