Blake Hart
patreon
International Manwhore – Part 1
🕑 Added 2025-09-24 20:00:08 +0000 UTCThanks to member J. Spaulding for the title on this, working title was: "The Ambassador's son," International Manwhore is so much better!
--- --- ---
Everyone in this story is 18+
07.00 AM
There I was. In one of the bathrooms of Winfield House—the sprawling, pristine residence of the American Ambassador to England, Mr. Tucker, otherwise known as my father.
I splashed cold water on my face, glaring at my reflection and at my throbbing, morning-wood-ridden self. I did not have time for this. I had a job to do—well, an “opportunity to make a good impression,” as Dad so eloquently put it. I was still new to this whole embassy trainee gig. And to be clear, this was not where I’d imagined myself at 22.
I was supposed to be in New York, working at some fancy bank on Wall Street after graduating from an Ivy League. But thanks to a minor incident—the kind that involved a leaked video, a scandalized board, and me becoming a cautionary tale—that plan slipped through my fingers. So here I was, stuck under Daddy Dearest’s watchful, judgmental eye. Because apparently, nepotism is the family safety net.
I looked up at the mirror. I still passed for youthful—dark blonde hair, sharp jawline that screamed “son of a diplomat”, and blue eyes courtesy of Mom. My sarcasm, though? That was all me.
After convincing my dick to sit the fuck down, I grabbed some clothes and buttoned up the blazer Dad insisted made me look professional. I smoothed a hand over my stomach to smooth out the fabric.
I wasn’t a power player. I wasn’t a golden boy, at least anymore. I was just Bryson Tucker, trying not to screw this up. Again.
However, little did I know that this day would change everything.
Thanks to member J. Spaulding for the title on this, working title was: "The Ambassador's son," International manwhore is so much better!
--- --- ---
Everyone in this story is 18+
07.00 AM
There I was. In one of the bathrooms of Winfield House—the sprawling, pristine residence of the American Ambassador to England, Mr. Tucker, otherwise known as my father.
I splashed cold water on my face, glaring at my reflection and at my throbbing, morning-wood-ridden self. I did not have time for this. I had a job to do—well, an “opportunity to make a good impression,” as Dad so eloquently put it. I was still new to this whole embassy trainee gig. And to be clear, this was not where I’d imagined myself at 22.
I was supposed to be in New York, working at some fancy bank on Wall Street after graduating from an Ivy League. But thanks to a minor incident—the kind that involved a leaked video, a scandalized board, and me becoming a cautionary tale—that plan slipped through my fingers. So here I was, stuck under Daddy Dearest’s watchful, judgmental eye. Because apparently, nepotism is the family safety net.
I looked up at the mirror. I still passed for youthful—dark blonde hair, sharp jawline that screamed “son of a diplomat”, and blue eyes courtesy of Mom. My sarcasm, though? That was all me.
After convincing my dick to sit the fuck down, I grabbed some clothes and buttoned up the blazer Dad insisted made me look professional. I smoothed a hand over my stomach to smooth out the fabric.
I wasn’t a power player. I wasn’t a golden boy, at least anymore. I was just Bryson Tucker, trying not to screw this up. Again.
However, little did I know that this day would change everything.
◆◆◆
10.00 PM
The hallway was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that made my nerves claw at my throat, even though I would never admit to it. I adjusted my blazer for the tenth time, trying to make it sit right, but the fabric felt stiff and awkward, just like everything else about this situation. My father, standing tall and composed beside me, reached out and clapped me on the back.
"You’ll be fine," he said, his tone calm and steady—reassuring, almost. "Don’t be nervous. It’s probably just a little meeting."
Little meeting? Sure. Because it’s totally normal for the head of the CIA in the UK and some high-ranking MI6 official to gather for tea and biscuits. Little meeting, my ass.
But I nodded politely, though my throat felt too tight to speak. My hands were clammy, so I wiped them discreetly against my pants, hoping my father didn’t notice. If he did, he didn’t say anything. He rarely did. Always composed, always in control. That was my father. Unshakable. Stoic. And here I was, the screw-up trailing in his shadow.
Why was I even here? I was just a trainee, and a reluctant one at that. Sure, I knew my way around diplomatic circles—I’d basically grown up in them—but this? This felt… different. Important in a way that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.
"Just observe," Dad added, straightening his tie like this was any other day at the office. "Nothing more."
Observe. Right. That made it sound simple, but my gut told me otherwise. I wasn’t stupid. You didn’t drag the ambassador’s son—a trainee, no less—into a meeting with people like this unless there was a reason. And I had no idea what that reason was.
My stomach churned as the door in front of us opened. A man in a dark suit—black, probably tailored to within an inch of its life—stood there, clipboard in hand, looking us over. His eyes flicked to me briefly, assessing, before he stepped aside.
"Ambassador Tucker. Mr. Tucker," he said briskly, his tone clipped and efficient. "They’re ready for you."
I followed my father through the doorway, the air inside the room feeling heavier than it had any right to. The polished wood table stretched out in front of us, surrounded by men who looked like they could dismantle a person with a glance. One of them—a middle-aged man with steel-gray hair—stood as we entered, his sharp eyes locking onto me like he already knew every secret I’d ever tried to keep.
"Ambassador Tucker," the man said, nodding at my father before turning his attention to me. "And this must be Bryson."
Must be Bryson? What the hell was that supposed to mean? I felt my father’s hand on my shoulder, guiding me forward, but all I could focus on was the way the man’s gaze lingered, like he was sizing me up for something.
"It’s good to finally meet you," the man continued, his voice steady, almost too casual.
Finally meet me? My pulse quickened, but I forced my expression to stay neutral. Why would someone like him care about meeting me?
I glanced at my father, but his face was unreadable, his professional mask firmly in place. Something about this felt wrong. Very wrong.
The man gestured for us to sit, and I slid into the chair beside my father. The table was smooth and cool under my palms, and I forced myself to rest my hands there, trying to look composed. The two men across from us—the steel-haired American and a younger British man with an impeccably tailored suit—exchanged a glance before the American leaned forward.
"Thank you for joining us, Ambassador Tucker. And Bryson," he said, nodding slightly in my direction. "We appreciate your presence as well."
I nodded back, though I wasn’t entirely sure what I was supposed to say. What could I say to men like these? Thanks for inviting me to your intimidating little chat? My father, as usual, jumped in effortlessly.
"Of course. I understand this is an unusual arrangement, but I trust it’s worth discussing," my father said, his tone smooth and diplomatic. He always knew how to strike that balance between polite interest and measured distance.
The British man—MI6, I guessed—gave a thin smile. "We wouldn’t be here otherwise. It’s a unique situation, to be sure, but one we believe could be mutually beneficial." His eyes flicked to me briefly before returning to my father. "Your son’s position is… ideal."
Ideal? For what? I shifted in my chair, trying to keep my expression neutral, but the vague statement didn’t sit right with me.
"Let’s be clear," my father said, his tone firm but still calm. "I agreed to this meeting because you assured me this would be a safe, passive role for my son. Observational, nothing more."
The American nodded, his steel gaze softening slightly. "Of course. We have no intention of putting Bryson in harm’s way. His involvement would be… minimal. Discreet."
My father leaned back slightly, his posture still guarded. "You’ll have to forgive me if I’m cautious. This is my son we’re talking about, after all."
I glanced at him, surprised by the protective note in his voice. It wasn’t like him to coddle me, but I wasn’t about to complain. If he was worried, maybe I should be, too.
The British man cleared his throat, leaning forward slightly. "To put it plainly, Bryson’s unique background makes him a perfect fit for this. His access to high-level social circles, his reputation—"
"My reputation?" I blurted before I could stop myself. Both men turned their attention to me, and I felt my face heat.
The American raised an eyebrow, his expression unreadable. "You’re well-known in certain circles, Bryson. Your name carries weight. And, frankly, your recent… publicized events add an element of authenticity to the role."
The sex tape. My stomach dropped. Of course that was what they meant. I didn’t know whether to laugh or sink into my chair.
My father’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t say anything right away. He turned to me instead. "Bryson, I know this is a lot to take in. I wouldn’t have agreed to this meeting if I didn’t believe it was a safe opportunity for you to contribute in a meaningful way."
The room felt stifling. I wanted to ask a hundred questions, but my mouth stayed shut. What the hell did they want me to do? And why did my father sound so sure it was “safe”?
As if reading my mind, he placed a hand on my shoulder. "It’s nothing to worry about. We’re talking about a passive, mostly observational role. No active fieldwork. Just… keeping your eyes and ears open in certain environments."
The MI6 man gave a reassuring nod. "Precisely. A subtle presence. Nothing too demanding."
I didn’t believe them. Not entirely.
Before I could say anything, my father glanced at his watch and frowned. "I’m afraid I have to step out for another engagement. But I trust you gentlemen to hash out the details with Bryson. He’s capable, and I know you’ll ensure he’s briefed appropriately."
My head snapped toward him. What?
"Dad—I mean Ambassador…"
He stood, patting my shoulder. "You’ll be fine, Bryson. Just listen, and ask questions if you have any."
And then he was gone, leaving me alone with the two men who had just hinted at turning me into some kind of asset.
The American cleared his throat, breaking the silence that followed. "Now that it’s just us, let’s get into specifics."
The silence stretched just long enough to make my palms sweat. The two men exchanged a glance, the kind that made me feel like they were about to drop something I wouldn’t like. The steel-haired American folded his hands on the table and leaned slightly forward.
"Now that your father has stepped out," he began, his tone measured but pointed, "we can discuss a few aspects of this mission more… openly. We understand it might be delicate to have your father involved in these particular details."
Delicate? My throat tightened. That didn’t sound promising, not one bit.
The British man nodded, his expression carefully neutral. "There’s another element to this assignment, Bryson, one we felt was best discussed privately. You see, for this mission to succeed, you’ll need to… present yourself in a way that aligns with our target’s preferences."
I blinked, trying to process his words. "Preferences?" I echoed, my voice betraying my confusion.
The American cleared his throat. "You’d have to… pretend to have a different sexuality. For the purposes of the mission, of course."
I stared at him, the weight of his words sinking in like a lead balloon. Pretend to have a different sexuality? Was he seriously suggesting what I thought he was?
"You’re saying I’d have to act like I’m gay?" I asked, my voice quieter than I intended.
The MI6 man nodded. "Precisely. The target is known to favor men who are confident, attractive, and unapologetically themselves. While it’s certainly a challenging role, we believe you’re uniquely positioned to succeed."
I didn’t know what to say. My brain felt like it was short-circuiting. Pretend to be gay? For a mission? How the hell was I supposed to do that?
The American shifted in his seat, his tone softening slightly. "We understand this might be uncomfortable for you. It’s a significant ask. And we also recognize that you’ve already been through a very… personal ordeal in the public eye."
The words hung in the air like a bad smell. My chest tightened. I knew exactly what he was referring to, but I still hoped, for a split second, that he wouldn’t say it out loud.
"Your intimate video," he continued, his tone delicate but clinical, "has unfortunately become common knowledge. We understand this must have been personally difficult for you."
Difficult didn’t even begin to cover it. My jaw clenched, and I looked away, heat creeping up my neck. I didn’t want to talk about this—especially not with two strangers in tailored suits who probably never had to worry about their lives falling apart online.
"And," the British man added, clearing his throat like he was bracing himself, "how to put this delicately… the, uh, substantial asset showcased in that video is, shall we say, a key factor in why you’re an excellent candidate for this mission."
My head snapped toward him, my eyes widening. Did he really just say that?
"Excuse me?" I managed to choke out, my voice a mix of disbelief and indignation.
The American held up a hand, his expression almost apologetic. "We don’t mean to embarrass you, Nicholas. This is purely professional. The target has a… particular type, and, well, you fit that type perfectly."
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. They were actually discussing my anatomy like it was some kind of strategic asset. Well—sure, it is, but that’s not the point. Heat rushed to my face as I shifted in my chair, fists tightening into knots beneath the table.
"You want me to use that—me—as some kind of gay honey pot?" I said, my voice sharper now.
The MI6 man gave a tight smile, like he’d been expecting the reaction. "In a manner of speaking, yes. The target is drawn to men with a certain reputation. Your media portrayal as a playboy, combined with your natural… assets, make you the ideal candidate to gain their trust."
I swallowed hard, my mind racing. This was insane. Completely insane. And yet, as much as I wanted to push back, there was a small, uncomfortable part of me that couldn’t stop wondering… could I actually do this? To get back in Dad’s good graces of course.
I stared at them, my chest tightening with every word. Pretend to be gay? Use my… assets as some kind of bargaining chip? The sheer audacity of it made my blood boil.
"No," I said, my voice sharp and unwavering. "Absolutely not. I’m not doing this."
The MI6 man opened his mouth to respond, but I wasn’t finished. "Are you two completely out of your minds? I’m a trainee, for God’s sake! You think I’m going to turn myself into some… some—what? A gay hooker? All because you think I look the part?"
I pushed back from the table, the chair scraping loudly against the floor. "I don’t care what you think I’m ‘uniquely suited’ for. This isn’t just insane—it’s offensive. I’m not some piece of meat you can parade around to get what you want."
The American held up his hands in a placating gesture, but I wasn’t having it. "And let’s not even get started on the fact that you’re basing this entire thing on a private moment that got leaked to the world without my consent. Do you have any idea how humiliating that was? How many bridges I’ve had to rebuild since then?"
They exchanged another one of their infuriating glances, but I didn’t give them a chance to respond. "No. The answer is no. Find someone else."
I stormed out of the room without waiting for their reaction, my pulse pounding in my ears.
I needed to tell Dad this was insane.
Comments
kangaslan
Bryson's life is about to get WAY more interesting!
Garrick
I can’t can’t can’t wait. That was an amazing build
