Topping-The-Duke-11
(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. 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. Thans also for your patience. Real life sometimes gets in the way of my creative one.
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Your humble author, Taz
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End of Last Chapter:
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?"
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Topping the Duke (Chapter 11 -- A Revealing Journey )
When the members of his butty scooped him up and carried him to Duke Lacock's coach, Bran felt a strange warmth flowing into him. It was as if all those sunny feelings that had flooded into him when he had first met the duke were reflected back to him in their smiles. While he didn't feel any healing fire in his limbs, their gladness lessened the pain of his injuries, just the same.
They held him aloft, like a champion, while one of Lacock's coachman removed his livery and laid it on the seat. The colliers carefully set Bran in place atop it, so that the mud, scum and coal dust flaking off him didn't mar the fine red and gold upholstery. They all crowded the door opening to wish him well while the duke conferred with his coachmen. The earnest gratitude and pledges of support from the men he had helpt to rescue touched Bran deeply. He wondered if this bright sense of belonging is what having a family felt like.
If so, he found it both exhilarating and terrifying.
When the duke returned, carrying a neck cloth he'd gotten from one of the coachmen, the men from the butty stepped aside to allow him to climb the step and enter the coach. Once the Duke sat down facing Bran, they thanked their rescuers repeatedly, then closed the door. They waved as the coach pulled away. Bran found himself waving back with an uncharacteristic tightness in his throat.
Rather than head back up the hill, the coach continued across the bridge and down the lane, away from the mine. Bran secretly rejoiced at that. As much as he wanted to believe that Driscoll had no further claim on him, he feared seeing his old master again, even in passing.
He had never ridden in any conveyance so fine, so wasn't sure where to focus his attention, at first. The russet paneling had gilded cherubs flying above their heads, and the seat was soft as a cloud. Hedges rolled past outside the windows.
"I'm so glad you're alive," Duke Lacock's grin was so wide that his perfect teeth shone through a frame of those equally perfect lips. "When the tunnel flooded, we all feared the worst."
"It was bad, it was." Bran shuddered as he recalled his time with Gofannon. "I woke up in the marsh. With the children."
"They must have fled out the ventilation shaft prior to the flooding."
Bran nodded to that, knowing better than to anger the coblynau by telling an Englishman about the Tyllwydd Teg's part in the children's escape.
"Are you badly injured?"
"Lost my wings, I 'ave. I'm an egg, now."
Lacock pursed his lips, his brows drawing down in confusion. "I'm afraid I don't comprehend that colloquialism. But I can seen from here that your collarbone appears broken. May I?" Duke Lacock lifted his hand to show Bran the coachman's neck cloth. At Bran's bewildered look, he pointed at Bran's injured arm and shoulder. "I'm sure you'll feel better with that in a sling."
Those sky blue eyes regarded him with such kindness and concern that all Bran could do was nod dumbly. His heart raced, blood coursing in his veins as Lacock rose to place a knee on either side of Bran's hips. Seemingly unaware of how close his privates were to Bran's face, the young duke gently threaded the linen behind Bran's neck and fanned the cloth out to cradle Bran's elbow. He pulled up on the ends, making sure the wrist was up and the weight was off the shoulder before tying it.
Throughout the entire process, his hips swayed hypnotically as the coach jounced along the uneven dirt road.
Bran's gaze fixed on that singular, sausage-shaped bulge that the duke's tight trousers displayed so enticingly close to his face. His tongue traced his lips. He had never much enjoyed servicing Driscoll or his mates in that manner, but Duke Lacock set his blood ablaze. Perhaps it was the thought of such a powerful personage trusting his most private of parts to Bran mouth, or perhaps the spark he had hidden in the Duke called to him, burning to reawaken the sacred fire in his core.
Or perhaps it was that Lacock seemed to burn for him, as well. At least it had seemed that way when he'd caught the duke staring at him with such lewd intent while they were on the bridge. The thrill of seeing that blush color those fine features and watching that brave, commanding personage crumble so completely upon facing the beasts of desire had fueled Bran with a hunger to reunite with Lacock in the most carnal way possible. Lust had brought him back from the brink.
"There," Lacock announced, smiling down at Bran triumphantly. "Better?" His hands gripped the back of the seat on either side of Bran's head, the lowest buttons of his waistcoat mere inches from Bran's nose. The buff-colored felt was smudged with ash and coal, and spattered with droplets of dried blood. The duke had not changed his clothing since their time together in the cage.
The memory emboldened Bran and filled him with a ferocious, wanton lust. He ran the fingers of his good hand along the lump in Lacock's trousers. A gasp escaped the duke, but he didn't pull away. Bran chuckled, but just then the coach hit a rut and slammed his chin into the duke's groin. A pained cry escaped Lacock and he staggered back to sit heavily on the opposing bench. His hands cupped his pego, a startled, wondering expression on his face.
The spell had been broken, shattered into an uncomfortable, almost accusatory silence.
Bran knew he should apologize for his lewd assault. If Lacock remained offended, Bran could be whipped, or jailed, or even hanged for such indecency. Worse, he might be subject to another indenture should he be unable to pay any fines that might be levied. He should beg for mercy, but try as he might, he could not move. The telling blush on the duke's cheeks and the swelling bulge under those fine-fingered hands held Bran enraptured. Rather than poison the moment, the blow to his privates had aroused the duke further.
Lacock liked a bit of pain with his pleasure.
A happy, electric feeling surged up through Bran's torso, originating in his balls. His mind was awhirl with all sorts of lewd thoughts, making it even more difficult to apologize for the unintended blow.
The coach trundled along the lane, passing one hedge after another as they regarded one another in tense but anticipatory silence. Their mouths opened as if to speak, but Bran found his tongue lolling out into a lazy licking motion. The action was mirrored by Lacock a split second later. A low groan escaped Bran, and he set his good hand atop Gar Evan's jacket, trying to keep his cockstand from tenting the fabric.
Lacock's gaze rested on Bran's hand for a long moment. His Adam's apple rose and fell as he swallowed hard. His tongue lolled out again, his gaze lifting up to study Bran's face. The duke's breathing quickened, his face blushing a deeper red.
Such eager shame made Bran desperate to have those refined lips wrapped round his prick. He wanted to ramrod that cultured throat as if scouring every last grain of powder from a cannon. "You want to suck it again, you do."
Lacock nodded slowly, even as his lips twisted down in disgust. "You're so dirty."
"So are you," Bran challenged, reaching his dusty foot out to wriggle his toes up between the duke's legs. He pushed the duke's hands away and caressed the warm, hardening member with the ball of his foot. "Take it out. Show it to me."
"I...shouldn't. I can't." Lacock pleaded. "It's broad daylight."
Bran felt the duke's prick throb and swell under his foot. A wet spot formed under his toes. Whatever was happening here, Lacock thirsted for it, just as much as Bran did. He might be hanged for this later, but for now, Bran couldn't resist giving the order: "You've seen mine. Licked it, you 'ave. Fair's fair. Take it out."
As if in a dream, Lacock unbuttoned his flap and lowered it, freeing a turgid pink maypole set in a nest of golden hair. A respectable size for a youth that age, the bell end was a darker pink against the lighter tone of his foreskin. It glistened as more droplets escaped the slit. Two meaty plums jostled against one another at the base of the shaft, trapped by the tawny fabric between his thighs.
"Spread your legs. Pull your ballocks out. I want to see it all."
The duke complied, swinging his knees wide and reaching deep with his hand to free his balls, which sported a light dusting of that same golden hair. The tight trousers pushed them up and out, and the tip of his now rigid pego waved back and forth with the movement of the coach, a wanton advertisement for his most carnal desires.
"Stroke it," Bran commanded. A thrill ran through him at how willingly the older boy obeyed him.
The coach turned onto the main road from Abertawe, heading northwest towards Felinfoel. They picked up speed on the smoother, macadamed road. Sunlight angled through the window openings, warming Bran's injured arm and shoulder. A breeze swept through, lifting the golden strands on Lacock's head, making a half-hearted halo around his face even as his hand curled round his shaft and began wanking. He moaned and threw his head back against the padded cushion, a devilish angel caught in the throes of passion.
Bran watched, drinking in the bawdy sight, his own pego drooling beneath the jacket. He had never felt so powerful, so in control, and yet so connected to someone. With each down stroke, the foreskin peeled back to reveal that delicious bell-shaped tip. Each upstroke coaxed a bit more fluid out of the slit, so that the duke's prick glistened more and more. His sighs and moans filled the coach, growing in both volume and intensity as the minutes ticked by. Eventually, Lacock's movements grew frantic and irregular.
He was nearing crisis.
"Don't spend," Bran pressed the ball of his foot onto those tender and delectable plums, holding them down.
Lacock gave a short, wailing cry as his crisis was denied. He clutched the edge of the seat cushion on either side of his thigh, writhing in both ecstasy and anguish. "Why?" Lacock moaned. "Why are you doing this to me?"
"Because you are wantin' me to."
Lacock shook his head, blue eyes imploring. "No. I like women."
"I am not thinkin' you've ever 'ad a woman."
"And you have, I suppose?"
"I'm a whoreson. I was lickin' cunny before I could walk, I was."
Lacock gasped, clearly shocked by such frank vulgarity. "I hardly think that qualifies you to--"
"Do you even know what makes a woman spend? 'Ow to bring 'er to crisis?"
"No. But I still find them attractive."
"And me? Are you findin' me attractive?"
"No. You're...what I feel for you is...respect. Camaraderie. It's entirely different."
"You swallowed my seed," Bran pointed out.
"I was curious. The fumes in the mine must have addled my judgment. I like women. Not men."
"Then you should be battin' my foot away. Takin' control of your root and wankin' away to the thought of bubbies."
"I should," Lacock agreed, shamefaced. But his hands remained where they were, his legs spread wide, his glistening prick waving obscenely with every bump in the road.
Bran felt the volcanic shift of fluids under his toes as the duke strained and throbbed with each bounce. "I am knowin' what you are wantin'." He scooted forward on his seat, leaning in to match gazes with the breathless youth. "I felt you prayin' for me. In the Other World. I felt you wantin' me." He flipped the jacket back to reveal his own rampant pole. "I felt you wantin' this."
Lacock's mouth opened. His entire attention seemed focused on Bran's cock. His tongue peeked out, then swirled around his lips. A look of utter humiliation washed over him, even as he squirmed pleasurably from the pressure against his balls "God help me, I do."
Bran was about to tell him to get on his knees, but at that moment the coach slowed, and then rolled to a stop. He glanced through the windows and saw a street lined by buildings he didn't recognize.
Duke Lacock peered out the window, then hurriedly flipped the jacket over Bran's erection and began stuffing his own away. "We're at the toll gate on Felinfoel Road. We're almost to Ty'r Fran."
Bran huffed, bitterly disappointed at the interruption, yet at the same time, elated by the duke's admission. "This isn't over, it isn't."
"It's not," Lacock agreed, wincing as he struggled to button up before the coachmen caught a glimpse of his indecency. "But before we continue, I insist we bathe you, first. You really are a fright."