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@lyneham1
The Trade Secretary's Indiscretion
Featuring Sir Liam Fox
In the sweltering July of 2017, Sir Liam Fox, then serving as Secretary of State for International Trade, found himself in the thick of a political season. Yet, his thoughts were far from trade agreements as he met Thomas Jones, a 31-year-old lobbyist whose towering 6'1" frame and stocky, athletic build reminded him of none other than his former best man and flat mate, Adam Werritty.
The rendezvous was set under the guise of discussing policy, but the real agenda was clear from the moment Thomas’s deep blue eyes met Liam's. After a brief, formal exchange at a public venue, they retreated to Liam's London flat, a place kept secret from his wife, Dr. Jesme Baird, intended for the solitude of a 'second home' funded by the taxpayer.
Once inside, the atmosphere shifted palpably. Clothes were shed with urgency, littering the floor like autumn leaves. Naked on the bed, their bodies contrasted sharply; Liam, at 5'8" with an average build, next to Thomas's more imposing figure.
Thomas took his time, his mouth exploring every inch of Liam’s body before settling on his lips. Their kiss was slow, deep, and languid, tongues mingling in a dance that mirrored the rhythm of their hips. Thomas's hands roamed, one cupping Liam's cheek while the other slid down to grasp his ass, kneading the flesh with a possessive grip.
They moved from kisses to more; Thomas’s mouth found Liam’s, engaging in a fervent exchange of oral pleasure until both were panting for more.
Fox, now lost in the throes of a taboo desire, felt the sweat bead down his back as Thomas Jones, his muscular frame a stark contrast to Liam's more modest build, maneuvered him onto all fours. The scent of arousal was thick between them, a heady mix of musk and cologne, as Thomas positioned himself at Liam's entrance, his hard length throbbing with need. He paused, taking in the sight of Liam's ass, the skin smooth and inviting. With a firm grip on Liam's hips, Thomas slapped one cheek, watching it jiggle slightly, asserting dominance in this clandestine affair.
Thomas paused, his cock pressing against Liam, teasing the entrance with gentle, circular motions. Liam moaned, his body trembling in anticipation. With a slow, deliberate thrust, Thomas entered him, and Liam felt every inch. The sensation was overwhelming, a combination of fullness and friction that made his toes curl.
"Fuck, you're tight," Thomas growled, his voice low and husky, as he began to move, each thrust causing Liam to moan, the sound echoing off the walls of the flat.
Thomas moved with a pace that was almost torturous in its slowness, each thrust drawn out to savor the feel of Liam's heat around him. Thomas's hand reached around, finding Liam’s cock, hard and leaking, and began to stroke him in time with his thrusts. For the next twenty minutes, Thomas took Liam with a fervor that left no room for gentleness. The rhythm was primal, animalistic. Thomas's balls slapped against Liam with each deep penetration, the sound obscene in the quiet of the room. Thomas's whispers were like velvet, "You feel so good, Liam," his breath hot against Liam’s ear, sending shivers down his spine.
He pulled Liam back onto him, ensuring he felt every inch, every vein of Thomas's cock. Liam, overwhelmed by the sensations, pushed back, meeting Thomas thrust for thrust, their bodies slick with sweat and desire.
"Harder," Liam gasped, his voice a mix of command and plea. Thomas complied, his movements becoming more forceful, his other hand now reaching around to tweak Liam’s nipples, adding another layer of sensation.
The sound of their bodies colliding filled the room, punctuated by Liam's cries and Thomas's grunts.
Suddenly, Thomas flipped Liam over, wanting to see his face contorted in pleasure. He entered Liam again, missionary style, watching as Liam's eyes rolled back when Thomas hit that sweet spot inside him.
Liam’s legs were splayed wide, his feet hooked over Thomas's back, pulling him closer, deeper. The pace gradually intensified, but the sensuality never waned. Thomas’s hand found Liam’s cock, stroking it in time with his thrusts, his thumb spreading the beads of precum over the head. Liam was lost in the sensation, his body an instrument played by Thomas's expert touch.
Thomas leaned down, capturing Liam's lips in a bruising kiss, their tongues clashing as he fucked him with abandon. As Thomas rocked into him, his lips found Liam's neck, kissing, sucking, leaving marks that spoke of their secret. Liam's hands roamed Thomas's back, nails leaving red trails, urging him deeper. Their bodies moved in sync, a slow, sensual dance of push and pull, the sound of wet skin against skin a symphony in the quiet room. As Thomas neared his climax, Liam, caught in the throes of ecstasy, begged for more, his legs spread wide, inviting Thomas deeper.
As Liam's orgasm built, his prostate being relentlessly stimulated, he felt his balls tighten. His cock, with pre-cum dripping down its length, was a testament to his arousal. Thomas, sensing the urgency, intensified his thrusts, angling to hit that spot inside Liam that would send him over the edge.
With a loud cry, Liam called out, "Adam!" in the heat of passion, his body convulsing as he came, painting his chest and stomach with his seed, the sheets gripped tight in his fists.
The intense contractions of Liam's climax around Thomas's cock were too much. With one final, deep thrust, Thomas released, filling Liam with his own heat, his grunts a clear testament to his release, ensuring Liam knew he was being claimed in this moment of vulnerability.
"Take it all," he hissed, his body shuddering with the aftershocks of his release.
As they lay there, the aftermath of their actions settling around them like dust, the reality of their choices began to seep in, mingling with the sweat and the scent of sex in the air of that secretive, taxpayer-funded flat.
This narrative is purely fictional, crafted for entertainment purposes, and does not reflect any real events, personalities, or their actions.
"King of the Netherlands"
Chapter One: The King's Secret Service
Featuring King Willem-Alexander of the Netherlands
The late afternoon sun filtered through the heavy drapes of King Willem-Alexander’s office in Noordeinde Palace, casting golden streaks across the polished oak desk. At 57, the king carried the weight of his years with a solid, sturdy physique—6’2” of mature, robust muscle softened by a stockier frame. His graying light brown hair was swept neatly to the side, and his trimmed beard lent him a distinguished air. Dressed in a tailored navy suit, he sat hunched over a stack of correspondence, but his mind was far from the mundane duties of state. His blue eyes, sharp yet weary, flickered toward the door.
Queen Máxima had been distant for months, consumed by her own obligations. Their three daughters were nearly grown, leaving the palace quieter than ever. The absence of intimacy gnawed at him. Willem-Alexander, a man of vigor—once an avid pilot and sportsman—felt his erotic passions simmering beneath the surface, unfulfilled. And then there was Bram Smit.
Bram entered silently, as he always did, a tray of coffee in his hands. At 34, the royal servant was a vision of understated elegance—6 feet tall, lean and athletic, with sandy blond hair parted neatly and hazel eyes that caught the light like polished amber. His faint tan and freckled cheekbones spoke of summers by the sea, and his tailored black uniform hugged his frame just enough to hint at the strength beneath. He set the tray down with practiced grace, the faint clink of porcelain breaking the silence.
“Your coffee, Your Majesty,” Bram said, his voice smooth and low, tinged with the soft cadence of his Scheveningen upbringing. “Black, with a touch of cinnamon, as you like it.”
Willem-Alexander leaned back in his chair, studying him. He’d noticed Bram before—how could he not? The servant’s quiet dignity, his sly smiles, the rumors of a florist in Amsterdam. The king had heard whispers of Bram’s sexuality, and curiosity had morphed into something hungrier over weeks of stolen glances. Today, with the palace unusually still and Máxima away, that hunger felt impossible to ignore.
“Thank you, Bram,” Willem-Alexander replied, his Dutch accent rich and deliberate. He hesitated, then added, “Stay a moment. Close the door.”
Bram’s hazel eyes flickered with surprise, but he obeyed, shutting the heavy door with a soft thud. He turned back, hands clasped behind him, waiting. The air thickened with unspoken tension.
“You’ve been here—what, ten years now?” the king asked, rising from his chair. His broad shoulders filled the room as he stepped closer, his 7-inch uncut cock stirring faintly beneath his trousers.
“Nearly, Your Majesty,” Bram said, his tone steady but his gaze dipping briefly to the king’s chest before meeting his eyes again. “Since 2015.”
Willem-Alexander stopped a foot away, close enough to catch the faint scent of Bram’s cologne—something crisp, like sea air and cedar.
“And in all that time,” he murmured, “I’ve never asked about you. That florist in Amsterdam—true or not?”
Bram’s lips curved into that sly smile, a spark of mischief in his eyes. “A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell, sire.”
The king chuckled, a low rumble in his chest. “And I’m no gentleman today.” He reached out, his large hand brushing Bram’s jaw, testing the waters. Bram didn’t flinch—his breath hitched, but he leaned into the touch, a silent invitation.
Before either could second-guess it, Willem-Alexander closed the gap, his lips crashing against Bram’s with a desperate edge. Bram responded eagerly, his lean frame pressing into the king’s sturdier one. Hands roamed—Willem-Alexander’s thick fingers gripped Bram’s hips, while Bram’s slid up the king’s chest, tugging at his tie.
They stumbled toward the desk, papers scattering as Bram sank to his knees. He unbuckled Willem-Alexander’s trousers with deft fingers, freeing the king’s 7-inch uncut cock—thick, veined, and already half-hard. Bram’s hazel eyes flicked up, locking with the king’s as he murmured, “May I, sire?”
“Do it,” Willem-Alexander growled, voice rough with need.
Bram’s lips parted, and he took the king into his mouth, slow at first, savoring the weight of him. His tongue swirled around the foreskin, teasing the sensitive tip before sliding deeper. Willem-Alexander groaned, one hand gripping the desk’s edge, the other tangling in Bram’s sandy blond hair. The wet heat of Bram’s mouth was exquisite—his lips stretched around the king’s girth, his throat relaxing to take more. He sucked with a rhythm that spoke of skill, hollowing his cheeks, then pulling back to lap at the precum beading at the slit.
“Godverdomme,” Willem-Alexander muttered, his Dutch slipping out in a husky curse. “You’re too good at this.”
Bram hummed around him, the vibration sending a jolt through the king’s body. He worked faster, one hand stroking the base while the other cupped Willem-Alexander’s heavy balls, rolling them gently. The king’s hips bucked, chasing the pleasure,
until he felt the pressure building, his balls tightening as Bram’s throat relaxed, taking him deeper still.
With a guttural moan, the king came hard, his thick cock pulsing as he spilled into Bram’s mouth. The servant didn’t flinch, swallowing every drop of the royal cum, his throat working rhythmically until the king was spent.
Panting, Willem-Alexander looked down at Bram, who wiped his lips with the back of his hand and rose to his feet, a faint blush on his cheeks.
“Was that to your satisfaction, Your Majesty?” Bram asked, his voice steady despite the heat in his eyes. The king chuckled, adjusting himself back into his trousers.
“More than satisfactory,” he said, then paused, a spark of curiosity igniting within him. “But now… I want to try something.”
His gaze dropped to the bulge straining against Bram’s trousers.
“Let me suck you.”
Bram blinked, startled. “Sir, you don’t have to—”
“I want to,” Willem-Alexander interrupted, his tone firm. He stepped forward, nudging Bram back until the assistant’s hips hit the edge of the desk. With a mix of nerves and determination, the king sank to his knees—a rare reversal of power—and fumbled with Bram’s belt. His hands, more accustomed to piloting planes than this, trembled slightly as he freed Bram’s slender 8-inch cock, the pale shaft already leaking at the tip.
Willem-Alexander hesitated, then leaned in, his beard brushing Bram’s thighs as he took the head into his mouth. The taste was sharp and salty, unfamiliar but thrilling. He bobbed awkwardly at first, his lips stretching around the length, his tongue tentative. Bram gasped, his hands gripping the desk’s edge.
“Your Majesty… oh, God…”
Encouraged, Willem-Alexander tried to take more, gagging as the tip hit the back of his throat. He pulled back, coughing, then dove in again, his inexperience evident but his enthusiasm undeniable.
“Tell me what to do,” he mumbled around the cock, his voice muffled.
“Just… keep going,” Bram panted, his green eyes half-lidded. “Suck harder.”
Willem-Alexander obeyed, hollowing his cheeks and bobbing faster, his gag reflex protesting as he pushed himself. Saliva dribbled down his chin, matting his beard, but he didn’t care. Bram’s moans grew louder, his hips twitching.
“Sir, I’m close,” he warned, his voice tight. “You don’t have to—”
The king’s hands clamped onto Bram’s hips, holding him in place as he sucked harder, spurred on by the warning. Bram groaned, his slender cock throbbing as he came, hot spurts flooding Willem-Alexander’s throat. The king choked slightly, unprepared for the volume, but he swallowed what he could, the rest dripping down his chin as he pulled back, breathless.
Bram sagged against the desk, his chest heaving.
“I… I didn’t expect that,” he admitted, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips.
Willem-Alexander wiped his mouth with a handkerchief, rising to his feet with a grin. “Neither did I,” he said, his voice hoarse but satisfied. “But I think we’ll keep this between us, yes?”
Bram nodded, still catching his breath. “For the crown, sir. Always.”
The king clapped him on the shoulder, a spark of mischief in his graying eyes. “Good man. Now, let’s get back to my coffee.”
Oh Dad
Wet Bulls
Big Monday... A celebration of big bellies and hairy bodies