the monica leech laugh in

(THE HETEROSEXUAL TWILIGHT IN THE LAST DAYS OF THE BRITISH EMPIRE)
***
The Foreign Secretary Sir Reginald Beet, KSM, DSO, GCMG, was dining at a discreet bistro in Saint James.
His dinner partner, a beautiful Russian blonde in a dangerously short dress which neatly displayed her splendid silken clad legs all the way up to her neck, (but I digress) seemed to be enjoying his company in an inordinately sensuous way.
Sir Reginald felt things were going swimmingly.
"Of course one has to be polite when dealing with the Prime Minister," he mused apropos of nothing at all. "Can't slap the chappie in the face and tell him to buck up. But one has to let him know who's boss all the same. Hur hur."
As he mused thusly, Sir Reginald placed a surreptitious hand on a splendid silken clad thigh.
Yes, things were going swimmingly.
This blonde Russki bimbo was simpering over his every inanity.
There's nothing like the phrase "Oh Sir Reginald" intoned in a Russian accent to give a man's self image a boost.
Hur, hur.
The hand inched  higher.
And higher.
And higher.
And now ever higher.
The sexy blonde leaned forward.
"Sir Reginald," she said in a masculine voice. "You can keep going. But just remember when you reach the top, it's Carruthers from M15."

***
(from The Carruthers Chronicles)