(c) 2020, Taz Xandros, All Rights Reserved.

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:

“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.

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Topping the Duke (Chapter 5 -- In the Belly of the Dragon)

Goatsby’s terror at having been forced into the cage by Mr. Champness seemed to have evaporated, replaced by a resolute sense of urgency. Despite his small stature, the little Welshman navigated the dark tunnels remarkably well, moving with the speed and agility of a hare bounding through his own warrens. Charles struggled to catch up, stumbling time and again over the gloomy, unfamiliar terrain. “Goatsby! Stop!”

The lad slowed, glancing over his shoulder. The light from the vial illuminated his coal-blackened skin, highlighting the stark, skeletal angles of his form. Nothing more than skin and bones. His dark, inquisitive eyes shot an impatient glower at Charles.

“Wait for me.” Charles wondered at the way he felt compelled to explain himself to this lowly little miner. Not only was Charles a duke, he was a year older and a foot and a half taller. And yet, he felt somehow humbled by the lad, and unsettled by what had happened between them in the cage. “The smoke is growing thicker, and you’ve the best light.”

This made the Welshman actually pause. His hard, focused expression softened into one of kind sympathy as he stopped and waited for Charles to pick his way along the slick, uneven roadway and join him. “It’s a dark place, it is.”

“Pray tell, Goatsby,” Charles felt compelled to ask the question that had been burning in him since their descent. “Why in Heaven’s name were you wanking in the cage?”

The little man shrugged, setting his jaw. He met Charles’ gaze, his eyes sharp and black as obsidian. It was a stark contrast with the white cloth bound around the lower half of his face. “You are wantin’ to get us killed. I was wantin’ to spend at least once by my own ‘and before I died.”

“You’ve never wanked to completion before?”

“Driscoll wouldn’t allow it. Nor the matron at the mill. But now…” The cloth around his cheeks bulged, revealing a wide but veiled grin. He studied Charles with a knowing look, one hand patting Charles’ waistcoat. “Thank you, Your Grace. I’ll die ‘appy knowin’ some of my spunk is in a duke’s belly.”

Once again, it was the sort of vulgar affront that should have made Charles fume and defend his honor. But, he could not deny that it was true, nor that he had found the act extremely pleasurable, regardless of the strange circumstances surrounding it. He felt a blush come to his cheeks, accompanied by a stirring in his groin.

Goatsby’s eyes twinkled with lascivious delight. He lowered his hand to Charles’ flap and gave him a squeeze. “Looks like you’ll die ‘appy about it, too.”

“I don’t plan on dying here.”

“No one does. But I ‘ave been ‘earin’ the Cyhyreath all mornin’. I am thinkin’ that Beli Mawr blessed me and my seed so that we could battle the dragon and face death with a smile.”

“I fail to see how the blessings of a medieval Welsh King could have brought about such an unusual change in your semen. And I hazard there are no dragons still extant, if they ever existed historically.”

Goatsby laughed and shook the brightly shining vial in his hand. “Beli Mawr is the god of the sun. It is ‘is seed in ‘ere, I ‘azard. And I am not knowin’ the rest of what you said, but the dragon lives in the dark. It ‘as been wantin’ to eat me ever since I first came to Llanelli.”

“How do you know?”

“It ‘aunts my dreams. And it attacked Beli Mawr’s chariot. Knocked me back to earth.”

“When was this?”

“Right before the explosion.”

“You were with me right before the explosion.”

“A man can be in two places at once, if ‘e’s got a foot in both worlds.”

While he knew the Welsh were quite prone to explain the ordinary in terms of the marvelous, Goatsby took such fancies to inordinate heights. Charles began to suspect that the lad was, in fact, mentally infirm. But that still did not explain the curious glow emanating from the vial. “We shall discuss this later. For now, we must make haste to the bank and battle the fire.”

“For a duke, you’re in a great ‘urry to die.”

Charles felt a stab of guilt. He himself was willing to risk life and limb upon the usefulness of his inventions, but it had been unfair to assume anyone else possessed the same confidence. “Goatsby,” he intoned earnestly. “Forgive my imposition in demanding your presence here. I believe my inventions can save the lives of the men below, but you must guide me to where the crisis lies. If you wish to abandon me there, I shall not fault you.”

Goatsby’s grim, fey look transformed into an expression of wonderment that perplexed Charles, until he realized that this was quite possibly the first time that anyone had ever given him a choice, rather than simply ordering him to comply.

The thought pained Charles thoroughly. It filled him with a sense of outraged compassion so intense, he put his hand on the fellow’s shoulder. “Take heart,” he promised. “I will see you clear of this place. I give you my word.”

This pledge produced a mute nod of assent, and then Goatsby turned and headed off at a good clip along the descending horseway, moving at a pace so rapid, Charles once again had difficulty keeping up. They made several winding turns past played out seams of coal, and then skirted the stables, where the nervous whinnies and kicks of the ponies echoing through the darkness reminded Charles of the angry thrashing of an unbalanced steam engine. The deeper they went, the thicker the smoke.

Presently, they diverted down a low, shored tunnel with an even steeper decline. They passed through an open, abandoned trap before stepping onto a lower horseway, where the smoke was thick as soup. Goatsby’s pace slowed. He seemed quite vexed, shaking his head. “She wasn’t there.”

“Who?”

“Little Dee Moss. She works that trap. She’s only six.” Goatsby held the light out to Charles, setting it into his hand. “Follow the ‘orseway past the stables, and take the left ‘anded side of the fork. I’m goin’ to search for ‘er and the others.”

“A little girl? Only six years old? Works down here?” Charles growled, feeling the anger rise up in him. “Mr. Champness assured me there were no children. You told me that you were the oldest.”

“I was lyin’, I was.” Goatsby’s shoulders hunched. He lowered his head and trembled a bit, the way a hound cowers at the heel of a cruel master. “Mr. Champness told me to lie to you, he did.”

For some reason, the lad’s fear of punishment fueled Charles’ outrage. “How many children in toto? What ages? List them.”

“Well, there’s Dee Moss, she’s six. The two Evans boys, they’re seven and eight. And the Williams girls are twins. They’re both eight. That’s ‘ere in C-pit. I am not knowin’ who is workin’ the traps in B or D pits.”

“Children. Little children, working in a dangerous hellhole like this!” Charles paced up and down, hands curling into fists. “What kind of parent allows such a thing?!”

“Where else would they go? Who else could care for them?”

“Why, school, of course. They should be in school! Learning to read and write.”

“And ‘ow could their parents afford such a thing? They’d lose their children’s wages, as well as needin’ to pay the tuition.”

“They couldn’t possibly be so destitute as to need such a pittance to survive.”

Goatsby just stared, his eyes holding resentment mixed with disbelief. He shook his head and turned away. “Keep ‘eadin’ down this ‘orseway to the bank. Follow the rails. I’ll be meetin’ you there. I am needin’ to find the children.” He disappeared into the murky blackness.

Charles watched the spot where he last saw the lad, feeling suddenly bereft and foolish. What if it had been a ruse, and the lewd little whoreson meant to steal back to the cage and escape this oppressive darkness, abandoning Charles to his own devices? A low growl escaped Charles at the thought. Such cowardice deserved a severe punishment. A flogging, at the very least.

Charles gripped the vial tightly and followed after Goatsby, until the light revealed yet another of the small dramming tunnels that honeycombed such mines. It headed down, not up. An unlikely route if Goatsby meant to escape.

A wave of shame flushed through Charles for his suspicions. While the little man’s terror had been quite pronounced topside, down here, in the thick of it, the waif seemed to have adopted a stalwart sense of responsibility and care for his fellow man. But time was scarce, and the danger was quite real, so Charles turned and obeyed Goatsby’s instructions to continue along the horseway. His boot touched a wooden rail, and he stepped into the track, following it downward and taking the left fork. Despite the hellish conditions, he was feeling rather chuffed.

His breathing powder had been an unabashed success. He felt no ill effects from the particulates, or the strange vapors that filled mines after such disasters. He was quite sure his fire suppression device would perform with equal success. Father would be rather pleased to know that Charles had saved the mine from a disastrous fire. Father owned the land and leased it to Mr. Champness, so received income from the venture.

“Hello?” A quavery voice called from the smoky gloom ahead, jolting Charles out of his happy reverie.

“Hello? Who goes there?” Charles moved forward several paces, until his light revealed the outline of a horse and cart. A youth stood by the animal’s head, coughing.

“Tat? Marc? Is that you?” The voice belonged to a boy, and held an edge of fear and desperation. He looked to be eleven, perhaps twelve, and was a few inches taller and much better dressed than Goatsby. His cheeks were just as filthy, however, and glistened with the tears that streamed down his face. He blinked owlishly at Charles, squinting at the brightness of his light. “Who are you, sir?”

“I’m Duke Lacock. I’m here to help. And who are you?”

“Nat Jones. My tat and my brother Marc were workin’ the bank, but it’s all aflame.” The boy clung to the pony’s head, both for comfort, and to keep the animal calm. “I’ve not seen any one from our butty, but I’m afraid to go any closer, I am. My lantern’s gone out.”

“How many are there?”

“Twelve in our butty.”

“And not one has emerged?”

“No, sir.”

Charles wasted no time correcting the lad regarding his form of address. Instead, he slipped off his fine vermillion topcoat, studying the glow still remaining from Goatsby’s spunk. It had dried as it soaked into the fabric, and looked like an embroidered filigree of shining gold. It wasn’t as bright as the liquid in the vial, but it gave off a glow to rival a candle or two. Charles resolved to study the phenomenon as soon as he could get back to his his lab.

He set his bag on the cart and withdrew his breathing powder. He sprinkled it on his coat, and on a kerchief, then doused them with liquid from his flask. As soon as he was satisfied that the chemical reaction was occurring, he draped his coat over the pony’s head, and held the kerchief out to young Jones before continuing on. “Breathe through that. Bring your cart. You will ferry out the injured. And the children, if Goatsby is successful.”

“Goatsby?” Jones held the kerchief to his mouth, breathed through it, and then gave it the same look of surprise that Goatsby had made. He tied it round his face, then urged the pony to follow. The light from the spunk on Charles coat made it easier to keep track of the pair. “You brought Bran back down with you?”

“I did. He’s searching the traps. For the children.”

“The children!” Jones made a low groan. “Forgot them, I did.”

“Well, Goatsby certainly didn’t.”

“We don’t call ‘im that, down ‘ere. It’s bad luck, it is. We call ‘im Bran. Goats are too close to the devil for comfort. But ravens are birds of light.”

“Bran, then.” Charles smirked to himself. The Welsh certainly were a superstitious lot.

They rounded a bend in the roadway and stopped. Black smoke billowed into their faces, dimming the light in Charles’ hand further. Orange-red waves of flame silhouetted the supporting pillars of unhewn coal. It looked as if the entire main bank of C-pit was burning. It was so hot, Charles could feel the blaze warming the exposed skin on his hands and face, even at this distance. At least fire meant there was still oxygen to breathe. Perhaps there was still hope of finding someone alive.

“Tat!” Jones shouted, peering into the chaos. “Marc!”

“Don’t call them!” A silhouette coalesced against the glow of the flames and haze of smoke, resolving into the figure of Goatsby. “Everyone knows that callin’ to the dead is unlucky.”

Charles smiled to himself. The resolute little Welshman had not abandoned him, after all.

“My tat’s not dead. Is he?”

“I am not knowin’,” Goatsby shrugged. “I was not ‘avin’ any light to see their faces. But I could feel they ‘ad stopped breathin’.”

“Did you find the children?” Charles interjected, to spare Jones further torment.

“No, Your Grace.” Goatsby shook his head, shoulders slumping. “Not a one.”

“Perhaps Mr. Champness removed them before the blast? In anticipation of my touring the mine?”

Goatsby nodded, his dark eyes reflecting the red glow of the fire. “I am ‘opin’ that is the case. I am countin’ five men down.”

“That means there are seven yet missing?”

“No, Your Grace. Five left unaccounted for.”

“But there are twelve in all, correct?”

“Twelve in the butty, aye,” Jones agreed. “But Bran and I are two of them.”

“Come then, lads.” Charles charged towards the chaos ahead. “Into the fray.”

The wild red flames glistened on the angled planes of anthracite blown off the pillars of coal left to support the ceiling. The heat battered Charles’ exposed skin as they picked their way across the treacherous field of still glowing and smoking embers and the splintered shards of the deal boards that had once shored up the sides of the horseway.

How could Goatsby manage this half-naked, without shoes?

Finally, they drew close to the the dark, rounded humps that Charles hoped were not corpses. He counted five that were large enough to be men and gasped as the light pierced the veil of smoke around the victims. Naked from the waist up, their torsos glistened with blood from jagged wounds in their backs, as if they’d all been shot while fleeing. Their lips were blue. They weren’t breathing.

At least they all had their limbs attached.

Charles handed Goatsby the light. “I’ll fight the blaze while you two load the downed men onto the cart. They may revive with better air.”

“Aye, Your Grace,” they replied in unison, setting themselves to the task.

Charles ensured all the hose fittings were good and tight and continued forward, pumping the handle of his fire suppression device. He had tested it several times at home, but this would be the first time in an actual mine. The heat from the blaze was ferocious, searing through his clothing, and heating the wet cloth over his face so that it began to steam. His hair hung in hot, ashy straggles across his eyes, and he was very glad for his goggles.

He crept as near as he dared and turned the valve. A hissing jet of foamy liquid snaked out of the end of the brass wand, arcing into the army of flames like a volley of arrows. Steam billowed up, and then fell back, smothering the flames like a frothy blanket.

He laughed, elated, and moved further along the bank, working the pump and directing the stream into the fiercest heart of the blaze. “It works! It works! Even better than I had expected!”