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Mr. Wooster was hungry.

... At least, that was what Jeeves had surmised.

There was not, in point of fact, any device for measuring one's state of hunger; nor had there been any manner of verbal confirmation on his master's part.

Yet, Jeeves had picked up on a pattern over the past months.

Mr. Wooster not finishing his plate, for example, feigning a stomach upset. Him tactfully refusing dessert, joking that his figure didn't need it, wearing a smile that showed no teeth. Of his occasional glances at that refused food — quick, furtive, and desperate.

That simply wouldn't do.

Such a matter, however, required a notably delicate approach.

Jeeves well understood the complexities of the psychology of the individual at play. Although Mr. Wooster was prone to suggestibility, particularly in times of duress, he possessed an iron will on matters which his heart deemed important.

On such matters, the only recourse was, then, to convince Bertie's heart that it was mistaken.

Jeeves formulated dozens upon dozens of strategies regarding how to convince his employer to sate his hunger, but none were worthy. No "surely one slice wouldn't hurt, sir" ever left his lips, nor a "modern nutritionists stress the importance of variety in one's diet." Jeeves was sure those efforts would have been futile, and he was rarely wrong in his predictions of Mr. Wooster.

Fortunately, the perfect opportunity for Jeeves' influence was eventually delivered by Bertram himself — unexpectedly and unceremoniously.

"Jeeves," the young master asked one afternoon, fiddling with his half-empty teacup, "do you think I'm attractive?"

Jeeves' feather duster paused for a microsecond.

"I mean to say," Bertie hastened on, "all the girls that have made any romantic overtures to me have always wanted me to change drastically. They'd make me... read improving books, and all that rot."

"I do recall, sir," Jeeves said, his brain having resumed its normal function.

"So, then, I must have some defect of note. A particular, un-ignore-able blemish. If these all girls can think I'm right for them, then abruptly change their minds on everything about me—"

"Pardon me, sir, if I may offer my opinion."

"Oh, by all means!"

"It is not you who is in possession of unsuitable traits, sir; rather, your attempted suitors are merely unsuitable for you."

"Hm. A lot of 'suit's in there, Jeeves."

"In other words, sir," he explained, raising an eyebrow as his mind raced twenty steps ahead, "you may be attracting the wrong kind of partner."

"Pah! It seems I'm hardly attracting them at all! They look at me and see a future, fantasy husband, nothing more. Not one bit of the true B. W. Wooster."

"If I may, sir."

"Yes, Jeeves, do go on."

"Your... physical appearance, as it were, may be giving women a false sense of your character. They may believe you are naught but a mouldable bachelor, able to be changed to suit to their every whim."

"By God!"

"Indeed, sir. This phenomenon may account for the tendency of your previous fianceés to possess an immense strength of character."

"Ha! ‘Strength of character’ is putting it a bit lightly, Jeeves."

Bertie’s gaze wandered around the room as he worried his bottom lip — a tic that generally indicated he was deep in thought.

Will he ask?

"... What is it about my appearance that gives that impression, exactly?"

Just as expected.

"In my experience, sir, a woman is far less likely to attempt to exert her will when the man of her affection has a touch more... corpulence."

Mr. Wooster looked as if the world around him had just been upended.

"Really?" he asked, with no small touch of shock. Jeeves suppressed a pleased smirk.

"Truly, sir. The willowy bachelor is a man often misused. A more substantial gentleman, meanwhile, is capable of defending his own identity. The women who approach him understand this."

"But- well- that is, I mean to say-" Bertram sputtered. "I thought the haute couture of the moment was skinniness — or, if anything, a bit of brawn, what?"

"Though some may find said traits attractive, I assure you, a man with more weight is attractive to the right kind of suitor."

"Golly," said Mr. Wooster, as Jeeves subtly drifted into the adjoining room.

And "golly" he whispered to himself at random intervals for the remainder of the afternoon.

At supper that night, Mr. Wooster cleared his plate.

"Jeeves?" the young master asked the following morning.

"Yes, sir?"

"How do you suppose someone would... go about gaining weight?"

Let it never be said that B. Wooster was particularly subtle.

"The general consensus, sir," Jeeves responded lightly, "is that one must simply eat more."

"Ah. Right-o." Bertie scratched his head. "I think I'd like to do that, then."

Jeeves bit down his instinctual very good, sir , and opted for the more neutral, "As you say, sir."

"Splendid! In that case," Bertie clapped his hands together, "a double order of breakfast, please, my good man!"

The necessary departure to the kitchen provided Jeeves the opportunity to calm his strangely quickened heart.

Bertie didn't finish his full two servings of breakfast, citing a stomach upset that Jeeves was inclined to believe for once.

But, only a handful of hours later, he wandered past Jeeves in the kitchen in order to get "something a little extra to nosh on."

Since evidently Mr. Wooster's idea of acceptable sustenance was a few slices of plain bread, Jeeves took it upon himself to supply an omelette, instead.

He scarfed that down within minutes, then asked for another.

Jeeves' routine was entirely thrown off balance that day — but Mr. Wooster's newfound satiation was gratifying enough to make up for any possible annoyance. Before bed, Jeeves even allowed himself a private smile at his improvised plan's success.

A new routine was ironed out within the week.

Bertie wanted to eat, well, exactly as much as he wanted.

"No need to overdo it," as he said — he stopped eating at the precise moment he desired. There was no grand weight gain meal plan put in place, to be followed at the cost of Mr. Wooster's bodily comfort.

This suited Jeeves perfectly well, of course. After all, any actual weight gain was only incidental — his main purpose was to assuage his master's hangups about potential overeating, and that was occurring more easily than he'd ever hoped.

However, the amount of food that Mr. Wooster desired proved to be rather significant, now that he had no real incentive to stop.

His natural appetite was especially large in the face of prevalent, easily-accessible food — which, therefore, soon constituted the majority of household meals.

By Mr. Wooster's suggestion, his standard meals were no longer simply assembled in the kitchen and brought out on a plate. Instead, Jeeves also brought the serving dishes to the table, using them to refill his master's plate continuously until told to stop. All he needed to do was continue eating off his plate.

Astonishingly, this system led to Bertram being able to eat three or four plates' worth of food while hardly realizing.

Circumventing psychological barriers in this way occurred outside of the three official mealtimes, as well. For instance, Mr. Wooster was far more likely to eat four quarter-sandwiches at tea than he was to eat one intact sandwich. In fact, at any given teatime, he now generally ate quite a few more quarter-sandwiches than that; not to mention a variety of sweets, pastries, and fruits.

After a time, Jeeves took to setting out dinner party-sized serving platters of snacks, both at tea and during recreational hours, to make the process more efficient. Refilling the smaller trays simply wasted time.

All these changes were ultimately designed so that Bertram wouldn't run out of food at any point, and could decide when he was done on his own terms.

However, it came to pass that he would finish off even the largest size of snack platter more often than not, and thus ran out of food anyway.

To compensate, Jeeves devised ways of arranging food more densely on the trays. He budgeted to buy larger platters at the nearest opportunity. Most importantly, he tried steadfastly not to dwell on how these developments made him feel.

Proud. Pleased at his employer's happiness, and proud of his plan's execution. Nothing more.

Free to follow his desires, it became evident that Bertram relished in the additional: scones were absolutely slathered with cream and jam, pasta dishes piled unselfconsciously with cheese, and toast dipped reverently into runny remnants of fried egg.

How auspicious that their individual goals — fattening and satisfaction — aligned in practically every aspect!

Jeeves also did his part to aid in Mr. Wooster's overt quest to gain weight, as any good valet ought. He changed the ratios of sauces to favour butter and oil; he broke out new recipes to provide more variety within larger meals; he kept the pantry well-stocked with dried fruits, nuts, cheeses, and various baked goods for when Mr. Wooster felt too imminently peckish to wait for Jeeves to cook.

He watched with soft eyes as Mr. Wooster became less afraid of food, savouring it more and more each day.

The pleasure Bertie took in these habits was extremely evident. In the privacy of the flat, Bertie would make noises of satisfaction as he ate, rub his stomach when it became uncomfortable — even, of all the improper things, undo his trousers after a large meal to allow better breathing room.

It was... pleasing, in itself, to see Mr. Wooster so free with what he ate. He glowed with delight at dishes he enjoyed, and was generous with his praise of Jeeves' culinary creations. Even if the new status quo hadn't emerged from Jeeves' own suggestion, he suspected that he would have no cause for complaint.

All in all, the situation was rather straightforwardly lovely, on all accounts.

What Jeeves hadn't accounted for was his employer actually gaining weight.

It crept up slowly, of course. But creep, the weight did.

The first time Jeeves actually took note of any changes in Mr. Wooster's body was, naturally, while aiding with his suit one morning.

It wasn't much. One certain waistcoat button — the second-lowest — was merely a modicum harder to close than usual.

It was obviously not the fault of the garment; the entire suit had functioned well for more than a year, and no changes had been made of late to its method of cleaning. No, most definitely, it was the suit’s wearer that had changed.

He must have let his surprise show in his face or demeanor somehow, because Mr. Wooster gave a quizzical look.

"Everything alright, Jeeves?"

"Yes, sir." Jeeves paused for a moment, but opted to inform his employer of his success. "It appears that the young master's increased consumption has, indeed, yielded results."

"My goodness! Already? It hasn't even been a month!" Mr. Wooster rushed to the full-length mirror and inspected himself from all angles.

"Sir, you may find that any changes are not yet visible. Rest assured, however, that changes have occurred."

"Well, we can't be having invisible changes. Goes against the whole bally point of the exercise, what?" Bertie reasoned. "We must redouble our efforts at once, Jeeves!"

So, henceforth, efforts were redoubled.

All previous patterns held, the quantities of food in each habit steadily increasing. Jeeves bought larger platters, as well as plates, so that mealtime refilling needn't be so frequent. Between-meal snacking became nearly constant.

It sometimes seemed as if Jeeves spent half the day in the kitchen preparing food, and the other half serving it to Mr. Wooster.

Of course, there were drinks, as well. Upon his master's request, Jeeves researched calorically dense beverages, and subsequently added double cream-based cocktails to the evening lineup alongside Mr. Wooster's standard b&s. Glasses of whole milk accompanied the day's meals, and were encouraged as one last thing to consume before sleep.

Drinks, Bertram reasoned, could slip between the bits of food he'd eaten. Thus, they gave extra nutrition without making his stomach any fuller. Jeeves doubted if this logic was entirely sound, but couldn't see any harm.

It also became commonplace for Mr. Wooster to clear out an entire batch's worth of food, particularly at evening meals.

"No sense in wasting it," he'd say heartily, "and I still have plenty of room."

It seemed that Bertie got some deep sense of satisfaction in reaching the bottom of the serving dish, or being served the last slice of shepherd's pie.

And, naturally, Jeeves lived to facilitate his master's satisfaction.

Sometimes, though — sometimes, Mr. Wooster didn't have plenty of room.

And yet, even then, he wanted that satisfaction.

"Jeeves, Jeeves," he would pant, "I can't take another bite. I am stuffed beyond the gills. All the way to the rest of the fish, I'd imagine."

"Indeed, sir?"

"But this roast is so dashed good... I'm so close to finishing it. Do you suppose you could lend a hand?"

"Of course, sir."

And Jeeves would stand by the dining table and feed Bertie, coaxing the last few forkfuls into his waiting mouth.

Mr. Wooster would wriggle, and writhe, and push his hands into his distended stomach to relieve the pressure, and Jeeves would endeavour to stay still as he could, treating the event with the utmost professional detachment, lest he do something rash. (Like replacing those hands with his own.)

Bertie would go to bed off-balance and grinning while Jeeves cleared the table, face and heart burning in a way he didn't understand.

It took a few months, but fat undoubtedly began to show on Mr. Wooster's form. What was once a flat stomach now protruded in a slight curve, even on the rare occasions it was empty. Flesh gathered at the base of his chin when he was laying down. His hips and sides had a touch of plushness that tended to spill over his trousers — which became more difficult to fasten by the day.

"I must say, Jeeves, I'm rather proud of my progress thus far!"

"Indeed, sir."

"Do you agree, then?"

"Assuredly, sir."

Internally, Jeeves more than agreed.

His eyes were often drawn of their own accord to his master's newfound paunch, no matter how strictly he policed his wandering thoughts.

Dressing him each morning had become an ever-worsening test of strength in the face of sensory pleasure; he had terrible, unacceptable urges. Jeeves wanted to grab every new inch of fat on his master's body, his stomach and his thighs and his arms, and caress each soft, treasured part, whisper, you, you, growing and joyful, taking up ever more space and loving every second, you, the very embodiment of indulgence and hedonism, how could I ever resist…

But resist, he did.

Even, somehow, through Mr. Wooster's weigh-ins. ( More than a stone up, eh? Hardly feels like anything at all!)

And his new clothing measurements. (Gained two inches 'round the waist? Well, that explains the pinching!)

And the damned, damned feedings.

(Happening more and more often, as Jeeves' master became greedier in spite of his body's limits. Sometimes, he even asked for help with finger foods, and without the added distance of a utensil it was infinitely worse. Jeeves felt Bertie's lips brush his fingers, and he was gone, imagining using his hands to fill up his master's mouth to bursting with sweet, rich foods, his lips coated in sauce, imagining him licking the crumbs off of Jeeves' fingers and still asking for more, and, and, and-)

It was difficult to endure.

But he did endure it. Even in the face of his… inexplicable fascination, Jeeves upheld the feudal spirit to the very last.

He had to.

To his immense shame, cracks gradually began to form in Jeeves' resolve.

Mr. Wooster, meanwhile, didn't seem to mind in the slightest.

On one particular dessert-feeding occasion, Mr. Wooster was in a particularly vocal mood. He generally avoided speaking while there was food in his mouth — which therefore made opportunities quite limited — but the y.m.’s fondness for chatter must never go underestimated.

"Oh, Jeeves, I'm about to pop," he said in a not-entirely-upset voice. "Not sure I can take another bite."

"But, sir—" Jeeves began, then quickly cut himself off.

What he’d almost said was entirely improper.

His job was not to provide encouragement to his master, or to convince him to continue glutting himself; Jeeves' participation in these moments was a physical necessity, nothing more. He could, and should, remain stoic as he always had.

Unfortunately, Bertram didn't let his fragmented sentence pass unnoticed.

"What is it, Jeeves?"

"Well, sir…"

Then again. What else could he say?

Any lie would be unconvincing, perceptive as his employer could be, and the truth wouldn't exactly upset Bertram — as long as Jeeves stayed impassive.

"... I merely intended to point out that only one slice remains." He gestured neutrally to the pie plate.

"Your point being?"

"Simply that, surely you could find some more room, sir?" he explained. And, despite his resolution, Jeeves was helpless to stop himself from adding, "You always do."

Mr. Wooster inhaled sharply at that, expression unreadable.

"A very sound point, Jeeves," Bertram responded at last. "Bring on the last slice." He smiled in anticipation, and Jeeves became aware of his blood pounding.

He served up one forkful of pie, then the next, then the next.

"I s'pose you were right," said Bertie contentedly between bites. "I did have more room."

"Very good, sir," Jeeves said in a soft voice — meaning it in a different way than he often did.

Based on Mr. Wooster's blush, it appeared he understood, and better still, appreciated the praise.

"S'not like it's all that hard," Bertie mumbled.

"Yet, few would savour the food as well as you, sir," Jeeves replied, eager to see his master's blush continue, the words spilling out without much conscious thought. "Few would go so far. Few would eat so much, to the point of being unable to feed themselves, enjoying it all the while. That, sir, is impressive."

"Oh, gosh," Mr. Wooster sighed, not at all displeased. "Say that again."

"You're very impressive, sir."

Bertram wriggled in his seat.

Jeeves continued feeding him bit by bit, while simultaneously testing the waters of how far he could go with his words.

Perhaps encouragement ought to be his job, after all.

"If only you could see yourself, sir. Any outsider seeing you like this would surely recognize a powerful man — a man who knows what he wants, and intends to have it. It's evident in every inch of your body, every moment of your behavior. Insatiable, and unashamed."

"Jeeves…" Bertie almost whined around the final bite of pie.

"You've done so well at pursuing your goal, sir.”

“Jeeves!”

“Certainly, any woman courting you could see that you are not a fantasy to be moulded. She couldn’t make you do anything you didn't desire."

At this, Bertie froze in his chair.

There was a long, loaded pause, Jeeves silently regretting every word he had spoken.

"... Yes. Women." Mr. Wooster cleared his throat. "I think I'm about ready to go to sleep now, Jeeves."

He cradled his packed stomach as he walked to his room, Jeeves staying a few respectful paces behind — perhaps in the naïve hope that the conversation wasn't over.

At the doorway, Bertie turned around.

"... Do you really think I'm doing well?"

"Assuredly, sir," Jeeves responded automatically. After a moment, he added, "You have been doing remarkably."

Bertie smiled, cheeks pink, then gently closed his bedroom door.

The next day, Jeeves tamped down his lingering anxiety around the consequences of his encouraging words, and woke his master as usual — stoic mask securely back in place.

Bertram, as always, endeavoured to rock the boat.

“I do believe I'd like some pancakes this morning, Jeeves,” he said nonchalantly some time after waking, poking his head out to sip at the tea Jeeves had delivered. “And I'd like them served at the table — not sure the full stack of them would fit on my morning tray, what?”

“Very wise, sir.”

Jeeves flitted away and whipped up a double batch of paper-thin pancakes according to his master's request. Each individual cake was a treat on its own, but with dozens piled together, it undoubtedly constituted a feast.

Bertie sat at the dining table, still in his pyjamas. His face lit up at the sight of Jeeves carrying in his grandiose breakfast.

Jeeves watched as Bertie’s eyes drifted closed at the first bite, and was reminded for the millionth time of how beautiful Mr. Wooster looked when he ate.

For the millionth time, he irritatedly (and ineffectually) pushed the thought down.

After long, difficult moments of averting his gaze as he vaguely tidied the room — not staring while Bertie bit into the pancakes that his hands had flipped, sipped the orange juice his hands had squeezed — the silence was unexpectedly broken.

“Jeeves, do you suppose you lend a hand?”

“Certainly, sir,” Jeeves answered.

This service of hand-feeding had never before been rendered in the morning, but it didn't seem a particularly odd request; merely another example of escalation. Jeeves approached and began to reach for the fork and knife.

“No, no, I have that perfectly well in hand. What I don't have is, well, enough hands to, ah…”

He gestured to his stomach.

The realization dawned on Jeeves — slower than it should have, but still too fast for his traitorous body to be in any way prepared.

Jeeves swatted away his racing thoughts.

“Sir is experiencing abdominal pain?”

“Yes, rather. Ergo, a bit of handling would certainly not go amiss at the mo’.”

“Naturally, sir.”

“I take it that you've witnessed the, er, technique, Jeeves?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well then.” Bertie wiped a hand over his mouth, removing the grease that shone on his lips. “In your own time, old man.”

He took a large swig of juice before diving back into the stack of pancakes.

Jeeves found he could do nothing but proceed, step by step.

First, he knelt onto the wooden floor, so as to be level with Mr. Wooster's stomach. Somehow, he felt that sitting adjacent to his employer would qualify as a greater lapse.

Secondly, he lifted the hem of Mr. Wooster's pyjama shirt. He aimed to be gentle, so as not to jostle Bertram’s stomach or disrupt his eating — but not so gentle that it might telegraph Jeeves' instinctual tenderness towards him.

Internally, Jeeves was reeling.

This situation was entirely foreign, its rules rapidly shifting under his feet (or, more accurately, his knees). It was certainly beyond improper, what he was about to do, miles beyond. Entirely unacceptable in any form of polite society.

But. Lord. Bertie had asked, hadn't he?

He placed one large hand onto the stomach before him.

Finally being able to touch Bertie’s fat, after uncounted months of only light brushes and watching growth from afar, was nothing short of heavenly.

The texture of his skin was so soft — a thick layer of plush fat giving way to the firm presence of his quickly-filling stomach. If Jeeves listened closely, he could hear the gurgling sounds of digestion.

Why, why was such a thing so captivating!

Jeeves began rubbing circles into Bertie's round stomach, as he had seen the young master do for himself many times. Unsure of the correct pressure, he pressed harder in increasing increments, until—

“Oh, Jeeves,” Bertie groaned. “That feels bally marvelous."

“Thank you, sir,” he replied absently, immediately tasting the unsuitability of that response. It should be Bertram thanking him — or, no, there was no need for gratitude, this was purely professional—

Bertie let out a belch.

“Excuse me,” he said, unperturbed. “You must've worked something loose there, Jeeves.”

Jeeves held his lips tightly closed.

He was suddenly aware of the closeness of his master's face above him, sticky from sugar. The soft underside of his chin, so tempting to sink one's teeth into…

Bertie squeezed lemon juice onto his next layer of pancake. Hesitantly, he spoke.

“Jeeves. Was there anything else you didn't have the time to say, last night?”

“On what subject, sir?” Jeeves futilely feigned ignorance.

“About, well. How the sitch is progressing, you know.” Bertram was remarkably casual, as always. “With the weight, and all that.”

“Ah, that subject, sir.”

Jeeves looked up at Bertie, whose lips were closing around his fork, curling upwards slightly in pleasure.

“... I believe I could find more words, sir, if the need arose.”

“By all means, Jeeves,” Bertie said after swallowing.

Jeeves silently breathed in and out.

Steady on.

“The undertaking has been an unequivocal success, sir. Your physical development has occurred most expeditiously.”

“You know, Jeeves, I quite agree.”

He continued to stroke Bertram’s stomach, his own gut churning with guilt.

It wasn't taking a liberty, definitionally, to follow Mr. Wooster's orders. But the sparks of pleasure racing up his fingertips begged to differ.

Jeeves repressed a shiver, resolve hanging on by a single thread.

Even if these actions were allowed, certainly Jeeves wasn't allowed to enjoy them so. His thoughts were disrespectful, dirty, wrong—

…

… Bertram’s stomach was so soft.

“You have grown significantly, sir, especially in the abdominal region,” Jeeves felt brave enough to continue quietly, “with no indication of slowing down. I would predict new trouser measurements will be needed before the month is out.”

“New trousers, eh? I spend most of the time with them unfastened, regardless!” Bertie laughed, then let out another small burp.

The thought flitted through Jeeves' mind that perhaps he could undo his master's trousers for him, when necessary.

This thought was cast into the fire.

Minutes passed in a haze of swooping hand motions and words of praise for his master, as the majority of Jeeves' brain power focused on staying within the ill-defined bounds of propriety. Still, the details that he could absorb were certain to linger in his mind for weeks. Months, perhaps.

Too soon, Mr. Wooster's last mouthful of breakfast was gobbled up.

Bertram took the time, however, to lick the serving plate — holding it up with both hands, using his tongue to capture every last hint of flavour. Jeeves gazed up at him, overflowing with vulgar desires.

As Bertie set the plate down, Jeeves composed himself and rose to his feet as gracefully as he could manage, subtly dusting off his trousers.

“Thank you again, Jeeves,” said the young master, his own hands immediately finding his bare skin to carry on the alleviative task.

“Of course, sir.”

“I might like to do that again some time, if you don't mind too terribly, Jeeves.”

“Not at all, sir.”

And so, terrifyingly, wondrously, the household routine shifted yet again.

Loath as Jeeves would be to admit it, even the feudal spirit and strong standards of propriety could sometimes fail to quash one's... base instincts.

And, when every evening, Mr. Wooster would ruck up his dress shirt, revealing his pale skin patterned with red stretch marks? When his ever-full stomach would creep out to settle onto his lap? When Jeeves was now often given the chance to soothe him during his gluttony, caressing his soft stomach and murmuring praises, while Bertie made such obscene, horrific, wonderful noises?

… It didn't truly count as a lapse in propriety when occurring in one's own bedroom, did it?

One night at dinner, it finally happened: Mr. Wooster popped a shirt button.

Jeeves had, of course, provided his master with correctly-fitting clothes as they became necessary, even going so far as to send any favorites that couldn't be purchased in a larger size to the tailor. Questionable though Bertram's fashion could be, there were nonetheless items in his closet that deserved respect.

Garments such as plain white shirts, however, were easy enough to simply replace.

So, it was entirely understandable that it had simply slipped Jeeves' mind to dispose of the too-small versions. 

And, yes, as he fastened Mr. Wooster's studs some mornings, there would be obvious gaps between them where the fabric was forced to stretch over Bertie's protruding stomach. Through which one could see his thin undershirt clinging indecently to his curves.

Jeeves made certain, however, to only select those shirts in outfits that also used a correctly-fitting waistcoat.

It wasn't as if anyone was aware of this dangerous habit, then — aside from his own shameful self, and possibly Bertram, who looked at him with a peculiar glint on mornings when Jeeves struggled to get his shirt closed, Jeeves' heart racing all the while and breath oh-so-audible, he was sure—

But nothing had come of it. Nothing at all. And, to be frank, it was far less of a transgression than many other recent household routines. Jeeves hardly thought of it, outside those particular heart-pounding mornings.

Then Bertram ate dinner.

He had undone his waistcoat, naturally, as was his wont. However, he hadn't bothered with unbuttoning his shirt, although it was far, far too tight. Instead, he merely hiked it up over the swell of his stomach as he stuffed himself nearly to capacity. As always, Jeeves stared as subtly as he could, hopelessly transfixed, while also refilling Bertram's plate and glass as necessary.

Then. Then, Bertie took a break from consumption, indulging in a skyward stretch of his arms and back — and, afterward, habitually tugged the bottom of his shirt back down.

With a ping, one of the buttons flew across the room.

Jeeves was overwhelmed by desire.

"... Hm," said Bertie, poking at the exposed flesh around his navel — his undervest still being rucked up. "Well, it was bound to go some time, what?" He smiled, a smudge of sauce on the corner of his mouth.

Jeeves couldn't stand to remain in the room one moment longer.

He offered some indistinct remark about the shirt button being a good signifier that it was time to retire to bed, to which Mr. Wooster reluctantly agreed.

Mind elsewhere, Jeeves gathered up the dishes as his master soothed his own stomach — Jeeves would normally offer, but believed, under the current circumstances, that he would likely not survive it.

He needed to leave.

Mr. Wooster would find it strange to see Jeeves retire to his room so quickly, but he needed to get a hold of himself somewhere in private. Ideally, somewhere less suspicious than his quarters…

He sped out of Mr. Wooster's sight, using the excuse of whisking the serving dishes into the kitchen, where he set them down without even a preliminary rinse, looking around frantically.

The pantry!

Private, quiet, and Mr. Wooster would be none the wiser. Perfect.

He stepped into its stuffy darkness and took several fortifying breaths.

It was truly Jeeves' own fault for encouraging what had ended up being his personal, temptation-filled hell.

He didn't regret one bit of it.

Bertram had looked so beautiful, so satisfied… That abrupt release of pressure must have felt divine… He's so much bigger than he once was, and yet he smiles and continually wants more… That plush, packed stomach surging outward, enough to snap thread…

Without thinking, Jeeves's hand drifted to his own stomach, playing with it lightly, then gradually lower to press against the front of his trousers.

Oh, he could imagine pressing into that bare expanse of belly, the softness so different from his own hand. His mind provided the scene: clutching at the pillowy roll above his master's hip, listening to Mr. Wooster's breath hitch, him softly saying, do you like it? Haven't I done well, popping the button off a shirt that once fit? Aren't you impressed? Don't you think I deserve a reward?

Yes, of course, anything, Jeeves answered back silently. He rocked against his hand, feeling out of control.

In that case, Jeeves, could you lend me a hand?

And he pointed not to distended stomach, but to his cockstand-

The pantry flooded with light.

"Jeeves!" Mr. Wooster cried as he opened the door. "Didn't expect..."

His master trailed off, taking in the scene.

Jeeves was afire with shame.

B.W. Wooster may not have been the most observant of men, but even a fool could understand what was meant by an unguarded face in a dark room, hand cupping one's erection.

Jeeves opened his mouth to apologize, to explain, but his larynx refused to cooperate.

"... My word," Mr. Wooster concluded after a few silent moments.

Jeeves made an attempt to push past his employer and leave the pantry, but Bertie blocked the doorway with his newly-widened frame.

"Where do you suppose you're going, Jeeves?" Bertie asked. "Well, knowing you, you're probably going to make some ruckus about propriety and insist that you resign immediately. Pish-tosh, I say! It's a perfectly natural bodily function. Though, I wouldn't think the pantry was the most hygienic location for... indulging ... but surely you know more about these things than I."

"I do not make a habit of indulging in the pantry, sir," Jeeves objected automatically, far more dignity in his tone than he truly felt.

"Oh ho, just tonight, then?"

Too late, Jeeves realized his error.

"What, was it all that urgent, old chap?" Bertie continued. "Can't think of what might have, ah, set you off. Unless..."

Jeeves looked to the ceiling and did his best to send a prayer to whomever could help him avoid his fate — to no avail.

"Was it... this?"

Mr. Wooster drew a hand to his still-open shirt, which framed his navel so elegantly.

Past the point of any reasonable denial, Jeeves cleared his throat and tried again at a desperate apology.

"My behavior has been beyond inappropriate, sir, and the advantages I have taken, absolutely irre-"

"Hang on, hang on," Bertie interrupted. "Is that a 'yes'?"

Jeeves, not seeing how the situation could possibly get any worse, gave an almost imperceptible nod.

"Thank Christ," Bertie sighed, then grabbed Jeeves around the waist and pulled him close. "Does that mean I can kiss you?"

What? What? What?

Jeeves' mind asked this on repeat, strains of the same thought layering over themselves ad infinitum.

But Jeeves's body, acting in accordance with his heart, merely nodded again.

Bertie grinned like he'd just been offered a slice of heaven on a plate, and kissed him soundly.

His lips were just as soft as his stomach, and Jeeves was gone, gone, mind’s continued panic suddenly far away. Tragically, the delightful sensation only lasted a moment before Bertie drew away, eyes wide.

“Please, god, Jeeves, touch me,” he breathed.

“Sir, I— I don't understand…” Jeeves struggled to articulate how thoroughly his world had been upended.

“Did you really think I'd mind, Jeeves? You, pulling yourself off in the pantry to the thought of my busting out of a shirt?”

Jeeves felt himself blink heavily at his master's bold words.

“... Yes, sir?”

“Well, you couldn't have been more dashed wrong.”

At last, Jeeves comprehended the entirety of the situation.

He kissed Bertie with fervour, sliding his hands around to expose the skin of Bertie's back and sides.

Soft there, as well!

After another brief moment, Bertram grinned, interrupting the kiss.

“Glad we got that worked out,” he said, voice dripping with fondness.

“As am I, sir,” Jeeves murmured, before thoroughly resuming his previous course of action.

Oh, it was lovelier than any daydream he had ever repressed. His master tasted of Jeeves' own cooking, and soft heat, and hedonism, and life.

How had he ever resisted?

"Jeeves, Jeeves,” Bertie panted as Jeeves fondled every place he could reach, “I so hoped— I would see you, you know, looking at me…"

"It was difficult to look away, sir. You are a vision, a fantasy I'd never known."

"Oh god. The things you say to me, old thing, the things you do. I could melt."

"Please do."

"Hhh…"

"You deserve every pleasure in the world, sir. Anything I can provide, anything at all," Jeeves said desperately, nuzzling Bertie’s neck.

"Oh, you've provided plenty. I've enjoyed myself so much, these past months— you're not the only one who's had to, hah, indulge in the flesh from time to time." 

"Sir…"

"Yes, I enjoyed myself quite a bit — well, I suppose it's evident how much." Bertie's hands found his own belly, briefly kneading the fat there. "But I did it for you, too. Showing off a bit, with how far I could go. Playing it up. I liked to think, even if I was delusional, that it was driving you mad with lust. Not too far off the mark, eh?"

"Very accurate, in truth, sir."

"I wanted you to, to think I was doing a good job, Jeeves— or even to be shocked, to raise your eyebrow at me, surprised—"

"You constantly surprise me, sir."

Bertie looked him in the eye shyly.

"I wanted to be a glutton,” he confessed, “all for you."

"You were always a glutton, sir. I merely helped you realize it."

"Ohhh…" Bertie groaned.

Jeeves kneaded the rolls at Bertie's sides, fingers digging in so deliciously.

There was absolutely nothing stopping him, now, from indulging his darkest desires. Because, in truth, those actions were wanted — were begged for. He was drunk on the feeling, so grateful, so thrilled to be able to make his master happy.

As Bertie's eyes fluttered closed, Jeeves gave voice to a tantalizing line of thought.

“What were you planning to get from the pantry, sir?” he asked.

“Just… just some biscuits…”

“And how many biscuits were you planning to eat?”

“God…”

“Are you ever truly full, sir, when you stop eating? Or simply biding your time, thoughts already consumed by your next meal?”

“Jeeves…”

“How many biscuits would you eat, sir, if there was nothing at all stopping you?” He worshipfully nipped at the fat under Bertie's chin. “Would you eat until you broke every last fastening on that shirt?”

Jeeves' words were affecting both of them, breaths coming fast. Bertie's diaphragm heaved up and down, straining his remaining buttons even further.

“You know, Jeeves,” Bertie whispered, “I think I might.”

“You astound me, sir.”

Bertie’s breath hitched.

“Oh— oh, do I? As if you're an… innocent…”

“Hardly, sir,” Jeeves admitted, releasing his master's neck and gesturing to the pantry shelves. “Shall I select something?”

Bertie nodded frantically.

Jeeves took down a luxurious box of chocolates — kept on the highest shelf, meant to function as some kind of a reward for Bertie's actions. Or, barring such a situation, as a treat for Jeeves himself, to watch his master eat something so rich.

This qualified as both.

Upon turning around, he discovered that Bertie had left the kitchen, instead settling on the parlour sofa. Jeeves approached him, leaning down to bring their lips together the moment he came near enough, sending delight rushing through his veins. Bertie sucked on his lips and tongue with gusto, greedy in all things.

Shortly, Jeeves drew away, disregarding Bertie’s deprived whine.

He set the box of chocolates on the coffee table, then approached his master again, placing his knees on the cushion to either side of Bertie's legs and straddling his lap. His mouth was now far too high up for them to kiss comfortably, but it was well worth it to see Bertie's starstruck expression, and to feel the plush sinfulness of Bertie's thighs beneath his own.

Jeeves reached backwards to retrieve a large bonbon from the box.

He wordlessly held it in the air directly in front of Bertie's mouth.

Mr. Wooster scarcely wasted time looking confused before he leaned forward and took a bite of the chocolate, lips brushing Jeeves' fingers, an expression of ecstasy immediately painting his face.

“Very good, sir,” Jeeves drawled, feeling Bertie shudder beneath him as he swallowed. “You simply can't help yourself, can you? And, crucially, you don't want to.”

“No, Jeeves, please, I want more…” Bertie begged.

“Of course, sir. Anything you desire.”

He placed the other half onto Bertie's tongue. How magnificent he looked!

“How magnificent you look,” he complimented as Bertie ate. “Gluttony may be regarded as a sin, but you make it appear a virtue.”

He offered his index finger to Bertie, who licked the melted chocolate off it, before taking the whole digit into his mouth simply for pleasure’s sake. The sensation overwhelmed Jeeves, though not unpleasantly; he drew his finger out and used it to trace Bertie's lascivious smile.

“Jeeves,” said Bertie, “I have to say. You claim that I'm never really full but that's… not exactly true.”

“Sir?”

“It's more that I simply don't give a damn if I am full. After all, it just means that every morsel I eat will go directly to fat. You see? I don't need any more, so if— when I take more, it's just for the sake of, of gluttony. To get bigger.” One of his hands traced his stomach. “I'm full already, you know.”

Every moment, Jeeves was discovering new heights of arousal. His master's words were entrancing.

“How motivated you are, sir,” Jeeves praised earnestly, “how much bigger you've gotten already. Consistently eating beyond fullness. I daresay you may become quite unrecognizable, continuing this behavior.”

“Lord,” Bertie groaned. “I bally well hope so.”

“You fantasize about your own body, then, sir?”

“Oh, naturally…” Bertie squeezed his eyes shut as Jeeves took a turn stroking his bare stomach, undoing all his shirt fastenings to expose it more. “Do you, then, old chap? About me, I mean to say?”

“... Yes, sir. Often.”

Mr. Wooster looked excited at that, the tips of his ears turning red.

“Jeeves,” he said helplessly.

“Tell me your imaginings, sir. I long to know.”

“Oh. Oh, gosh. Well. I think about reaching a point where, where my belly presses into the keyboard of the piano when I play.”

An immensely distracting visual.

It danced in the corners of Jeeves' thoughts as he lightly jiggled the belly in front of him, now allowing himself to picture it much, much larger.

“Sometimes I, er, simulate it,” Bertie continued. “I scoot the bench all the way forward, feel how my body m-moulds to the shape of the wood.”

“You could certainly reach that size, sir. Your appetite is quite immense enough. It would be a wonderful sight to behold.”

“What about you, Jeeves? What do you think about?”

“I have… often considered the following possibility, sir: your neck has become too fat for your collar to close.” His mouth was dry. “It keeps popping off, no matter how hard you, or I, try. While on, it squeezes the flesh there into discrete rolls. No matter what you do, your habits are obvious, sir. That is my fantasy.”

“Goodness, Jeeves, I like the sound of that… though, how is it they could be both obvious and discreet?”

Jeeves almost laughed.

“You misunderstand, sir; I intended the homophone ‘discrete,’ meaning ‘distinct,” the suffix of which is spelled e-t-e. Both words in question originating from the same French root…”

He became distracted in the middle of his own explanation, eyes drawn to the dangerously soft, love-marked neck in question.

He used his fingers to carefully grip the cultivated pudge at his master’s throat. As he pinched it lightly, Bertie froze in place, pupils blown.

“I assure you,” Jeeves continued, “you could never be anything but obvious.”

“Ah, of course, Jeeves, I– I understand,” Bertie said, looking twice as overcome as Jeeves.

“Very good, sir.”

He released his hold on the soft flesh.

The young master’s breathing was still coming in hard, irregular gasps, his lips temptingly parted, so Jeeves reached for another chocolate and stuffed it deep into his waiting mouth. Bertie moaned around the sweet, chewing reverently.

Jeeves shucked off his jacket and undid his tie — a process not exactly titillating to an observer, he was sure, but with an efficiency developed over years. By the time Bertie finished his chocolate, Jeeves had gotten all the way down to removing his undervest. He sat bare-chested atop Bertram's thighs.

Therefore, if he leaned forward…

The sensation of their stomachs rubbing together caused Bertie to let out a noise of delight; Jeeves, too, couldn't suppress a whimper. So soft, so warm, lord…

Perhaps it was the additional pressure on Bertram’s belly, or a consequence of swallowed air from his inhaling of chocolate.

Whatever the case, Bertie suddenly released a short belch.

Jeeves felt his face scrunch in reaction. He drew back, tense.

“Excuse me!” Bertie chuckled.

“Not at all, sir.”

Bertie peered at him, analyzing Jeeves' expression.

“What’s that face?” he asked. “Are you humiliated by my behavior, Jeeves? Are you disgusted? I wouldn't mind if you were,” he explained with lowered eyelids, taking so much joy in his perversion that it inspired envy. “In fact, I rather like the idea… But that's not quite it, is it, old top?”

It wasn't.

“Answer me,” Bertie commanded with a grin.

“No, sir.”

“Jeee-eeves,” he sing-songed. “Are you, perhaps, embarrassed because you like it?”

Jeeves burned — so delightfully.

“... Perhaps, sir.”

“Oh-ho! Jeeves! It's one thing for me to go ‘round, enjoying myself, but you. Enjoying me being like this. Rather deviant, wouldn't you say?”

“Yes, sir.”

The words reflected Jeeves' own self-policing thoughts, but his master twisted them into something delicious. Atop Bertie's plush lap, Jeeves felt that being deviant was exactly what he was meant to do.

Shame, he realized, was a small price to pay for such pleasure.

“You like me being improper. Eating myself out of my clothes, yes? And what does that make you?”

“A… a deviant.”

Once again, Bertie let out a belch, directly into Jeeves' face.

Embarrassingly, Jeeves felt his cock twitch in a pulse of desire, pressing directly into Bertie’s stomach.

“Very good, Jeeves,” Bertie said smugly.

What else could Jeeves do, besides kiss him desperately?

Long moments later, Jeeves raised himself off Bertie's lap. He offered his master another bonbon before yanking off his undone waistcoat & shirt, then pulling the wrinkled undervest over his head. He undid Bertie's trousers and peeled them off, Bertie shimmying to help.

As his legs were revealed, so were long red lines, snaking around Bertram's waist, and down the sides of his legs — where the trouser seams had pressed into his soft flesh. They intertwined beautifully with his curved, jagged stretch marks, of which he'd developed a handsome collection.

Jeeves, now on the floor, reverently drew his tongue over the sore seam lines. Up the calf, up the thigh, around his lower belly, skirting just above his cotton underwear…

“Jeeves, that feels, ahhhhh…”

Jeeves' hands found Bertie's thighs and kneaded them, flat palms pressing the fat into moving waves.

“Oh, keep doing that!” Bertie cried.

“I live to serve,” Jeeves said, briefly pulling his mouth away.

“You're doing a dashed good job of it.”

“Anything for you, sir, anything at all,” he effused. “I would wait on you hand and foot, cook you food every hour of the day. Even if I was never allowed to touch you again! Seeing you, helping you grow, itself is bliss!”

“How strange you are, Jeeves! How wonderful, and how strange. Of course I'd let you touch me! It feels stupendous!” Bertie paused, eyebrows drawing together. “Unless, of course… you don't want to be allowed.”

“What do you mean, sir?”

Bertie pushed him away.

Jeeves was sure he looked wounded, abruptly kneeling alone on the floor, but Bertie reassured him.

“No, no, you'll come back in just a moment, if you'd like. Nothing's wrong. I just want to play a little game.”

Above him, Bertram pulled out his cockstand and stroked it luxuriantly. 

“You've just got to watch, see?” he explained with a smirk.

Jeeves blinked.

Lord.

“Because, naturally, a deviant like you doesn't deserve to touch me. Is that right, Jeeves?”

“Yes, right, sir,” Jeeves responded, mind in a jumble.

“Of course. Because, after all, you're nothing but a dirty old servant, lusting after his employer. All you were supposed to do was cook my meals, and you think you have the right to touch me, hm?”

“No, sir…”

“‘No, sir’ is right. And worse still, this isn't stopping you from enjoying it! You're practically drooling, just from seeing me like this — me, reaching ‘round my belly to pull myself off. You're depraved, Jeeves,” Bertie said.

It was difficult to breathe, to think. He was ossified with desire.

“It's just like when you'd watch me stuff myself at the dinner table. You, standing there, staring at me . Were you hard then, too?”

“Yes, sir,” Jeeves said, truthfully.

“Of course you were. Anyone could tell. I'm obvious? You're the obvious one, Jeeves.” Bertie was still slowly pleasuring himself, and Jeeves couldn't possibly look away. “Tell me, what do you want to do to me?”

“Sir…”

“What, Jeeves.”

“... I— I would like to put my mouth on your cock, sir.”

“Come again?” Bertie mimed putting a hand to his ear.

“I want to suck your cock. Sir.” His voice shook.

“Ahh. Of course you do.” Bertie leaned down and brushed one finger against the tent in Jeeves' trousers.

“Sir…”

“Oh, Jeeves, come here.” Bertie yanked him up and kissed him, tasting of chocolate. “I'm done with that game now, I can't keep it up. You're so, so lovely, Jeeves.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“You looked so lovely, down there on your knees. That first morning that you rubbed my belly, I looked down and saw you on the floor, and the thoughts in my head, Jeeves. The thoughts in my head.”

“I see, sir.”

“You can touch me every day for the rest of our lives — please do. My marvelous, wonderful Jeeves.”

Bertie kissed him all over his face, and Jeeves felt settled within himself once more, no longer floating on the winds of humiliation and lust.

“I found that… very pleasing,” Jeeves confessed after a moment.

“Oh, I'm so glad. Could I take your trousers off now?”

Jeeves nodded, amazement still welling in his chest that his desire was truly reciprocated. More than reciprocated. Bertie was arousing him in ways he didn't even know were possible.

Thy proud heart’s slave and vassal wretch, his mind quoted unbidden.

Mr. Wooster held such immense power over his state. But that loss of control wasn't terrifying, not anymore; it was exhilarating.

Bertie undid Jeeves' trouser fastenings, then ran a hand over the newly-revealed skin of his lower stomach. His muscles quivered in response.

“You're quite beautiful, you know, old thing,” said Bertie, caressing Jeeves' light paunch.

“Thank you, sir — you, meanwhile, are radiant."

Jeeves leaned forward to capture Mr. Wooster’s lips once more, taking the opportunity to suck on Bertie's sweet tongue to his deviant heart’s content. As he pulled away, he couldn't help but smile at Bertie's breathless expression.

Jeeves stood and kicked his pinstripe trousers to the floor, making a mental note to iron them in the morning. Dearest Bertram, ever impatient, quickly divested himself of his shorts and helped Jeeves do the same, then tackled Jeeves back onto the chesterfield.

Bertie lying on him in this way put great pressure on Jeeves' ribcage. Jeeves decided, though, that to be crushed by such a man was as delightful an end to life as there could ever be. He would certainly die happy. Bertie's fat pooled over Jeeves' stomach, enveloping it — and when he shortly pushed himself up with his arms, his stomach still hung down to brush Jeeves', making Jeeves shiver.

They kissed over and over.

Jeeves, feeling braver every moment, tried every wretched thing that came into his mind. He pulled at Bertie's hair, bit his lips, clawed at the skin of his bare back all the way down to his buttocks. Bertie, much like with Jeeves' cooking, sang his praises at every moment, moaning all the while. His arms shook where they held his weight.

Jeeves relished in nibbling at Bertie's soft throat, eventually licking his way to lave at his equally-tempting clavicle.

He gradually moved down to suck on the skin of Bertie's breasts. For they were breasts, he marvelled — exquisitely round and soft. He grasped one in his hand and squeezed, wrenching a small groan out of Bertie, then rubbed barely-there circles into his nipple, flicking its bud back and forth.

“Jeeves, please, I beg of you,” Bertie babbled.

“What, sir?”

“You bally well know what,” he said, hips jerking down into Jeeves' own.

“Oh, indeed, sir.”

Jeeves reached to the side and blindly grabbed a truffle, then once again stuffed Bertie's mouth with chocolate.

Bertie squeaked.

Taking advantage of his master's distraction, Jeeves flipped them over easily, pressing down onto Bertie's pliable form.

“You're doing so well, Bertram,” he purred into his ear. “Don't fret. I intend to give you everything you desire.”

He gripped Bertie's heavy stomach in both hands, simply for his own pleasure — Jeeves didn't think he would ever tire of the privilege. One of his hands traced down to the hollow of Bertie’s pelvis, around the dark thatch of hair, still avoiding the place that his master truly wanted, that he was whining for.

Then, lightly, tenderly, he took hold of Bertie's weeping prick.

He ran a thumb over its head, drinking in Bertie's open-mouthed reaction.

“You look so beautiful, experiencing pleasure,” Jeeves whispered. “As if you were made for the purpose.”

Bertie made a sound like “hnnnng.”

He aligned their cocks. Taking both of them in a loose grip, Jeeves began a rhythm, stroking lightly.

His own hand felt familiar, naturally, and reminded him of just how long he'd been longing for this. If not for a few unexpected details — a mole on Bertram's pelvis, Jeeves' knee digging into the side of the sofa, Bertie’s hair falling in his eyes — Jeeves might have suspected this was a dream. Perhaps, his mind whispered, he was still in the pantry, fantasizing elaborately.

No! He quieted his anxiety with a smack.

They were really here. Jeeves was actually making Mr. Wooster moan hoarsely, truly feeling the hot silkiness of his skin, seeing his pudge jiggle with their movement. 

To waste this moment would be a crime.

Jeeves grabbed yet another chocolate and placed it carefully between his own teeth, lips drawn back, displaying it tauntingly.

Bertie noticed the bait with a leer, looking hungry and lustful all in one expression. He leaned up and snatched it into his own mouth, Jeeves following him back down to press him into the cushions with a forceful kiss. He was feeling quite carried away — how could he not be, with his master behaving so provocatively, and all by Jeeves’ encouragement?

Jeeves sped up his motions to keep time with Bertie's muffled, chewing cries.

The feeling of their cocks pressed together was divine, propelling Jeeves gradually towards completion, but Bertie seemed especially moved. After swallowing, his mouth naturally fell open to form sentenceless words.

“Lord— Jeeves— I, I… Jeeves!”

Bertie's eyes squeezed tightly shut, and suddenly he was spending onto Jeeves' stomach with a drawn-out, breathy moan.

Absolutely beautiful.

Jeeves drew his hand away from both of their cocks, but Bertie dazedly grabbed his wrist.

“But… you?”

“I had meant to give you a moment to recover, sir—”

“No, please, I want to see it now.”

Bertie reached up to cup Jeeves' cheek, eyes boring into his soul.

“Let go for me, Reg,” he whispered.

“As you say, sir,” Jeeves answered, voice weak.

Fulfilling his deepest fantasy, Jeeves lowered himself and pressed his cock into that soft, soft stomach — the sensation immediately even more marvelous than he'd imagined. Bertie looked delighted.

“Yes,” Bertie praised, “yes, just like that, Jeeves, I'm yours!”

He thrust down, sensitive skin rubbing against Bertie's pillowy-soft flesh, and soon found himself lost in pleasure. Moans vibrated as they left his throat, but he had no conception of how they sounded, or how he must look, taking his pleasure. All that he knew was that marvelous feeling.

Encouraging words drifted into his ears.

“Oh yes, Jeeves, you're doing so well. You look so bally gorgeous, doing that. Feel how fat you made me, Jeeves, revel in it. Oh, this is perfect. You feel perfect against my belly. It's nice and big, thanks to you. The next time you do this, I'll be even bigger, I'm sure…”

At that sentiment, Jeeves felt his inhibitions melt away to nothing. He fucked Bertie's stomach with abandon, chasing his arousal higher and higher until it reached its peak.

Semen splattered over his master's front.

He went limp atop Bertie, groaning through his fading orgasm. Soft arms wrapped around him, and his eyes closed, utterly content.

Moments drifted past in bliss.

Bertie ruffled Jeeves' hair and then smoothed it back down, over and over, in a groundingly repetitive pattern.

When his facilities fully returned to him, Jeeves regretfully excused himself to retrieve a washcloth and a glass of water for them both. Catching his own eye in the reflection of an evening window, Jeeves realized that he was wearing a soppy, lopsided smile.

He kept it on as he returned to the couch and wiped them up.

Water gratefully downed, Bertie reclined back on the sofa and waved his hands towards Jeeves with a soft “come here.” Jeeves happily obliged.

The chesterfield was just barely wide enough to fit them both, after some rearranging to lie on their sides, Bertie wrapped in Jeeves' arms. He kissed the back of his master's neck at the border of its curly hairs.

Bertie craned his neck to look back and grin. Jeeves stroked his bare front lazily, finding its plush texture soothing.

“Is your stomach quite alright, sir?”

“Oh, yes, yes, just spiffing. Quite full, mind you, but I'm used to that. It feels… nice. Comforting.”

“That is a weight off my mind, then.”

“And you? How are you feeling, after all that? It was rather an eventful evening.”

“... Feeling quite at peace, sir.” Jeeves indulged himself and pressed the imprint of his smile into the skin of Bertie's back, conveying his quiet joy. Bertie's cheeks lifted, too.

“I’m so glad to hear it.”

There was one thing that still lingered in the back of Jeeves' mind, preventing his joy from being pure. Unafraid, he took out the thought from where it lay, dusted it off, and presented it honestly to Bertram.

“I would like to apologize, sir,” he said, “for a minor deception.”

“Oh?”

“The inception of this project, you may recall, hinged on my advice that gaining weight would result in less forceful women pursuing you. I confess that I have noted no such pattern, in reality.”

“Oh, I don't mind that, Jeeves,” Bertie dismissed easily. “I’m glad enough of the results not to give one fig about the inception! I had always figured you had some other motive, anyway.”

“Very astute, sir,” Jeeves replied fondly.

“Besides, I think there might be something to the whole ‘corpulence attracts the right sort of suitor’ wheeze.”

“Indeed, sir?”

“Indeed! After all, it got me you, didn't it?”

“Very true, sir.” He squeezed his master's hand. “That, it did.”