Topping-The-Duke-10

This is an entirely fictional story that is licensed solely to Nifty for workshopping purposes. It may not be reproduced, distributed, or commercially exploited in any form without express written permission from its author.

This story is Historical Fantasy set in the Early Victorian Era and may be too slow burning for some folks. Although this is a sort of dark erotic steampunk, not every chapter will be steamy. If you're looking for a quick wank, this probably isn't for you. But if you like action, intrigue, magic and character growth between sex scenes, then this is your cup of tea.

This story contains graphic M/M sex between teenagers, and between adults and teens. The sex is sometimes romantic, sometimes rough and/or non-consensual with an authoritarian, medical, or BDSM bent. Slavery, forced indenture, medical experimentation on the destitute and corporal punishment in schools were still common occurrences during this time period, so things may happen that should never occur in modern real life. Protect yourself and your health by using PReP and condoms and do not try these things at home, especially if they violate the laws of your locality.

If you are a minor, or think something in this story might bother or offend you, STOP HERE.

If you enjoy this sort of thing, read on, and feel free to email me with comments or encouragement at:

taxandros@protonmail.com

A big thank you to all you who have written to let me know how much you enjoy this story. Your enthusiasm and kind words inspire me to keep going. I don't have any other stories posted anywhere else yet, but I plan to cobble some together, soon.

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Your humble author, Taz

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End of Last Chapter:

The other children caught sight of the tower and gave a glad shout. They pelted up the path, heading for the gates to the colliery. Only Dee remained behind,her brow furrowed in a serious expression. "I'll have them send a wagon for you." She patted Bran's hand before running after the others.

Bran watched them disappear behind the screen of trees that ranged across the far side of the hill, then laid down atop the pony wall. The sun had been up just long enough to bake the dew off of it, but the stone was cool and impartial. He turned his face towards the river and stared at the dark, slow-moving water. Some part of him ached to plunge into those silent depths in the hopes of finding the palace of Gwyn ap Nudd. The more rational side of him realized the futility of that course.

For whatever reason, he was not welcome there, else he would have found himself amid the enchantments so happily recounted by the children, and not drowning in the deep ocean, surrounded by an army of fairy women.

Bran heaved a great sigh and wondered how deep the river was. If he jumped, would he die quickly, of a broken neck, or would he plunge deep and be carried off back to the white women in the sea? Either way, he would not survive.

The prospect enticed him. Even a painful, watery death was preferable to the terrifying drudgery of the mine, and the crushing cruelty and humiliation of Driscoll's rowhouse. The problem with jumping was, he didn't have the energy to sit up and actually do it. And even if he did, his time in the air would be far, far too brief.

He yearned so desperately to fly.

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Topping the Duke (Chapter 10 -- A Wealth of Miracles )

Charles spent a good part of the night in hospital.

At first, he had only meant to ensure that all the injured colliers had been seen by a doctor, but he became quite fascinated as it became clear that those who had benefitted from the gold flakes on Charles' coat were all healing miraculously quickly.

Bruises and lacerations that should have taken days, if not weeks to heal seemed to mend over the course of several hours. Even the men who had lost their eardrums in the blast had their hearing restored before midnight. Broken bones set themselves and torn muscles and ligaments knit back together, although the rapid healing effect seemed to wear off before the most severe wounds mended completely.

Charles had been unable to confirm it directly, although he suspected that the men who had sustained those injuries had been at risk of dying from hemorrhages caused by the force of the explosion, so perhaps most of the healing energy was directed towardtheir internal organs. Their broken limbs, while repaired enough to be functional, nevertheless remained swollen, tender, and quite warm to the touch.

By happy accident, Libby and Pwyl's initial injuries were not as severe as those of their butties. They had left the mine under their own power, and so had not received Goatsby's golden elixir. They were, therefore, the perfect control subjects. As Charles suspected, they healed at a rate normal for healthy human males. Careful measurements were taken before their wounds had been cleaned and bandaged. The difference between those who had been treated with Goatsby's semen and those who had not was quite striking. What was even more striking--as well as profoundly curious--was that every cut that had miraculously healed had left a coal-blackened scar in the shape of a bird in flight.

It was well into the wee hours when Charles had finished consulting with the doctors regarding these events. It had been such a strange and wondrous thing, to see flesh heal and minor bones knit together so rapidly. Curious to see if the liquid in the vial would have the same effect as the flakes of gold from his coat, he thought to administer a drop to Libby and Pwyll, but when he withdrew it from his pocket, he found the glowing liquid had turned a somber ash gray.

While not a superstitious sort, Charles could not shake the thought that Goatsby's death had caused the light to abandon the vial. He found himself praying for the lad's soul, even as his body craved to be kneeling in the cage once again with his tongue and lips worshiping the source of that divine seed. The loss pierced Charles deeply, the wound aggravated by the guilt of failing his vow towards the little drammer. The welter of emotions plagued him so deeply that he fled back to the smithy at the mine, seeking to redeem himself by drawing out the blueprints for an improved water ram. The sooner it could be built, the sooner he could keep his promise to poor Goatsby.

He had been slaving away for several hours when Mr. Ott, his personal valet, appeared at his elbow with a scratched and dented tin mug. "Tea, Your Grace?"

Charles glanced up from the drawings he'd been making, lost in his calculations. He stared at his valet for several moments, before nodding. "Thank you, Ott." He took the mug and swallowed a large gulp of the tepid brew, surprised at both the temperature and the bitterness. He peered down at the battered mug, then up at his valet's face, confused by the abysmal quality of the beverage until he realized that he was not at Ty'r Fran, but in the smithy at the mine.

Ott seemed both amused and concerned by his bout of confusion. "You gave me quite the chase. When you didn't arrive at the estate for dinner, I set about looking for you. By the time I'd learnt about the explosion, and your daring rescue, you were already at hospital. But by the time I arrived there, you'd already left." Ott's long, sallow face pulled down in a worried frown. His father was a Dutchman, and he had inherited that prudent nature. "I feared you'd been waylaid, since you did not return home."

"What made you come here?"

"I thought perhaps you were attending the memorial service."

"Memorial service?"

"For those killed in the mine. The colliers refuse to return to work in any of the pits until the priest has laid their souls to rest."

Charles set the mug aside and rose to his feet. He'd been so engrossed in his drawings that he had not thought to consider such a thing. "Which church is it at?"

"It's just outside. In the yard. Where do you think I got the tea?"

"When does it start?"

"Tis almost over. The sun's been up for over an hour, now."

"No." Charles stretched with a groan, feeling exhaustion deep in his bones, settling in with the grief. He glanced through the partially open doorway, surprised at the bar of sunlight angling across the floor. He heard a beautiful chorus of voices, singing in Welsh just outside. "I missed it."

"It's been a long night. Perhaps you should retire?"

"I need to finish these blueprints. Mr. Champness promised me the smiths would start building this device as soon as I had the plans ready."

Suddenly, a loud commotion arose in the yard, a noise so boisterous that all the singing stopped. Curious about this, Charles crossed over to the door and stepped out into the sunlight. At the far end of the yard, just inside the gates, several colliers and their wives exclaimed in brash, celebratory Welsh, waving the others over.

Charles frowned and crossed his arms. He knew that those of a more Celtic persuasion often held drunken parties known as wakes to celebrate the recently deceased, but he felt such ebullience rather unseemly, if not disrespectful. "What's all this?"

"They're back!" Rhys Libby, who had been standing nearby, translated for him. "The children! They're back!"

Near the gate, Mr. Evans, who had been rescued by Charles the day before, hoisted up two young boys, one in each arm, and kissed each on the cheek in turn.

"They're alive?" Charles strode across the yard towards Evans, and saw that in addition to the two little boys, two little girls had found the glad embraces of their parents. "That's four of the five. Where's Goatsby?"

Libby shrugged. "Don't see `im."

Charles swept the yard with his gaze. The miracle of the children's survival had changed the solemn air in the yard to one of animated wonderment. More than one "Diolch dduw!" echoed to the heavens.

Charles searched, but there was no Goatsby.

A third little girl entered the yard through the gate, this one red-headed. "Tat!" She called out in Welsh, and several colliers from Jones' butty turned towards her. Their glad smiles turned bittersweet. A woman screamed and ran to throw her arms around the little girl, who couldn't have been more than six years old.

Libby stepped up beside Charles and whispered: "That's the last missin' child, that is. Dee Moss. `Er father died in the blast."

Charles winced at the memory of the man crushed by the fallen beam. He, Ott, and Libby moved over to the child and her doting mother. The girl's bright green eyes were framed by lashes the color of new copper. She looked up into Libby's face, and said: "Where's my tat? I need a wagon, I do."

"What for?" Charles inquired, finding the child's earnest urgency rather curious. Equally curious was how clean and neat her clothing was. The bright red hair that tumbled off her head in tight ringlets was freshly washed and smelled of lavender.

"Bran's `urt, `e is. `e's down at the bridge."

"Bran? Goatsby? He's alive?"

She nodded. "Showed us the way `ome, `e did."

The words galvanized Charles into action. "Ott! Fetch Dr. Maugham! Have him meet us at Ty'r Fran." Without waiting for a reply, Charles ran over to his coachmen, who idled just outside the stable near the winding house. "Harness the horses and meet me down the road!" He spun away and darted back through the throng and out the gate, followed by several colliers. They all loped down the hill, but Charles outpaced them. As he cleared a copse of trees, he spotted a small, hunched figure on the bridge. Black and shirtless, it had to be him.

"Goatsby!" Charles shouted, surprised at the way his heart leapt when he saw the lad. All the guilt and remorse of the night fell away. He chuckled and redoubled his efforts, sprinting across the uneven mounds of tailings as he made his way to the bridge.

Goatsby sat on the pony wall with his legs dangling over the river. He looked atrocious. The boy's left shoulder was drooping, his arm hanging at an odd angle. His naked torso and legs were crusted with mud and marsh scum as was his shaggy, unkempt mop of black hair. Goatsby's head swiveled. He regarded Charles over his shoulder. Once so sharp with terror, those glittering obsidian eyes were now dull and hazy to the point of disorientation. "Your Grace?"

"You look a fright, lad." Charles rushed up to him, wanting desperately to embrace him, but thinking better of it as he heard the footfalls of the colliers on the stone of the bridge behind him.

Goatsby blinked owlishly, and then turned to regard the river below. "I want to fly, I do." He leaned further out, sliding his slender frame closer to the edge.

Fearing the boy was in shock, Charles tugged him gently back. "Turn round. Look at me." At his touch, Goatsby gasped, and for a moment Charles feared he had inadvertently touched an injury. He withdrew his hand. "I'm sorry. You're hurt."

Slowly, wordlessly, the boy swung his filthy legs around to the inside of the pony wall. Oddly enough, the jacket tied around his thin waist was spanking clean. Charles felt a blush redden his cheeks as he realized his gaze was lingering far too long on Goatsby's crotch. He had to deliberately swallow a few times to keep his tongue from arcing lewdly out of his mouth in remembrance of their time in the cage.

"Your Grace." Goatsby's dullness evaporated, replaced by an impish, defiant smirk. He had seen where Charles had been looking. Even worse, he seemed to recognize the swell of lust and desire that surged up in Charles. The air around them crackled with it. Charles half expected lighting to flash between them, like a spark arcing between two electric poles.

As they regarded one another, Rhys Libby and some of the others in Jones' butty collected around them, gaping at the miraculous appearance of Goatsby and muttering to one another in incredulous Welsh. They pressed in, each patting Goatsby in gratitude and camaraderie, until an angry, barrel-chested man with a bald pate and dark beard bulled through the crowd. Charles recognized him as Goatsby's master, Driscoll. The brute grabbed Goatsby by his filthy hair, and yanked him up. "There you are, you lazy sod."

Goatsby yelped, struggling to find his feet as he dangled from the lout's grasp. His eyes held that same bright terror that he'd had down below. "Please, sir, no. I'm 'urt, I am."

"Unhand him," Charles commanded. "You've no right to treat him so."

"I've every right." The man rounded about and glowered at Charles with slate-gray eyes under a beetled black brow. "He's my apprentice."

"And what skill have you taught him? How to clamber about underground while you benefit from his wages? That is no vocation, it is merely slavery."

"He's bound to me until he's eighteen."

"He is not. The law is quite clear in this regard. An apprentice is not bound to a master who seeks only to exploit the labor of his indenture, and does not provide skillful instruction in a trade or vocation. Hurrying coal requires no skill. You have no claim on him, or his service."

Goatsby's face broke open in wonder. "I'm free?"

Driscoll muttered a curse and turned away, yanking the poor lad after him. Goatsby cried out and squirmed away. Driscoll raised a hand to cuff him, but several colliers stepped in to halt the blow.

"Leave Bran `ere." Libby's injuries from the mine added weight to his pugnacious glower. His companions brought up their fists. "You've no claim on `im."

Driscoll skewered them all with a hateful glower, but ultimately showed his craven nature. He released the boy. Stepping carefully around the colliers, he stalked away up the hill towards the mine. "Mr. Champness will hear about this."

Libby spat after him.

"Do not attempt to enforce this indenture," Charles advised the retreating man. "If you do, I shall have you arrested and brought before the magistrate."

Driscoll made a rude gesture which incensed the colliers, who growled and lunged after him, forcing him to run up the road at a brisk pace. They laughed at his cowardice and turned to regard Goatsby. "You're safe from 'im, you are," they assured him. "You're our butty."

The lad nodded his gratitude to Libby and his companions then turned his gaze on Charles once more. "I'm free?" he asked again, as if afraid this was all some sort of jest at his expense.

"You are," Charles assured him.

"I'm free," he uttered, with the passion of a battle cry and the reverence of a prayer. He remained in this beatified state for several long moments, and then his expression fell to one of alarm. "Where shall I sleep? How shall I eat?"

"You shall dine with me, at Ty'r Fran. As for a bed, there are plenty there." Charles pointed to his coach. It hurtled towards them, forcing Driscoll to step off the road into the tailings. "Shall we?"