Topping-The-Duke-04

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. 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

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Your humble author, Taz

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End of Last Chapter:

The duke put his hand on Bran's shoulder again, perhaps to steady them both. Bran glanced up at him, startled by the electric jolt that surged through him at that touch, but Lacock was already moving to peer out the window towards the engine house, where the alarm bell clanged in a desperate, urgent peal. "What's going on?"

"Fire damp," Bran explained. His voice sounded reedy and distant in his ears. "They must've `it a pocket. Exploded, it did. Might be a collapse, as well."

"I don't see any smoke."

"Down below, it is."

"Bloody Hell," Duke Lacock scrambled around the table to the leather bag on the floor beneath the hat rack. He snatched it up by the handles and rushed to the door. "With me, Goatsby," he ordered as he ran down the hallway to the stairs, his footfalls receding until Bran could barely hear them over the sound of the alarm clanging through the window.

Bran wondered at his haste. There was nothing to be done but pray for the dead. He sighed, dragging his finger slowly across the top of his prick, blinking in surprise at the glowing fluid that coated his fingertip. Surprised, he licked it off.

It tasted like the honeyed warmth of Beli Mawr's kiss. Bran shuddered, aflame with desire to suck that massive white scepter, to swallow that liquid sunlight that had filled him with with such magic.

"Goatsby!!!" Duke Lacock shouted.

The urgency in his voice forced Bran back to the here and now. He tucked himself back down into his breeches and turned to follow.

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Topping the Duke (Chapter Four - Descent)

Charles rushed down the stairs and through the main door of the building onto the cobbles outside. As he waited for Goatsby to join him, he glanced around to assess the situation.

Across the yard, the smithy had stopped its hammering. The sawmill had ceased its whine. Their workers cluttered the yard, shielding their eyes from the setting summer sun as they stared with grim faces towards the engine house and its droning bell. Charles heard the door open behind him and glanced back to see Goatsby step onto the stoop. His head was down, his hands covering his groin as he tried to hide the fact that his breeches were tented obscenely.

So that explained the lad's odd behavior upstairs. The table had hidden his distress from Charles, but now it was clear the boy--and boy was putting it kindly, as Goatsby resembled more a stick figure drawn in India ink rather than a human being--had been smitten. Even though he preferred the fairer sex, this was not the first time another lad had shown such a reaction towards Charles. At both Harrow and Eton, the handsome young duke had received dozens of indecent proposals. The upperclassmen had fought over him, as well. But now was not the time to address the boy's rampant pego. Being of a similar age, Charles knew full well that one's prick had a mind of its own.

"What are you meanin' to do, Your Grace?" The little Welshman spoke with a bewilderment that Charles found quite vexing.

"Why, be of service, of course." Charles gave him a stern look and trotted towards the engine house. The men in the yard parted to allow him passage. To a one, their somber faces were masks of silent grief.

Charles felt like an intruder at a family funeral.

As he reached the winding house, he heard Goatsby's footfalls on the cobbles behind him. At least he thought it was Goatsby, but then a pudgy hand grabbed hold of his left elbow. Mr. Champness, the simpering mine owner, assured him in a placating, nasal voice: "This is nothing to trouble yourself over, Your Grace."

Charles turned to face the man, squaring his shoulders and skewering Champness with his gaze until the boor unhanded him. "I shall be the judge of what troubles me."

"Of course, of course. Forgive me. I only meant to preserve your clothing."

"I don't care a fig for my clothes. There are lives at stake." As if to emphasize his point, the cage reached its apex and belched forth a mob of colliers accompanied by wisps of smoke. Their black faces were twisted in various anguished expressions as they coughed and staggered out into the open air of the yard. A few of the sawyers and smiths made glad exclamations and rushed forward to embrace their newly saved friends. The rest continued to look on, stoic and funereal.

Without thinking, Charles rushed towards the open cage. "Goatsby! With me!"

"Your Grace!" Champness hurried after him, but had the good sense not to repeat his earlier grab. "I can't let you do this. Conditions are quite dangerous down there. What would your father say if he learned I--?"

"I am quite aware of the danger. Get Goatsby into the cage with me, I have need of him."

Champness met his gaze, his rheumy eyes wide with desperation. "Your Grace..."

"Now," Charles intoned. "There's no time to waste!"

Champness nodded and looked around. Goatsby was hiding behind one of the sawyers. The fat mine owner stalked over to the waif and grabbed him by the arm. He dragged the reluctant boy over, pausing for a moment to gasp and snarl at the lewd tent in Goatsy's breeches. "You'll pay for that," he growled and shoved him into the cage. "But for now, you do what Duke Lacock says."

Goatsby's only reply was to tremble and drop his chin to his bony chest. He clutched the crossbars of the cage door, but Champness closed it before he could escape. Charles latched the door and signaled to the engineman to lower the cage. The bell rang and the muffled snap of whips descending on horseflesh sounded from the winding house.

Astonished, Charles exclaimed: "You're not using steam engines?"

The cage descended into smoky darkness before Champness could reply.

"Where's the lantern?" Charles asked. "I've got to prepare my devices before we reach the pit bottom."

"Is none."

"Dash it all!" Charles set his bag on the floor and fumbled inside, feeling around for a candle. He heard a faint, rhythmic sound from Goatsby's direction, and thought perhaps he was pressurizing a Tilley lamp, especially when a glimmering glow haloed that thin silhouette. Goatsby had his back to Charles. He hadn't heard a flint strike, or a match flare, however. Curious as to the source of the golden light, Charles put a hand on the thin shoulder and pulled the boy around.

Just as Goatsby faced him, something erupted from below the lad's waist. In the oppressive darkness, it appeared like a fountain of sparks, but instead of fire, it showered Charles' face with a pleasant, liquid heat. Astonished by it all, Charles' mouth gaped open, as the second line of light arced. Some of the liquid dripped down from his upper lip and landed on his tongue.

The taste was indescribable, exploding across his palate, and then again through his consciousness. It was as if he had just tasted the wisdom of the ages, sipped the ambrosia of enlightenment itself. Without thinking, he leaned towards the next spurt arcing through the dark, capturing more of the delectable fluid. When he swallowed, it seemed to set his very soul alight. He caught the third, then the fourth spurt. His mind burned with theorems and hypotheses. Solutions to the most vexing problems regarding science and engineering blossomed like sunflowers on a vast plain of possibilities, then faded before he could commit them to memory.

He groaned with delight. His entire being seemed supernaturally charged.

His inventive mind ran away with him for several moments, vainly pursuing the ephemeral solutions that had tantalized him. The smell of smoke pierced his bubble of euphoria and brought him back to the here and now. They were descending into the hellish darkness of a coal mine fire, but the liquid on Charles' face and coat glowed as bright as the noonday sun. The same golden glow as that crowning the pink head of Goatsby's prick as it peeked out of one black fist.

The shocking sight forced Charles to ask the question: "Did you just spend? In my mouth?"

Goatsby's entire body shuddered. At first with the bliss of release, and then with fear. He took a step back, voice high and reedy: "No, Your Grace." His hand was still wrapped around his member, the glowing droplets of his seed illuminating his coal blackened fingers. He seemed to realize how obvious his lie was, and added: "You caught it, you did."

Charles was at a loss as to how to behave in this situation. It wasn't the first time he'd had ejaculate on his face. He had done his share of fagging for upperclassmen at both Harrow and Eton. But for someone of Goatsby's lowly station to presume such a thing? It was unthinkable. Unconscionable.

And yet, it was intoxicating.

He slowly scraped the spunk off his cheek with his index finger and examined it. It had a gooey, silky texture and shone with some inner light, far brighter than any natural phosphorescence he had encountered before. The scent reminded him of his father's garden in full bloom. "How curious!" He tasted it again, this time more deliberately, turning his full attention to how the substance seemed to awaken the fire of curiosity and invention inside him. He simply must have samples of this, so that he could uncover the mystery behind its glow. Was it a chemical reaction? Or was it simply a hallucination brought on by the strange vapors in the mine?

He knelt down and rummaged through his bag, withdrawing the leather case that held his collection of glass vials. He turned to Goatsby and took hold of his softening prick, trying to capture the last few dribbles of shining liquid on the bell end. Half-hard, the boy's member was disproportionately large for his small frame, with weight and heft to rival the stoutest upperclassman at Eton. But Goatsby's fear seemed to have taken the wind out of his sails and only a drop or two of that liquid fire spilled into the vial.

A groan left Charles and he looked up into Goatsby's face. "Please. I need more."

As soon as he had uttered those words, Charles felt the soft flesh in his hand leap back into life, like a cobra rousing itself to strike. The fear on Goatsby's face transformed into a glittering, hungry look that made him seem much bigger than his small frame. "You are wantin' my seed, are you? Then suck my cock."

Charles gasped, transfixed not only by such bold vulgarity, but by the sheer impudence of this waif. Any duke would have been well within his rights to have Goatsby flogged, or even hanged for daring to utter those words to him, let alone for coating his coat and face with spunk. Goatsby was a nobody, a lowly, self-admitted whoreson apprenticed to a lout like Driscoll. How dare he command the Duke of Lacock to perform such a licentious act!

And yet, Charles was there on his knees before the fiery creature, his hand filled with a meaty scepter that throbbed an almost hypnotic beat into his palm. Charles felt a stirring in his loins that he had never felt while on his knees with any one from school. Fagging for them had been a chore, a duty, a way to survive school until he himself was the upperclassman. But this...there was something so deliciously perverse about lowering himself to service this dirty little beast. It would be like sucking one of the slaves working Father's plantations in Bermuda.

Surprisingly, the thought of debasing himself with Goatsby made his prick strain against the tight fabric of his trousers. He groaned and spread his legs wider, hoping to allow himself more room, but all that did was squeeze his rigid member tighter.

Goatsby seemed to recognize his arousal and grinned, his white teeth a sharp contrast to the matte black angles of his filthy face. His obsidian eyes glittered with a predatory lust that reminded Charles of the look on Headmaster Vaughn's face the first day Charles had arrived at Harrow. But unlike that scoundrel hypocrite Vaughn, who sought only to satisfy his own perversions upon the bodies of the young boys in his charge, there seemed to be more than mere feral need in Goatsby's expression.

It may have been a trick of the light, but Charles was sure that he saw the same wonderment and reverence Goatsby had shown when Charles had described his ventilation system. The lad wasn't just attracted to his body, but also his intellect. The thought stoked the fire between his legs. Another groan escaped him, and he squirmed, knees grinding painfully on the grotty planks that made up the bottom of the cage. His trousers were fashionably tight, so as to advertise his virility to any eligible ladies who might make a good match, but in this situation they served only to highlight his predicament, especially since the glow spattering his frock coat illuminated the wet spot over the bulge in the tawny fabric quite clearly.

Goatsby snickered. "Open your flap. I am wantin' to see your pego while you suck me."

Charles hesitated, every social instinct rebelling against this topsy-turvey tableaux. Father would disown him if he ever found out Charles had allowed such a guttersnipe authority over him. "I'm not your servant." Even as he denied it, the idea sent a thrill down his spine that made his nipples tingle and his prick throb.

"No, you're the Duke who is wantin' my spunk in a jar. I am willin' to give it, but only if you suck me and show me your cock."

The cage clanged against an outcropping of rock, taking Charles by surprise and knocking him off balance, onto all fours. As he righted himself, Charles glanced around, noticing the air had become significantly denser. His eyes stung with smoke, a reminder of. where they were, and what was at stake. Goatsby looked up, and then snickered down at Charles. "Best decide quickly. Almost `alfway down."

"I could have you hanged for your impertinence," Charles countered, in a last, desperate attempt to keep his own lusts from dragging him into this devil's bargain.

"Open your flap. Or take your `and off my pego." Goatsby's voice held an edge of challenge tinged with amusement, as if he knew exactly what Charles would decide to do. "Your Grace," he added belatedly, in an exaggerated tone that underscored exactly who was standing and who was kneeling.

The insult should have made Charles furious, but instead his cock leapt up, struggling like a trout in a net against the confines of his trousers. He set the vial between his teeth and reached down to unbutton himself. His little soldier poked through with rampant attention. The air caressing his most private parts made him acutely aware of how exposed he was, how vulnerable.

Goatsby's grin only made it worse.

Charles moved his hand to hide his arousal, but Goatsby kicked it away. "No `idin' that. And no touchin' it, either."

Charles felt his face go hot with shame. He lowered his head, to hide his face, but that only served to focus his eyes on his own cockstand, or on Goatsby's. He moaned, squirming. He felt like such a libertine.

Goatsby chuckled, the top of his foot tucking up under Charles' balls. He twisted his ankle around slowly, dandling those sensitive eggs. It was a gesture both tender and obscene, one sent that an electric jolt through Charles. No one had ever treated him this way, with such a strange combination of reverence and disdain. It stole Charles' breath away and made his hips pump so that he could glide the bell end of his prick across Goatsby's filthy shin and drag his balls back and forth across his foot. He wasn't sure why he enjoyed it so, but it felt intensely, deliciously degrading to hump this guttersnipe's leg like a dog.

Goatsby groaned, clearly aroused at the sight. His prick twitched and pulsed against Charles' fingers, spilling forth a little pearl of golden light. Charles pulled the stopper out with his teeth and spat it into his bag, and then held the vial up to catch that shining droplet. Before he collected it, instinct seized him. He lowered his head to lap at weeping slit. As soon as the liquid touched his tongue, he heard music. An ethereal chorus sang to him of the whirling forces of the universe.

He gasped, astonished at how much more powerful the effect was now that he tasted the ambrosia directly from its source. Blueprints and formulae danced through his mind, resonating with the music like the strings of a pianoforte. It was an intense, spiritual experience, one that both transcended and inflamed the lust that burned through his corporeal form.

Desperate for more, he peeled back the grimy foreskin and swallowed that throbbing pink scepter down to the root, suckling like a starving calf. He cupped those grimy stones, massaging them gently. He was both rewarded and put into his place by the sensation of Goatsby's foot doing the same to him. He moaned around Goatsby's shaft, then pulled back to lather it with his tongue, paying special attention to the slit. With each glorious droplet he swallowed, he felt more desperate to swallow more. It fed something at his core, something glorious and magical.

"Hummmm," Goatsby grabbed Charles' head and fucked roughly into his throat. "You're a hungry little shag-bag, you are..."

The words shamed Charles, even as they seemed to liberate him. He could no longer deny how much he wanted--no, needed--to be used by this boy who was inferior to him in almost every way. The idea excited him almost beyond reason, causing him to leave a trail of slime along that bony shin as he pumped his own member up and down. He slid his palm past Goatsby's balls, fluttering his digits along the sensitive flesh of the perineum until his middle finger found the puckered ring beyond. A slick trickle flowed from the hole.

The little whoreson had been buggered recently.

This revelation was so delectably lewd, it propelled Charles into a frenzy. He pistoned his finger into that narrow passage, deeper and deeper with every stroke, until at last he felt that little nubbin that made every man's prick leap with joy. He teased it with the pad of his finger. Goatsby arched his back with a lusty cry, pumping with short, violent strokes into Charles' throat, battering his uvula.

The savage treatment pushed Charles towards the edge. He could feel the volcanic pressure building in his groin as his stones drew up. What a shattering climax this promised to be! But his impending crisis was cruelly averted as the smaller boy pinned Charles' stones to the planks with a callused foot. "Not until I'm done."

Charles drew his head back in pain and surprise. A moan escaped him as the bell end of the little Welshman's prick popped free of his lips. He tried to recapture it, blinking at the bright white droplets seeping out of the pulsing member, but the other boy held him off.

"Get your jar on it," Goatsby ordered. "I'm spendin', I am."

The command snapped Charles out of his lust-drenched daze. He pressed the mouth of the vial over the head of Goatsby's prick. He pulled his other hand free from that tight little bottom and wrapped it around his shaft, milking him. A loud roar burst from the little man, along with several copious spurts. The vial filled with a thick liquid that smelled like a field of summer flowers and burned more brightly than white phosphorus. Charles gaped at, so confounded by the impossibility of the thing that he forgot Goatsby literally had him by the balls. And then the pain shot through his gut as Goatsby ground his testicles against the rough planks.

"Cap it," the Welshman growled. "And button your flap. We're almost to the bottom."

Charles took several deep breaths and shook his head to clear it. He coughed as he grabbed the stopper and sealed the vial. The air had become much thicker and more heated. A haze of acrid smoke haloed the glowing cylinder, which radiated a much whiter and brighter light than any lantern Charles had ever known. He handed itl to Goatsby and struggled to force his still rampant pego back into his tight trousers. The men trapped below needed his wit, his focus. "I must prepare my devices."

Goatsby's sooty fingers curled around the glowing vial. He hitched his breeches up over his narrow hips with his other hand, then held the light over the leather bag, so that Charles could see the contents clearly. "What is all that, Your Grace?"

His tone had become respectful once more, and the surreal quality of the past several minutes made Charles wonder if he had not hallucinated the entire thing. Except that, if he had, how had that glowing vial come about? He shook his head to clear it, finding that it helped to focus on the question at hand: "These are my inventions. I hope they can save the lives of the men below." He donned his goggles, to keep the smoke from stinging his eyes, and then pulled out a spare neck cloth. He cut it in half and sprinkled his carefully measured powder on the pieces, then trickled liquid on them from the specially prepared flask in his bag. He tied one piece around his nose and mouth, offering the other to Goatsby. "I didn't bring my aerophore, as it is not yet perfected, but this should allow us to breathe, even in an atmosphere heavy with carbon mono and di-oxides."

Goatsby took the cloth and held it up to his face experimentally. "It's fresh air, it is!" He pulled the cloth away and looked at it, as if expecting to find a doorway to a sunny meadow.

"It is," Charles affirmed. "It's caused by a chemical reaction that offgasses oxygen. But it won't last long. Fifteen minutes, by my reckoning."

The little miner nodded and tied the cloth round his face, then bent over to watch curiously as Charles fitted the hose to the barrel of his fire suppression invention. "What's that?"

Before Charles could reply, the cage shuddered and clanged about, then fell hard aground with a jolt that almost knocked Charles senseless. He was amazed Goatsby could keep his footing.

"Who the bloody `ell are you?" a voice growled. Lanterns and candles cast ruddy, pearlescent glows in the choking smoke billowing into the cage from the pit bottom. A chorus rose up around the man who had spoken, silhouettes of others desperate to get out this seething inferno. "Why is your coat aglow?"

Charles did not dignify the question with a reply and instead collected his things. He motioned to Goatsby to unlatch the door to the cage. As soon as it swung open, he forced his way through the press of damp, filthy, shirtless bodies. "Where's the blaze?"

"Down at the bank," Someone choked out as the desperate men scrambled into the cage. "Fire's bad, it is."

"Goatsby, do you know the way?" Charles searched the cage, only to find the lad had escaped before the colliers swept in.

"Aye, Your Grace."

The voice had come from behind him. Charles turned and saw the bright globe cast by the vial in Goatsby's hand a few feet past the clot of miners. Goatsby seemed to be searching desperately for someone. "Where are Mr. Jones and `is butty?" he demanded of the stragglers. "And Dee Moss and the Evans boys? They're not up top."

"'Aven't seen them," the others admitted, shaking their heads sorrowfully as the last one crammed into the cage. One of them rang the bell. "May God rest their souls...'

Charles watched the cable grow taut. The cage rose up, the candles and lanterns winking out, leaving him alone in the dark. "Goatsby?" He turned round, and saw the lad running down the smoke-filled horseway with the light, his feet splashing in the watery slime. "Goatsby!"

Charles pelted after him, suddenly, acutely aware of just how terrible an idea this had been.

If by the grace of God he survived, his own father would kill him.