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	Continuation of the Jeeves/Wooster stuff from last year, which can be
found on the ASSM archive...
	Copyright 1998 MrSpraycan. For private use only. Do not archive,
retransmit, republish.
	



"TWO'S COMPANY, STEPHIE"
by MrSpraycan


"Two company's Stephie, but three's not necessarily a crowd," Bertie feebly
argues. The issue is whether or not Jeeves will be allowed to accompany the
newly wed pair on their impending honeymoon. So far, Stephie is standing firm.
	It's the afternoon of the Monday before the wedding, and normal decorum
would have the two of them busy with other preparations and Bertie getting
ready for a bachelor's night carousal with his friends. However, since some
are only just now being released from the care of the local constabulary,
no repeat performance is either likely, or will be countenanced. Aunt
Agatha has spoken most sternly on this subject: "Hellfire and damnation!
Over my dead body, or more likely, over yours Bertie! Not after the last
time!"
	So here they are at Fortnum & Mason's tearoom on Piccadilly, a genteel and
proper location for a 'little chat' before the big day.  
	Stephie gives him that special 'I am a gull and you are a dead cod' look
and says "Listen, Bertie, I'm quite prepared to have Jeeves around after we
move into the new house, and I don't mind him at all. He's a likeable old
stick. But I will be doubly damned if he's coming on honeymoon with us. I
have to draw the line somewhere! People will talk." 
	"I most seriously doubt that they will, Stephie. A chap's expected to have
his man along. I mean, are you actually proposing that you will be laying
out my clothes in the mornings, picking the right color cravat, making the
tea, ironing the newspaper, running my bath at the right temperature, oh
oh, there are so many complicated things to do! H-h-how could a woman,
well, I really don't know, Stephie!"
	"Don't be a complete idiot, Bertie. You'll make me think that the Curse of
the Woosters is alive again. That you'll be hauled off to the loonybin in a
straightjacket singing the Marseillaise in Swahili. How could you think I
don't know how to do all those things, and more? I'll even give you your
morning willy massage, with no further ado."
	Bertie is speechless now. He feels he ought to tell her that his Uncle
Horace had been singing Land Of Hope & Glory in Yoruba, but decides to
concentrate on a more pressing matter.
	"My what?"
	"Don't be such a pitted prune, Bertie. I know all about it. Jeeves, as one
might expect, told la Winterbotham, his one true heart's delight, and she
of course told me."
	"But, but...oh, how could he?" Bertie is turning a fine shade of red.
Somewhere between General Post Office regulation mailbox scarlet and one of
those Dutch cheeses that looks like a football and tastes like an eraser.
	"Don't be such a chump, Bertie. Useful intelligence, eh? Oh, it's alright,
I'm not easily embarrassed, you should know that by now. Only two or three
times a week, so it's not like we have some major Oscar Wildness going on
here, eh?" Stephie reassures him with a grin. "Is it?"
	"Yes! No! I mean, absolutely not. Nothing of the sort, Stephie. Quite
proper and all that rot. Form of exercise, really."
	"Good, pleased to hear it. I don't like to share," she tells him.
	"So, you really know how to do all those things? The tea, the bath? The
trouser press? How on earth did you learn them?"
	"From my mother, and my governess. You never know when it'll come in
useful," she smiles sweetly.
	"And the, uh, you know, other thing?"
	"From the same dear ladies. 'It helps to know how to turn the starting
handle when the engine doesn't want to run,' mummy always said. It's stood
me in good stead for years, Bertie. Never know when it'll come in handy
with chaps."
	"I say," he breathes.
	"Was that a romantic overture of some kind, couched in Woosterese?"
	"I, well, er," he articulates. And rather clearly, a large bulge has
turned the front of his gray flannels into a small pup tent. Stephie smiles
indulgently. Restrains herself from reaching over and patting the
not-so-sleeping beast.
	"Normal decorum frowns on giving gentlemen massages of their male member
in public," Stephie says with a thin smile. "Obviously there are places,
like a box at the opera or a boring cricket match, where everyone is asleep
or paying attention to some other nonsense. But one can hardly construe a
crowded tearoom as a suitable venue for willy massaging."
	She enjoys his discomfort, and teases: "Even for a big hot throbbing
sausage like yours, darling Bertie."
	He gulps, and says: "Steady on, Stephie."
	"Oh, yes I must. Because my crumpet is getting very, very buttered,
darling boy. You know how it just loves all that naughtiness. Oh, I'm glad
I wore two pairs of knickers today, or I'd be having an accident, just
thinking about your wonderful thingie."
	He's wriggling uncomfortably, and has rearranged his napkin over the bulge.
	She won't stop. "That wonderful heraldic device, the lance of the
Woosters. Oh, and soon, it'll be all mine. Oh, Bertie."
	He gasps: "Stephie, we need to discuss our honeymoon plans. That's why
we're here."
	She blinks, shakes her head. "Good god, was that a properly focused
statement, on a subject of immediate importance, Bertie? What on earth's
wrong? Are you feeling yourself?" she teases.
	"Trying hard not to," he murmurs. "Stephie. The honeymoon."
	"Well," she sighs languorously, "I think I'll start by taking off my
clothes..."
	"No, Stephie. Please, be a little more considerate!"
	"Very well," she smiles. "So, where are we going? Deauville? Monte Carlo?
Montreux? Somewhere romantic, Bertie."
	"Well, uh, rather short notice and all that, m'dear, so it's a little
difficult to get bookings, make arrangements," he feebly replies.
	"So where, Bertie? Not Aunt Agatha's. No, I think that would be a poor
choice for a variety of reasons."
	"Me too. Well, there are some nice English resorts..."
	"Oh, God!" Stephie mops her brow. "Can I get a drink here? A strong port
would be good. Perhaps a shot of rotgut whisky?" She's looking round for a
waitress.
	"No no, I'm not thinking of Bournemouth or Eastbourne, or Morecombe Bay,
or ..."
	"Good," she snaps. "Don't. You'll be suggesting Blackpool next. My god."
	"But I do know a nice quiet little place in the West Country. Terribly
romantic," he offers nervously.
	"Oh? Perhaps, then. Bucolic places, I can tolerate. Just nowhere with
crowds of sweaty factory workers, swilling beer."
	"Oh no, darling, this is quite, quite different," he vows.
	"No knotted handkerchiefs on heads?"
	"No, I promise."

	It's Aunt Agatha who has the final word. "No."
	She raps hard on the floor of Bertie's living room with her walking stick,
like Wotan summoning lightning. "Absolutely not!" she barks.
	In the distance, a dog begins to howl in distress.
	"But, Auntie," Bertie pleads, "Stephie insists..."
	"Mere slip of a girl, and she has you wrapped round her finger already,"
Aunt Agatha intones. "No, Bertram. You are not going on your honeymoon
without Jeeves being in attendance. And I am going to instruct Stephanie
that Dora Winterbotham is to be invited too. As I construe from their
various discussions, the two are quite comfortable with each other's
presence. Their commonsense will prevent any foolishness."
	"But, Auntie..."
	"No more arguing, Bertram. You two have the capacity to get up to more
mischief than a cartload of monkeys, and are not to be trusted on your own.
Take Jeeves and Dora with you, and there's just a faint chance that we'll
escape without more foolishness."
		 
	Jeeves greets the news with equanimity. "Very good, sir."
	"You knew, Jeeves. You knew she'd insist," Bertie says. "I'm quite happy,
except with this idea on her part that I am some kind of nitwit who can't
be trusted to do anything without making a total hash of it. Where on earth
did she get that idea?"
	"I really can't imagine, sir," Jeeves replies.
	"And, I suppose this'll put a spring in your step, Jeeves, but it appears
that Stephanie has been instructed to invite Miss Winterbotham along, too.
Aunt Agatha's doing, again."
	Jeeves beams. "How remarkably sensible of your dear aunt. That makes great
sense, considering Miss Blodgett's capacity for, uh, unusual behavior."
	"Now, Jeeves, steady on. Talking about the woman I love, new mistress of
the household and all that. Show some respect," Bertie cautions.
	"Oh, indeed sir. Miss Winterbotham is a steadying influence, though. And a
deep thinker, too."

	It's a restrained ceremony at St.Ethelbruga's in Tipton Parsley. First,
because it's a Tuesday and no one can be persuaded to sing in the choir but
a few old codgers rounded up from a local old people's home. The organist
is playing some stream of consciousness approximation to Bach, though one
can safely say that Johann Sebastian of that ilk, or any one of his
countless musical kin and offspring would have had a few Teutonic oaths to
spare for this rather flaccid rendition.
	Bertie is at the altar, and an approximation to a 'best man,' Oofie
Prosser is at his side. Oofie, always somewhat challenged where anything
involving memory or logic is involved, is custodian of the ring, which he
has already mislaid three times. Now it's attached to a piece of thread.
	The tiny chapel is in emulation of the Balkans. On one side of the aisle,
Bertie's friends and few surviving relatives. On the other, the Blodgett
clan. It can be taken as a reasonable summary that while the recently rich
and even more recently ennobled Blodgetts are courteous about Stephanie's
choice -- he is minor nobility of some standing, after all is said and done
-- some older members of the family harbor doubts about Bertie per se. As
Stephanie's mother has remarked: "We have owned chickens with more
commonsense." Aunt Agatha has been known to offer the counter view: "While
Stephanie is a scrumptious little tart, her family is rather typical of the
genre, the meat pie magnate millionaires. A bit thick in the crust." A
marriage made in heaven, then.
	By special dispensation, Jeeves and Dora Winterbotham are huddled in a
back pew together.
	"It has been a while, Dora. I trust you are well?"
	"Yes, of course I am. Are you angry at me?"
	"Only somewhat. I trust that your, ahem, adventures with the local
representative of the law have been curtailed?"
	"Yes, as a matter of fact they have. PC Entwistle and I have agreed to
differ on the proper boudoir uses of the truncheon."
	Jeeves raises his eyebrows.
	"You'll find out later. Not here, in church."
	"I certainly should be interested, Dora. So, might it be proper if I were
to ask, are we then, perhaps renewing our inclination to see one another
socially?"
	"It might be proper, and I am, indeed opening that possibility."
	"Dora, I can't begin to tell you how grateful I am."
	"Well, I shall have to devise some means for you to prove it shan't I,
Mr.Jeeves?" she says with an artful wink.
	In time-honored fashion -- well, for St.Ethelbruga's -- the Wedding March
begins a little later than the entrance of the bride, forcing everyone to
their feet like startled weasels as the vision of loveliness in white
appears. It's safe to say that while Herr Bach would have clasped his head
in despair at the mangling of his life's work, Herr Wagner would have burst
a blood vessel at the atonal counterpoint visited on his second best-known
tune.

	After some littering of the church porch with shredded paper, and a lot of
enthusiastic groping of Stephie by those male guests of no overly clear
consanguinity, the party head for the reception, at another local excuse
for a restaurant, La Mouton Perdue. 
	Various presents are produced, and stacked on a table. They're opened,
with protestations of surprise and delight. Stephie whispers to Bertie:
"What is this thing your friends have with cow creamers? And cruets?"
	"Dashed if I know, darling," he shrugs.
	Stephie's substantial friend Alvis Presley hands over a parcel to them,
warning: "Don't open it here."
	"Looks like a tennis racket," he remarks. "How exciting."
	Champagne begins to flow, though Aunt Agatha tries her best to prevent
excessive consumption. A lost cause. 
	"Auntie, please," Bertie whispers as she badgers the waiter. "It's
alright. They need a drink to toast us."
	"Toast you? They'll be able to cremate you, the amount they're swilling,"
she scowls, holding her own glass out for a refill. "Don't they ever learn?"
	"Thirsty work, drinking. It's like expecting camels at the oasis to furl
their trunks and you know, something or other," Bertie drones dopily.
	"And you've had too much already, too," she snaps. "You mean elephants."
	"At an oasis? No, a waterhole, the usual abode of those chubby gray
chappies. Camels. Humps. One, or two."
	"There'll be no humps for you if you don't knock off the boozing, you
wretch," she snarls.
	Stephie is also noticeably tiddly. Giggling with two or three of her
girlfriends in a corner. Faint phrases float into the general conversation.
"Big? Enormous! I measured it," Bertie hears as he approaches.
	"Stephie!" he protests. "My, uh, you know? No, don't talk about it here."
	The women stare at him frostily as Stephie rejoinders: "The dining room,
Bertie? Why on earth not?" It's not clear whether this was really the
subject at all.
	As he leaves, she's chuckling again, and he hears: "Gallons of it. Oh,
you'd have to see it to believe it."
	What now? Surely not? He tells himself.
	"I had to soak it in hot water for an hour, it was so sticky."
	Oh, the dining room. Redecorating. The paintbrush, he deduces.  
	Though bride and groom had both requested no speeches, they got them. To
ask people to not make speeches at weddings is like asking the Pope to not
bless everything within waving range. First into the fray is Stephie's
father, who grimaces and growls his way through a graceless "losing a
daughter, gaining a son, best of luck, mother and I, seems only a few years
ago" pastiche that takes about twenty minutes, but seems to last a week.
Oofie's speech is remarkably short. Even with copious notes, he makes no
sense, loses his way. He's pushed aside by Stephie's mother, who suggests
they cut the cake so the newlyweds can be on their way.
	What reception would be complete without one guest rushing to the toilet,
green around the gills? Or some gratuitous barbs between the two families?
Oh, these staple items aren't neglected. As the couple gets ready to leave,
Aunt Agatha remarks: "How nice to have a gathering like this without the
usual vile behavior, Bertie."
	"Meaning, auntie?"
	"One of your friends groping a bridesmaid. Or playing with his willy. Or
for that matter, Stephie showing her whatnot."
	"Have you looked at the bridesmaids? Tanks!"
	"Have you looked at your friends?" Stephie contributes. "Boneheads.
Besides, people like my whatnot, Auntie. You do."
	Aunt Agatha can't deny this, but says: "Hush child," when Stephie mocks:
"You spend many happy hours with your fingers inside it."
	As they shake hands with the guests, they're repeatedly asked: "where are
you going?" and "Somewhere romantic?"
	"It's a secret," is all they'll say.

	 
The drive to the honeymoon spot is not smooth. Yes, all four of them, with
Jeeves at the wheel. After they get off the A303, they're soon lost in
country lanes, perhaps because they are concentrating on other things.
	"We'll have to get directions. You girls, put some clothes on," Jeeves
advises frostily.
	"Spoilsport," Stephie says, her dress up around her armpits. "I was
enjoying the fresh air." Reluctantly, she stops rubbing herself, tugs the
skirt down. Folds up her editorial research, a copy of a porno magazine,
"Pipelayers". Nudges Bertie awake.
	"And you too, Dora. What if we run out of batteries?" he scolds. 
	The older woman smoothes her skirt, sniffs the dildo and puts it in her
handbag. "I'll switch to manual, of course."
	They'll stop at the next petrol station, they decide. There isn't one
open. Like men always do, they blunder on, the lanes getting narrower, the
hedgerows higher. Eventually, against their better judgment, responding to
constant nagging by the two women, they pull to a halt at a farm entrance.
	"How do I find Grendel's Hole?"
	"Ar, you got to look under Grendel's tail, oi'd reckon," an oaf leaning on
the gate says slowly, chewing on a piece of straw. They throw their hands
in the air and drive on.
	Soon, after slowly nosing through a herd of cows, and following a huge
tractor and harvester for miles, they're in Much Buggering, or so the sign
says. "How do I get to Grendel's Hole?" Jeeves asks, hopefully, outside the
local pub, Ye Olde Wanker. Three yokels are swilling cloudy flat cider with
a nasty green tinge to it.
	"Oi wouldn't start from here," one opines to gormless laughter from his
friends.
	"They're drunk," Dora snaps.
	"No we bain't lady, but we are working on it," another says, choking.
	"Idiots!" she curses, under her breath.
	"That's us. It's our career. We're village idiots. We gets a big grant
from the Arts Council," the third guffaws.
	When they stop laughing, Dora tries again.
	"A village, round here. Grendel's Hole."
	"Yes, there is."
	"Well, how would I find it?"
	"Well you could lift up..."
	"For god's sake!" she shrieks.
	"Well," one says thoughtfully, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Well, you might
go down this road here a ways, and then, uh..."
	"Left," says one.
	"No, right. Past Wally Todger's old barn," says the third.
	"Are you barmy? That's the way to Wanking In The Wold. That be no use to
man nor boy!" says the first travel consultant.
	"Ar, but if you turn just before, in Little Wanking..."
	"Then you'll be in farmer Giles' farmyard, you idiot."
	"Not if you turn left. Where that signs says Johnson Stiffly."
	They all think for a moment. Then nod. "It's somewhere over that way."
	"We'll try it," she snaps.
	Ten minutes later, they're back in Much Buggering. The same three yokels
are still drinking outside the pub.
	"Didn't you loik it?" one asks with a goofy grin, genuinely surprised.
	"We never found it," Jeeves says firmly. "We went round in a big circle."
	"Then you needs to go back thataway," he's told. "And when you pass the
big green barn, and see the steeple in Saint Ethelrude, take the right
fork. There's a little sign. And you'll be there in a jiffy."
	"Why not say so in the first place?" Dora snaps.
	"We 'ad to think about it a bit," is the gormless reply. "We're idiots,
remember?"
	It's been an hour of aimless blundering before they finally find
themselves on a steeply winding downhill lane, and see the sea in the
distance. "Hooray, Jeeves, you've done it," Bertie exults.
	The merriment and self-congratulation stops in a few minutes. The sea is
gone again. They stop, and find themselves talking to the same yokel,
leaning on his gate.
	"Don't say it, do you understand?" Stephie rages at him, leaping out.
	"Say what?"
	"Listen, we're looking for Grendel's Hole..."
	"Well, you could try..."
	"Shut up!!!" Stephie shrieks.
	"Let him say it if it makes him happy," Jeeves advises.
	The yokel shrugs. "I was only trying to be helpful."
	"Do you know the way..."
	"...to San Jose?" he smiles, daftly.
	"Another idiot," Bertie sighs.
	"Oh, the way to another idiot? Nooo, you got me there," he's told. "But
they bain't hard to find round 'ere, townpeople say."
	"Oh, my giddy aunt," Bertie groans, holding his head.
	"Listen, you nitwit," Dora says. "We've tried Much Buggering. We've tried
Little Wanking..."
	"Oh, they say you Londoners is dirty blighters, and they're roight," the
yokel interrupts.
	"Where in hell's name is the fucking road!?" Stephie screams.
	"Fucking Road? Nowhere round here," she's advised with a dull expression.
"But Sheepfucking Road, now oi know there's one of they..."
	"Oh, I believe it," Jeeves groans.
	"Ar, it's just over the hill. On the right. Goes straight down to the
beach. To the old smugglers' inn there. Place called, what is it now?
Grendel's Hole."
	"Why didn't you say so in the first place?" Jeeves asks, reasonably.
"That's what we asked."
	"Some other people was here, looking for it too."
	"That was us!"
	"Oh, that was you a while ago? I thought you looked familiar. See, they
pronounced it funny, and I thought they said, well never mind, nice day for
a droive, eh?" He grins daftly. "Especially in a nice big car like this.
What sort is it?"
	"It's a Rolls fucking Royce!" Dora shouts as they pull away, sharply.
	"Ar, those bloody cheeky Germans did buy it then," the yokel mutters under
his breath. "Who'd have thought?"
	
In minutes, there they are. At the bucolic Somerset resort of Grendel's
Hole. What little there is of it. A couple of souvenir shops, some
cottages, and the looming "Flatulent Walrus," another pub, randomly
assembled from local granite and wooden detritus. A thatched roof, which
has Stephie scratching at the thought of the likely co-inhabitants already.
	"You'll love it," Bertie tells Stephie, who is not looking convinced.
	"It's run by 'Wildman' Rochester-Smythe, a chap I know. An ex-master from
St.Winifred's. Splendid fellow."
	"Another notorious bum bandit, I'm sure," she scoffs. "All of them are,
your friends and teachers."
	"Stephie, please!"
	"Well, they are," she huffs. "Those that aren't in jail, ought to be."
	Wildman turns out to be one of those caricature barkeeps with a florid
complexion and a huge handlebar mustache. "Bertie, m'dear!"
	Bertie accepts a back-pounding, a vigorous handshake. "Oh, and this must
be the beautiful bride."
	Stephie is cordial, but no more. Lost in her own thoughts.
	"Not happy, miss?" Wildman asks, concerned.
	"First night nerves," Bertie confides to him.
	"Nerves be damned," she snaps. "And first night? Ha!"
	Wildman raises his eyebrows. 
	"May I show you both to the bridal suite?" he inquires.
	"Actually, I'd like a double gin and tonic first," Stephie pipes up.
	The others agree to join her. Three gin and tonics later, the memories of
the epic drive have faded into an agreeable blur. Stephie is getting
boisterous, however.
	Jeeves advises, sotto voce, "If I were you sir, I should be inclined to
place Miss Blodgett over my knee rather soon, in the privacy of my room,
and give her a jolly good spanking." 
	"Right ho, Jeeves! Brilliant idea! Yes, the right thing to do. Show her
who's boss, eh?"
	 "Quite, sir."
	Dora is providing some advice to Stephie. "It's not for me to interfere,
but if I were in your shoes, I would take a firm grip on Mr. Wooster's
willy, and take him to the bridal suite. Get out your cane..."
	"How do you know I have one?"
	"Stephanie, please. I packed. And did you see what Alvis gave you?"
	"No, but I can guess. A paddle."
	"I think so, too."
	"Ah."
	"So make sure he knows his place. Give him a couple of dozen, so he knows
it for sure."
	"Yes, that's sound advice. I was torn between that and taking a long ride
on his silly face."
	"It's merely a question of priorities, rather than choices," Dora tells
her. "But I surmise that you would find giving him a good thrashing
eminently satisfying, and an exceptionally good preparation for the other
activity you planned."

	They lurch upstairs. The bridal suite is a little larger than a cupboard,
with a gabled roof. Tastefully, Jeeves and Dora have been given tiny rooms
on each side, on the same corridor. Stephie manages to wrench one of the
windows open, and look out towards the river estuary.
	She snorts: "Either I need to change my drawers again, or the tide is out.
What a pong."
	Bertie gallantly replies: "You aren't wearing any, darling."
	"Looking up my skirt, were you? On the stairs?"
	"No, in the bar. On the stool. You could see, well, it."
	"Oh, was I flashing?" she giggles. "How saucy of me."
	She lights a cigarette and stares. Then lets out a squawk of amazement.
	"Oh shit! Bertie! Look!"
	He cranes his head to look over her shoulder out of the lead-paned fanlight.
	"My god, a great-crested skua!" he beams, staring at an ugly gull on an
opposite roof. "A rare one, that. Gosh, I haven't..."
	"No, you bird-brained bloody idiot! Down there!"
	She points to the cobbled street outside. Another car has pulled up next
to theirs. And out of it climb Stephie's friends, the rather buxom pair
Alvis Presley and Martha D. Little.
	"My god, what are they doing here!" he exclaims.
	"We kept it a secret, you idiot."
	"And knowing no better, they come here, of all places? Oh lord."
	"Well, let's go and have a drink with them," Stephie says, brightening up.
	"Oh, aren't we going to, uh, you know?"
	"Unpack? No, Jeeves and Dora can manage that. Come on, Bertie."

	In the bar, it transpires that the large twosome is indeed staying at The
Flatulent Walrus, and their surprise is even greater. There's disbelief and
then laughter. Toasts are drunk.
	Jeeves and Dora appear, looking rather flushed. The expert eye would
deduce that they have vigorously tested the mattresses upstairs, as well as
unpacked.
	"Have a drink, you two!" Stephie cries.
	"There'll be some creaking here tonight, with that pair of tubbies in bed
together," Jeeves murmurs to Dora.
	"Oh, are they that sort?" she smiles. "Yes, I suppose they are."

	Another round of drinks vanishes. Wildman announces, with relish, "I've
made some punch, for those who want a change of pace. And can I move you
into the snug? Regular opening time soon."
	The revelers stagger into an even smaller bar, lined with dark wood. With
the gloomy, dusty heads of foxes, voles and other luckless vermin mounted
all round, it's like being in the loser's version of Noah's Ark.
	It's Bertie who gets the next surprise. Returning from an expedition to
the rather ghastly men's toilet, he walks straight into a bustling woman in
the corridor, knocking her head over heels. When she leaps to her feet,
cursing like a trooper, he finds himself staring into the bulging eyes of
Aunt Agatha.
	"You!" they both shriek.
	"What are you doing here?" he gabbles.
	"I often visit here. It's a favorite place of mine," she scolds. "What are
you doing here?"
	"Well, um," is the best he can offer.
	Another woman appears behind Aunt Agatha. "This is Beryl," she introduces
stiffly. "My, uh, bridge partner. Beryl, this is my nephew, Bertram. The
one I've spoken about."
	"Is there a tournament?" Bertie asks dimly. The other woman is staring at
him, dumbfounded.
	"No. Oh, I need a drink, Bertie."
	"This way."

	Jeeves is the first to say it. "Another Wooster cock-up, eh?" He's had a
couple too many now, and is seeing the irony of the situation.
	Because, not five minutes after the dreaded aunt, in walked the imposing
bulk of their erstwhile nemesis and Stephie's former 'dancing partner', the
enormous black bouncer, John Wayne. They hear him arguing with Wildman:
"No, an hit's mah real name. That other honky dude, he's dead."
	A taxi pulls up, from the station.
	"Guess who?" Bertie says, looking out the window.
	"John the Baptist and a troupe of performing seals?" Dora says, knocking
back a glass of punch.
	"No, I believe it's your friend PC Entwistle."
	Dora sprays punch across the room. "Oh, lord."
	"Don't worry, he's with some little blonde tart."
	"The cheek. Oh, a young one too."
	But before he reaches the door, a small bus pulls up. And, to their
slack-jawed amazement,  they watch as out step, one by one, a half-dozen of
Bertie's friends. Oofie, Catsmeat, Gussie among them. They've picked the
self-same place for their cricket team reunion.
	"John the Baptist next?" Jeeves sighs.
	
	The evening slips by. In the adjoining bar, they remark on two German
businessmen of uncertain polarity. A pair of more restrained honeymooners.
Various local idiots, who seem familiar, and grin goofily at them through a
serving hatch. There's a trio of squaddies, some local motorcyclists.
Standing room only.
	Stephie has paced herself a little better, and now she's nicely drunk.
Bertie is doing less well. Around nine, he announces: "Darling, I'm going
to lay down for a minute."

	Bertie wakens, terribly dehydrated. Looks at his watch. 1 AM. Downstairs,
there's a near-riot, by the sound of it. The nerve of some people. He looks
around. "Stephie?" But she's not there. He sits up, his head still somewhat
sodden.
	He drinks some water, steps outside into the corridor. Knocks on the door
of Jeeves' room. No reply. There's no light under the door of Dora's room
either. He feels his way downstairs.
	Whatever is going on, is in the bar, he deduces. I'll just pop my head in
and tell them to jolly well shut up, he reflects. The right thing to do.
Chap's got to sleep. 
	He opens the door, and is greeted by a bacchanalian scene. A room full of
naked people, groping and swilling. He gasps with horror as he sees Stephie
emerge from under a rather fat man, one of the Germans, wiping her thighs.
"Who's next?" she shrieks. "Oh, I'm in the mood for it up my bumhole again!"
	"Stephie! My god!"
	"Oh Bertie!" is her next cry.
	"Stephie," he croaks.
	"Wot, more? Get your trousers off then, mate," one of the squaddies says.
"She ain't arf a goer."
	"She's, well, she's..." he gargles.
	"She's a juicy little fuckslut, that's right. Hop on, eh? We all have."
	"But, but..."
	"Wha's the problem? If I wasn't so shagged out from that other bint, I'd
be on her like a rat up a drainpipe," another squaddie urges.
	Bertie stares at Stephie, and she blushes.
	"I thought you'd be coming up to bed," he protests feebly.
	"Oh, I was going to soon."
	"Stephie, really."
	Jeeves' voice is heard from the center of another writhing tangle of nude
bodies. "Sir, do your duty."
	Bertie nods gravely, unbuttoning his trousers. Tries not to pay too much
attention to Aunt Agatha who is sprawled in an armchair, having her
pudendum lapped by Beryl. The lance of the Woosters is behaving well,
fuelled by the decadent scene. Less impressive, of course, than the
truncheon-like penis that John Wayne is using on Martha D. Little, who has
opted to demonstrate her ecumenical nature. 
	"Oh, Bertie," she sighs. "You were right, it's so romantic here."
	He grabs her, pushes her toward a mattress. Several have been dragged into
the bar, and dumped on the floor.
	"How did this happen?"
	"Wildman put Spanish fly in the punch, he says."
	"The bounder!"
	"No, it's a treat he reserves for honeymooners. But with this lot of
boozers, everyone else was dipping in, too."
	"In more ways than one, I see."
	"Oh, Bertie. Don't be such an old prude. It's a party! A lovely surprise!"
	"An orgy, I'd call it."
	"That too. Delightful, isn't it?"
	"But it's our wedding night!"
	"Then you shouldn't have lurched off to bed, you ninny. Really! And now,
get the rest of your clothes off quickly."
	"You're incorrigible."
	"Oh, I am, yes."
	"Two's company Stephie, as you put it. And three, or even four, under the
correct circumstances, and with the proper introductions, is not excessive.
But 27 is, I would strongly argue, a veritable crowd. Jolly near an Indian
bazaar full of queer coves and strange blighters."
	He enters her with more panache and precision than he usually displays,
and begins to pump away.
	"You'll get spanked for this, my girl," he murmurs.
	"Promise?"
	"Soon as we're through."
	"Oh, heavenly. Dirty Bertie."
	Alvis Presley crouches by them. Curiously, for a woman of such size, she
moves elegantly. Bertie also notes with awe that she has the word 'Daddy'
tattooed on her shaved mons. You never know. She brandishes the paddle she
gave them. "Use this, Wooster. Right for a gal who needs to feel her bum
being warmed up."
	"Give me a minute or two," he gasps, speeding up his thrusts. The crowd is
beginning to show some interest, and gathering round. The idea of seeing
some spanking has some appeal, it seems.
	"God, Stephie, you're so wet," he murmurs.
	"Always am," she chuckles. "But I've been well sluiced out tonight."
	"Did you fuck them all?" Bertie whispers.
	"Oh, yes. Twice for some. And the women too."
	"I shouldn't be surprised at that, I suppose."
	"No, you shouldn't be."
	"But, my god, even the idiots?" he gasps. "That's socialism."
	She giggles again. "Noblesse oblige, darling." Closes her eyes, and grunts
with satisfaction. "That's good, Bertie. And which idiots are you referring
to? Your friends?"
	"Oh, Stephie," he cries, coming.
	There's a polite round of applause.
	"Alright, alright, now belt up and pass her along. Some blokes over here
have been clutching an 'ard on for 'alf an hour now. Show some bleedin'
consideration, mate! Struth!"
	"No, no," she says, waving her hand. "You'll have to bonk one of the
others for now. I want my bum to get a good whacking."
	She waits until Bertie climbs off, wiping himself.
	"Sit down," she gasps, "Over there."
	The revelers form a circle, and watch as she drapes herself over Bertie's
lap, her cute round backside neatly displayed. An expanse of white skin,
waiting to be lovingly bruised. Bertie is handed the large leather paddle,
swings it through the air a few times, experimentally.
	"Gosh, Stephie, this will hurt a lot. I hope you're jolly well sure."
	"Oh, I'm sure, Bertie. Now stop being a big pudding, and get on with it."
	Aunt Agatha contributes: "Yes, Bertram. Let her have it. Disgraceful
display."
	Wildman appears, hand in hand with Catsmeat. "Like we did at school,
Bertie darling. Don't be a girl's blouse about it. Big fat arse like that,
she'll need a few before she feels it properly."
	"Yes, do it properly Bertie, or you won't get yours tonight," Stephie urges.
	He purses his lips, and begins to spank her, vigorously. "We'll see about
that, my girl."

Copyright (c) 1998 by MrSpraycan	


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