Jeeves in the Glove Boutique

Gloves in a cream calfskin. Seamless, with a ivory button cuff.

I examined them in the glass case, the soft fingers splayed across black velvet to offset their paleness, and hoped that my thoughts didn't show in the blush on my face.

He'd wear them in the spring, when his fair features flushed in the chilled air, and he would don his light, camel-hair overcoat, which becomes him so.

I'd buy him spats to match, and he'd scoff a little at the slightly antiquated fashion, looking longingly towards his friends' offensive two-color brogues, but he'd secretly approve of the way the set coordinated.

And, of course, he'd flush with pleasure at my approval, in that way of his. His eyes light up to such an extent when I extend my compliments, that I sometimes wonder if he knows just how deep his own affections and predilections run; if he's beginning to realize why he seeks my approval.

And I most certainly approve of this handsome pair of gloves, stretching to accommodate his long, nimble pianist's hands.

Just thinking of his delicate, agile fingers brushing across the calfskin, rolling the buttons between his thumb and forefinger, slipping them on and flexing his hands to stretch them... I have to close my eyes briefly at the response it provokes in me.

I would pin his gloved hands above his head, pushing him against the wall and slipping my knee in between his legs. I'd tug the gloves from his hands, slowly, pinching the tip of the middle finger between my thumb and forefinger, sliding them off with deep satisfaction. I'd carefully ball the gloves in my fists, while ravaging his smooth, white neck, and then I'd spin to bend him, chest-down, over the freshly polished dining room table, gently inserting the gloves between those pink, parted lips.

He'd let out a muffled moan and bite down, while I slid my hands down his sides and around his hips to caress him through his finespun trousers. He'd be thick and yearning for me, bumping against my hands as I undid the buttons at his trim waist. I'd take a moment to bury my nose in the silky blonde curls that lace the back of his neck, savoring the easy slide of his trousers as they skimmed over his hipbones, and then down to pool untidily at his calves. I'd oil myself with the table polish, conveniently just there, and take him quick and hard, my hands splayed across his lower back, holding him firmly against the table, as he writhed in silent ecstasy against the oily surface. The table would gleam with our sweat, and he'd never take a meal here again, nor would I serve him one, without each becoming flushed and glassy-eyed, recalling this encounter...

No.

No, it would have to be the black wool gloves. Plain and thick, to provide function without fashion. To make the addition of the cream gloves to his wardrobe... it would be torture. I could not bear it, as every time he wore the calfskin gloves, I'd see him, gagged and pinned against the dining room table, helpless and beautiful as a Ulysses Butterfly (with wings the deep, rich blue of his eyes).

So I will purchase the black gloves, to place on the hall side-table for him to wear. He'll be pleased to have them, as his old gloves have worn out, leaving him blowing on his fingers to keep them warm on his daily sojourns.

Weak from an age of silent want, I will also buy the cream, calfskin gloves. I will tuck the box into my own pocket, to place in my top drawer to await a time when he might wear them for my pleasure.

And I hope that day will come soon.