Topping-The-Duke-12
(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:
"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 duke. "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 the street was 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."
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Topping the Duke (Chapter 12 -- The Rebeccas )
"What's going on?" Charles demanded of Norton, the tall, sinewy coachman standing outside the door. "It's been several minutes. Why haven't we passed the toll gate?"
"I'm sorry, Your Grace. There's a mob blocking the road ahead. They've taken control of the gate."
"A mob?" Charles poked his head out the window to study the situation. Goatsby followed suit, his black, mud-encrusted head partially blocking Charles' view of what appeared to be about fifty women surrounding the toll gate. They brandished pitchforks, crowbars, and other tools, and shouted slogans in protest of both the tolls and the road taxes. "They're rather unappealing, as women go," Charles observed, struck by the uniformly broad shoulders, rough features, and low voices of the protesters.
Goatsby laughed and turned to face him. "I am thinkin' that's because they're men. They're the Rebeccas, they are."
"Oh, my." Charles withdrew inside the coach, frowning at the news. He had heard of sporadic riots forming over the sudden increase in road taxes to pay for the recent improvements and additions to the roads leading into Llanelli. The surge in industry here had required a large explosion of infrastructure to meet the demand of the mainly British-controlled collieries, manufacturers and ironworks, but it also damaged the profits of the local Welsh farmers and cottage industries. They could not afford the increased fees required to bring their goods to market. Afraid of reprisals by the British, the locals had taken to disguising themselves in women's clothing and attacking toll gates to show their displeasure with the higher taxes.
"You'd best stay inside, Your Grace," Norton advised. "They're likely to attack if they find out you're the son of the man who heads the Roads Commission."
"Too late for that," Goatsby observed, still watching the ruckus. "They've taken 'old of the 'orses bridles." His knees rested on the cushioned bench, with the elbow of his uninjured arm on the windowsill. The position made an obvious tentpole of his still erect phallus, the base and ballocks of which peeked past the draping fabric around his waist. Despite the danger outside, Charles found himself licking his lips. He had to force himself to look away from the obscene display and turn his attention to the press of unwashed humanity surrounding his coach.
"Come out! Come out, Duke Gower!" the mob demanded. "Listen to our demands!"
"Stay inside, Your Grace," Norton intoned desperately, standing on the step to block the way. "I'll fight them, if it comes to it."
The irate crowd rushed up to the coach, rapping their sticks and pitchforks on the wheels and windows. "Come out, come out! Show yourself!"
Charles ducked down at the pattering noise, covering his head with his arms. The threat of being dragged from the coach and beaten frightened him. At the same time, the newly awakened sexual beast inside him paraded a welter of lewd scenarios through his mind. Did he really want those rough, angry men to ravage him? Or was he hoping to be attacked by lowly peasant women who would force him to be their depraved servant? Perhaps it was merely the Rebeccas' odd manner of dress that had him so confused.
"There's no Duke Gower, 'ere," Goatsby shouted back, bold as a bull among calves. "Cer i grafu, you scabby pigs in sow's clothin'."
"Goatsby, don't incense them," Charles commanded, but of course the little Welsh terrier ignored him, shouting further insults too exotic for Charles' cloistered ears.
The pounding on the coach stopped, likely due to bald surprise at seeing the filthy Goatsby poking his head out the window of such a fine conveyance. "And who are you?" the mob demanded.
"I'm Bran Goatsby, I am. And you're rattlin' the carriage of Duke Lacock, you are. The man who risked 'is life to save my butty. So, stop be'avin' like bleatin' ewes and be showin' some bloody respect!"
"Goatsby? The one who died when St. David's flooded?"
"I'm not bloody dead, am I? But I'm 'ungry and dirty and you're stoppin' us from 'avin a bath, so clear the way, else I'll tell the coblynau to curse you all!"
Murmurs washed through the crowd like waves against a shore. The mood changed from surly and threatening to a hushed sort of awe.
"Prove it," someone shouted. "Show us this duke who's gone down to the pit!"
Goatsby turned his face to regard Charles, a huge grin lighting up his coal-blackened face. "Go on, Your Grace. Show 'em you've the courage of a lion."
"No, Your Grace. Absolutely not," Norton pleaded. "Your father will have me horsewhipped if any harm comes to you."
Charles looked past his coachman at the faces in the mob. Hard faces, worn by grueling work and lined by the struggle to feed themselves and their families. Their eyes held a flicker of the same desperation Charles had seen in the colliers who had swarmed into the cage with him, afraid at any moment the brutal darkness of the mine would swallow them. These men were at risk of drowning, only the threat came not from explosive gas, or unstable groundwaters, but from the ruinous taxes enacted by Charles' own father. Their plight moved him, inciting him to do something about this injustice.
"Stand aside, Norton," Charles commanded, emboldened by Goatsby's faith in him. He rose to his feet. "I'll speak to them directly."
"You'll see," Goatsby assured the crowd, bursting with pride. "Duke Lacock freed me. 'E's a good man."
Norton regarded him beseechingly, but Charles put his hand on the door, and gave a stern nod. Norton stepped down begrudgingly while Charles did his best to collect himself. The lewd swelling in his trousers refused to go down. Worse, the more aware he was of how tight the fabric pressed upon his rampant pego, the more aroused he became. The thought of his private shame in full view of everyone both petrified and thrilled him. At least he had managed to button his flap.
"Go on," Goatsby urged, scrambling off the bench to push the door wide now that Norton had cleared the way. "Show them!"
For a brief moment, Charles thought he was urging him to display his cock, the way he had so recently demanded during their journey here. It set his face ablaze, first with the shameful thrill that memory gave him, and second with embarrassment as he realized the little collier meant instead for him to show his clothing to the men outside, as proof of his heroism. He put a foot onto the step, emerging out into the midmorning sun. If he couldn't control his cock, he could at least pretend it wasn't currently misbehaving.
"Look at 'im!" Goatsby crowed. "Duke Lacock put out the fire with 'is inventions, and saved the lives of eight men, 'e did!"
"Goatsby assisted me with that," Charles corrected. "He also rescued five children. I am not the only hero here."
The protesters' gazes climbed from his waterlogged boots, to his smoke and coal-stained trousers, to the ruined vermillion topcoat and his ash-coated hair. A collective gasp escaped them, followed by countless variations of "It's true!" and "God bless him!" Many reached up to doff their hats, only to pull women's scarves from their heads.
Such reverent gratitude was a new sensation for Charles. He felt like a bishop delivering the Eucharist. But then a sense of outrage sparked up inside him. He had done what he had done in the mine because it had been the right thing to do. He'd had a moral obligation to save the lives of those in danger, because it was in his power to do so. But these poor folk had been unable to conceive that any one of Charles' station would behave in such a way. He was, to them, as rare as a unicorn.
Had they all been like Goatsby? So badly treated for so long that they needed to riot in the streets in order to be seen as human beings? Charles had to clear his throat a few times before he was able to speak. "I was unaware that you objected so strenuously to the new road fees. They must be quite burdensome, to drive so many of you to such wild measures. I shall order the Ty'r Fran toll gate removed and all tolls waived, until such time as I can bring the matter to the attention of my father, Duke Gower."
This time, it was his coachmen who gasped, while the mob itself remained eerily silent for several long moments before exploding in a boisterous cheer. They released the horses and drew back, making way for the coach to travel through the gate, shouting: "God save Duke Lacock!"
"Norton, tell the toll man to allow the Rebeccas to remove the gate. We shall wait here, until it's done."
"Is that wise, Your Grace?" Norton asked in a low voice as he gently prodded Charles to return inside. "Your father will not be pleased."
"I shall pay whatever revenues he may lose by my actions here," Charles assured him. "And I am not afraid of his wrath."
"I am," Norton muttered. He reluctantly trudged up to deliver Charles' message, and stood by while several burly men dressed as women lifted the gate off its hinges and set it aside. Another loud cheer arose from those assembled.
Norton returned through a gauntlet of protesters, who each gave him a hearty slap on the back. Charles gave them all an approving nod, motioned to the driver to continue on, and resumed his seat.
As the coach eased through the former gate, Norton closed the door and stepped onto the running board. Once clear, the horses picked up speed, moving into a trot. The Rebeccas jogged alongside, cheering and brandishing their weapons. "God save the duke! God save 'im!" they shouted, escorting the coach all the way to the entrance to Ty'r Fran, which was only a quarter mile beyond the toll gate. Charles waved goodbye to them as the coach rolled past the gatehouse and entered the tree-lined road leading up to the ancient tower on the hill that Charles' grandfather had reworked into a rather fashionable manor house. He turned to regard Goatsby, who was staring back at him with a beatific grin on his face. Charles wasn't sure why the fierce pride on that filthy face was so infectious, but it warmed him to the core like no other praise could have done.
"You're a good man, you are." Goatsby patted Charles on the knee. "A kind, courageous man."
"So are you," Charles observed, feeling truly humbled by the other boy's faith in him.
They shared a moment or two, savoring their accomplishments, and then Goatsby's smile turned impish. His hand slid further up Charles' thigh. His fingers deftly brushed across the softening bulge in Charles' trousers, reawakening the fire there. He began to squeeze and caress, until Charles' cock was once again at full stand. "Oh, the trouble we'll be gettin' up to..."
"Trouble?" Charles swallowed hard, both frightened and elated by the mischievous glint in those dark eyes. It was as if Goatsby's hand worked a bellows inside Charles, stoking a desire that only served to feed the flames. But even as the lust swelled up in him, Charles felt something else ignite, fueled by honor and duty, and by a newfound compassion for those who did not share his privileged world. He would use his considerable power and position to make things better for those whose voices had been stifled. He would be a sword against injustice, a shield against tyranny.
As if reading his mind, Goatsby nodded, his gaze reflecting that same holy fire that burned in Charles' core. "We're goin' to change the world, Your Grace. We're goin' to break all the bloody chains."
"Charles. Call me Charles."
"Alright, then. Call me Bran."