Mature Guys

Featuring Andrew Mountbatten-Windsor

CHAPTER Eight: The Siege of Royal Lodge

The Royal Lodge’s master suite hung heavy with the scent of lavender oil and decades of old money. Late-afternoon light bled through heavy crimson drapes while a silent projector cast looping footage of aircraft takeoffs and landings across the walls, Prince Andrew’s latest fixation. James Cole, His Majesty’s American PR chief, crossed the creaking floorboards in polished loafers that made no sound on the threadbare Persian rug. King Charles had sent him to break the stubborn duke and force him out of this decaying palace into the far humbler Frogmore Cottage. Security had already been slashed; the message was unmistakable. Yet Andrew refused to budge, still riding out through the Windsor grounds each week like a defiant middle finger to his brother.

James adjusted his tie, piercing blue eyes sweeping the dim sitting room. Andrew Mountbatten-Windsor lounged in a high-backed armchair like a king on a crumbling throne. At sixty-odd, his broad oval face and square jaw had softened with age, pale blue eyes hooded beneath a prominent nose and thin lips. Short, thinning silver-white hair crowned a ruddy fair complexion etched with deep lines. Six feet tall and stocky, he carried a portly barrel-chested build: broad shoulders, slight paunch straining the white dress shirt, thick doughy arms and legs, sparse body hair, and a firm rounded backside that still drew hungry stares. A silver Rolex ticked on his left wrist.

“I should have known Charles would send his favourite Yankee lapdog,” Andrew drawled in that deep clipped upper-crust baritone, thick with mockery. He spread his thick thighs wider and let out a braying laugh that rattled the peeling wallpaper. His pale blue eyes flicked to the corner. “Ethan, you useless little whelp, where the bloody hell is my drink?”

Ethan Clarke, the slender lithe five foot ten redhead with tousled reddish-blonde hair, freckled skin and striking blue eyes, hurried forward with a crystal tumbler of single malt. The former university student turned escort moved with the calculated grace of someone who knew exactly how to please a royal. Andrew snatched the glass, took a deep swallow, and fixed James with a predatory arrogant grin.

“Missed me, didn’t you, Cole? Bet you’ve been wanking over me every night in that poky little grace-and-favour flat of yours.”

James’s lips curled into a dry American smirk, his confident drawl cutting through the room.

“Your Highness, I’ve had better. But I’m here to drag your entitled ass out of this shithole, so let’s cut the bullshit and get it done.”

Andrew stood with heavy deliberate arrogance, unzipped his fly, and fished out his thick seven-inch uncut cock. The blunt mushroom head was already half-sheathed by foreskin, the shaft girthy and veined, salt-and-pepper pubes neatly trimmed above heavy pendulous balls. He gave it a slow lazy shake.

“Look at this beauty, you colonial prick. Still better than anything you’ve had stateside. On your knees. Now.”

The command was pure entitled Windsor, brash rude and tone-deaf. James dropped to his knees but not in submission. He yanked Andrew’s trousers and briefs to his ankles, kicked off the prince’s shoes, and exposed those firm rounded buttocks dusted with sparse hair. James gripped the plump globes, spread them wide, and buried his face between them.

Andrew’s gasp was high and shocked.

“Oh Christ, fuck!”

The prince’s upper-crust baritone cracked as James’s tongue lashed the tight pink pucker. He licked broad wet stripes from balls to hole, then speared the pointed tip inside the hot musky ring. Andrew’s hole clenched greedily around the invading tongue, still snug despite months of James stretching it. The taste was pure Andrew, earthy masculine and faintly soapy. James devoured him with ruthless hunger, alternating deep thrusting stabs with slow swirling circles that made the prince’s thick thighs quiver.

“God, that’s fucking marvellous,” Andrew moaned, bending forward over the chair arm to give James better access. His heavy balls swung as he reached back and spread his own cheeks wider. “Deeper, you filthy American bastard. Eat my royal arse like the paid whore you are.”

James chuckled against the slick flesh, the vibration making Andrew whimper. He freed his own eight-inch cut cock, thick veined and already leaking, and stroked it slowly while tongue-fucking the prince’s hole with long obscene strokes.

“You’re such a greedy slut for this, aren’t you? Randy Andy, begging for tongue up his fat ass after all these years.”

Andrew’s hips bucked back shamelessly, grinding his hole against James’s face.

“Shut up and tongue-fuck me properly, Cole. I’ve had better from stable lads.”

James pulled back just long enough to spit thickly onto the winking pucker, then dove back in. Two fingers joined his tongue, scissoring the tight ring open. Andrew’s moans turned guttural. His uncut cock throbbed untouched, foreskin sliding back and forth over the blunt head as he jerked himself in sloppy strokes.

“I’m going to… fuck!” Andrew snarled. Thick ropes of cum splattered across the antique rug. His barrel-chested frame shuddered violently as he collapsed into the chair, legs splayed wide, chest heaving.

“Clean my cock, Cole,” he panted, his tone half command, half plea. “Lick it clean.”

James’s eyes glinted with defiance. Randy Andy, arrogant, insatiable, a whore for any tongue, hole or cock that would have him. But James wasn’t here to grovel, rising, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Clean your cock? No, Your Highness. You’re going to take mine.”

He spat into his palm, slicked his throbbing eight-inch shaft, and hoisted Andrew’s beefy legs over his muscular shoulders. The prince’s pale blue eyes widened, flicking to Ethan, who stood frozen in the corner, then back to James.

“You think you can just…” Andrew started, but James silenced him by pressing the fat cockhead against the spit-slicked hole and pushing. The blunt head popped past the rim with a wet sound. Andrew hissed through clenched teeth, thin lips parted. The prince winced, his hole stretching to accommodate James’s girth, but James didn’t relent.

“Bloody hell… you’re still too fucking big, you Yank brute.” But his hole opened, greedy and hot, swallowing inch after girthy inch until James was buried to the hilt, heavy balls pressed against Andrew’s firm arse.

“Still so tight for an old playboy,” James grunted, his American voice low and rough.

Gripping Andrew’s hips, he started thrusting, slow deep deliberate strokes that made Andrew’s paunch jiggle and his heavy balls slap against his own belly. The prince’s hole pulsed around him, slick with spit and loosening with every pump. The wet filthy squelch of cock in arse filled the room. Andrew’s voice broke into a petulant aristocratic whine.

“Harder,” Andrew gasped, clutching James’s shoulders, his nails digging into the fabric of his suit jacket. “Fuck me proper then.”

James’s lips curled into a sneer.

“Remember the first time I fucked you? Bent over that desk in Buckingham Palace, begging for my cock?” he said as he slammed in deeper, his balls slapping against Andrew’s ass. “You came so hard you cried. Want that again, you greedy old whore?”

“Yes—fuck, yes!” Andrew’s voice broke, his cock stiffening again as James pounded him, the wet squelch of skin on skin filling the room. “Give it to me, you bastard.”

James’s thrusts grew brutal, his cock driving into Andrew’s slick, yielding ass with punishing force. The prince’s hole was a furnace, gripping him tighter as James angled to hit that sweet spot inside. Andrew’s moans turned to whimpers, his face contorted with pleasure and pain.

“You’re no war hero anymore,” James snarled, leaning down to bite Andrew’s earlobe. “Just a disgraced slut who lives for this cock.”

His words pushed him over the edge. With a guttural groan, James came, flooding Andrew’s ass with a thick, hot load, his cock pulsing as he buried himself to the hilt. The pleasure was electric, amplified by the power of breaking Andrew down. Panting, James pulled out, his cum leaking from Andrew’s gaping hole, dripping down his thighs. James glanced at Ethan, still frozen in the corner, trousers tented.

“Ethan, strip. Now. Your prince needs both of us.”

Ethan obeyed instantly, his slender lithe body was revealed, seven-and-a-half-inch uncut cock already leaking. James guided Andrew to straddle Ethan on the wide chair.

“Sit on him, Your Highness. Show the boy how a real royal takes cock.”

Andrew whimpered but sank down, Ethan’s thick uncut length sliding into his already-fucked hole with a slick pop.

“Fuck…,” the prince gasped, upper-crust accent fraying.

James moved behind them, pressing his own cock against the stretched rim beside Ethan’s.

“You’re taking both of us, Andrew. Like the greedy disgraced whore you are.”

Andrew’s eyes widened in shock.

“No, no, I couldn’t possibly… not bloody likely… ahh!”

James’s thick head forced its way in alongside Ethan’s. The prince’s rim burned white-hot as it stretched impossibly wide around the two fat cocks, the tight ring of muscle yielding with a slick, obscene pop that left his hole gaping and fluttering. Inside, Andrew’s velvety walls were stretched paper-thin, every ridge and vein of both shafts grinding together in the cramped, scorching channel. The pressure was brutal, the double girth forcing his prostate to bulge obscenely against the invasion while residual cum from James’s earlier fuck squelched wetly around them, turning every thrust into a filthy, slippery mess.

“Bloody hell, you’re tearing me in two, you bastards!”

Andrew roared, his firm rounded arse cheeks quivering as the two cocks began to move. The wet, rhythmic sucking sounds of dual penetration filled the room, his overstuffed hole clenching and rippling desperately around the twin invasion, milking them both with involuntary spasms.

James and Ethan found a punishing rhythm. James’s powerful thrusts drove deep, his thick cut cock sliding along Ethan’s uncut length with obscene friction, while Ethan’s youthful hips snapped up from below. Their shafts rubbed relentlessly inside Andrew’s spasming channel, the heat and crushing pressure making the prince’s hole flutter wildly, the stretched rim gripping them like a vice each time they bottomed out. Creamy lube of spit and cum leaked in thick rivulets down Andrew’s heavy balls with every brutal plunge.

“You’re doing so well, sir,” Ethan panted in his polished British accent, one hand stroking Andrew’s leaking uncut cock. “Taking us both like a proper royal slut.”

“Shut up and fuck me harder, you pair of cunts,” Andrew snarled, voice hoarse and entitled even as tears of overwhelmed pleasure leaked from his pale blue eyes.

The savage double penetration pushed Andrew over the edge first. His cock erupted, painting their chests with thick royal seed. The violent convulsions of his ruined hole squeezed both cocks like a fist, the overstretched walls rippling and pulsing in waves that dragged them deeper. Ethan came next with a choked British curse.

“Oh fuck, sir!”

His load shot deep in powerful jets, coating James’s cock inside the overstuffed, cum-slick channel. James followed with a guttural growl, flooding Andrew’s wrecked hole with pulse after pulse of hot cum until the excess spurted out in creamy white rivulets around both buried shafts, the prince’s gaping rim unable to contain it all.

Andrew collapsed between them, sobbing and spent, his stocky body trembling. James pulled out first with a lewd wet pop, his cock glistening. He tucked himself away, watching Andrew and Ethan cling together in a haze of sweat and cum. Without another word, James slipped from the room, the hallway mercifully empty.

He had a brief recharge ahead. Two loads down, but he was more than ready for a second royal tonight: King Charles himself.

Featuring Prince Henrik of Denmark

CHAPTER SEVEN: Jubilee Glaze

The grand state dining hall of Christiansborg Palace had emptied hours earlier, the last echoes of Queen Margrethe II’s Ruby Jubilee gala fading into the Copenhagen night of 15 January 2012. Crystal chandeliers dimmed, the heavy velvet drapes drawn. In a private antechamber overlooking the canal, four men in full ceremonial dress lingered over cognac and cigars. Prince Henrik of Denmark, still resplendent in his sky blue military style uniform with its red piping, gold embroidered peaked cap resting on a side table, medals gleaming across his broad chest, sat with the easy sprawl of a man who had spent fifty years at the side of a queen yet never quite at the centre of power. Beside him, King Carl XVI Gustaf of Sweden, black double breasted tailcoat unbuttoned, heavy gold collar of the Order of the Seraphim resting against his white waistcoat; King Harald V of Norway, black military tunic open at the throat, red sash of St. Olav crossed over his barrel chest, sword propped against the couch; and King Constantine II of Greece, elegant black tailcoat and light blue sash of the Order of the Saviour, walking cane hooked over the arm of his chair.

Henrik swirled the amber liquid in his glass, his thick silver gray hair swept back, blue eyes sparkling beneath bushy brows. His cultured French accent curled round every syllable like smoke from a Gauloise.

“Messieurs… after such a tedious evening of speeches and protocol, one grows… famished for something real, non?”

He set the glass down with a decisive clink.

“Forty years at the side of my queen, and still the secondary role. I propose a small diversion. Something equal for once. I offer each of you my mouth. Freely. Enthusiastically. No crowns, no rank, just four gentlemen and the pleasures of the flesh.”

The silence lasted two heartbeats. Carl’s deep baritone broke first, warm and self deprecating, the practical tone of a man more at ease with tools and nature than endless formality.

“Well, I’ll be damned. Henrik, you old devil.”

A slow grin spread beneath his wire rimmed glasses.

“If you’re offering… I’m not one to refuse a generous host. Spontaneous is good. For Sweden, in the moment, eh?” He stood, already half hard beneath the black trousers with their gold stripe.

Henrik sank gracefully to his knees, white gloved hands sliding up Carl’s thighs. He tugged the zipper down with practised care, freeing the Swedish king’s uncut 7.5 inch cock, pale shaft, pronounced rose pink head already glistening with a bead of pre cum. Henrik’s plump lips parted. He inhaled the clean, slightly musky scent, then swallowed the thick length in one smooth motion. The head bumped the back of his throat; his tongue swirled slowly beneath the foreskin, licking the sensitive underside in long, deliberate strokes while his throat muscles fluttered and milked. Saliva ran down the shaft as he bobbed, cheeks hollowing with strong suction. Carl’s hand settled on the prince’s silver hair, a soft Swedish groan escaping him.

“Ah, Henrik… you’ve done this before, haven’t you? Tight and warm. Like a good fit.”

Harald and Constantine watched, eyes wide, until Constantine, ever the gracious one, rose, voice polished Oxford English laced with quiet amusement and the slight Greek cadence of a man long in elegant exile.

“Well, if Carl is enjoying himself… one must not be left behind. Courtesy among equals.”

He freed his own 7 inch cock, solid girth and flared mushroom head already leaking a clear strand. Henrik released Carl with a wet pop, a string of spit connecting lip to tip, turned, and took Constantine’s length deep. His tongue pressed flat along the underside, then flicked the sensitive ridge of the flared head while one gloved hand still stroked Carl in long, firm pulls, twisting lightly over the rose pink crown to spread the wetness.

Harald remained seated a moment longer, caressing the growing bulge in his trousers, faint American accent wry from his wartime childhood years in the States, the blunt tone of a lifelong sailor.

“Jesus Christ, you three… fine, I’m not sitting this one out like some bloody spectator.”

He stood, undoing his belt; his thick 7 inch veined cock sprang free, broad mushroom head already leaking steady drops.

“Out on the water we’re all just crew. Same here.”

Henrik pulled the three kings closer, trousers pooled at their ankles, medals clinking softly. He took Carl and Constantine’s cock heads together into his warm, wet mouth, sucking greedily, tongue flicking rapidly between the two sensitive tips, tasting the different pre cum, Swedish saltier, Greek cleaner, before alternating. Long, sloppy strokes on Harald’s girth, lips stretched wide around the thick veins, tongue swirling under the broad head while his hands worked the other two with firm, twisting pumps. Spit coated everything; wet sucking sounds filled the chamber.

“Mmm… such royal cocks,” he purred between licks, French accent thickening with lust. “Heavy, pendulous balls… I could worship them all night. Equal pleasure at last, non?”

Clothes were shed in a slow, deliberate strip, tailcoats, waistcoats, sashes, tunics, until the four men stood in nothing but black socks, Henrik’s sheer black dress socks clinging transparently to his sturdy limbs and plump pale feet. Henrik moved with theatrical flair, taking each king in turn: deep throating Carl’s rose pink head until the Swedish monarch’s knees buckled, nose buried in pale pubic hair, throat convulsing around the full length while Carl muttered another practical curse; nursing Harald’s low hanging balls, sucking one then the other into his mouth, tongue laving the heavy sac while the Norwegian king muttered, “Fuck, Henrik, you suck like a goddamn champion. Better than any fair wind”; lavishing Constantine’s flared head with swirling tongue and tight lip rings until the Greek king sighed in refined pleasure, “Exquisite… truly.”

Constantine dropped to his knees beside Henrik, elegant fingers wrapping around Carl’s shaft.

“Allow me,” he murmured, and sucked the Swedish king with polished skill, tongue circling the foreskin while Henrik devoured Harald’s thick length, taking him to the root, gagging softly but pushing deeper, saliva dripping onto Harald’s heavy balls. Then Harald lay back on the wide velvet couch, cock rigid against his paunch. Henrik straddled him, plump pale buttocks spreading as he reached back, rubbing the broad head up and down his crack, pressing it against the tight pink hole, smearing pre cum there.

“Oui… fill me, Harald,” he breathed, sinking down. The thick cock breached him slowly; the head stretched the ring wide, then the veined shaft pushed deeper in one long slide until Harald’s low balls pressed against Henrik’s soft cheeks. The Norwegian king gasped, face screwing up in pleasure.

“Holy hell… tight as a royal yacht in dry dock. Damn, that grip.”

Henrik planted both hands on Harald’s barrel chest, digging fingers into silver chest hair, and began to ride, long, rolling lifts and deep drops. Each rise left only the broad head inside; each drop buried it fully, the thick girth dragging against his prostate. His own uncut 6 inch cock bounced against his soft pot belly, the foreskin sliding back and forth, a clear drop forming at the tip. Constantine stood beside them; Henrik turned his head and swallowed the Greek king’s cock again, moaning around it as Harald’s hands squeezed his plump tits and pinched the nipples hard. Carl stepped forward, sliding into Harald’s mouth; the Norwegian took him with easy, sailor mouthed hunger, lips stretched, tongue working the underside while he thrust up into Henrik’s ass.

Harald’s climax neared. Henrik lifted off with a wicked grin, letting the cock slip free with a wet sound, the hole fluttering open for a moment.

“Not yet, mon ami. We are only beginning. Equality demands more.”

Constantine moved behind him, hands on Henrik’s hips, and pushed in, smooth, aristocratic strokes that made the Danish prince arch and moan. The flared head popped past the ring, then the solid shaft filled him with measured thrusts, each one angled to grind the prostate. Carl fed his cock into Constantine’s mouth while the Greek king fucked Henrik steadily. The room filled with wet sounds of skin on skin, medals still pinned to discarded jackets glinting on the floor, the slap of balls against plump ass.

They rearranged with royal efficiency. Henrik slid down again onto Harald’s cock, taking the full thick length deep within his throat while Carl took his turn behind, pounding with purposeful Swedish rhythm, hands gripping the prince’s sturdy hips like handlebars. Carl’s pale 7.5 inches slammed deep, the rose pink head battering the prostate on every thrust, balls slapping loudly against Henrik’s cheeks.

“That’s it, Henrik,” Carl growled, voice husky and practical. “Take it like the bon vivant you are. Good and solid.”

Henrik’s moans vibrated around Harald’s shaft; the Norwegian king seized his silver hair and fucked his throat with blunt command, the broad head punching deep.

“Suck it, you flamboyant bastard, yes, just like that. No half measures.”

Constantine and Harald took turns in Henrik’s mouth while Carl slammed into his ass, the pace relentless. Henrik shook his head like a man possessed, moaning around whichever royal cock filled him, spit running down his chin onto the kings’ balls. His own hand wrapped around his bouncing 6 inch cock, stroking the uncut shaft in time, foreskin sliding, thumb spreading the pre cum over the head.

“I am your whore tonight, messieurs,” he gasped during a brief breath, French accent dripping with decadent delight. “Use me. Make me the centre for once.”

Carl slapped the soft, pale ass hard, riding him furiously, the impacts reddening the cheeks. Constantine’s cock seeped thick pre cum across Henrik’s tongue. The tension built. Mutual hands joined: Constantine stroked Harald’s heavy balls while Harald’s fist worked Carl’s shaft in short, firm pumps between thrusts.

Constantine was the first to reach the edge. His polished Oxford accent cracked with raw need as he pulled his cock from Henrik’s mouth, fist flying over the slick, flared mushroom head in rapid, tight strokes, the other hand cupping his pendulous balls.

“Henrik… I’m going to spend… right on you. A proper offering.”

With a refined yet guttural groan, “Ahh, yes… mon Dieu!” he erupted.

Thick, pearly ropes of Greek royal seed lashed across Henrik’s prominent jowls, full lips, and broad chest, spattering the gold chain and jade pendant still dangling between his pecs. The first spurts hit with force, coating the lower face in warm, viscous strands; subsequent pulses painted the soft pot belly in refined arcs. Constantine’s slim hips jerked with each pulse, his balls drawing tight as the last heavy spurts dribbled over his knuckles onto Henrik’s skin. Exhausted, he swayed on his feet, wire rimmed glasses fogged. Henrik, ever the gracious host, leaned forward and licked the sensitive head clean with slow, reverent swirls of his tongue, sucking the last beads from the slit, murmuring, “Délicieux… a vintage worthy of the gods.”

Carl followed almost immediately, his pragmatic Swedish baritone turning into a deep, self deprecating laugh that dissolved into a moan.

“Fan ta mig… here it comes, you magnificent Frenchman.”

He yanked his cock free from Henrik’s ass with a wet pop, the rose pink head swollen and angry, the shaft glistening with the prince’s juices. Positioning himself over the prince’s chest, he stroked furiously, muscular limbs tensing, fist twisting over the head.

“Take every drop, Henrik!”

A powerful grunt escaped him as his 7.5 inch shaft pulsed. Long, forceful jets of Swedish cum shot across Henrik’s wrinkled, fair to tanned skin, splattering the star shaped orders still pinned near his nipples, coating the soft pot belly, and mixing with Constantine’s load in warm, viscous pools. One particularly strong spurt even landed on the gold Rolex on Henrik’s left wrist. Carl milked the final thick beads from his pale shaft with slow, firm pulls, then pressed the sensitive head against Henrik’s full lips.

“Clean me, consort. Every last bit. Practical, no waste.”

Henrik obeyed with theatrical suction, humming in approval as the Swedish king shuddered through the aftershocks, tongue working under the foreskin to gather every drop.

Finally, Harald, ever the resilient, down to earth Norwegian, rose over the spent prince. His piercing blue eyes locked onto Henrik’s face with a sailor’s blunt hunger.

“Right… my turn, you petulant old poet,” he growled, voice carrying that faint American accent. His thick, veined 7 inch cock throbbed in his fist, the broad mushroom head dark and slick with a mix of spit and pre cum. “Gonna paint you proper, you flamboyant bastard. Like a good hard blow.”

With a string of cheerful Norwegian curses, “Faen heller… ja, ta det!”

Harald’s barrel chest heaved. His low hanging balls tightened as he unleashed rope after heavy rope of thick Norwegian cum. The first powerful jet hit Henrik square on the rounded chin and jowls, dripping down onto his full lips in a heavy strand. Subsequent spurts criss crossed the prince’s chest and soft belly in messy, abundant ropes, some landing on the prominent silver gray pubic hair framing Henrik’s own spent cock, others pooling in the creases of his plump pale buttocks. Harald kept stroking through the climax, thumb sweeping over the head to force out more, swearing under his breath until the last weak pulses oozed out onto Henrik’s skin.

“Alt for Norge… and for that tight Danish ass,” he panted, collapsing beside Henrik on the couch, breathing like a man who had just finished an Olympic rowing final.

Henrik lay there glistening, chest and belly a glistening map of three royal loads, his own thick 6 inch uncut cock softening against his soft pot belly, a small puddle of his own release cooling on his hand and lower abdomen from the frantic stroking that had brought him off during Carl’s pounding. His sheer black dress socks still clung to his sturdy limbs. He traced a finger through the warm mixture, Swedish, Norwegian, and Greek, lifted it to his lips, and tasted with a satisfied, eccentric smile.

“A most exquisite blend, messieurs. Poetry… in fluid form. At last, the centre.”

The four men lay in a tangle of royal limbs and socks, medals scattered, the air thick with the musk of spent lust and expensive cologne. Carl chuckled softly, practical and amused. Harald muttered another sailor’s oath, this time affectionate. Constantine adjusted his glasses with a gracious, tired smile. Henrik, ever the bon vivant, simply sighed in decadent contentment. “What a perfect way to end a jubilee. Equal at last, non?”