Kate Middleton, Duchess of Cambridge, wife of the man second in line to the throne, could only hope her cover of Kimberly Webster would stick as she streaked across the field. At least better than her pasties, one of which peeled off as the bitter cold made her tiny nipples harder.
What could make her do this? What could bring a royal by marriage to strip down, slap a bunch of cheap stickers on her body and embarrass herself across the world? Simple. She was a woman playing at ambassador. The moment she set foot inside the White House, claiming to speak on behalf of the UK, she offered up her dignity. Trade agreements, spy communiques, and most vital of all, their decades-old military partnership depended entirely on whether or not she was willing to show that the United States owned her British ass.
A tiny red-string thong and USA sticker later, she showed that flat white ass to cameras snapping every awful second.
"You're doing good Kate, but you might want to pick up the pace if you want to keep your dirty little secret."
The warning buzzed in her earpiece, connected wirelessly to a cell phone she gripped tight enough to break. She looked over her shoulder. The agent was right. Two guards were gaining on her. Freezing for a second in sheer horror, she left her sensible black slips behind and booked it for the nearest clearing.
"I know it's not my place," the agent said, "but I think the White House wants a little more than Your Royal Nakedness on TV."
Desperate, Kate wracked her brain for ideas and spouted whatever came out.
"These colors don't run, but this pussy does!"
"Cause you're a Brit?" the agent goaded.
"Cause I'm a Brit! A real wet one."
She wasn't talking about sex, but she knew untrained American ears wouldn't catch the slang. For once, her knowledge of the country sort of paid off. Even if that payoff went toward her disgrace.
Suddenly, from the side, a hidden guard lunged at her. She zig-zagged in time to escape capture - but not in time to save her thong. It ripped off to reveal her brand new tattoo of the U.S. Army logo, placed above her cunt and drawing attention to a small red, white and blue dildo slowly slipping out. Without the thong for support, it held onto it with her pussy lips for dear life. All she needed was the phallus flopping into a pile of leaves for a reporter to find and they would have everything. Her name, her DNA, all evidence needed to identify her hid in a secret compartment waiting to be opened.
But if she made it out of here intact, she kept her secret. A shameful secret, but still, a secret.
As she crested a hill, she raised her arms in triumph and hoped no one laid in wait ahead.
Little did Kate know, it wasn't the guards she had to worry about. Who needs police capture or a dildo of illicit intel when you have an army of internet sleuths dying to attach that posh voice and pretty face to a name?
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Royal Treatment: Kate Middleton, Traitor
"U.S.A! U.S.A! U.S.A!"
Kate Middleton, Duchess of Cambridge, wife of the man second in line to the throne, could only hope her cover of Kimberly Webster would stick as she streaked across the field. At least better than her pasties, one of which peeled off as the bitter cold made her tiny nipples harder.
What could make her do this? What could bring a royal by marriage to strip down, slap a bunch of cheap stickers on her body and embarrass herself across the world? Simple. She was a woman playing at ambassador. The moment she set foot inside the White House, claiming to speak on behalf of the UK, she offered up her dignity. Trade agreements, spy communiques, and most vital of all, their decades-old military partnership depended entirely on whether or not she was willing to show that the United States owned her British ass.
A tiny red-string thong and USA sticker later, she showed that flat white ass to cameras snapping every awful second.
"You're doing good Kate, but you might want to pick up the pace if you want to keep your dirty little secret."
The warning buzzed in her earpiece, connected wirelessly to a cell phone she gripped tight enough to break. She looked over her shoulder. The agent was right. Two guards were gaining on her. Freezing for a second in sheer horror, she left her sensible black slips behind and booked it for the nearest clearing.
"I know it's not my place," the agent said, "but I think the White House wants a little more than Your Royal Nakedness on TV."
Desperate, Kate wracked her brain for ideas and spouted whatever came out.
"These colors don't run, but this pussy does!"
"Cause you're a Brit?" the agent goaded.
"Cause I'm a Brit! A real wet one."
She wasn't talking about sex, but she knew untrained American ears wouldn't catch the slang. For once, her knowledge of the country sort of paid off. Even if that payoff went toward her disgrace.
Suddenly, from the side, a hidden guard lunged at her. She zig-zagged in time to escape capture - but not in time to save her thong. It ripped off to reveal her brand new tattoo of the U.S. Army logo, placed above her cunt and drawing attention to a small red, white and blue dildo slowly slipping out. Without the thong for support, it held onto it with her pussy lips for dear life. All she needed was the phallus flopping into a pile of leaves for a reporter to find and they would have everything. Her name, her DNA, all evidence needed to identify her hid in a secret compartment waiting to be opened.
But if she made it out of here intact, she kept her secret. A shameful secret, but still, a secret.
As she crested a hill, she raised her arms in triumph and hoped no one laid in wait ahead.
Little did Kate know, it wasn't the guards she had to worry about. Who needs police capture or a dildo of illicit intel when you have an army of internet sleuths dying to attach that posh voice and pretty face to a name?