Wimseyfic: Overmastered
I can’t believe I’ve written this. My excuse is that it was a long train journey, and I’d left Treason’s Harbour at the office. It’s all bronze_ribbons’ fault for suggesting (repeatedly) that Lord Peter’s sekrit kink is Harriet role-playing Bunter. Or indeed possibly the other way round. Click at your own risk.
Rating: R? Not particularly explicit, anyway. I’d have tried for that, but I couldn’t get through a line without snorting. Besides, I’d probably die of embarrassment. And crucially, my small selection of inter-war sex advice guides don’t include this sort of thing, so I am at a lack for period terminology... Normal service will be resumed shortly.
Harriet shrugged a naked shoulder apologetically. ‘I’m sorry, Peter. I just don’t quite fancy it.’
‘Never mind,’ Peter smiled. ‘I thought I’d ask.’
‘That’s all right. You did it very nicely. But then you always do.’
‘Such a nice boy.’
It was some time later, as he was drifting off to sleep, that a low voice murmured in his ear,
‘I wouldn’t mind it the other way round, though.’
In the dark room Peter’s raised eyebrows were just visible travelling at speed towards his hair.
‘You’d, er, you’d be interested in that, would you?’
‘I think that it might be an educational experience. Perhaps,’ Harriet’s voice held a mildly questioning note, ‘mutually so.’
‘I went to a very good school,’ Peter protested.
‘Saki,’ mumbled Harriet into his collarbone. ‘Although,’ she said, ‘I think I shall have to leave the educational shopping part of the experience to you. I don’t know where one would even begin.’
‘I think,’ said Wimsey thoughtfully, ‘one would begin in Paris.’
*
‘I’m beginning to suspect,’ said Peter, ‘that my education wasn’t quite as broad as I had hitherto understood.’
Harriet, naked other than for the results of Peter’s successful adventuring among the more specialist shops of Paris, from whence he had returned a little flustered and triumphant, observed that it was never too late to learn, and reflected privately and not for the first time that not least of the advantages of being married to a very rich man was the central heating. The buckles and straps had been a little tricky, and Peter’s usual solution to difficulties over his clothing was to ring for Bunter.
‘Is it very uncomfortable?’ Peter’s vague hand gesture nonetheless clearly indicated the designated it.
‘Actually, I think it’s rather well-designed. Oddly artistic, in a way.’
‘I don’t know about art, but I know what I like.’
‘We’ll see about that. Peter,’ she hesitated. ‘Would you wait here for five minutes?’
Peter thus abandoned retrieved his dressing gown and gave himself over to an armchair and self-examination. He was not entirely sure what he had got himself into; five years dreaming in anticipation of Harriet’s embrace had decidedly not included being sodomised by his wife with an artificial phallus. And yet the prospect had conceived a particular attraction, his eagerness revealed when the prospect seemed so frustratingly distant from his solitary hotel room. Was it the possibilities of the act itself, never previously thought of, of Harriet’s suggesting it and what that might denote, or even perhaps simply that he was so seldom on the receiving end, so to speak, of others’ orders and that there was a peculiar relief to have someone else in charge. That I may rise, and stand, o’erthrow me and bend. At least he was confident of managing the rising part. A floorboard creaked by the door in his dressing room. Someone - someone who surely wasn't here - cleared his throat with a familiar is incongrous music. He looked up.
She had pinned up the trouser cuffs and if the shirt, coat and waistcoat that he recognised as taken from his own wardrobe could not be considered a perfect fit, the bow tie was impeccable. In her left hand she held one of his de Lamarie silver candlesticks, in the other, a cloth with which she polished it to his appalled fascination. The thing reared obscenely from the fly, and Peter found himself regretting the bravado in the face of the all too perceptive shopkeeper that had kept him from requesting a somewhat less generously proportioned item. Item, two grey eyes, with lids to them. Item one neck, one chin, one throat, one - It was rather too late to gain this sudden appreciation of Harriet’s point of view. His blood was thumping in his ears. He swallowed and dropped the dressing gown as Harriet surveyed him with a devastatingly straight face and a look in her eye of perfect imitation.
‘Her ladyship suggested that I might care to oblige your lordship.’
‘I see,’ he hesitated, and went on, ‘Bunter.’
The answering smile blended familiar kindly competence with stiff dignity. He was never going to be able to look the man in the eye again. Nor anywhere else.
‘I am of course always eager to give satisfaction.’ The insinuating smirk turned him unaccountably weak at the knees.
‘So I see. Harriet -’
‘Miss Vane, my lord?’ quellingly, and Peter subsided.
‘Well then. Carry on Bunter.’
‘Very good, my lord.’ The hand that had held the candlestick pulled at the bow tie, releasing it in a fluid movement. Coat, shirt, and trousers made their way onto the chair, revealing a vest and pants that were decidedly not Wimsey’s own, and God knows how they would re-insinuate themselves back into the laundry.
Peter caught a glimpse of his face in the dressing table mirror, scarlet and ridiculously young. The voice continued, too high and the wrong accent, but the intonation unmistakeable. The dark eyes under their heavy brows regarded him critically. ‘If your lordship will permit, I believe we should proceed without further ado. I find myself in some doubt as to your lordship’s capacity for continuing restraint.’ His instinctive protest was rendered rather weak as a firm hand seized him, a trick of the mind rendering it larger than he remembered, the square-cut nails and dark hair defiantly masculine where he expected white shining tips and smooth honey-coloured skin. The small corner of his mind that remained capable of coherent thought observed that it would not be easy to get the mascara off the sheets. The hand continued its work, before, behind, between - he yelped, to Harriet’s smothered laughter.
‘We receive but what we give, my lord.’ Dammit, her height was all in her legs. ‘Now if your lordship would be good enough to bend over.’
Rating: R? Not particularly explicit, anyway. I’d have tried for that, but I couldn’t get through a line without snorting. Besides, I’d probably die of embarrassment. And crucially, my small selection of inter-war sex advice guides don’t include this sort of thing, so I am at a lack for period terminology... Normal service will be resumed shortly.
Harriet shrugged a naked shoulder apologetically. ‘I’m sorry, Peter. I just don’t quite fancy it.’
‘Never mind,’ Peter smiled. ‘I thought I’d ask.’
‘That’s all right. You did it very nicely. But then you always do.’
‘Such a nice boy.’
It was some time later, as he was drifting off to sleep, that a low voice murmured in his ear,
‘I wouldn’t mind it the other way round, though.’
In the dark room Peter’s raised eyebrows were just visible travelling at speed towards his hair.
‘You’d, er, you’d be interested in that, would you?’
‘I think that it might be an educational experience. Perhaps,’ Harriet’s voice held a mildly questioning note, ‘mutually so.’
‘I went to a very good school,’ Peter protested.
‘Saki,’ mumbled Harriet into his collarbone. ‘Although,’ she said, ‘I think I shall have to leave the educational shopping part of the experience to you. I don’t know where one would even begin.’
‘I think,’ said Wimsey thoughtfully, ‘one would begin in Paris.’
*
‘I’m beginning to suspect,’ said Peter, ‘that my education wasn’t quite as broad as I had hitherto understood.’
Harriet, naked other than for the results of Peter’s successful adventuring among the more specialist shops of Paris, from whence he had returned a little flustered and triumphant, observed that it was never too late to learn, and reflected privately and not for the first time that not least of the advantages of being married to a very rich man was the central heating. The buckles and straps had been a little tricky, and Peter’s usual solution to difficulties over his clothing was to ring for Bunter.
‘Is it very uncomfortable?’ Peter’s vague hand gesture nonetheless clearly indicated the designated it.
‘Actually, I think it’s rather well-designed. Oddly artistic, in a way.’
‘I don’t know about art, but I know what I like.’
‘We’ll see about that. Peter,’ she hesitated. ‘Would you wait here for five minutes?’
Peter thus abandoned retrieved his dressing gown and gave himself over to an armchair and self-examination. He was not entirely sure what he had got himself into; five years dreaming in anticipation of Harriet’s embrace had decidedly not included being sodomised by his wife with an artificial phallus. And yet the prospect had conceived a particular attraction, his eagerness revealed when the prospect seemed so frustratingly distant from his solitary hotel room. Was it the possibilities of the act itself, never previously thought of, of Harriet’s suggesting it and what that might denote, or even perhaps simply that he was so seldom on the receiving end, so to speak, of others’ orders and that there was a peculiar relief to have someone else in charge. That I may rise, and stand, o’erthrow me and bend. At least he was confident of managing the rising part. A floorboard creaked by the door in his dressing room. Someone - someone who surely wasn't here - cleared his throat with a familiar is incongrous music. He looked up.
She had pinned up the trouser cuffs and if the shirt, coat and waistcoat that he recognised as taken from his own wardrobe could not be considered a perfect fit, the bow tie was impeccable. In her left hand she held one of his de Lamarie silver candlesticks, in the other, a cloth with which she polished it to his appalled fascination. The thing reared obscenely from the fly, and Peter found himself regretting the bravado in the face of the all too perceptive shopkeeper that had kept him from requesting a somewhat less generously proportioned item. Item, two grey eyes, with lids to them. Item one neck, one chin, one throat, one - It was rather too late to gain this sudden appreciation of Harriet’s point of view. His blood was thumping in his ears. He swallowed and dropped the dressing gown as Harriet surveyed him with a devastatingly straight face and a look in her eye of perfect imitation.
‘Her ladyship suggested that I might care to oblige your lordship.’
‘I see,’ he hesitated, and went on, ‘Bunter.’
The answering smile blended familiar kindly competence with stiff dignity. He was never going to be able to look the man in the eye again. Nor anywhere else.
‘I am of course always eager to give satisfaction.’ The insinuating smirk turned him unaccountably weak at the knees.
‘So I see. Harriet -’
‘Miss Vane, my lord?’ quellingly, and Peter subsided.
‘Well then. Carry on Bunter.’
‘Very good, my lord.’ The hand that had held the candlestick pulled at the bow tie, releasing it in a fluid movement. Coat, shirt, and trousers made their way onto the chair, revealing a vest and pants that were decidedly not Wimsey’s own, and God knows how they would re-insinuate themselves back into the laundry.
Peter caught a glimpse of his face in the dressing table mirror, scarlet and ridiculously young. The voice continued, too high and the wrong accent, but the intonation unmistakeable. The dark eyes under their heavy brows regarded him critically. ‘If your lordship will permit, I believe we should proceed without further ado. I find myself in some doubt as to your lordship’s capacity for continuing restraint.’ His instinctive protest was rendered rather weak as a firm hand seized him, a trick of the mind rendering it larger than he remembered, the square-cut nails and dark hair defiantly masculine where he expected white shining tips and smooth honey-coloured skin. The small corner of his mind that remained capable of coherent thought observed that it would not be easy to get the mascara off the sheets. The hand continued its work, before, behind, between - he yelped, to Harriet’s smothered laughter.
‘We receive but what we give, my lord.’ Dammit, her height was all in her legs. ‘Now if your lordship would be good enough to bend over.’