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[evsmaduros]

[mdm62]

Mmmmm nice

[lozoyakilo]

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

[bigtastegay]

Check it out

Mature content

[suruatgip]

Cold war, hot war

[airmanbasic]

チンチン電車　動画はxにあるよ。

[thehouseofwindsor]

Charles III King of the United Kingdom

[daddybulgeloverrrrr]

[dadsinsuits]

G. W. Bailey

[strangepandaloverwagon]

[maturemenoftvandfilms]

Timothy M. Dolan Archbishop Emeritus of New York

Long time followers know of my lust for Cardinal Dolan here.

But seeing him wearing those socks makes me want him even more.

[thehouseofwindsor]

Philippe, King of the Belgians

Chapter One: A Royal Indiscretion

Featuring King Philippe of Belgium

The midday sun bathed Brussels’ cobblestone streets in a golden haze as Ethan Caldwell strolled into the city, his backpack heavy from weeks of travel. The air buzzed with the scent of fresh waffles and espresso, and the chatter from bustling cafés enveloped him. Bone-tired from a four-hour drive, Ethan’s eyes landed on La Tricoterie, a charming restaurant nestled in the industrial district. Its weathered sign and warm glow promised solace, so he stepped inside, the lively hum of voices washing over him.

At the bar, Ethan caught a ripple of excitement. Whispers revealed the cause: Philippe, King of the Belgians, was dining with a group of young activists. Ethan’s gaze locked on the regal figure; 6’2”, slim and athletic, with an elongated aristocratic face, high forehead, strong straight nose, warm blue eyes, and a well-defined jawline softened by a thin reserved smile. Fair skin showed moderate age lines; short, neatly side-parted silver-gray hair framed his features. Philippe’s gold wedding ring glinted on his left ring finger beside a sleek Rolex on his wrist. His Aramis cologne, rich and woody, drifted across the room as Ethan approached, drawn by an inexplicable pull.

“Your Majesty,” Ethan said, his voice betraying a nervous edge as he offered his hand. “I’m Ethan, just passing through from the States, backpacking my way through Europe.”

Philippe’s handshake was firm yet warm, his fingers lingering a fraction longer than protocol allowed.

“Call me Philippe,” he replied, voice smooth and thoughtful, the faint accent of his Belgian upbringing lending a quiet elegance. “A pleasure, Ethan. Are you here long?”

His blue eyes held Ethan’s with calm intensity, a dry spark of humor flickering.

“One does not often meet a traveler with such… unscripted curiosity.”

“A few days,” Ethan replied, heart racing. “Chasing whatever feels real, you know? New experiences, no itinerary.”

Philippe’s thin smile deepened, reserved but genuine. Ethan’s youthful energy and subtle confidence were magnetic, and the king, dutiful husband to Queen Mathilde for twenty-five years, father of four, resident of Laeken Palace, felt the rare stir of private inclination pulse beneath his composed exterior. After minutes of effortless, one-on-one banter, Philippe dryly noting the absurdities of royal protocol versus backpacker freedom, he excused himself from his group. “Ethan, I would be delighted to offer you a private tour of Laeken Castle. It is rare to meet someone who reminds one that life is not entirely scripted.”

Ethan’s breath caught. “That’s… wow, I’d be honored, Philippe.”

The king’s eyes twinkled with quiet warmth. “Then let us go.”

In the plush backseat of a black sedan speeding toward Laeken Castle, the air crackled with raw tension. Ethan stole glances at Philippe’s lean athletic frame, the light dusting of body hair visible at his collar. Their thighs pressed together; Philippe turned, his warm blue eyes darkening with need. Without a word he leaned in, lips meeting Ethan’s in a kiss that began reserved, almost courteous, then deepened with surprising hunger. Their tongues tangled slowly at first, Philippe’s tasting of espresso and restraint, before he nipped Ethan’s lower lip with precise, aristocratic control. A low, stifled moan escaped him.

“Ethan… you are quite exquisite,” Philippe murmured against his mouth, voice husky yet still composed, the slight stammer of nerves from public life absent here in private. His long fingers, adorned with the gold wedding ring, traced Ethan’s chest, then tugged open his jeans. He freed the younger man’s thick 7-inch cock, already rock-hard and curving upward, veins pulsing. Philippe wrapped his hand around the shaft with deliberate care, stroking slowly from base to tip, thumb circling the swollen head to spread the bead of precum.

“So warm… so eager.” Ethan groaned, hips twitching.

“Fuck, Philippe… your hand feels incredible.”

Philippe leaned down, silver-gray hair brushing Ethan’s thigh, and took him in. His mouth was velvet heat, lips stretching around the girth as his tongue swirled expertly around the head, flicking the sensitive frenulum before sliding down the veined length. He sucked with focused, immersive devotion, hollowing his cheeks, throat constricting gently as he bobbed deeper, saliva coating every inch. The wet, rhythmic sounds filled the car: soft gags, slick slurps, the faint click of his Rolex against Ethan’s hip. Philippe cupped the heavy balls, rolling them tenderly, thumb pressing the sensitive seam. For ten minutes, as Brussels blurred past the tinted windows, the King of the Belgians worshipped Ethan’s cock with quiet, fervent intensity, eyes half-lidded in pleasure.

As the castle gates appeared, Philippe pulled off with a wet pop, lips swollen and glistening, a thin string of saliva connecting them.

“We have arrived,” he said softly, voice roughened but still thoughtful.

Ethan tucked himself away, aching, as they stepped out. Philippe’s hand brushed the small of Ethan’s back, guiding him through a shadowed hallway to a secluded bedroom. The heavy door locked with a click. Ethan shoved Philippe against it, their mouths colliding again, deeper, more urgent. Philippe’s moans were low and raw, almost submissive, as Ethan’s tongue fucked into his mouth, tasting the faint salt of his own precum.

“Top or bottom?” Ethan growled, nipping the king’s jaw.

“Bottom,” Philippe panted, cheeks flushed, warm blue eyes glassy with want. “If you would… please fuck me, Ethan. I need it.”

They tore at each other’s clothes. Philippe’s slim athletic body was revealed: fair skin with moderate age lines, light body hair dusting his chest and trailing down to frame his uncut 6.5-inch cock, pale shaft, average girth, hooded foreskin now retracted to reveal the rounded pink head glistening with precum. Graying pubic hair surrounded it; average balls hung low. His flat, unremarkable ass flexed as he moved. Ethan dropped to his knees, inhaling the musky, Aramis-laced scent before sucking the king’s cock into his mouth. He swirled his tongue around the sensitive glans, gently tugging the foreskin with his lips, then took him deep, hollowing his cheeks with firm suction.

Philippe’s fingers gripped Ethan’s hair, hips jerking with restrained urgency.

“Mon Dieu… Ethan, your mouth is… ah… extraordinary,” he gasped, voice trembling yet still refined. Within seconds his cock pulsed; thick, sharp-tasting spurts flooded Ethan’s throat. Ethan swallowed every drop, milking the shaft until it softened, licking the last beads from the hooded foreskin.

“Jesus, you’re sensitive,” Ethan teased, grinning up at him.

Philippe’s thin reserved smile returned, breathless.

“One does not often receive such… enthusiastic attention.” He collapsed onto the bed, rolling onto his stomach, arching his pale ass invitingly.

Ethan spread the cheeks, exposing the tight pink hole nestled in light silver hair. He dove in, tongue lapping slow, deliberate circles around the puckered rim, savoring the clean, intimate taste. Philippe shuddered, burying his face in the sheets.

“Mon Dieu, don’t stop… that feels so fucking good.”

Ethan’s tongue probed deeper, pushing inside the silky heat, swirling and thrusting in wet, obscene strokes. He sucked gently at the rim, drawing whimpers from the king, whose hips ground helplessly against the mattress, cock hardening again beneath him. Ethan slid one finger in, then two, curling them to stroke the prostate with firm, rhythmic pressure. Philippe’s moans turned desperate yet still articulate: “Yes… there, Ethan… please, more.”

A third finger joined, stretching him wide; the king’s hole glistened with spit, clenching greedily.

“You’re so fucking ready,” Ethan murmured, withdrawing to slick his own cock with precum.

He mounted Philippe, guiding the thick head to the eager entrance. With a slow, deliberate thrust he sank in, the tight velvety heat gripping him like a vice. Philippe groaned deeply, hands fisting the sheets, back arching as Ethan bottomed out, balls pressed flush against the royal ass.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” Ethan growled, beginning a slow rhythm, each drag pulling against sensitive walls.

“Harder… if you please,” Philippe panted, voice muffled but commanding in its quiet need. “Wreck me, Ethan.”

Ethan gripped the lean hips, slamming forward; the wet slap of skin on skin echoed. He leaned down, kissing the sweat-slick neck, Aramis mingling with raw sex. He sucked the earlobe, biting gently. Then he rolled Philippe onto his back, pausing to admire the flushed aristocratic face, warm blue eyes glazed with lust, silver-gray hair disheveled. Ethan sucked the leaking pink head briefly, savoring the salty precum, then kissed up the chest, tonguing the nipples until they pebbled.

“You’re so fucking hot,” Ethan said, locking eyes. He lifted Philippe’s legs wide, sliding back into the now-gaping hole with effortless slickness. He fucked him missionary-style, cock pistoning deep, grazing the prostate on every thrust. Philippe’s hand flew to his own cock, stroking frantically, long, practiced pulls that matched Ethan’s rhythm, the wet schlick of foreskin sliding over the head filling the room.

“Oh, putain, c’est ça,” Philippe moaned, French slipping out in slurred pleasure. “Fuck me harder, Ethan… just like that.”

His free hand pinched his own nipple, twisting, while his ass clenched rhythmically around the invading cock. Sweat beaded on his fair skin; his flat ass rippled with each powerful thrust. Ethan pounded deeper, balls slapping loudly, watching the king unravel, face contorted in ecstasy, thin reserved smile long gone, replaced by open-mouthed bliss.

“I’m gonna cum,” Ethan warned, cock swelling.

With a guttural groan he buried himself deep, hot spurts flooding Philippe’s insides, painting his walls. The sensation tipped Philippe over; his hand flew faster on his shaft as thick ropes of cum sprayed across his chest and abs, splattering Ethan’s chin.

“Putain, oui!” he cried, pulling Ethan into a sloppy, cum-slicked kiss, tongues battling as their bodies trembled.

They collapsed, panting, the room thick with sweat, cum, and Aramis. Philippe’s hole twitched, leaking Ethan’s load onto the sheets. As breaths slowed, Ethan traced the gold wedding ring.

“I’ve never… not like this,” Philippe whispered, voice raw but thoughtful. “Thank you… for the indiscretion.”

Ethan grinned, body still buzzing. “My pleasure, Your Majesty.”

Disclaimer: This narrative is entirely fictional, satirical, and erotic fantasy. It does not reflect any verified events, actions, or inclinations of Philippe or any person named Ethan Caldwell. It is invented for entertainment purposes only.

[maturemenoftvandfilms]

A Conversation with Cardinal Dolan

CHAPTER THREE: The Sinful Scoop

Featuring the Archbishop of New York, Cardinal Timothy Dolan

The sacristy of St. Patrick’s Cathedral hummed with the lingering scent of frankincense and beeswax, the air thick with the weight of sacred ritual. Cardinal Timothy Dolan, his black clerical suit crisp, the silver pectoral cross glinting against his broad chest, was shrugging out of his chasuble after evening Mass. At 74, his 6’3” frame carried a stocky heft, softened by a slight paunch that jiggled faintly as he moved. His thinning gray hair was neatly combed, framing twinkling blue eyes and a jovial smile that could charm a congregation or a skeptic. His deep bass voice, warm as a sip of Jameson’s, filled the room with an effortless authority.

Father Stephen Ries, his 45-year-old priest-secretary with a boyish face and nervous energy, fussed over the chalices, his cheeks pink as he stole glances at the scene unfolding. Thomas “Tom” Reilly, a 28-year-old journalist from the New York Post, leaned against the sacristy’s oak doorway, his 5’11” lean, athletic frame sharp in a tailored navy suit. His blonde hair, combed back neatly for the occasion, gleamed under the dim light, and his blue-green eyes sparkled with a mix of curiosity and mischief. His notebook, ostensibly for an interview about a charity gala, dangled loosely in his hand, a flimsy excuse for his presence.

“Tom, my boy, you’re early!” Dolan boomed, his voice carrying a surprising machismo that made Stephen fumble a chalice. “What’s the rush? Hoping to catch me in my skivvies?”

He winked, his belly laugh rumbling like distant thunder.

Tom’s lips curled into a smirk, his eyes flicking to Dolan’s white Roman collar, stark against the black clericals. “Couldn’t wait to get the real story, Your Eminence. Didn’t expect you so… relaxed.”

Dolan’s eyes locked on Tom’s lips, a hungry glint flashing across his ruddy face.

“Relaxed? Kid, I’m Ascot’s the patron saint of comfort, and I’m the cardinal of cozy!” He chuckled, adjusting his bishop’s ring, the gold catching the light. “Stephen, we’re taking this interview to my chambers. Make sure we’re left alone—no shepherds disturbing this flock, eh?”

Stephen’s jaw tightened, his baby-face flushing deeper, but he nodded, scurrying off as Dolan gestured Tom toward a discreet staircase. The walk to his private chambers was a gauntlet of dodging parishioners and nodding at staff, Dolan’s large hand grazing Tom’s lower back, a possessive edge to his touch.

“Damn, kid, you do work out,” he muttered, squeezing Tom’s taut shoulder, his fingers lingering on the journalist’s bicep as he steered him into a dimly lit hallway. The heavy oak door to his bedroom clicked shut, and Dolan’s grin widened, his blue eyes dark with intent. “You’ve been sniffing around my story for weeks, Reilly. Time to get the unfiltered scoop.”

Tom didn’t hesitate, closing the gap and crashing his lips against Dolan’s, his tongue plunging into the cardinal’s mouth with a hungry edge. Dolan moaned, a low, desperate sound that vibrated through his stocky frame, the Archbishop of New York reduced to a trembling mess. His thick tongue lapped at Tom’s, greedy and sloppy, like a man starved for communion. His calloused hands tore at Tom’s suit, buttons popping as he ripped open the shirt to reveal a lean, toned chest, nipples tightening in the cool air. Dolan’s fingers fumbled with Tom’s zipper, diving into his briefs to wrap around his 7.5-inch cock, the shaft hot, thick, and pulsing with a slight upward curve. His thumb smeared precum over the smooth, sensitive head, teasing the slit with a rough twist that made Tom’s hips buck.

“Lord have mercy, you’re packing more than a front-page headline,” Dolan quipped, his voice a mix of awe and self-deprecating humor.

Dropping to his knees on a plush chair, Dolan’s eyes widened at the sight of Tom’s cock, the bulbous head glistening.

“Well, bless me, Father, this is a divine revelation,” he said, his lips trembling as they brushed the warm tip.

The cardinal’s experience was evident—decades of clandestine encounters had honed his skill. His mouth engulfed Tom’s cock in one fluid motion, lips wrapping tight around the thick shaft, his nose buried in blonde pubes as he deep-throated with practiced ease. Tom groaned, fingers tangling in Dolan’s thinning hair as the cardinal’s tongue swirled, cheeks hollowing with each fervent suck. Saliva dripped down Dolan’s chin, his eyes watering as he gagged, throat clenching around the sensitive head. He bobbed with a sloppy, feral intensity, one hand kneading Tom’s medium-sized balls, the other stroking the base, spit and precum slicking his lips in a glistening mess.

With a wet, obscene pop, Dolan pulled off, a thick string of saliva and precum dangling from his swollen lips to Tom’s throbbing cockhead.

“Holy smokes, kid, you’re a tougher assignment than a Vatican audit,” he panted, his jovial face flushed with need. “I want you to fuck me, Tom. Give this old sinner what he deserves.”

Tom’s blue-green eyes flickered with hesitation, then darkened with lust.

“As you wish, Your Eminence,” he growled, voice low and commanding.

Dolan stood, shrugging off his clerical jacket, the silver cross swinging as he let his pants drop, revealing his 6.5-inch cut cock, the light shaft and pink, bulbous head twitching beneath a slightly sagging sack. Bracing himself on the bed, his thick, pale ass framed by bunched fabric, the white collar a stark contrast to his exposed vulnerability. Tom knelt behind him, spreading Dolan’s cheeks to reveal a tight, puckered hole dusted with gray hair. He spat, the saliva landing with a wet gleam, then leaned in, his tongue lashing out in a slow, deliberate stripe across the sensitive ring. Dolan jolted, gasping, “Holy Mary, Mother of God, that’s a new kind of absolution!” as Tom’s tongue circled the rim, teasing the twitching muscle before diving inside.

The musky, earthy heat was intoxicating. Tom’s tongue probed deep, lapping at the quivering walls, alternating between languid licks and sharp, stabbing thrusts. Dolan’s groans echoed, his robust frame shuddering as Tom’s hands gripped his hips, pulling him back onto his face. He sucked the rim, then darted his tongue in again, feeling the muscle loosen, slick and warm. Dolan’s heavy balls twitched, precum dripping in thick strands onto the bed, his 6.5-inch cock bobbing with every flick.

“Lord, forgive us, but don’t stop!” Dolan panted, grinding back, his voice raw with desperation.

Tom pulled back, spitting on his fingers and pressing one against Dolan’s entrance, the tight ring yielding to the slick intrusion. The heat clenched, then relaxed as he worked the finger in and out, curling to graze the cardinal’s prostate. Dolan’s cock jerked, leaking more precum as Tom added a second finger, scissoring to stretch him wider, his other hand stroking Dolan’s shaft, thumbing the slick head in rhythm with his thrusts.

“You’re tighter than a parish budget, Cardinal,” Tom teased, his voice a low growl.

Standing, Tom kicked off his trousers, his 7.5-inch cock rigid, veins bulging, the head slick and flushed. He spat again, the glob landing on Dolan’s puckered hole, then lined up, the tip nudging the slick rim. He pushed in slowly, the velvet heat gripping him like a vise, inch by agonizing inch. Dolan gasped, hands clawing the sheets, his gold episcopal ring glinting as his body stretched to take Tom’s full length. Tom paused, balls pressed against Dolan’s ass, feeling the pulsing heat.

“You’re taking this like a saint, Your Eminence,” he murmured.

Dolan pushed back, grinding onto Tom’s cock with a needy groan. “Don’t tease an old man, kid—give me the full homily!” he begged, his humor cutting through the raw need. Tom grinned, pulling out until just the head remained, then slammed back in, setting a brutal pace. The room filled with the sharp slap of skin on skin, mingling with Dolan’s booming, “Bless me, Father, for I’m loving this sin!” as Tom pounded harder, each thrust hammering the cardinal’s prostate. Sweat beaded on Tom’s lean frame, his hands leaving red marks on Dolan’s hips. He reached around, stroking Dolan’s cock, the shaft throbbing, slick with precum, balls slapping against his wrist. The contrast of Dolan’s black clerical shirt, white collar, and pale, broad ass—still framed by black socks—was a sight Tom savored.

“You’re eating this up like Sunday brunch, aren’t you?” Tom snarled, nipping Dolan’s earlobe. Dolan nodded, his jovial face twisted in ecstasy, mouth open in a stream of moans.

Tom’s thrusts grew erratic, his balls tightening as his climax neared.

“Gonna fill you up, Father,” he warned, voice strained.

“Yes, my son—baptize me!” Dolan cried, his cock erupting without warning, thick ropes of cum spraying across the bed, splattering his cassock, his body convulsing in waves of pleasure.

The sight sent Tom over the edge. He buried himself deep, cock pulsing as he unloaded, hot cum flooding Dolan’s ass in powerful spurts, the heat overwhelming. His hips jerked, milking every drop, until he collapsed against Dolan’s back, both men panting, slick with sweat.

Tom pulled out slowly, watching his thick, white cum leak from Dolan’s stretched, reddened hole, dripping down his balls onto the bed. He helped Dolan stand, the cardinal’s collar askew, his face a mix of shame and sated bliss, the silver cross swaying against his heaving chest. They fucked well into the evening, the room heavy with the scent of sex and cigar smoke, until Tom finally dressed, his blue-green eyes locking onto Dolan’s with a silent promise.

“Next week, Your Eminence?” Tom asked, his smirk sharp as a headline.

Dolan’s belly laugh boomed, warm and sonorous, his ruddy cheeks glowing.

“You’re a devil, Thomas Reilly, but I’ll be waiting—same time, same pew!”

He winked, adjusting his collar with a chuckle, already reaching for his Jameson’s.

[nelson1971sblog]

[men4mepleasure]

[sammi198123456]

Dai un'occhiata

[bum-tikka]

Tom Corbett

[praisealmightygod]

[cigarfetishnyc]

Robert Young

[thehouseofwindsor]

Charles III King of the United Kingdom

King Charles III during a visit to Eastbrook Studios, to meet students taking part in Film Barking & Dagenham's Make It Here Learning and Participation programme, on February 18, 2026 in Dagenham, England.

On A Side Note: I've been noticing this security guard of late. Got me wondering if Charles likes a little India from time to time.

What? I'm gonna wonder.