SIR PEWTER'S MOUSTACHE (standard:humor, 1437 words)
Author: Danny Zil	Added: May 16 2009	Views/Reads: 3172/2016	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Sir Pewter loves his thick lush moustache....and the reason is prefectly understandable!

SIR PEWTER'S MOUSTACHE 

Atop his four-poster bed in steamy Rangoon, Sir Pewter McGinty groaned
mightily and ejaculated roughly a soupspoon-full of aristocratic semen 
into the sweet dark arches of a seventeen year old dusky native girl's 
pussy. 

Not being a gentleman of the bedroom, Sir Pewter had neglected to take
his somewhat portly frame on his elbows during copulation and it came 
as a blessed relief to Love You Long Time when the substantial bulk 
grunted, withdrew and began to ease itself starboard. 

Sir Pewter panted and flopped onto the bed beside her, casually crushing
half a dozen mosquitoes which had been feeding unnoticed amidst the 
lattice work of silvery hairs and fornication induced scratches on his 
upper back. 

He had mistakenly thought that the scratches from the long red
fingernails of Love You Long Time had been inflicted through shared 
lust. He was wrong. They had been inflicted through gritted teeth hate. 


On the bedside table the telephone rang. Sir Pewter cursed and fumbled
for it, clumsily knocking over several half-empty whisky glasses and 
half-smoked opium pipes in the process. “Ambassador McGinty,” he 
rasped. 

It was the Embassy Secretary, Clive Marko. His lisping, effeminate voice
echoed irritatingly round the whisky-sodden, opium-fogged, 
pussy-reeking caverns of Sir Pewter's head. “Hallo, hallo, ith that 
you, Thir Pewter? Are you there? Are you there?” 

“Marko! What the christing fuck d'you want!?” roared Sir Pewter. How he
detested the cunt. ‘Arsehole Like A Rickshaw Wheel', he called him, 
referring to Clive's predilection for being penetrated by the well-hung 
young pearl divers who lived just south of Rangoon. 

“Oh Thir Pewter! I'm tho glad I caught you!” lisped Clive. “You athked
me to call and remind you.” 

“Remind me of what?” Sir Pewter barked. Christ, he could almost smell
the sea off him. 

“Why to remind you of the late function at the Embathy tonight,” Clive
told him. 

“Late function? What late buggering function?” 

“The cheethe and wine party for the vithiting--” 

“Christ on the shitter!” cursed Sir Pewter, suddenly remembering the
function for the visiting Indian Foreign Secretary. The lateness of the 
hour to accommodate the current monsoon season. 

“It thtarth in two hourth,” Clive lisped on. “You will be there, Thir
Pewter, won't you? Everyone ith exthpecting you to--” 

“Course I'll be there!” Sir Pewter yelled. “Now pith, piss off!” 

Damn and blast! A late function. He had forgotten about the buggering
thing, otherwise pleasurably engaged as he was with Love You Long Time. 
He had anticipated a long snooze and then the second course with her. 
Still, the starter course and the first course had been first rate! He 
snorted, his thick moustache twitching towards his nose. 

He propped himself up on some pillows and lit a cigar. “Fraid you'll
have to leave early tonight, old girl,” he told Love You Long Time. 
“Duty calls and all that rot. You...go...now.” 

Accomplished whore that she was, Love You Long Time smiled inwardly but
affected outward disappointment at this early dismissal from the 
cricket pitch. She frowned and pretended mock tears then slipped out of 
bed and began dressing, Sir Pewter enjoying a farewell view of her 
exquisite bare arse. 



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