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.
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 !!