SIR PEWTER'S MOUSTACHE (standard:humor, 1437 words)
Author: Danny Zil	Added: May 16 2009	Views/Reads: 3175/2016	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Sir Pewter loves his thick lush moustache....and the reason is prefectly understandable!

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

With his wife away at Daisy Carmichael's for a weekly overnight outing,
Sir Pewter took the opportunity to have a weekly overnight inning with 
Love You Long Time. 

Long time however was somewhat of a misnomer in Sir Pewter's case, as
his average time from erection to emission was about ten minutes. It 
took him longer to smoke a cigar. 

He held out the usual low denomination banknote and Love You Long Time
accepted it, planted a hasty kiss on his forehead and departed in a 
cloud of erotic perfume and bouncing tits. 

Sir Pewter sighed. Bastard function! Still, best get prepared. He rolled
himself out of bed, slipped into his robe and strolled over to the open 
door. “Brambles!” he yelled. 

The elderly white haired Brambles, Sir Pewter's trusted servant,
eventually appeared. Long privy to his master's indiscretions, he had 
been paid to look the other way so often that his head had twisted 
round on its axis several times and was currently back to where it 
started from. 

“Damned late function at the bloody Embassy,” Sir Pewter informed him.
“Bath. Shaving gear. ‘Greeting A Foreign Flunky' outfit,” he 
instructed. 

“Yes sir,” said Brambles. “And take care of the evidence as usual, sir?”
he went on, nodding at the bedroom mess. 

Sir Pewter snorted. “Of course. Of course.” He held out the usual high
denomination banknote and Brambles accepted it then shuffled off to 
organise the bathroom. 

Satisfied everything was in order, Sir Pewter eased himself into a
well-upholstered armchair and poured himself a whisky. 

Ah how the man could drink! Sir Pewter had schooled at Eton, read Law at
Cambridge and then drank his way through a downwardly spiralling 
Foreign Office career spanning some forty summers. Until it ended here. 
As the British Ambassador in far-flung Burma. Which was about as 
far-flung as London could throw him. 

Brambles knocked on the door, interrupting his reverie. “I've ran your
bath and laid out your shaving gear, sir,” he announced. 

“Jolly good, Brambles,” responded Sir Pewter, levering himself out of
the armchair. 

“I'll lay out your suit whilst you're bathing.” 

“Good man,” replied Sir Pewter and strolled along to his magnificent
bathing quarters. 

In the warm soapy tub, Sir Pewter lay back and sighed. How a hot soak
refreshed and sobered him. He regarded his surroundings. What luxury 
for steamy Rangoon! Peasants in their leaky bamboo huts and he amidst 
marble! 

Which was how his father had made his fortune - by importing expensive
marble for toilets in the town houses and country homes of the English 
rich. His wife's father too had made a mint fitting the damn stuff and 
supplying first class toilet décor. Sir Pewter had often remarked that 
his and his wife's union had been a marriage of conveniences. 

Freshly bathed, next on the agenda was freshly plucked and Sir Pewter
soaped his plump visage and shaved, careful not to venture near his 
lush twirled moustache, permitting himself to wax the ends only, the 
thick central part remaining untouched. He snorted it towards his nose 
and held it there. Ah yes! 

Brambles knocked and entered when commanded. “Suit's ready, sir,” he
announced. 

“Good show,” responded Sir Pewter. 

“You'll be travelling by rickshaw as usual?” enquired Brambles. 

“Yes, yes.” 

“I'll organise it whilst you're dressing then, sir. Shall I drive?” 

Sir Pewter snorted. “Of course. You're the bloody servant, aren't you?
Expect me to drive you!?” 

“Very good, sir,” Brambles muttered and withdrew. 

Freshly bathed, shaved and dressed and by now fifty percent sober, Sir
Pewter strolled out to the rickshaw. 

Brambles held the small door open for him and he hauled his ample mass
aboard, the rickshaw wobbling alarmingly like a rowing boat in a choppy 
sea. His master safely ensconced, Brambles shuffled along past the 
rickshaw to the Rolls-Royce Silver Phantom and climbed in. 

Ah, crafty Sir Pewter! Cleverly pleasing the natives by travelling by
rickshaw and cleverly pleasing the expatriate aristocracy by having it 
towed by his Rolls-Royce! 

Outside the Embassy, some of the function guests had gathered to watch
Sir Pewter arrive in his ‘Rolls-Rickshaw' as he referred to it. How 
they loved his eccentric habits. 

Sir Pewter waved regally at the guests and dismounted, acknowledging the
applause from the gathered rich and bidding them all ‘Good evening'. 

He strolled into the Embassy and glanced round. Immediately he spotted
the Indian Foreign Secretary across the room, talking to Clive Marko. 
Clive waved to him. 

Sir Pewter nodded to the Indian dignitary but deliberately ignored
Marko. “Pearl divers! Diving for his prostate more like,” Sir Pewter 
muttered towards him as a waiter approached. 

“Glass of wine, Ambassador?” the waiter enquired, proffering him the
tray of glasses. 

The small crowd that had gathered round him waited for Sir Pewter's
response. He didn't disappoint them. “Wine!?” he scoffed. “Bugger off, 
man! Wine's for when you can't get a proper drink. Double gin and 
tonic. Sharpish!” 

The nearby guests tittered. How they adored Sir Pewter and his
aristocratic habits. 

Like now, when he snorted and twitched his moustache towards his nose
and held it there. How British! How eccentric! How aristocratic! 

Like fuck it was! Sir Pewter frequently twitched his upper lip towards
his nose and held it there for one reason and one secret reason 
only...it was because he could still smell the erection inducing aroma 
of Love You Long Time's sweet pussy off his thick lush moustache. And 
by God how he loved that smell !! 


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