|SIR PEWTER'S MOUSTACHE (standard:humor, 1437 words)|
|Author: Danny Zil||Added: May 16 2009||Views/Reads: 1935/1120||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. Click here to read the rest of this story (133 more lines)
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