Folded beneath his undervests were a pair of silky pyjamas in an perfectly unspeakable heliotrope.

Eyes sanely shut, he first gathered the garments to his face, then stroked them over his cheeks, chest, belly. Only a little of this, lest his own scent overwhelm that of their original owner.

Then, fabric draped across nose and mouth, he brought himself to climax with deft, sure, supremely capable hands.

Gone! I suspect yet another sacrifice to Jeeves' sartorial inflexibility. Distinctly odd arrangement of the phiz when he scooped them off the oriental the other morning. He thinks I don't notice these things.

"Fashion Policeman" 130619 by [email protected]
Elements belong to the Wodehouse Estate.