"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.
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.
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.”
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