Please note I don't know Prince Harry personally or know his true sexual orientation. Furthermore, this story is 100% complete fiction and in no way to insinuate his sexuality or anything of the like. Lastly, this story contains male to male sex, so if this offends you, you are too young to be reading this, or, you are not into these kinds of things please leave now. Thank you and please enjoy this tale.
Surprising enough, when one is in Royal service, there seems to be no real sense of time. Everything moves according to a schedule prepared by others. Prince Harry's life is no exception. As third in line to the throne, he has a great many obligations he has to balance in addition to his ongoing military service which he so clearly loves. Periodically he could scrub things but usually the staffers, in the end, get their way. Good thing the rebellious prince is easy going.
Sometimes a note will come from his Grandmother and on those occasions I always feel as if I am supposed to stand and salute when it's handed over. One never knows what's in those notes. It could be a simple little note wishing him well on an upcoming set of flying tests or it could be a request for him to undertake an assignment on her behalf. Usually Harry reads it and if it is inviting him to take on an assignment of some kind, he will immediately pass it along to the Private Secretary who will consult the schedule. Harry is eventually advised and he, not the Private Secretary, writes a polite little note back to Granny. And life goes on.
I think of the Cabinet Ministers who periodically get notes from Her Majesty asking about this or that or inviting them to look into a particular matter. And God help them if they set it aside. The Prime Minister has a weekly audience with his Sovereign and if the Queen notices that a Cabinet Minister forgets or is ignoring her, the matter is likely to be brought up in the audience. One can just imagine how pleased the Prime Minister is about being asked a question for which they have no answer. I can bet that within seconds of getting back into their car, they've rung the offending Minister and I would bet my last shilling (Ooops, they don't make those anymore) the answer is on their desk the next morning which, after they've reviewed it, will be passed along to their boss.
Captain Harry Wales of 662 Squadron, 3 Regiment Army Air Corps had been away on his Apache helicopter training for the past week and, not being concerned for his safety while on the base, I putzed around London doing a bit of sightseeing, getting briefed by the staff, and spending hours at the gym. After talking with Harry and later, upon the recommendation of several officers who were part of the Personal Protection Branch (PPO's), I had checked out a very special gym not all that far a walk from Waterloo Barracks. The gym was owned and operated by two retired SAS officers who took special pride in helping people like me stay in shape and train on all the most modern equipment and in all the latest hand-to-hand techniques. This was not any gym that Mr John Q. Public could walk in to. You had to come with a recommendation. A recommendation comes from your Commanding Officer, the Police Superintendent, or, someone else in authority. Luckily, in my case, the recommendation came from the Private Secretary to the Prince of Wales.
Bryce and Aedan were life partners who were both now in their mid-to-late thirties and who had bodies that were as solid as the Rock of Gibraltar as I found out one afternoon in a round or two with Aedan. There was no doubt in my mind I was playing with fire, which is what his name translates to in English. I was sitting in the small lounge after my workout; I noticed a very exceptional painting over the electric fireplace. As I stood gazing at it, Bryce came up behind me and asked me if I found the painting interesting. I responded by noting that I did.
"What interests you about that painting?" he asked.
"I don't know", I responded stepping back a bit so I had a better view. "There's a story to that painting", I said turning to look at him.
"Do you think?"
"There's just something about the stance of the majestic stag. It looks like he's really guarding the younger deer."
"Ah well, now. That's the story of St. Aedan of Iona. In art, Aedan is almost always represented as a stag. It is a reference to the ancient Irish legend that he saved a deer that was being hunted by making it invisible. I should get Aedan to recall the legend for you some time."
"I think there's something much more personal in that painting than the story of a stag and a deer", I replied looking into Bryce's deep blue eyes and becoming somewhat nervous.
"You'd be only the second person that's ever noticed it", said Aedan walking up beside Bryce and slipping his hand around his waist. "What would make you say that?"
"I don't really know. There's just something in the way the stag stands; the way he's positioned; perhaps he's trying to project a sense of protective concern for his young charge."
"All that from a painting of two animals?" asked Bryce with a slight grin.
Looking at Aedan, I ventured to ask. "What did you mean when you said that I was the only other person to have ever noticed it? Whatever it is?"
Moving over to one of the leather couches with his arm still wrapped around Bryce, Aedan sat and invited me to sit down. "One afternoon", began Aedan, "not so long after he joined the Blues and Royals, Henry of Wales was standing right where you were standing a few seconds ago. He must have stood there a full fifteen minutes before he ever said anything. It was the first time either of us had met him. He was only the second Royal we'd ever played host to. The first Royal who walked through our doors just a few months after we opened was the Earl of Essex, his uncle. Under any normal circumstances, you wouldn't take that man to be anyone special. He just blends in. But, as you know and, if you don't, you soon will. The Royals aren't like you and me.
Some people, who for the most part can't see past their own misfortunes, look at them like blood suckers on the personal purse. But, unless you've been in some war torn armpit of the world dodging bullets and in the quiet of the night laid there thinking everyone at home doesn't give a shit, no one would understand. But the day, without any notice, you are all fallen into ranks and out of the tent steps one of the Royals who isn't just going through the motions but who takes the time to make you feel like you are the most important and the only person in the world at that moment, only then do you understand. Oh yeah, we shit on them constantly. We criticize their every word or antic. The press spends more time talking about the dresses they wear than the plight of the poor. But, in my book, they're well worth the cost of the 69 pence per person we pay. Damn good value for the money, I'd say. But I could go on and on."
"And on that subject, he's an absolute and die hard monarchist", piped up Bryce, "You really don't want him to go on".
Obviously Bryce had caught me taking a glance at my watch.
"Anyway, back to Harry", said Aedan, "Like I said, he was standing right where you were standing and studying that painting. The first question he asked was how old it was. When I told him that it was done in the previous ten years, he just muttered something like I thought so'. Then he said something that absolutely floored both Bryce and I. I'll never forget it. He turned to the two of us and said, If I didn't know better, I'd say it was the story of two men hidden in a woody scene.'
"I nearly shit myself," said Aedan. I asked myself, being a little nervous asking the question, what would make him say that. So I decided to come right out with it and asked him. "What would make you say that, Sir?"
Well Aedan', the reply came as he walked back up to the painting. I've seen a lot of paintings in my short life and this painting is not meant to be a still life. It's meant to tell a story or to remind someone or several someones of a particular incident.'
`And how could you possibly tell that from just looking at this painting, Sir?' I went on.
Well, you see these small flowering bushes over here on the edge of the forest behind the stag,' motioned the Prince with his finger, and over here on the lower right corner?' Yes, I do,' Aedan replied. Well, unless I am totally wrong, they are what are called the Henna Tree which is not really a tree but a flowering plant. It's been used ever since the earliest days of the Pharaohs to prepare dyes for use on skin, hair, fingernails, leather and wool. It is also used in the art of temporary tattooing based on those dyes.' Turning to the two of us, he went on. I notice that both of you have the same SAS tattoo on your upper right arms. So', continued the Prince matter-of-factly, if I were a betting man I would hazard a guess that you had those tattoos inked in while you were in service in Iraq because, as far as I know, that plant does not grow anywhere in the United Kingdom or Northern Ireland, Aedan.'
"Moving away from the fireplace, the young Prince sat in that comfy leather arm chair over there", said Aedan pointing to the armchair across the room.
Once the Prince was comfortable, he looked at the two of us and said, `So, since I have the time, which one of you can tell me the story behind the painting.'
And we did.
"Well, I definitely want to hear that story but, unfortunately, I really don't have the time right now. Do you happen to have a picture of the painting?" I asked.
"As a matter of fact we do", said Bryce getting up and walking over to a small corner table. He opened the drawer and pulled out an 8 x 10 picture. He walked back over to me and handed me the picture.
"Why do you want it?" asked Aedan.
"Well, it seems that HRH was able to figure out that the painting hid a story. I think it hides a story but I want to try and figure it out on my own. No, I won't ask Harry about it, I promise. By the way, do you know where Bellamy's is?" I asked looking up at them.
"Yes, of course, we do", piped up both men.
"HRH has an official engagement this evening but tomorrow night is free. I would be honoured if you would consent to be our guests tomorrow evening at Bellamy's. Let's say around 7:30?" I asked rising from that comfy armchair.
"We would be delighted to accept", they replied in unison.
As I shook hands with both of them and they walked me to the door, I turned back to face them. "If by chance, but I hope not, that we are delayed for any reason, please just tell the Maître d' that you are HRH's guests for the evening. If they look at you like you're crazy, just tell them the Canadian sent you. They'll understand." I couldn't help chuckling to myself as I went through the door and stepped into the waiting car.
Even after all that healthy exercise I snuck in another McDonald's and this time the driver did not argue with me when I dropped a bag on the seat next to him. If there is one thing I like, and a connoisseur, it's French fries. To me, and this is my personal opinion, of all the fast food take away's, the best French fries are made by McDonald's. But in all my travel's, the best steamy hot dogs in the world are, again in my opinion, made in a little place near the corner of St. Lawrence & St. Catherine Streets in Montreal. But, I love toasted Hot Dogs and for those I used to nip off to a Harvey's. The Harvey's that used to be in Wandsworth was not part of the famous Canadian fast food chain but specialized in French cuisine until it closed in 1993. Maybe I wasn't looking hard enough but so far I couldn't find any restaurant or take away offering toasted hot dogs anywhere in London.
My Harry arrived back at the Palace on Friday afternoon around 2:30 p.m. and by 3:00; we'd showered, dried each other off and were playing silly buggers on the bed. The next morning I woke up to the soft sunlight coming in from the window. I stretched, yawned, and, rubbed the last vestiges of sleep from my eyes. I suddenly realized that my bladder was screaming at me. I looked over at my beautiful Prince. I wasn't paying attention to whether he was awake or not when I leaned over, nuzzled his ear and said, "I'll be right back; I'm going to make us some coffee. Don't go anywhere."
I rolled out of the bed and headed to the kitchenette. With my feet hitting the floor, I instantly realized that my ass was screaming in pain. I quickly remembered the amazing fuck session we had last night. I was definitely going to be walking bow-legged today. I finally made the excruciating trip to the kitchenette and started the coffee. Once it was finished, I fixed our cups and gingerly made my way back to the bedroom.
Harry had obviously awoken when I'd jiggled the bed on my way to make coffee. Once Harry saw me returning to the bedroom, he chuckled and quipped, "Unless my eyes are deceiving me, it looks like it is someone else's turn to be walking bow-legged today." "Yeah, yeah, yeah," I returned to Harry, "I didn't think that you had it in you." "You're a bitch sometimes, you know that." "What me? Never!"
We both had a chuckle as I handed Harry his cup of coffee and I climbed back into the bed next to him. Once, back in the bed I started sipping my coffee and placed a hand on Harry's thigh.
What do you want to do today?"
"Well, baby, one thing I am going to do today is nip over to the Edward VII hospital to check on Granddad. Apparently, he's had another of those recurring bladder infections that, I guess, are common in men of his age. After all, he's still going strong at 91 and even though he keeps saying he's slowing down, he still keeps a rather full schedule. After that, we pretty much have a free day until tonight."
"Well, do you think we could visit the Tower of London this afternoon? I already have a hot tour guide in mind to give me the tour."
"Well, I can't wait to meet this hot tour guide," quipped Harry.
I slid my hand to his cock and whispered in his ear, "Well, this tour guide happens to be attached to this cock in my hand."
"If you've played with those crown jewels your holding why are you so interested in seeing what's in the Tower", asked Harry twisting himself over to nuzzle my ear.
We finished our coffees and Harry said, "Well let's jump in the shower and get ready to head out."
We headed towards the bathroom. Harry turned on the shower and let it warm up. While it was warming up Harry grabbed his razor and shaving cream and set off to shave his face. While he did that, I grabbed my trimmers and trimmed my beard as it was getting a little shaggy. Once we finished, we got in the shower. We luxuriated in the shower cleaning ourselves and touching each other's bodies. But Harry was a man on a mission so he didn't let the fooling around get too carried away. Eventually, we got out of the shower and I grabbed one of the large luxurious towels to dry my prince off. After he had put on his boxers, he took the time to dry my back but drove me crazy by leaning in and nibbling my ear.
After we were dressed and had enjoyed our second cup of coffee while I checked my e-mails and Harry made several phone calls, we left the Palace for the drive to the hospital. As we got into the car, Harry's two Personal Protection Officers also got in the car with one sitting in the front with the driver and the other in the back with us which pretty well ensured that there would be no private conversation.
Once we got to the hospital there was a gaggle of TV cameras, etc., across the street from the main entrance of the hospital. And, you could bet your wallet that the moment Harry exited from the car, there were a host of calls to him hoping that he would stop and say a few words. Whether or not he wanted to, I never gave him the chance. I simply placed my hand on the small of his back and gave him a gentle push. He got the hint and moved through the doors nodding to the two or three policemen who were guarding against any intruders. He was met in the lobby by one of the hospital administrators who accompanied us up to the floor looking after the Duke of Edinburgh. I offered to wait in the hall outside the room but Harry was having none of that, so I followed into the room behind him.
The Duke, being his loveable, crusty old self was sitting up in bed, watching a recent football match on the Telly. After Harry gave his granddad a slight peck on the cheek, and asked after him, the old Duke went on about the fact that all the flowers made his room smell like a greenhouse. I was scared stiff he was going to say mortuary given his age but I smiled when he said the word greenhouse.
"What have you got to smile about, Mr. Keaton?" he asked extending his hand.
"Nothing at all, Sir," I said politely but firmly shaking the offered hand.
"Really? Have you done your homework yet?"
"Homework, Sir? I didn't know anything about having homework."
"You mean you didn't follow up on our last little chat?"
At that, Harry looked up at me and asked, "You and my grandfather have chatted before?"
"Oh, yes, we have", said the old Duke playfully. "What he didn't tell you?" Turning to me again, he quipped, "A little early to be keeping secrets, isn't it Keaton?"
With a questioning look from Harry and a sneaky smile from the Duke, I simply didn't know what to reply. So, I simply thought of following up on my supposed homework.
"About that homework, Sir. Could you possibly give me a hint?"
"Well, young Sir. I thought that after our last little chat you might at least have been interested in scoping out your potential retirement home?"
I was still a little dense on what he was on to. And he could sense it.
"Yes, retirement home. You know, that beautiful little island we spoke about that could be your potential retirement oasis."
Suddenly, the lights went on. "You mean Diego Garcia, Sir?"
"Quite so! Quite so!" said the old Duke looking at the look of confusion coming onto his grandson's face and just wanting to burst out laughing.
"Well, Sir," I replied. "Since I hope to never visit to inspect the place, I didn't think of it as homework."
"What's the Boy Scout motto, Keaton?"
"Be prepared, Sir".
"Yes, that's it". Said the old Duke now bursting out in laughter. "Be prepared, Keaton".
"Yes, Sir. I will certainly do my homework, Sir."
"And you'll tell me all about how you met my granddad, too", piped in the young Prince.
Since we did not want to tire out the Duke, we only stayed some thirty minutes or so after which we took our leave. Harry, being Harry, took a moment to individually thank all the staff looking after his Grandfather. We then rode the lift to the ground floor where we picked up our two PPO's. On the way down, I mentioned to Harry that he might want to say a simple word or two to the gathered press.
After he thanked the hospital administrator for their time, Harry stepped out into the sunlight and without hesitation walked over to the waiting press corps. He spent a few moments answering questions while I stood slightly behind him. When one of the chaps with a camera got a little too close, I put up my hand to warn him off.
"You won't swipe this one will you, officer?" said the young man in an audible voice that could not be heard by the main press gaggle.
"Only if you try to shove it in his face again," I replied looking directly into the eyes of that very paparazzo chap that had tried to damn near follow us into the car at Bellamy's the last time we were there.
A few minutes later and after I was sure that the press got the Prince's true feelings on his grandfather's condition, I steered Harry back to the car and we wandered off to spend a most enjoyable time in the Tower with two of the wonderful beefeaters joining us and answering my, and also Harry's, every question.
To be continued.