Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: From: Newsgroups: alt.sex.femdom,alt.sex.spanking,alt.sex.stories.moderated Subject: "The Secret of Jeeves' Genius", by MrSpraycan Disclaimer: Adults only, whatever that means wherever you are lucky enough to be reading this. If you don't like vulgarity, this isn't for you. My suspicion is that PG Wodehouse would laugh, but neither you nor I know, so let it be. Fans will recall that these characters lived in a seeming timewarp and never aged, and that situation prevails here. This item is of fictional nature. All persons and places in it are imaginary and no resemblance to real or historic characters is intended. No illicit behavior is endorsed or condoned. Art and/or Entertainment is the idea. *Copyright* is claimed, 1997 by Baton Rouge ThoughtScapes, and for the author, Mr.Spraycan, who chooses to be 'anon'. For entertainment purposes only. No commercial use is warranted without permission. Do not repost. Store only with this notice intact. This is MrSpraycan Story No. 44. ** FEEDBACK is a darned fine thing, chaps. Don't be shy, now. Step up to the crease.** TALES FROM LITERARY LONDON, Pt.2 Or, "The Secret of Jeeves' Genius" by Mr.Spraycan A few days later, at the Drones Club, Bertie Wooster is explaining what happened that fateful night. He's talking with Gussie Fink-Nottle, "Oofie" Prosser and the recently reinstated Catsmeat Potter-Pirbright, who since his nuptials with Abudi the Turkish wrestler now greatly prefers to be called "Fatima." The decanter of port has been around the table twice, fine Cuban cigars have been carefully trimmed and lit with a taper, and the old St.Winifredians are in a suitable mood to hear Bertie's long-awaited tale of derring-do. "Aw, Bertie, don't keep us in suspense, old chap," Oofie brays. "Let's hear about your Club Zambesi trip. Hearing all kinds of rumors and nonsense about it, y'know? Don't be beastly, eh? Clue us in, dear fellow." Bertie nods. "Yes, I'm afraid we did cause something of a stir, chaps. But I believe all has worked out for the best. So, please, raise your glasses in a toast to my fiancee, the remarkable Lady Stephanie Blodgett, a credit to English womanhood, and a damned fine sport besides." "Here, here!" "Darned right!" "Good old Stephie!" "Fine gal!" they all chorus, looking a little mystified. Were these two back in harness again? Hard to keep track, and best not to express any doubts. "Now, where to begin," Bertie muses. "How about the beginning?" Gussie suggests. He's not bright, but he is logical, as one would hope for in the scion of a family of Anglican theologians. "Quite. Well, you have all heard me speak already of the events here three days ago, when the club was nearly invaded by a very irate gentleman with an assault rifle, seeking me . . ." "Yes, yes, bad show," Catsmeat, or Fatima, whispers. "Quite. And it was with the idea in mind of reversing my wrongdoing that I, accompanied by the faithful Jeeves, retraced my steps later that very afternoon to the Drones. We feared that the gentleman in question, answering to the somewhat improbable name of Mr. John Wayne, might be causing a scene on the steps. And perhaps accompanied by the semi-dressed young woman of whom we have also spoken, Miss Kamikaze Slitt . . ." Bertie had told them all of his first Club Zambesi expedition, but had not disclosed his amazing conclusions about the true identity of Miss Slitt, who also went by the name of Dora Winterbotham. "Young woman seems to have a lot of, uh, spunk in her, Wooster," Gussie offers. "Indeed," Bertie confirms. "Yes, she does. Quite a lot." "Something of a trollop, though?" Offie comments with a raised eyebrow. "Yes, but a tart with a heart of gold, as the old cliche goes," Bertie rejoinders, "As you will presently hear. Now, please pay attention." He hunches in his seat, and begins: "When Jeeves and I remarked that the aforesaid Mr.Wayne has disappeared from the environs of the Club, we shed a sigh of relief, and stop for a few minutes for tea and scones. But then, we realized, we still had our remedial task to accomplish. So, we step outside and hail a cab, and ask the driver to take us to the Club Zambesi in Brixton. "The fellow, one of those good-hearted cockney types in a flat cap you see so few of nowadays, expresses grave doubts about our planned itinerary, and says, if I may approximate, (cough): 'Wot, mate? Sorry, guv, I don' fink you really wanna go there! Stone the crows, it's an 'orrible place! Brixton I mean. An' I fink I heard other cabbies talk abaht this 'ere club of yours. Nah. Not somewhere gentleman of your level of breeding would even fink of goin'. Let me suggest . . .' Well, Jeeves won't hear any more of this nonsense, and says in his most polite voice: 'Thank you for your advice, cabby. Now, please, shut your cakehole and take us there, so we don't need to discuss the matter any further.' " "Bully for Jeeves! That told him!" Oofie exclaims, always happy to hear tales of aristocratic ascendancy related. "Well, off we go, into the wilds of South London. After his initial resistance, the cabby is quite cheerful, pointing out sights, chirping away like a little bird in his cage. We reply in monosyllables, because there is much on our minds. It's about eight 'o' clock when we arrive at the Club, in a basement of some horrid broken down mews houses, in a narrow backstreet crammed with cars and vans. The cabby offers, quite nobly, 'I fink you may not easily get yerselves back from 'ere, sir. Might I suggest that I'd be happy to ron-dee-voo with you here later, in recognition for an extra tenner in me 'and? In an hour, say? Less, maybe?' Jeeves and I confer, and tell him to be at the corner of this street at 10pm precisely. 'Alright, don't say I din' tellya' he says with a shrug and drives away into the night." "Well, the street is dark, but there's plenty of life. The music -- that 'wrap' music I've talked about -- is blaring from every house, every window. Sheer cacophony. But it's loudest from the cellar where the sign reads 'Club Zambesi.' Jeeves gives me one of those looks, the ones that say 'Oh, how could you, sir?' And then we hurry down the steps and bang on the plain metal door." "It opens, and the noise gets even louder. There's a wave of heat, and the smell of unwashed bodies and beer, not to mention a cloud of smoke from conventional and 'medicinal' cigarettes, thick enough to make one's eyes water. Jeeves stiffens and leans into the gloom and speaks with the doorman, a bedraggled, skinny individual with what appears to be a giant teapot cosy on his head . . ." "A mad hatter?" asks Oofie. "No, Jeeves tells me later these chaps are Ratty Fairies, or something like that, from the West Indies. Lots of them, everywhere." "Not in Mayfair," Fatima opines, batting his eyelids seductively. "Anyway, Jeeves speaks their kind of 'jive' with a natural flair, so he confirms that Miss Slitt is indeed expected to perform tonight, paper money changes hands, and we are ushered in. It's just as I remember it from the previous night. Like some newly constituted circle of Dante's Inferno, for the torment of musicians or those of normal aesthetic tastes. The music is so loud we have to put our heads together and shout to make ourselves heard. And it's as dark as a coal cellar, with flashing lights of the most garish colors. We stagger to the bar, and Jeeves -- what a genius this man is! -- finds us a glass of Harvey's Bristol Creme apiece. I was so relieved, having dreaded the thought of any more of the foul Sheep Dip Ale." "Jeeves is in deep conversation with the bartender, a fellow who resembles the late Dr Kwame Nkrumah of Ghana, were it not for the Medusa's hair, another Rattyfairy, it seems. Soon, Jeeves is leading me down a narrow corridor, my feet sticking to the floor -- God knows when it last saw a mop! -- to some 'backstage' area. It's like a rabbit warren down here, moldy smelling, and as dark as a dungeon. He opens a door, and I'm ushered into a room that's about the size of an average w.c., where, to my surprise, and I must confess considerable elation, we are face to face, ha and more! with the delightful Miss Slitt. I am tongue-tied. Because, dear fellows . . ." he waves his hand for another glass of port. "Because, uh, let me guess . . . because she is very ugly?" Fatima asks. "Because she isn't properly dressed, and you, uh . . ." Oofie waffles. "Because . . . aha!!! Got it!! Because Bertie's being Bertie, and he's thunderstruck, head-over-heels, the bells are ringing, tra la la . . . because the silly blighter's in LOVE!" Gussie squeals, slapping his thighs with mirth. A pause. Bertie shakes his head. "No. elements of all those factors are at play . . . female aesthetics, couture, fine sentiments . . . but it's much more complex. You see, the young lady in question is wearing a tiny, tiny pair of black knickers, a very abbreviated black brassiere, and long fishnet stockings held up with scarlet garters. And extraordinary high heeled shoes that look quite uncomfortable. . ." There's a growl around the table. "I say . . ." Oofie breathes, blushing. "Well now . . ." "She's also not a bit ugly. In fact, since she is wearing much less make-up than the last time I saw her, she is actually very pretty. And, since she is not wearing the huge blonde wig that makes her look like an Afghan hound in her photographs . . ." Another growl. They have seen his treasured souvenir postcard. ". . . it's rather clear that Miss Slitt is not of exotic origin. Nor, dare I say it, is she of solid working class northern stock, as the name Dora Winterbotham might convey . . . she is, I must tell you, an English rose . . .in her twenties . . . perfect in every way . . ." Nods, shakes, growls, muttered expressions of disbelief. "And so, now let it be told, yes, I am indeed in love . . ." he confesses. "Oh, Bertie!! What an ass you are, man! Every time you see a pretty pair of eyes, you want to propose marriage! Think of your family. Think of the regiment! Think of the old school! A dancing trollop! An 'exotic dancer.' My god!" Gussie blusters. Fatima is batting his pretty eyes seductively. "Oh, rot, Gussie. We must rise above the tiresome expectations of the past, if we are to be anything in this life, think of my own newfound happiness . . ." Bertie doesn't want this tiresome old argument to break out again. "No, hear me out! Yes, I'm in love, dammit! And let me tell you why!" Silence. He closes his eyes and recites, with a tremor in his voice: "Because, my dear friends, the young woman we have been accustomed to referring to as Kamikaze Slitt or dora Winterbotham is no other than . . . Lady Stephanie Blodgett!" "Stephie! Impossible!" "Oh, my god! Her mother would have a heart attack!" "Incredible!" It's a while before they calm down. "Are you sure, Wooster?" Oofie asks at last. "Frankly, we all know how daft you can be with women. Are you sure it's not just some scruffy tart who resembles La Blodgett?" "Convinced. Totally convinced. From her own lips. She looks at me, and finally says, with the bitterest contempt: 'Bertram Wooster. Well, I never thought you would have the effrontery to return here after your disgraceful performance last night.' " "I'm getting hot under the collar. 'Disgraceful performance?' I shout, 'What? Me? Ha! And what about you? Wriggling around in your birthday suit with that big black fellow! You were, uh, uh, mating!!! Stephie, oh my Lord, h-h-how could you?' Well, she looks me in the eye and says without hesitation: 'It's easy. Don't you think Englishwomen want to fuck?' " The Drones group is stunned into silence. Such an idea has been lurking in the backs of their minds, but it's not one they've expressed. Nor ever addressed in such a direct fashion. And this multipurpose noun and verb, it's a word heard only from the world outside. Bertie continues: "Well, I'm still very angry. I tell her, in no uncertain terms, that she is behaving disgracefully and that she deserves to be upended over my knee and to have her wicked bottom spanked for such a thought. She looks at me very saucily, and replies: 'Well, I might actually enjoy that, Bertie. But if I were to hazard a guess, the only person here who is likely to get his foolish backside spanked is you, The Rt. Hon. Bertram Wooster.' "I shout: 'What are you talking about?' and she says: 'If, as I hope, you have come here to make amends for your disgraceful behavior last night . . .' I nod, because that is indeed my honest intent, though I must concentrate hard now to remember it. '. . .then, Bertie dearest, it is only appropriate that the people you have offended should be the ones who decide upon an appropriate penance for the offender to pay.' " "Gal's right," Fatima agrees. "Only fair." "Yes, I see her point," Oofie nods. "But, Bertie . . ." "I would have protested, were it not for the simple justice embodied in her statement. After all, I was there to render my apologies and make restitution to Miss Slitt, I mean Stephie, and the much-insulted Mr. John Wayne . . . "And at that moment, the door behind us opens, and the huge gentleman in question enters, filling the doorway in every direction. I anticipate a King Kong-like rage, dismemberment, sudden death, but he just nods politely to Stephie, pats me gently on the shoulder, and says, in a perfectly cultured BBC accent: 'Is everything resolved, Miss Winterbotham? May I instruct the crew?' She tells him with a smile: 'Five minutes, please, Jonathan.' " "Through all this, Jeeves is silent. I turn to him. He gives a little shrug. 'It seems to me sir, that I have accomplished my goal. You wished to re-enter the Club Zambesi, establish contact with Miss Slitt, and discuss matters of mutual interest leading towards resolution of your earlier misunderstanding with her, and her recently present companion. So, if you have no further need of me, sir, I propose to rejoin the audience in the main room of the Club, purchase something a little less dehydrating than this obviously counterfeit Harvey's, and await developments, if you don't mind?' I must have looked stunned, because he patted my shoulder, and said warmly: 'England and St.George, eh? Good of the school. The old regiment. Stiff upper lip, stiff etcetera . . . don't let the side down again, Mr. Wooster, eh?' And he was gone." "Stout fellow," Gussie exclaims. "One in a million. Straight to the heart of the matter, as always," Bertie agrees. "And?" Fatima prompts. "So, I turn back to Stephie, who is staring at me with a hungry kind of expression. 'What now?' I ask, rather nervously. My original intent, I must confess, was to have put the little minx over my knee, spanked her hard, and then done what she had urged me to do the previous evening, namely, to 'shove it in.' " "Bertie!" Oofie protests. "Language! How vulgar!" "But, that's not what's going to happen, I can tell. She snaps her fingers. 'get your clothes off Bertie, and be quick about it. Don't just stand there, man! Do it now! The whole damned lot.' Well, if we don't count the previous night's hallucinatory events, I don't think I've ever removed all my clothes in front of a woman of her age or beauty before. Oh, there was medical inspection time with Matron at St. Winifred's, and Aunt Agatha may have seen my bare bum and willy a few times when I was a little 'un, but . . . Anyway, I manage to undress, trying not to meet her stare. When I finish folding my underwear and socks, I see that she has picked up something. A riding crop! A very substantial one at that. And she's tapping it on the palm of her hand. "Like a fool, I ask: 'Stephie, what's that for?' She laughs aloud. 'Oh, Bertie, wake up! It's so I can thrash your stupid arse, for being such a complete empty-headed nitwit!' I gasp: 'Oh, no!' and she prods me with it, low down in the belly, quite close to the rude bits. 'Oh, yes, you ninny. Now, get moving, the audience will be getting impatient. And they are not your typical Covent Garden opera crowd.' She steps towards me, purposefully. I walk ahead down the narrow corridor, with its peeling paint. 'How many?' I ask wretchedly. 'How many what?' she snaps. 'How many whacks?' 'Three dozen, at least,' she shouts over the swelling music. " 'Oh no!' I say, rather unoriginally. 'Oh yes, you little twerp,' she laughs. 'And then, you can restart right where you were supposed to.' She's caught up with me, grabbed me by the arm and is speaking right into my ear. 'You can wank that willy of yours until it's good and hard, and stick it in my bum.' I'm lost for words. 'And then, I think Mr. Wayne would like you to make a closer acquaintance with his rather large piece of equipment, ha ha.' She's reaching and shamelessly tickling my quivering thingie, and is giggling as she says: 'He thinks you should put it in your mouth, see how it tastes, and then, perhaps, he'll return your compliment of yesterday and slide it into your bum.' " "Oh, outrageous!" Gussie is hopping up and down in his seat. "How dare she suggest such a thing! It's, it's . . . .illegal!! Where do young girls nowadays get such filthy ideas!" Fatima is merely shaking his/her head slowly, a little smile showing. "Well, just imagine how I felt, then. So, she opens a little door, which leads to some steps, and a curtain. It's what passes for a stage entrance, I can tell from the noise and chinks of light around the curtain. And then, without any further chitchat, she pushes me ahead and strides out on stage, holding me by the arm. There's a lot of ironic cheering, and I suspect it's because many of the same sorry shower are here again tonight, and recognise me. Stephie waits for the noise to die down, and signals for less of the music. 'Allo you rotten buncha blighters,' she says in an awful cockney voice, so unlike her own well-educated tones. 'Oozup for some hankypanky then? Eh? Let's 'ear it! Some spankywanky hankypanky! 'Scuse my mate 'ere. E forgot 'is togs, silly bugger.' " "And there I am, as naked as Adam or Eve in the garden, minus a fig leaf or even an apple, with all these ruffians cheering and laughing. They are also making lecherous expressions and murmuring rude words at Stephie, who is, after all, not dressed at all demurely. But at least, her salient points of gender differentiation are covered. I, on the other hand, am waggling my family jewels in their faces. Seeing that I have something of a shrivelled thingie, Stephie shouts in my ear 'Start pulling on it, Bertie! Oh, really! What kind of public schoolboy are you anyway, if you can't do it in public, hahaha!' "Then, as I start to rub my willy, rather red in the face but nevertheless rather reassured to find that neither she nor anyone else seems to care if I comfort myself in this fashion, then, uh, she announces me. Yes, as though I were being introduced at Court: 'The Right Honorable Bertram Wooster, one of England's finest! Only a heart attack away from being a member of the House of Lords.' There's an awful lot of laughter, and I see, right at the back of the room, Jeeves standing with a glass of decent-looking champagne, toasting me, an ironic smile on his face. He mouths the words: 'Tallyho!' " "Good old Jeeves!" Oofie comments. "Uh, yes, though I was hoping for some more solid support. Well, Stephie grabs me my the arm again -- she's quite a strong young lady, all that tennis and riding, you know -- and pulls me to a stool at the front of the stage. It's plain from her gestures and movements that I am supposed to bend over it, with my backside facing the audience. Which I do, rather reluctantly, and letting go of my now rather well-recovered widdler. "She pushes my head until I'm bend right over the stool, with my bottom very high in the air. 'And stay like that,' she orders, 'Or I'll have you tied there, understand?' In fact, it's not that uncomfortable. I can look back between my legs and see all these grinning faces. Stephie lightly touches my buttocks with this crop of hers, then, to my horror, raises it high and starts to thrash me, mercilessly. "Oh, the agony, gentlemen! Worse than any spanking at school, because she has ensured that it will be delivered to stretched, bare skin, and because she is swinging the riding crop with a religious fervor. I know this, because one of her hands is, when not placed upon the small of my back to hold me in check, pressed rather firmly to the junction of her thighs, a gesture I have come to understand quite well by now." "Poor Bertie! Rotten show. Had my bum whacked like that once." A new voice makes us jump. It's a passing regular of the club, Lord Bogtrotter. "Paris, fancy bordello. Idea took my fancy. Don't know why. 'Vould ze gentilhomme care to try something ver' eeengleesh?' this big blousy madame had said. Well, I thought she might mean, well, something to do with yorkshire pudding or horses, perhaps. Instead, this skinny tart ties me to the bed, and lashes my bum within an inch of my life! Outrageous! Oh, must run. Late for, um . . .?" He staggers off into the gloom of the club's billiard room. Bertie sighs. "Where was I? Oh, getting thrashed. And she wasn't keeping score, either. Well, it took all my efforts not to get up and run. And frankly, chaps, not to cry out, or let some tears fall. Really, I know that seems hard to believe. But it's true. Because although she's just a few years older than being a mere girl, Lady Blodgett can swing a crop with the best. I did whisper to her that I'd do anything she wanted if she stopped, and that just made her laugh merrily again. 'Right. Too right! And so you will, Bertie. Anything I want. Yes, indeed! But first, we'll finish this. Now brace up, you have at least another dozen smacks to go.' " He whispers confidentially. "I suspect that my backside is going to have welts on it for weeks. It still hurts, dammit. And Jeeves, stout fellow, thinks I might even have some permanent marks . . ." "Gosh, steady on there. Might get mistaken for a Navy chap if you're not careful," Gussie advises. They all nod sagely. "So, what happened, Bertie?" Fatima finally asks. "Well, I'm as raw as a beefsteak, and there's all sorts of happy cheering and shouting going on. And I look up, and Mr.Wayne has appeared. In his usual attire, army boots. His thingamajig is like one of those Italian sausages you see in novelty food displays at Fortnum & Masons. And it's bloated and ready for use. About six inches from my mouth. Stephie says: 'Pucker up sweetie. Yes, suck it, Bertie. You're a Old Winifredian, aren't you? Bugle time.' " Everyone colours at this. Not a secret anymore, among the ladies of the Home Counties? Evidently not, in her case at least. "And?" Fatima asks in his/her nervous baritone. "And?" shrugs Bertie. "And, I do. Oh, it wasn't easy. Damned great thing it is, too. Enough to choke a carp. But I hold it in my mouth, tickle it a little, until honor is satisfied, and Mr.Wayne is convinced that I am adopting a suitably deferential attitude towards his person. And then . . ." "Oh Bertie . . ." several say at once. "Yes, chaps, I'm afraid so. Stephie was not in error. Mr.Wayne wishes to embed this enormous tool of his, in my bum." He looks down. "I shall say no more of it. Other than that, justice was done. And that it was a very difficult and strenuous undertaking, complicate by the enormous proportions of said object. However, I managed to retain my composure throughout." A long silence, some heavy breathing. "Bertie?" Fatima prompts. "Yes? Well, then, feeling somewhat strange in the sitting-down department, as I'm sure you will recognise, I get pulled to my feet. Stephie, dear Stephie, is taking off what little clothing she is still wearing, and displaying herself in the most grotesque way to the crowd. Squatting and wriggling like old Mother Grimshaw's cat at St. Winifred's used to each spring, when she got in heat, remember? Rubbing herself, getting quite possessed . . . "She turns to me, and shouts: 'stiffen it up, Bertie!' and I naturally oblige, though the little soldier does find her current appearance and behavior somewhat beguiling in its own right. Then, to my surprise, I see Mr. Wayne is busy helping Jeeves up on to the stage . . ." "Jeeves!" they murmur. "And, to my great disbelief, Jeeves has shed his clothing, like me. He is displaying a rogering staff of quite improbable proportions, in fully erected position." "Oh, I fear for what's next," Oofie remarks, sipping his port. "Mixing servants and, colonials, and . . . who knows what else?" "Yes, it isn't a pretty story. Stephie wants me to stand belly to belly with her, and put my willy in her. Easy enough to do, by now. Quite slippery, she is, very receptive. And then, the enormous Mr. Wayne stands behind her, and puts that lethal weapon of his in her bum! Really! Who would dream that a delicate young lady's rear passage could accomodate such a monstrous thing . . ." "She had been practising, perhaps?" Fatima suggests. "I think so," Bertie agrees. "And then, Jeeves, faithful Jeeves, is persuaded, without much work on anyone's part, to stand at my back, and push his thingie where the black chap's had been only a few minutes before. Well, it fit easily, I'll say that. And then, well, let me not get into too many shameful details, but to a slow handclapping from the crowd, we all moved rhythmically, up-down, in-out, you know the drill, until such point as . . . oh, you know. . ." He makes a feeble gesture. "Oh, Bertie!" they say, with various degrees of surprise. "And that was it?" Fatima asks. "Not quite. Stephie wants a repeat performance, with me at her rear, and Mr.Wayne knocking at the front door, so to speak. Quite insatiable, when she gets her mind set on something, young Steph." "Women," Gussie says, needing to add no more to this. "Oh, I almost forgot. I learned just a little more that night, chaps. I've spoken with you at length about the sources of Jeeves' immense, high-domed intelligence . . ." "Rather, very often," Oofie agrees. "Something to do with fish, I recall," Gussie concurs. "Strange notion." "Well, I remain convinced of this source, but Jeeves, with the full cooperation of Lady Blodgett, demonstrates an alternative notion that had not, I confess, ever crossed my mind until this moment. He gets down on his knees in front of her -- and remember, she is still as bare as a newborn babe -- and he proceeds to lap at her like a cat with a bowl of cream, licking her, uh, whatchamacallit!" "EeeOoooUgh!!!" Gussie shrieks. "Disgusting!!!" "No," sighs Oofie. "My sister told me about that, and I thought she was lying. Oh, how vile!!" "Yes, gentlemen," Bertie concludes. "And thereby is the secret of Jeeves' genius revealed. As he puts it himself, 'a lick on a well-buttered muffin can lead to insights previously unforeseen among the lesser-minded.' " "Oh, Bertie, how frightful! What a beastly habit!" Gussie exclaims. "Heaven forbid you should ever do something so horrid!" "Well," Wooster says with a sigh, staring at the dregs in the port glass. "A formal announcement will be made in a day or two, but you, dear friends, ought to be aware that Stephie and I are wholly reconciled, and that I now plan to go ahead and marry the said Lady Blodgett . . ." "Oh, hosanna! Congratulations old boy!! Yes, wonderful, wonderful news. Top hole!" They all chorus, waving to a waiter for yet more liquid sustenance. "Yes, it's good news, chaps," Bertie agrees with a brave smile. "She says I acquitted myself well at the club, and that she recognized her earlier reservations about my virility were groundless . . ." "Gosh, I should hope so!" Fatima sighs. Bertie smiles wanly. "But I fear that to compensate her for the forthcoming lack of daily entertainment of the sort she has become accustomed to in the Brixton environs, La Blodgett proposes that I shall not only regularly submit my bum to her crop, and other indignities that I won't discuss here, but that I will endeavor to 'raise my IQ' by the route pioneered by the noble Jeeves, namely, regular doses of the homemade fish soup . . ." "Bear up, Wooster," Gussie says after a long glum pause. "You might conceivably come to like it, I suppose." /to be continued/ Note: To get a recent catalog/manifesto, list of stories . . . whatever, send an e-mail to . No further text is necessary. If you want to talk to the author, in a virtual sense of the word, send e-mail to . You'll probably get a reply. 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