The House of Windsor

Charles III King of the United Kingdom

His Majesty visiting the first RHS Sandringham Flower Show taking place on the Sandringham Estate on July 22, 2026 in Sandringham, Norfolk.

On A Side Note: Of course I'm gonna have some pics of his hands.

Featuring Retired British Army Officer, Andrew Parker Bowles

Chapter One: The Venus of the Cotswolds

The pair made an unlikely couple: the 24-year-old painter from Brighton with his tousled dark waves and introspective hazel-green eyes, and the 79-year-old retired Brigadier with his thinning swept-back white hair, pale-blue eyes, and the ramrod posture of a man who had once commanded the Blues. They had met at a quiet charity reception in London—something to do with war memorials—and a friendship had grown from shared rides through Hyde Park. Andrew Parker Bowles, still trim at five-eleven in his tweed jackets and regimental ties, found the young man’s easy laughter refreshing. Alex Hartley, lithe and softly spoken with that gentle Brighton lilt, felt the pull of the older man’s roguish charm.

Flirtation crept in subtly at first. A lingering hand on the reins. A wry comment from Andrew about “young stallions needing proper breaking.”

Alex would reply with a soft smile and a remark about capturing “the noble lines of experience” on canvas. Andrew, who had not felt truly wanted in years, surprised himself by reciprocating.

It was inevitable that Alex would ask to paint him.

“Think Venus of Urbino,” he said one afternoon after a gallop, cheeks flushed. “Titian, 1534. Reclining, confident, utterly unapologetic. But head-and-shoulders only, of course. I want your face, that famous Parker Bowles smirk.”

Andrew laughed, a deep, cavalryman’s chuckle.

“My dear boy, I’ve put on a bit of weight since my polo days. I’d make a rather portly Venus.”

“No matter,” Alex replied, eyes sparkling. “Head and shoulders it is.”

The sittings took place at Andrew’s Cotswolds home, a graceful residence surrounded by lush gardens where a Duchess of Camilla rose bloomed in fragrant pink mockery. Inside, medals gleamed beside the last Union flag from Rhodesia, trophies from Grand National days, and shelves of vintage wine. Andrew sat in a favourite leather armchair by the tall windows, dressed in a navy checked suit, cream shirt, and knitted vest, wooden cane resting nearby. His signet ring caught the light on his left pinky.

He was a fidgety sitter. Alex worked slowly, palette in hand, wearing a simple linen shirt that showed the faint outline of his slender frame. Breaks were frequent—Diet Coke for Andrew, quiet conversation for both.

“You know,” Alex said one afternoon, brush hovering, “you have the most remarkable jaw. Strong. Like it could command a squadron or charm an entire drawing room.”

Andrew’s thin lips curved into that wide, charismatic smile.

“Flattery from a pretty young painter? Careful, Hartley, or I’ll think you’re after more than my likeness.”

Alex’s cheeks coloured, but his hazel-green eyes held steady.

“And if I were?”

The air thickened. Andrew’s pale-blue eyes narrowed with amusement and something deeper.

“Then I’d say you’ve caught an old rogue at a vulnerable moment. One who hasn’t been looked at quite like that in rather a long time.”

That evening they went to dinner at a quiet local restaurant. Flirting continued over wine—Andrew’s knowledgeable commentary on the vintage, Alex’s gentle teasing about “distinguished older gentlemen who still know how to ride.”

By the time they returned to the house, the sexual tension was electric.

They barely made it past the drawing room. Andrew set his cane aside and pulled Alex close with surprising strength, broad shoulders still powerful from decades of horsemanship.

“Come here, you insolent boy,” he murmured, voice clipped with that upper-class drawl. “If we’re doing this, let’s do it properly.”

Alex’s hands trembled slightly as he unbuttoned Andrew’s waistcoat and shirt, revealing the older man’s slim athletic frame, sparse silver hair across his chest, and the soft thickening at his middle that Alex had cheekily exaggerated in the portrait. Andrew’s uncut cock was already stirring, seven inches of moderate girth with a deep-plum bulbous head beginning to peek from its hood, heavy low-hanging balls swaying in a nest of gray pubic hair.

“Christ, you’re beautiful,” Alex breathed, dropping to his knees on the Persian rug.

He nuzzled the thickening shaft, inhaling the warm, masculine scent of the retired officer—faint cologne, horse, and age. His full rosy lips parted, tongue tracing the foreskin before sliding it back to expose the glossy plum head. He took Andrew into his mouth slowly, sucking with wet, reverent pulls, one hand cupping those heavy balls and rolling them gently while his tongue swirled around the sensitive glans.

Andrew groaned, a low, stoic sound, fingers threading through Alex’s thick wavy hair.

“That’s it… good lad. Use your tongue on the underside—just there. Fuck, you’ve a talented mouth for one so young.”

His narrow hips rocked forward with controlled cavalry precision, feeding more of his cock between those soft lips. Saliva glistened on Alex’s chin as he bobbed deeper, hollowing his cheeks, occasionally pulling off to lick long, sloppy stripes from heavy balls to leaking tip while stroking the shaft with a slick, twisting fist.

Andrew’s pale-blue eyes darkened with lust.

“Touch yourself while you suck me, boy. Let me see that pretty pink cock of yours.”

Alex obeyed, unzipping and freeing his smooth 5.5-inch uncut cock with its slight upward curve and flushed pink head. He stroked himself in rhythm—firm, twisting pulls that made his lithe body shudder—while his other hand continued massaging Andrew’s heavy sac, gently tugging the loose skin.

The older man’s breath grew ragged.

“Slower on the head… yes, like that. Milk the foreskin properly. I want to feel every inch of that warm tongue working me.”

He reached down, guiding Alex’s hand on his own shaft, demonstrating the exact firm pressure and long, deliberate strokes he preferred, thumb occasionally pressing into the slit to spread the leaking precum.

They shifted to the wide leather sofa. Andrew sat back, legs spread like a commanding officer at ease, watching with roguish satisfaction as Alex knelt between them. The young painter alternated deep-throating as far as he could with fervent hand-work—pumping, twisting, sucking noisily—while Andrew masturbated lazily over Alex’s outstretched tongue, the wet, obscene sounds filling the quiet room.

“Going to come soon, lad,” Andrew warned, voice tight but still commanding. “Open your mouth… let me see that eager tongue.”

Alex pulled back just enough, tongue extended, stroking Andrew rapidly with both hands while frantically jerking himself. With a deep, guttural grunt befitting an old cavalryman, Andrew erupted—thick, powerful ropes of cum painting Alex’s tongue, lips, and chin. The sight pushed Alex over the edge; he moaned around the pulsing cock, spilling his own load in shuddering pulses across his fist and onto the older man’s thigh.

They breathed heavily afterward, Andrew’s broad hand gently stroking Alex’s hair.

“Well,” he said with a wry chuckle, thin lips curving into that charismatic smile, “that was rather more invigorating than Diet Coke, my dear boy.”

Charles III King of the United Kingdom

Just me checking out His Majesty's arse.

What?

Philippe of Belgium King of the Belgians

King Philippe and Queen Mathilde gathered at the Cathedral of St. Michael and St. Gudula in Brussels for the annual Te Deum Service, held as part of Belgium’s National Day 2026 celebrations.

And this is not me trying to check out the king's ass. 😁

Featuring Charles III, King of the United Kingdom

CHAPTER FOURTEEN: A Sovereign's Retribution

The weeks following their charged encounter in the King’s study had been a masterclass in royal restraint and American provocation. James Cole had turned flirtation into an art form: a lingering brush of fingers during briefings, a low “Your Majesty” murmured too close to Charles’s ear in crowded corridors, the deliberate flex of his broad shoulders when he knew the King was watching. Each small act stoked the fire Charles had tried valiantly to bank. Yet the memory of James’s thick length in his hand, the taste of him on his tongue, refused to fade.

By mid-September, the tension had grown unbearable. Charles summoned James to the Royal Library one quiet evening after the palace had settled. Moonlight filtered through tall windows, gilding the leather-bound volumes and the heavy oak table. The King stood near the fireplace, navy suit immaculate, silver-white hair catching the soft glow of a single lamp. His blue eyes held a storm beneath their usual calm.

“James,” Charles began, voice measured and resonant with the cadence of Eton, Sandhurst, and decades of quiet command, “your campaign of… enticement has not gone unnoticed. One does not lightly provoke a monarch who has spent a lifetime tending gardens and learning the virtue of patient cultivation.”

James leaned against the arm of a high-backed chair, shirt sleeves rolled to reveal corded forearms, his lopsided grin already in place. “Wasn’t tryin’ to hide it, sir. You’ve been drivin’ me crazy for months with that proper British stiff upper lip. Figure turnabout’s fair play in this… special relationship.”

Charles’s lips curved, the smallest crack in regal composure.

“You presume a great deal, Mr. Cole. One might almost think you seek to unseat a monarch’s dignity with your Yankee impertinence.”

“Only your self-control, Your Majesty.” James pushed off the chair and closed the distance, voice dropping to that thick Midwestern drawl. “And maybe get you on your knees again. You looked real good down there last time, all focused like you were pruning one of your prize roses.”

Charles’s gaze darkened with aristocratic heat. Without another word he sat in a nearby wingback chair, legs parted slightly, posture regal even in this most private of intimacies.

“Stand before me,” Charles commanded, voice low and firm, brooking no disobedience.

James felt a fierce surge of pride swell in his chest. He had done it; the unflappable King of the United Kingdom had finally succumbed to his months of relentless American advances. With a raised brow and that trademark lopsided grin, he complied, stepping between the King’s knees.

Charles’s swollen, infamous “sausage fingers” those thick, weathered digits hardened by years of gardening at Highgrove, reins in the saddle, and royal duties made short work of James’s belt with surprising dexterity. The zipper whispered down. James’s eight-inch cock sprang free, thick, veined, already rigid and flushed dark, the broad, circumcised head glistening with a steady bead of precum that caught the lamplight. Charles wrapped his rough, calloused hand around the base, the contrast of royal skin pinkish and substantial against smooth American flesh stark and electric. He gave one slow, testing squeeze, feeling the pulse throb beneath his palm.

James hissed sharply.

“Fuck, Charles… that hand of yours. Feels like it was made for this.”

Charles began with slow, deliberate strokes long, luxurious glides from root to tip, twisting slightly at the head so his thumb could smear the leaking precum in tight, slippery circles over the sensitive slit. His grip was firm yet unhurried, the roughness of decades spent in soil and on horseback adding exquisite, dragging friction that made every vein stand out. He varied the rhythm masterfully: a loose, teasing slide down the shaft, then a tighter, focused pump over the upper half, thumb pressing and rubbing firmly against the frenulum on every upstroke until James’s hips twitched involuntarily.

“You’ve tormented me for months with your glances, your touches, your deliberate provocations,” Charles murmured, eyes fixed on James’s face with cool intensity. “Did you truly believe a king who has waited decades for his throne would not exact retribution in his own time and manner? One cultivates patience as one cultivates the earth.”

James’s hips jerked forward.

“Retribution feels damn good so far, Your Majesty. Don’t stop…”

Charles’s free hand slid beneath James’s shirt, tracing the hard ridges of his abdomen, then lower to cup the heavy, furred sac. He rolled the balls gently, tugging with precise pressure while his stroking hand maintained its relentless rhythm now faster, short tight strokes focused on the swollen crown, then slowing to edge him cruelly. He leaned forward, bringing his face tantalizingly close. Warm royal breath ghosted over the slick head. James could feel the heat, see the King’s lips part slightly.

“Suck it,” James rasped, voice raw with desperation. “Please, Charles. Put that proper mouth on me again. You know you want to taste this American cock.”

Charles’s lips hovered an inch from the glistening tip. His tongue darted out just once flicking the slit to capture the salty bead of precum with delicate precision. James shuddered violently, hips straining, but Charles pulled back sharply, denying the warmth of his mouth.

“No,” Charles said, voice velvet steel, aristocratic control absolute. “Not tonight. A sovereign grants favours on his own terms, Mr. Cole. You shall come from my hand alone and you shall remember who holds the reins of this… alliance.”

“Fuck, why?” James panted, desperation cracking his swagger. “You’re killin’ me here.”

“Because restraint is the mark of true authority,” Charles replied, resuming with renewed vigour. His rough palm dragged slickly over every ridge and vein, twisting at the crown, while his other hand tugged and massaged the balls in perfect counterpoint. “Though you do present a most impressive challenge to one’s composure. Thick as a prize marrow from the Highgrove beds.”

James gripped the arms of the chair for support, knuckles white.

“You’re a cruel bastard, Your Majesty… but God, don’t stop.”

“Perhaps,” Charles leaned in again, lips brushing the very tip without closing around it, another teasing lick to the underside, a soft exhale that made James whimper. “But you love it. As one loves the storm after the calm.”

The strokes grew relentless tight, wet, twisting glides, thumb working the frenulum mercilessly, palm squeezing the head on every upstroke until precum flowed freely, slicking the entire length. Charles milked him with expert precision, alternating pressure, speed, and angle, drawing him right to the edge and holding him there.

“Charles… I’m close… fuck, don’t stop… I’m gonna—”

“Come for me,” Charles ordered, voice low and commanding, every syllable steeped in royal breeding. “Show your king how thoroughly you’ve been undone by his touch.”

James’s hips bucked wildly. With a guttural moan he erupted. Thick, powerful ropes of cum spilled over Charles’s hand, splattering the pristine cuff of his suit jacket and one hot pulse striking the King’s cheek. Charles did not flinch. He continued stroking through every shuddering spurt, thumb pressed firmly against the pulsing underside, milking him dry until James sagged, spent and trembling against the chair.

Silence fell, broken only by James’s harsh breaths. Charles withdrew his hand slowly, then, with unruffled grace, lifted it to his mouth and licked a deliberate stripe through the mess, savouring the taste with blue eyes locked on James’s.

“Satisfactory?” Charles asked, tone perfectly polite, as if concluding a briefing.

James laughed weakly, still dazed, cock twitching.

“You’re gonna kill me one day, sir. But what a way to go.”

Charles rose, smoothing his jacket with regal composure despite the evidence glistening on his fingers and cheek.

“One endeavours to keep one’s staff… motivated. And properly tended.” He stepped past James toward the door, pausing only to murmur, “Until the next briefing, Mr. Cole. Do try not to wilt in the interim.”

James watched him go, cock still half-hard, a slow, dangerous grin spreading across his face. The game wasn’t over. It had only grown more dangerously addictive.

Featuring Charles III, King of the United Kingdom

CHAPTER THIRTEEN: Rekindled Passions

King Charles III, seventy-five in the early months of 2025, had spent the winter locked in a silent, exhausting battle with a desire he dared not name. James Cole, his thirty-eight-year-old American PR chief, six-foot-one of confident muscle, chiseled jaw, and piercing blue eyes, had become an obsession. The man’s lingering glances, the deliberate brush of fingers, the low Midwestern drawl murmuring “Looking sharp today, sir,” had ignited something raw and dangerous beneath the King’s carefully maintained composure.

He threw himself into renewed devotion to Queen Camilla, his wife of two decades, seeking safety in the familiar. Yet the harder he tried to anchor himself to her, the more vividly James invaded his thoughts.

In January, wearing the royal Stewart tartan kilt for a visit to The Gate Charity in Scotland, Charles felt the wool tease his bare thighs with every step. James adjusted the microphone at his lapel, knuckles grazing the King’s wrist, deliberate and electric.

“That kilt becomes you, Your Majesty,” James murmured, voice pitched for Charles alone, eyes flicking downward with frank appreciation.

Charles felt the stir beneath the sporran, heat climbing his neck.

“One endeavours to honour tradition,” he replied, tone clipped, the perfect Eton and Sandhurst vowels, though a faint tremor betrayed him.

By February’s Slow Food and Slow Fashion Dinner at Highgrove, restraint frayed further. Charles, in black-tie, spoke of sustainability; James approached with a glass of wine, their fingers lingering in the hand-off.

“To your vision, sir,” James said, the word “vision” laced with suggestion, his lopsided smile igniting a pulse low in Charles’s belly.

In a shadowed corridor afterward, James’s palm settled briefly on the small of the King’s back, firm and possessive. Charles’s breath hitched.

“Good heavens, James, mind yourself,” he whispered, aristocratic reprimand undercut by raw longing.

The breaking point came after Commonwealth Day at Westminster Abbey. Charles stood regal in navy suit; Camilla elegant beside him in soft pink. James, stationed nearby, adjusted cufflinks with slow deliberation, gaze locking onto Charles’s with unmistakable heat. As the party exited, James’s hand brushed the King’s hip, fleeting and incendiary.

“You will be the ruin of me,” Charles muttered under his breath, voice thick, composure cracking.

In the Bentley returning to Clarence House, Charles took Camilla’s hand, voice urgent yet refined.

“My dearest,” he said, “I find myself in rather urgent need of you tonight.”

Camilla’s blue eyes narrowed, sparkling with surprise that quickly edged into suspicion.

“Goodness, Charles. Such sudden ardour. Whatever has brought this on? You’ve been distracted for weeks.” She studied him a moment longer, the practical Surrey pragmatism in her voice sharpening. “It isn’t like you to be quite so… insistent.”

He offered a reassuring smile, the royal mask automatic. “Only you, my love. The day has stirred old affections.”

She arched a brow but let the matter rest, for now.

At Clarence House, the moment the bedroom door closed, Charles pulled her into a fervent kiss, lips parting, tongues meeting in hungry exploration. He tasted the familiar rose-tinted warmth of her mouth mingled with the faint trace of evening sherry. His hands worked the zipper of her coat dress, fabric pooling at her feet and revealing her sturdy 5'8" frame. Camilla pressed against him as he unhooked her bra, freeing her soft, full breasts. They tumbled onto the bed. He kissed down her neck, nipping gently at the skin she always claimed was too sensitive, drawing a soft gasp.

“Charles… are you quite all right? This feels… different.” Suspicion lingered in her tone, but her body softened against him, the long habit of love winning out.

“Darling, I must have you,” he murmured, voice low and rough, regal composure fraying. “Please.”

She searched his face another heartbeat, then sighed, succumbing with a wry half-smile. “Well… if you’re that desperate, Your Majesty.”

Charles kissed his way down her body, parting her thighs. Her pussy, pink and glistening, framed by a neat triangle of gray-blonde curls, opened to him. He inhaled her musky, feminine scent, then pressed his mouth to her. Tongue flat, he licked a slow, deliberate stripe from her entrance to her clit, savouring the tangy-sweet taste. Camilla’s fingers threaded into his silver hair.

“Oh… Charles,” she breathed, suspicion melting into need, hips tilting upward.

He circled her clit with slow, wet flicks, then firmer pressure, before dipping lower to thrust his tongue inside her, fucking her with rhythmic, plunging strokes. Her juices coated his chin. Camilla moaned louder, thighs trembling.

“More, deeper, darling,” she urged, voice cracking.

Charles obliged, sliding two fingers into her slick heat and curling them to stroke the front wall while his lips sealed around her clit, sucking gently then harder. Her walls fluttered and clenched around his fingers. He groaned against her, the vibration sending her higher.

“God, don’t stop, don’t you dare stop,” she gasped, hips bucking, one hand clutching the headboard. “Right there, yes!”

Her orgasm crashed over her. Thighs clamped around his head, her pussy pulsed hard around his fingers, a sharp cry escaping that would have scandalised any footman within earshot. Charles lapped her through it, gentling his tongue until she shuddered and relaxed.

Rising, cock aching, seven inches flushed and slick at the tip, Charles crawled beside her. Camilla, still catching her breath, took him between her soft lips. She sucked slowly and deliberately, coating him with warm spit, tongue swirling the head, humming with familiar affection. Charles reached down, unbuttoned her remaining clothes and freed her breasts fully, cupping and squeezing the soft flesh, thumbs brushing her erect nipples.

When she released him with a wet pop, eyes dark with lust, they finished undressing each other. Camilla pushed Charles onto his back and climbed over him. She rubbed her wet pussy along the length of his cock, sliding her slick folds up and down the shaft without taking him inside. Charles groaned, gripping her hips, fighting not to spend at once.

Finally she lifted herself, positioned directly over him, and lowered onto his cockhead. She sank down slowly, taking him inch by inch into her tight, wet heat. Charles placed his hands on her arse cheeks, squeezing and pulling her down as he thrust upward, burying himself to the hilt.

“By Jove, Camilla,” he rasped, “you feel divine.”

She began to ride him, rising and falling, her breasts swaying. Charles met her thrusts, driving up into her. Even as pleasure built, James’s image flashed behind his eyes, the younger man’s strong hands, the imagined thickness of that cock, the bold stretch it would bring. The contrast only made him thrust harder.

Camilla’s eyes grew glassy. She shuddered through small, rolling climaxes, her pussy clenching rhythmically around him. “Take me, my king,” she moaned.

Still impaled inside her, Charles rolled them smoothly so he was on top. He thrust into her in one deep glide, groaning as her tight walls gripped him. The wet sounds of their joining filled the room, slick friction, skin meeting skin, her soft gasps and his low grunts.

“Harder, darling, please,” Camilla begged, nails raking his back.

Charles drove into her with deep, powerful strokes, angling to strike the spot that made her sob. Her pussy fluttered again. Another climax tore through her; she cried out, walls milking him in tight pulses. He continued pounding her, the wet squelching sounds loud in the room, her animal-like moans growing louder.

“Yeah, Charles!” she hissed into his ear. “Fuck me. Fuck me hard.”

He gave her exactly that, hips snapping, driving her into the mattress. Camilla’s eyes rolled back, another orgasm crashing through her as her pussy spasmed around his cock. She clawed at his arse, pulling him deeper.

Charles felt his own release nearing. He pulled out abruptly, kneeling between her spread thighs. He gripped his slick cock and stroked fast, moaning loudly as he watched her writhe beneath him. Thick ropes of cum erupted across her body, splashing over her breasts, belly, neck, and collarbones in a glistening pearl necklace that dripped slowly onto the triple strand of pearls she almost always wore. Some landed on her lips and chin. A final spurt hit her open mouth.

Camilla licked her lips, tasting the salty warmth, and moaned softly. Charles kept stroking through the last pulses, then leaned forward. She took his cock into her mouth, sucking the remnants clean with tender care, tongue swirling around the sensitive head until he trembled. With one hand she rubbed his cum into her skin, spreading it over her breasts and belly while she continued licking him.

They collapsed together, sweat-slick and trembling. Camilla nestled against his chest, fingers tracing the sparse silver hair there.

“My word, Charles,” she murmured, still faintly suspicious even in satisfaction. “What on earth brought that on?”

“Only you, my dearest,” he lied softly, the royal reflex flawless.

Camilla drifted off. Charles lay awake, staring at the ceiling. James’s face, those piercing eyes, that knowing smirk, lingered. He imagined the American’s strong hands pinning him down, that thick cock splitting him open, claiming him in ways Camilla’s gentle warmth never could. The craving was unbearable, intoxicating, shameful. His fingers hovered over his phone, tempted to text James, to summon him to some shadowed corner of Clarence House. Instead he set the device aside, the weight of duty and vows pressing heavier than ever against the persistent ache in his chest.

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

Why does Prince Edward remind me of the villain in Poltergeist. 😁