Thanks for all your comments following the first part of this story which hopes to capture something of the brotherly love I like to think once sustained the life of the two princes -- but which is entirely fictional. Do write with any suggestions or tangents you'd like to be explored...and keep giving generously to Nifty so sustain this website.
`What the fuck are you doing here?', I asked.
Harry only turned up when it suited their media narrative and Pa's illness was probably the ideal next episode in the Netflix horrow show that was the Sussex charabanc.
I hadn't seen him since the Coronation and, as he stood in the morning light in the drawing room, you could see the effect of California upon him. Tense, yes, but handsomely tanned. While his hair had thinned out bit, he still cut a fine figure of a man: he'd clearly been working out and his suit trousers emphasized his enlarged quads, his arse tightly wrapped by the tailored fabric and, unmistakeably, the length of his cock visible down his leg.
God, however much the boy enraged me, I couldn't tell you how much I missed that eight-inch schlong. Uncut (unlike me), Harry produced pre like it was on tap and could produce enough cum for it to be bottled. The taste of him had always been fucking sensational -- God, how I missed it. While I'd pondered mucking about with other friends (I'd fucked Hughie Grosvenor in my twenties several times), I hadn't risked taking a cock since Harry had left. The family was fragile enough and, besides, fatherhood had its own demands alongside my heavy duties now as heir. It was hard to let my eyes leave the sight of it clearly visible down his right leg. Was he even wearing underwear? Was that in fact a semi?
I remembered the last time we had fucked in late 2015. He'd just come back from the States looking insanely shaggable, his new beard strangely driving me wild; I'd even wanked over the pictures of him at the Invictus games, imagining ripping off those trousers in his hotel room afterwards, my tongue deep in between his cheeks strapped by that new jock I had bought him before he left. He'd sent a photo of them just before he had left the White House, the fabric smeared in his jizz, with a message simply saying `Thinking of you'. Since the eve of my wedding, which I'd intended to be our last time together, we'd actually started fucking almost every other week, or whenever we could find some discreet time together (not easy in palaces). Sometimes it would just be as swift as sucking him off in a palace lavatory or, as on the day of the Diamond Jubilee concert, railing him in a broom cupboard until I filled his arse - my length deep inside him - with a champagne-fuelled explosion of jizz that leaked out of him for the rest of the day. What had been I suppose a teenage inability to control our cocks had, however, become something else in those years before Meghan. Despite my marriage, I loved him more than I could say and, I believe, he loved me. I don't know if Kate ever really knew the depth of our relationship, though she had queried the cum encrusted in my chest hair the occasion I'd returned from a day fishing with him; trying to explain to her why I would have been masturbating with gusto by the river Test was not exactly straightforward.
It was that weekend we managed away at Highgrove late in October 2015 though when it had changed. I had stepped out of the shower into my room to find him lying on my bed, fresh from a run: dripping and wearing just his compression shorts and his cock and balls almost transparent through the sweat that surrounded his groin. I had moved steadily across the room taking in the sight of my brother's tightly toned body (he'd recently recovered the six pack he'd had in the army), a grin on my face at this entrancing sight.
`Missed me?', he'd said.
`Like you wouldn't believe', I said, as -- dropping my towel, my cock rising swiftly -- I knelt down, pushed back his legs and just buried my face into his crack, inhaling deeply to absorb the aroma of his sweaty balls and cunt mixing with the fabric. He threw back his head laughing; he knew how I went weak before this and how much I adored his sweat. Hungrily, my tongue slowly worked its way across the fabric to his crack, moving up around his balls, and his now engorged cock. He began to moan, a sure sign that he'd soon be producing his abundant precum which, sure enough, began to seep through the fabric as my tongue moved around the bulbous head, our eyes now fixed on each other as I did so.
Fuck, bro', he'd moaned, you have a fucking gift for this'.
I had pulled back the UnderArmour band of his shorts and his cock sprang up into my face, almost spattering me with pre, and flaring with hunger for my tongue to keep working upon it.
I held it in my hand, and slapped it against my cheek, the hot feel of it sensational upon my face.
Good boy', I'd teasingly said, did you miss your big brother's mouth around your cock in America?'
Fuck, yes', he said, now looking desperately at me as my lips glided around his head, the viscous precum smearing them as I did so and sending him wild. Fuck, that feels incredible', he'd said. I looked into his eyes, my mouth covered in it, and manoeuvred myself properly onto the bed to engage him then in a deep kiss -- his precum almost frothing between our lips. As we kissed deeply, our tongues ranging around each other's mouths with reckless fervour, I positioned his cock at my hole to feel the sensation of its slobbering head against my cunt.
We both moaned at the feeling. I'd allowed him to fuck me for the first time several years earlier but hadn't ventured to offer my hole for quite a while by that point. His own lube was irresistible, however, and I pushed back against it, letting his rock-hard rod push up against me as -- slowly -- my hole made way for him. I breathed in deeply, the feeling of his incredible girth stretching my fresh hole and wondering whether I should have grabbed some more lube. I closed my eyes, my whole body feeling like it was absorbing my brother's length -- I'd almost forgotten how overwhelming he felt in me. As I took in almost all of it and opened my eyes, almost breathless, and with my own cock rigid and my massive balls resting against his lower abdomen. He was looking at me with a kind of awe, his mouth half open, and his eyes watery as he said, almost inaudibly, `I love you, Wills'.
`I love you too, Harold', I'd replied quietly, the feeling of him deep inside me bringing its own physical truth to our words. I slowly began to lift myself up and then down again, trying to take in all of him and feeling the strange, ecstatic, mixture of pain and pleasure as I slowly began to absorb all of him. I could hear his precum as I did so assisting me, all the while our eyes locked together as I began to move more quickly. I reached out my right hand upon his sweat-drenched pecs, dragging them down across his rack, his hair trailing beautifully down to where my own cock was slapping against his abdomen as I began to move more swiftly -- occasionally having to reinsert him as I built up the pace and his cock sliding deliciously now into my hole. He put his own arms behind his head, revealing his sweaty pits as he took in the sight of me riding him. I can almost still feel it now (and have tried to feel it since artificially) -- perhaps the most intense pleasure I've ever known: the man I loved more than anything or anyone in the world, my own little brother, pummelling my guts that afternoon. As I played with my own left nipple as I built up pace, the sound of my arse and cock slapping against his sweaty groin and abdomen, Harry began to breathe more quickly, moaning, swearing, his head finding its own satisfaction against my prostate.
Fuck Wills, you're so good. God, your fucking balls, yes!', he uttered, clearly delighted by my freshly shaven, heavy balls noisily slapping against the side of his cock. Ugh, ugh, fuck don't stop, yes', he cried as I built up the rhythm -- sweat now dripping abundantly from me onto him the more quickly I moved, whimpering as I did so. The feeling of him punishing my prostate was unbelievable and intense beyond recognition (had it ever felt so good?) and I could feel a growing sensation building deep within me as I carried on riding him like some kind of fucking banshee.
`Oh God, Wills, I'm gunna lose it -- ugh, yes -- please don't, yes --
And, simultaneously, in what afterwards I reflected felt almost like some kind of mystical union, his length drove me over the edge as he now released himself into me in a thrust deep into me.
`Fuuuuuuuck, yes, fuuuuuck', he screamed as I had thrown back my head as - without even touching myself - streams of cum flew across his chest and into the crevices of his six pack as I cried out in ecstasy. I hadn't wanked or had sex for about a week and the loads just kept coming as Harry himself seemed to convulse at the feeling of my own cunt furiously tightening around his exploding cock.
`Oh yes, oh my God, yes', he'd cried, as several shots of mine hit his beautiful face, one even going straight into his open mouth -- my balls draining themselves furiously across a body I knew almost as well as my own.
We had been back together barely ten minutes and yet, there in the bedroom, the sight of him deep inside me is imprinted on my memory to this day. He lay back, spent, a huge smile across his face.
I wasn't going to leave it there, though. Hang on', I'd said, you stay there, little bro', as I slowly lifted myself off his length.
`Eat our your big brother's cunt, you little cumslut', I said to him, grinning, as I manoeuvred my body up the bed and -- slowly -- lowered my hole over his mouth and, with my ruined sphincter, pushed out what I could from inside me, the sight of Harry's own cum now dripping from my arse into his mouth the picture of heaven itself.
As much out as I could manage, I lowered my sweat-slick body onto his and, our sated cocks pressed up against each other, we swapped his cum in our mouths -- its salt-sour flavour enriched by the smell of my own jizz sliding between our chests as I grinded myself up against him, his shorts still halfway down his large thighs.
We had then kissed for what felt like half an hour, neither of us wanting to let go of what had been a sensational and synchronized union of our two bodies, the cum we shared (I had licked up my own to share with him off his pecs) somehow sustaining and renewing our bond like some kind of medicine healing the absence of the previous month.
What I wouldn't do to get back to what we had in those days. Even that evening, I had remembered his foot massaging my cock deftly under the dinner table, Camilla clearly perplexed about why Harry was smirking throughout most of the fish course as I tried to hide the pleasure he was managing to provide me through my straining (and increasingly damp) trousers.
Where had that cheeky rogue gone who'd brought me so much joy? How could one woman so utterly destroy what we'd had, poisoning his mind against me and Catherine? Was he punishing me for marrying her in the first place? Had he thought that we could really have just set up a household for ourselves and that, through the years, no one would have guessed that we were more than just two brothers running the country. The game had almost been up when Harry had, dangerously, brought our cousin -- Arthur Chatto -- into a coke-fuelled threesome following strip poker up in a cottage on the Balmoral estate earlier that summer and we'd almost been found out by his Sam. It had been a reckless night - almost like he was intending to get us caught -- but it seemed like an age ago when love had driven us to do crazy things and we thought the world would never catch up with us.
Now, here, ten years later standing in the drawing room -- our father possibly at risk of death and an earlier rise to the Crown for me than I could have imagined -- I didn't know what to feel. My love for him, my lust for him, was utterly undimmed and as I walked across the room towards him, the cycling Lycra pressing up against my own cock which I tried, discreetly, to rearrange, I wanted both to punch and fuck him.
I walked up close to him, the smell of the sweaty Lycra pervading the air.
`You've got some fucking nerve', I said, breathing heavily.
`Don't fucking start', he said quietly, the air thick with tension between us, both of us inhaling deeply -- the heat coming off my chest almost unbearable as I looked into his eyes which, if I wasn't mistaken, were welling up, even as I could see his fists clenching beside him.
Before I could say anything more, his right hand moved swiftly up towards my face -- I guessed to strike me -- but I grabbed his right, holding it tight in mid-air, my bicep flexing furiously, as we strained to hold the space between us, each contending for control, our eyes fixed on each other in rage.
Fuck', he then said to my total surprise, you smell incredible' and, in a move I hadn't expected, his wrist pushed my arm higher into the air as, like some kind of crazed animal, he now moved forward straight into my pit and started to lick furiously at my wet hair, his beard brushing against my pec as I groaned, my cock now swiftly engorged as my brother seemed to try to consume me.
In one short manoeuvre, he'd reclaimed me, the fucker. I was his and would, without hesitation, become a slave to wherever his passion would take me. While London and the world beyond the balcony remained convinced that we would never be reconciled, here we were, once again, grinding our cocks against each other, Harry fingering me through the Lycra, his tongue deep in my pit, as I spread my hand across his tight globe of an arse, pushing myself up against him as though nothing had happened in the past eight years. Where this afternoon would now go, I had no idea, but -- in a moment -- I felt like I had recovered a part of me long since abandoned and, even as my cock felt his raging beneath his trousers, I felt once again a joy that I had almost forgotten possible deep within me.
To be continued.