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Prince Michael of Kent Member of the British Royal Family

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Carl XVI Gustaf King of Sweden

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Royal Windsor Horse Show King Charles III and the Duke of Edinburgh attend the Royal Windsor Horse Show at Windsor Castle in Berkshire. Picture date: Saturday May 17, 2025.

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Charles III King of the United Kingdom

I'd love to have His Majesty sitting on my big gun. Then, after he fires my load, have that smile on his face.

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The Prince Consort of Denmark

Chapter Two: A Royal Indiscretion

Featuring Prince Henrik of Denmark

The humid June air of Washington, DC, in 2011 clung to the city as Queen Margrethe II and her husband, Prince Henrik, arrived for a diplomatic visit. The itinerary included cultural engagements and company visits, with stops planned in New York City and Solvang, California. But fate, or perhaps a mischievous twist of desire, had other plans for Henrik.

At 5'11" with a broad, stocky build and a belly softened by age, the Prince Consort cut an imposing yet approachable figure. His short, graying hair was neatly combed for the occasion, though it hinted at a tousled charm in more relaxed moments. His fair complexion, marked with age spots, framed striking blue eyes and bushy eyebrows, his warm, expressive face often lit by a smile. A bon vivant with a passion for winemaking, cultural pursuits, and French gastronomy, Henrik’s multilingual charm—fluent in French, Danish, English, German, Chinese, and Vietnamese—only added to his allure. Today, he wore a well-tailored, double-breasted light gray suit, a light blue dress shirt, a pink and blue striped tie, a white pocket square, and polished brown leather shoes.

During the visit, a sudden “pulled muscle” conveniently sidelined Henrik, leaving him to rest in their luxurious hotel suite while the Queen attended an event at the National Museum of American History. Assigned to tend to his needs was Taylor Jason, the hotel’s handsome concierge. At 5'10", Taylor boasted a chiseled, athletic build, his sandy blond hair neatly trimmed in a classic side part. His hazel eyes sparkled with a disarming smile, his faint tan hinting at time spent outdoors. A natural charmer, Taylor’s 7-inch uncut cock hinted at the confidence he carried with ease.

“Good afternoon, Your Royal Highness,” Taylor said, his voice stumbling slightly as he entered with a tray of food. The sight of Henrik—strikingly handsome up close—sent a rush of heat through him, blood draining southward. Gesturing to the nearby couch, Henrik’s voice was smooth, “Why not have a seat? I could use a little company.”

“Sure,” Taylor replied, eager to impress, settling beside him.

As Henrik savored his meal and sipped his wine, their conversation flowed. Taylor soon learned the injury was a ruse—Henrik despised the public events. Taylor’s eyes roamed over the prince’s form when he thought it went unnoticed, though Henrik’s sly glances suggested otherwise. When Taylor shared a funny story, Henrik laughed heartily, his hand patting Taylor’s leg. The touch sent a jolt through Taylor, his 7-inch cock hardening instantly. Henrik’s eyes flicked downward, a mischievous laugh escaping him. “I see you like my company.”

“Well, Your Highness, you’re a handsome man,” Taylor admitted boldly, meeting his gaze.

“Thanks. I don’t think anyone has ever told me I affected them like that before,” Henrik replied, his hand patting Taylor’s leg again, lingering this time. Their laughter mingled, tension building. Taylor nodded toward Henrik’s crotch. “You’ve got a sizable bulge yourself.”

Emboldened, Henrik asked, “Just how big is your cock?” Without a word, Taylor unzipped, revealing his thick 7 inches.

“Show me yours,” he challenged. Henrik hesitated only a moment before freeing his 6-inch uncut cock, the sight igniting a spark between them.

In a heartbeat, Henrik leaned forward, taking Taylor into his mouth. His lips enveloped the head, tongue swirling with expert precision, wet and warm. Taylor groaned, realizing this wasn’t Henrik’s first rodeo. The prince swallowed him inch by inch, lips pressing against the base, sucking with a rhythm that drove Taylor wild. Grabbing Henrik’s head, Taylor thrust into his mouth, hard and deep. Henrik took it all, pushing forward for more, his throat constricting around Taylor’s shaft. The sensation was electric, but just as Taylor neared the edge, Henrik pulled back, leaving him panting.

Thinking it was over, Taylor was stunned when Henrik stood, yanked his pants to his knees, and turned, presenting his pale, rounded ass. His bull-like balls hung low, a sight that made Taylor’s cock throb.

“Fuck me,” Henrik commanded, voice thick with need. Taylor spat into his hand, slicking his cock, the thought of taking the Prince Consort pushing him to the brink. He pressed the tip against Henrik’s tight hole, sliding in with surprising ease. Henrik gasped, but didn’t flinch as Taylor buried himself fully, the heat and grip overwhelming.

Taylor gyrated his hips, stretching Henrik’s ass, the tight channel hugging his cock like a glove. “Fuck me hard, I need it,” Henrik growled, rocking back to meet each thrust. Taylor complied, pulling out slowly until just the tip remained, then slamming back in with force. The sound of skin slapping skin filled the room as he built a wild rhythm. Henrik squeezed his ass muscles, rocking side to side, legs spreading wider.

“You OK?” Taylor panted, sweat beading on his brow.

“Yes, yes, I’m fine,” Henrik breathed, pushing back harder.

“I’m getting close,” Taylor warned, and Henrik’s insistent thrust signaled him to let go. Gripping Henrik’s hips, Taylor fucked him with abandon, the couch creaking beneath them. Henrik moaned loudly, head shaking, lost in pleasure.

“Oh, shit!” Taylor gasped as his cock pulsed, unloading deep inside. Henrik rocked, his ass flooding with Taylor’s cum, the warmth intensifying their connection.

Pulling out, Taylor watched Henrik’s hole gape, cum leaking as it pulsed with his breaths. Turning, Henrik’s throbbing cock caught Taylor’s eye. Dropping to his knees, Taylor took him in, sucking with fervor. Henrik’s inexperience showed—perhaps neglected by his wife—but Taylor’s skill quickly brought him to the edge. Grabbing Taylor’s hair, Henrik groaned, erupting down his throat, the taste rich and satisfying.

As they caught their breath, the scandalous encounter lingered in the air, a secret born in the heart of a royal visit.

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Philippe of Belgium King of Belgium

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Prince Andrew, Duke of York Member of the British Royal Family

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Carl XVI Gustaf King of Sweden

Denmark's King Frederik X and King Carl XVI Gustaf pose for a photo during the celebration to mark the Øresund Bridge's 25th anniversary.

Lately, I've been gooning over King Frederik. I don't know if it's for my latent lust for his late father, Prince Henrik or he's matured into a fuckable man in his own right.

On A Side Note: Speaking of gooning… look at The Lord Mayor of Copenhagen, Lars Weiss.

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Prince Henrik of Denmark Prince of Denmark

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Charles III King of the United Kingdom

King Charles departs a reception at Campbeltown Town Hall, before meeting members of the public in Campbeltown Main Street, as part of his trip to Scotland for Holyrood Week.

I've said this before, and I'll continue to say it. I'd love to fuck Charles wearing a kilt. Plus, he looks adorable in this pic. 🍆💦💦💦

On A Side Note: Who's the tall silver-haired daddy in the kilt? Now he'd get a courtesy tap. 😍

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The Prince Consort of Denmark

Chapter One: Château Seduction

Featuring Prince Henrik of Denmark

In early 2002, Prince Henrik, stung by the decision to have his son, Crown Prince Frederik, represent Queen Margrethe at the New Year's ceremony instead of him, fled to his Château de Caïx in southern France to "reflect on life."

At 68, the 5'11" prince cut a striking figure with his broad, stocky frame, his belly a soft, rounded testament to his indulgent years. His short, graying hair, tousled by the warm Provençal breeze, framed a fair complexion peppered with age spots, while his piercing blue eyes danced beneath bushy, silver-streaked eyebrows. Dressed in a crisp white long-sleeve shirt with a mandarin collar, half-unbuttoned to expose a glistening, sweat-slicked chest and damp armpits, he paired it with loose tan trousers that hugged his thick thighs. His brown leather loafers scuffed the gravel, and a gold necklace with a lustrous jade pendant swayed against his skin, complemented by a gleaming ring on his left hand. A bon vivant with a flair for poetry, cooking, art, and wine, only amplified Henrik’s magnetic charm. And today, his eccentric spirit was about to ignite a scandalous flame.

During his sojourn, Henrik’s gaze repeatedly lingered on Jules Allard, a 6'1" vigneron whose athletic build rippled with youthful vigor. His curly brown hair, neatly trimmed, caught the golden sunlight, framing striking blue eyes that sparkled with a disarming smile. A faint tan kissed his sculpted features, and his 7-inch uncut cock strained visibly against his fitted jeans, a silent invitation. Jules noticed the prince’s furtive glances, his own bulge swelling in response as the sultry heat intensified. Henrik’s big, inviting belly, barely contained by his half-open shirt, glistened with sweat, the fabric clinging to every curve. Lost in vivid fantasies of ravishing the regal figure, Jules was rock hard when Henrik’s deep, accented voice purred from behind, “Looks like you like what you’re looking at.”

“Sor… sorry?” Jules stammered, flushed with embarrassment. Henrik chuckled, a rich, throaty sound, his hand landing warmly on Jules’ shoulder.

“Don’t feel badly about getting hard. When I first saw you, I wondered if you liked to play around with guys. I’ve been thinking about asking if you’d spend the night with me.”

Jules grinned, emboldened. “I felt the same way when I first saw you.” With the tension broken, Henrik took Jules’ hand, leading him into the château’s opulent bedroom, the scent of aged wood and lavender lingering.

Inside, Henrik crushed Jules against him, his lips crashing down in a hungry, wine-tinged kiss while deft fingers unbuttoned Jules’ jeans, letting them pool at his ankles. Jules retaliated, yanking Henrik’s trousers down, unleashing a thick, 6-inch uncut cock, its foreskin glistening with anticipation, flanked by heavy, pendulous balls. They tumbled onto the bed, embracing fiercely, Henrik’s hairless, chubby belly pressing against Jules’ taut abs, his soft, daddy hands roaming with eager greed. Jules dove southward, his mouth enveloping Henrik’s foreskin, French-kissing the swollen head with slow, deliberate licks. Pre-cum oozed in a sticky torrent, Henrik moaning, “Oh, mon Dieu, that feels like heaven!”

Jules’ tongue danced along every veined inch, teasing the slit with wet, swirling strokes, the salty musk driving him wild.

Aroused beyond restraint, Henrik flipped Jules into a steamy 69, his mouth engulfing Jules’ 7-inch shaft with ravenous skill. His lips stretched wide, tongue lashing the sensitive tip, sucking with a rhythmic fervor as he growled, “You taste like sin itself.” Jules mirrored him, deep-throating Henrik’s throbbing cock, gagging as it hit the back of his throat, saliva dripping down his chin. Henrik’s breathing turned to ragged gasps, his body quaking with lust.

“Don’t stop, please!” he begged, as Jules probed his tight, puckered asshole with a teasing finger. With a guttural, “Oui, oui, je jouis!” Henrik erupted, his load blasting like a geyser, flooding Jules’ mouth with thick, hot spurts. The intensity spurred Henrik to suck harder, his throat convulsing around Jules’ cock until Jules groaned, “I’m coming, fuck!” unleashing a creamy torrent down Henrik’s greedy throat.

Panting and slick with sweat, they collapsed, laughing breathlessly. Henrik’s eyes twinkled as he rasped, “I’m so glad we met today, mon ami!” Jules nodded, and they stumbled to the shower, lathering each other’s bodies with slippery soap, hands tracing every contour. Henrik lingered in France for three weeks, his prolonged absence sparking wild rumors of a royal divorce, as their torrid liaison burned beneath the château’s ancient stones.

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Charles III King of the United Kingdom

Charles (wearing his Coldstream Guards uniform) takes the salute from a dais outside Buckingham Palace during Trooping The Colour 2025 on June 14, 2025, in London, England.

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The King and I

Chapter Two: The King’s Dirty Line: Six Minutes of Sin

It’s late, the London night pressing against the windows of James Cole’s hotel room. The 32-year-old American PR manager and professional "fixer," hired to polish the tarnished reputation of Prince Andrew, lies sprawled on his bed, sheets kicked aside, wearing nothing but a pair of black boxer briefs. His 6’1” frame, muscular and taut, glistens faintly with sweat, dark brown hair mussed from restless tossing. His piercing blue eyes glint in the dim light as he jams his phone against his ear, waiting for Prince Charles—his dirty little secret—to pick up. At 73, Charles is 5’10”, silver-white hair swept back, fair skin that flushes crimson when he’s aroused, and a 7-inch cut cock James knows by heart. Married to Camilla, father to William and Harry, he’s the picture of royal restraint—until James gets him going. While secretly fucking Andrew, James and Charles have carved out their own illicit affair, ignited by that bourbon-soaked blowjob in Clarence House. Tonight’s call isn’t about PR—it’s about getting off, raw and unfiltered.

“James,” Charles’ voice hums through, rich and clipped, a faint tremor betraying his excitement. “Caught you at a bad time?”

“Never for you, sir,” James purrs, his hand already roaming his bare chest, fingers circling his nipples until they pebble under his touch. His skin prickles, a low heat building in his core. “How’s the crown sitting?”

“Heavy lies the head,” Charles says, a smirk in his tone. “Could use something to… ease the pressure.”

James catches the bait, lips curling. “You mean something to polish the sceptre, Your Majesty?”

Charles laughs, husky and hesitant. “You’re dreadful. Camilla’s asleep upstairs, you know.”

“Perfect,” James says, voice dropping to a sultry growl as his fingers trail down his chiseled abs, dipping into the waistband of his boxer briefs, brushing the coarse hair above his cock. “Leaves you free to get filthy with me. What’s brewing, sir? Something stiff?”

A beat of silence, then, “You’re a devil. I shouldn’t—not after Tampongate. That wretched tape…” His voice wavers, haunted by the infamous scandal.

“Forget it,” James cuts in, shoving his boxer briefs down his thighs, his 8-inch cock springing free, already half-hard and twitching against his palm. The skin’s hot, veins pulsing as he grips it, giving a slow, deliberate tug. Precum beads at the slit, slick and glossy, and he smears it over the swollen head with his thumb, the sensation sparking a groan. “No one’s recording this. Just us. Tell me what you want.”

Charles exhales, shaky. “Oh, stop—I want to feel my way along you, all over you, up and down you, and… in and out.” His voice thickens, dripping with need.

“Fuck, yes,” James groans, squeezing his shaft tighter, the slick precum making his hand glide as he pumps slowly. His cock throbs, heavy and thick, the ridge flaring with each stroke. “Don’t stop.”

“Particularly in and out,” Charles growls, his tone roughening, shedding its royal polish. “God, I’d live inside your trousers—ram my cock so deep in your arse you’d feel me stretching you for days.”

“That’s what I need,” James pants, stroking faster, his hand sliding back and forth over the sensitive ridge, the wet shlick-shlick-shlick filling the room. His balls, heavy and tight, swing against his thighs with each pump, the skin taut and tingling. “You hard over there, sir? Got that royal prick in hand?”

“I… shouldn’t,” Charles stammers, but his breath hitches, betraying him. “Tampongate—everyone heard me make an ass of myself.”

“Screw that,” James snaps, his grip tightening, veins bulging under his knuckles as he jerks harder. Precum drips in sticky strings, coating his fingers and dribbling onto his scrotum, the slick mess pooling at the base. “I’m jerking off for you—8 inches, thick, leaking like a fucking faucet. Get your cock out, Charles. Stroke it. I need to hear you.”

A low moan escapes Charles, followed by the faint rustle of fabric—his fly unzipping, a belt buckle clinking. “You’re a bastard, James. Alright… it’s out. Seven inches, hard as steel, tip’s wet already. What now?”

“Spit on it,” James commands, hocking a thick glob of saliva into his palm, rubbing it over his length until it glistens. The spit mixes with his precum, turning every stroke into a loud, sloppy symphony—fap-fap-fap, the sound bouncing off the hotel walls. His cockhead pops through his fist, red and swollen, as he twists his wrist slightly, teasing the underside. “Get it dripping, like I’m slobbering all over you.”

Charles gasps, and James hears it—a wet, guttural sputter as Charles spits, followed by the unmistakable squelch of his hand sliding over his cock. “Like this?” he asks, voice trembling, his strokes starting slow, deliberate, the drag of skin on skin crackling through the phone.

“Faster,” James growls, matching him, his wrist flicking quick and relentless. His abs clench, a bead of sweat rolling down his temple as his cock pulses, the veins standing out like cords. He spreads his legs wider, heels digging into the mattress, his free hand cupping his balls, rolling them roughly, the pressure sending jolts through his groin. “Picture my mouth on you—sucking you balls-deep, tongue lapping your slit, choking on that fat prick. You’d fuck my face, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes—bloody hell, yes,” Charles moans, his strokes speeding up, a rhythmic shlick-shlick-shlick that’s almost frantic now. “I’d grab your hair, shove it down your throat till your spit’s dripping off my balls, then flip you over and pound your arse. I wish I was inside you now, James—fucking you senseless.”

“God, I’d take it,” James hisses, his hips bucking off the bed, hand flying over his cock. The slick mess of spit and precum coats his fingers, dripping onto his stomach in sticky pools, strings stretching between his knuckles. His balls draw up tight, the skin puckering as he tugs them down, delaying the inevitable. “I’d ride you till my hole’s raw, dripping your cum. Go harder—let me hear that wet cock.”

Charles grunts, his strokes turning wild, messy—loud, like he’s punishing his cock. The faint slap of his balls against his hand, the wet squelch of spit and precum, drives James insane. “So good… your tight arse sucking me in, clenching my shaft—I’d fill you up—oh, fuck—” Charles’ breathing is ragged, desperate, his voice breaking as he nears the edge.

“Cum for me, sir,” James urges, his cock throbbing, purple and slick in his grip. He twists his wrist on the upstroke, thumb digging into the sensitive underside, and his sack pulses, ready to explode. His strokes are frantic now, hand a blur, the fap-fap-fap drowning out his moans. “Shoot it—splatter your chest, your hand, ruin that fancy suit. Do it.”

“James—God almighty!” Charles chokes, a guttural cry ripping through him as he comes. James pictures it vividly—thick, hot jets bursting from Charles’ tip, splattering his silver chest hair, streaking his ruddy skin, maybe hitting his chin, dribbling down his knuckles as he milks every last drop, his “sausage fingers” slick with cum.

That image shatters James. “Fuck, Charles!” he yells, his cock spasming violently, cum blasting out in long, white arcs. The first rope hits his pecs, the second his collarbone, a rogue spurt streaking across his jaw, warm and sticky. His hand’s a mess, coated in spunk, as his ass clenches, squeezing out the final shuddering pulses, his balls emptying with a deep, aching release.

They’re wheezing, wrecked, the phone line buzzing with their heavy breaths. “Bloody hell,” Charles rasps, voice raw, spent. “That was… obscene.”

“Six minutes of pure filth,” James chuckles, smearing cum across his abs with lazy swipes, the sticky warmth cooling on his skin. “When can I get you in person? Need that cock buried in me.”

Charles exhales, sated but eager. “Soon. Camilla’s off to Balmoral next week. Clarence House—Wednesday night. Bring that arse.”

“Count on it,” James says, grinning, his cock twitching at the thought. “Wear that navy suit. I’ll rip it off you.”

“Wicked boy,” Charles laughs, soft and fond. “Goodnight, James.”

“Night, Your Highness,” James replies, hanging up. He licks a stray drop of cum off his thumb, the bitter tang lingering as he lies back, already counting down to Wednesday.

DISCLAIMER: This is a work of FICTION, and it does not reflect any real events, or the true nature of the individuals involved.

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Prince Edward, Duke of Edinburgh Member of the British Royal Family

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Prince Philip, Duke of Edinburgh Member of the British Royal Family