Revenge of the Earl

By Kem Austin

Stripped and humiliated by a local group of naked youths at a swimming hole, Ashwell, a young earl-to-be in the Victorian Era, vows his revenge. When his hateful father dies a few months later, making him the new earl, Ashwell’s obsession becomes stronger than ever. His target is the handsomest youth of the group. Ashwell feels he is the ringleader and so must pay. This is the well-endowed Dwight. When the time comes, Ashwell exacts his vengeance, but circumstances interfere. For one thing, Ashwell finds himself falling in love with his enemy. For another, he is about to lose his title and his estate through the plotting and manipulations of his dead father’s evil butler and his sly cousin, Bartholomew. Ashwell must go on the run or face arrest and prison. Dwight escapes with him.

Only Dwight, his one-time sex slave, can help Ashwell now. Worse, the other youths from the day at the pond also must come to his aid. For a new earl, life has suddenly taken a decisive turn. Now, the young Ashwell has no idea in which direction he heads. Former perceived enemies are now his friends. Former friends are now his enemies. In the midst of all this is a young earl who has fallen in love with his worst enemy of all. Worse, this is a forbidden love, one that “dares not speak its name” in late Victorian England. Somehow, Ashwell must find the answers, save himself, those he loves, and his title and estate. The odds against him seem insurmountable. This is Book 2 of the Historical Homoerotic Novels by Kem Austin Series. Explicit Adult Gay Erotica.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rob Shelsky
• Release date: Jan 11, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310295607

Kem Austin

Kem Austin loves to write gay fiction, both regular and erotica, romantic and factual. He has a particular love of historical gay fiction with explicit erotica.

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REVENGE OF THE EARL

By

KEM AUSTIN

Revenge Of The Earl

GKRS PUBLICATIONS

Copyright © 2016 by Rob Shelsky

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Any possible similarities to actual persons living or dead are purely a matter of coincidence. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners. All quotations and/or related materials are referenced either in the body of this book itself, or referenced at the end.

Citation Notes: Cover illustration is courtesy Wikimedia Commons and/or other Public Domain images.

* * * * *

DEDICATION

For

George Kempland

Who will always and forever be missed by me.

I hope we can meet again,

Somewhen…

Table of Contents

CHAPTER 1—TWO WORLDS COLLIDE5

CHAPTER 2—THE NEW EARL OF CASTERTON

CHAPTER 3—A PLAN OF REVENGE

CHAPTER 4—THE MATTER OF DWIGHT

CHAPTER 5—THE LESSONS BEGIN

CHAPTER 6—DWIGHT LEARNS

CHAPTER 7—A CLEAN SWEEP

CHAPTER 8—THE POWER OF DWIGHT

CHAPTER 9—THE GAME’S AFOOT

CHAPTER 10—DISTURBING NEWS

CHAPTER 11—ASHWELL DEVISES A TEST

CHAPTER 12—THE TEST

CHAPTER 13—PROBING DARK DEPTHS

CHAPTER 14—COUSIN BARTY

CHAPTER 15—THE PLOT THICKENS

CHAPTER 16—A TURN FOR THE WORSE

CHAPTER 17—THE DIE IS CAST

CHAPTER 18—FLIGHT

CHAPTER 19—THE GINGER MAN

CHAPTER 20—THE VIRGIN EARL

CHAPTER 21—BARTY AND JAMES

CHAPTER 22—A WAITING GAME

CHAPTER 23—DEVELOPMENTS

CHAPTER 24—THE MASTER REAMER

CHAPTER 25—PLOTS AND COUNTERPLOTS

CHAPTER 26—FALL OF THE HOUSE OF BARTHOLEMEW

CHAPTER 27—ASHWELL PAYS A BIG PRICE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

CHAPTER 1—TWO WORLDS COLLIDE

Yellow sunshine splashed like liquid gold, painted the scene in a buttery, late afternoon light. Shadows of the leaves and branches of the nearby oaks dappled the surface of the small pond, an otherwise unblemished pool of limpid green stillness. At least, it was until a pack of howling young men broke from the forest and burst forth in wild and unruly abandon upon the scene.

Like a pack of savages, they came, the seven of them. Whooping and hollering, they announced their presence in an uninhibited splendor of noises, ones fracturing the prior stillness. Glorious in their nudity as they peeled off their clothes, sleek in their pale but well-muscled forms, they ran pell-mell and barefoot through the wheat-colored ring of grasses edging the water. All the time, they shouted their uninhibited vitality to any who might hear. They announced with masculine bravado their so-exposed states.

For Ashwell, hidden in the brush across the water from them, the sight was a thrilling one. With greedy and lustful eyes, he tried to take it all in at once. He stared at their well-formed calves and firm thighs, their broad chests and narrow hips. Of course, what he focused on most was their genitals. The different sizes and shapes surprised Ashwell. His had been a limited background in exposure to such stark male nudity, or any nudity, for that matter. He had endured an isolated childhood and a strict one. He hadn’t realized there would be such a variety.

Ashwell noticed some had longer penises than others did, some shorter, and some fatter. These latent engines of sexual power flopped up and down as the youths ran for the pond, protected by their hooded foreskins, as if from his prying eyes.

Several youths had hairy ball sacs that hung lower than others did, and so swung more as they raced across the late-summer grass toward the placid waters. This pendulous backward and forward motion of their testicles hypnotized Ashwell.

Enthralled by this exhibition of stark male nakedness, Ashwell flushed, and felt a stirring in his crotch. A huge erection came on him, pressing tight and hard against his under drawers. His cock pushed upright through the folds of cloth there, as he gazed upon these young men, the pride of the local peasantry in their naked splendor.

More excited now, he forgot himself. He shifted position to better view the one young man who stood off to one side of the pond, as if hesitant to join the others in their lewd activities.

He was a tall one, slender, but with an otherwise almost Grecian-sculpted body. He paused there by the rim of the pond, as if to gaze down upon his fellows having their splashing fun. He was English-pale of skin, an alabaster whiteness, and had a broad and darkly hairy chest. From there, tracing down, was what seemed like a treasure trail to Ashwell. This was a thin line of black curling hair running down and over a flat stomach, which then widened into a triangular thatch of curlier hair just above his penis and testicles.

To say the youth had a great endowment was not to do the size of the prick justice. The thing was thick, very long, and with a head on it that could double as a battering ram.

Spellbound, Ashwell gazed upon the youth’s perfect physique. He drank in the leonine head with its shock of tousled black hair, the prominent brow ridges. They were like those of some ancient cave-dwelling hunter. The clear, crystalline gray eyes, gazed with dispassion upon his friends in the water.

Ashwell shifted positions slightly, the better to view the young man. The youth still stood where he had been, had not yet deigned to enter the pool, even as his fellows had done so in their shouting and laughing attack upon the water. He exposed his physique without any shame or guile, in an unabashed, open sort of way, and in an unthinking vulnerability.

Ashwell couldn’t help but to keep focusing on his cock. The thing hung low, almost halfway down his thighs. The long, fat penis draped over a pair of impressive balls, ones that promised a huge reservoir of thick milky sperm. He noticed how the left side of the nut sac hung slightly lower than the right. A pale member of unusual proportions, the prick mesmerized Ashwell.

Dear God! he thought, the thing is absolutely monstrous.

Ashwell, more intent now than ever on visually devouring this sexually stimulating image, shifted his position even more. He didn’t stop to think, to realize he was exposing his presence in the process. Now, the shrubs no longer acted as full concealment for him.

He couldn’t help himself in doing this. Ashwell was captivated not only by the physical beauty of the youth, but by the sheer size of his endowment, as well. The generous foreskin did not quite hide the head of the thick cock, which just peeped out.

He wanted to caress it, tickle the narrow crevice of the piss hole with his tongue until the golden youth’s juices erupted and gushed forth in a geyser of hottest white cum. He could clearly visualize sucking that prick, his lips stretched wide about the shaft. Ashwell fantasized feeling the sperm burst forth, spray in jets into his mouth. He could almost taste it in his mind, pictured swallowing the precious man-juice, and letting none of it go to waste.

Ashwell was in the fantasy now. He stared at the woodland satyr standing so brazen and exposed before him. Then Ashwell realized the godlike creature had seen him, was staring right at him. Ashwell froze. Beguiled by the man’s nakedness, his masculine splendor, he’d forgotten his need to stay hidden. The youth focused those crystalline grey eyes upon him.

We have company, the young man said, at last. Although he spoke in a low voice, the others in the pond heard him, even over their loud enjoyment of the cool waters.

What? one of them piped in a reedy-sounding voice, a ginger-haired youth with skin like the whitest Carrera marble. His endowment was second only in size to the gray-eyed youth’s and a fat thing filled with swollen promise.

There! Ashwell’s dream-man pointed at where he crouched. It seems someone fancies staring at our cocks and balls. Or maybe it’s our asses, he likes?

Fear enveloped Ashwell at that moment, even as the youths in the water turned to where the lone one pointed, right at him. Six sets of eyes now focused on him.

Run, he thought, even as jumped up to do so.

Dirty little bugger! The shout, from which lad, Ashwell couldn’t be certain, since he already had his back to them, was as a branding, an awful epitaph of all Ashwell’s deviant desires.

Get him, boys!

Ashwell tripped over a tree root, fell forward and sprawled on the ground, stunned by the impact. He knew he had to get up, get away, and before they came for him. Still, a part of him, despite his now rampant fear, imagined what it would be like just to stay there.

What if he were just to lie there on the ground and surrender? What would it be like to have these naked young men surround him, to stare up at them from a prone position? He’d like to see such paragons of male nudity and explosive sexual potency towering over him, to have their cocks and balls hanging down all around him.

# # #

You are a terrible disappointment to me and always have been. Then, I think you already know this.

Ashwell Rutherford Rutland, destined to be the Seventeenth Earl of Casterton, gazed at his father in a sullen and fearful silence. He kept his blue eyes focused on the older man, as if paying the strictest attention, but he wasn’t truly looking at him.

To look was to see, truly to see the hateful, if shrunken man seated before him. This, Ashwell did not want to do. Therefore, his only safety lay in being aloof. He would appear outwardly attentive and submissive, intent even. However, inwardly, he would retreat into a private world of his own making. He knew there was nothing he could say to make the situation better. Ashwell felt it was far wiser to hide inside himself, and so muffle the cascade of insults. These always poured forth in torrents of abuse from his father’s lips on such occasions.

Ingrained habit had taught Ashwell this was best, not to respond, except in murmurings of an apologetic and meek nature at the appropriate moments. Anything else only made matters much worse. In fact, the worst thing he could do would be to attempt to defend himself in any way.

Still, this tirade from the foul invalid was wearing, had gone on far too long this time. Ashwell struggled to maintain his detached state of mind. His will frayed more at the edges with every passing moment, with each new hurled insult.

If I had any choice in the matter, if the title and the estate were not entailed to my eldest or only son, then I would gladly leave it to your cousin, Barty. He would be a much better choice to carry on the earldom. He’s more of a man than you will ever be! He would be a man worthy to carry on the family name and honor. You have never shown yourself to be such, to have the right to inherit all of this. You have never been a worthwhile son, let alone a good choice as an heir apparent. I have no pride in you, none at all. If it were in my power, you would not inherit, not a thing.

Inside of him, something finally snapped. Ashwell just couldn’t take anymore. It was enough for his father to treat him so openly with contempt all the time in front of all the passing servants, without his father constantly explaining in detail just how loathsome he found him to be in every possible way.

Then, it is your loss, sir, he said, breaking his silence at last. His voice grated loud in his ears, as he added, For I am your only son, like it or not, although you have been no real father to me. In any case, you have no control over the inheritance, so you might as well learn to live with the fact. As soon as he blurted this out, Ashwell could have bitten his tongue for having done so. How had he let such words escape his lips?

With a sinking sensation, Ashwell knew now things would only get worse, much worse. He never should have defied his father in so open a way. He should have just kept his mouth shut and weathered yet one more soul-withering storm of the old man’s despotic rage. Still, he had endured so many already. Each time, it had been harder to maintain his silence. Truth was it had felt good to say something finally. Moreover, he had at last managed to stun his father. The old man sat there in his chair, a shocked look upon his face, and with his mouth hanging open in surprise. No doubt, this was at Ashwell’s sheer audacity in daring to speak so.

However, the consequences of Ashwell’s ill-advised declaration would be terrible. He knew this. His allowance was already a mere pittance. Ashwell knew that for daring to speak so, it would now become nothing at all. His ability to escape his father without such funds, even for just precious moments, was over. The manor house would become even more of a prison for him than it already was.

Yet, considering what the local youths now knew about him, perhaps that was best. To stay hidden in seclusion might well be for the better. At least, this might be so for a time, until things cooled down. Even so, Ashwell wasn’t sure he could stand it; endure this splendid and ornamental jail of his father’s making, especially with his father ever-present in the place, haunting the home from his wheelchair like some awful specter.

There was a still a starkest silence. A heavy and meaningful pause took place as his father took in Ashwell’s rash words. Then, the wasted old creature, the wizened and bony monstrosity looked up at him with a sudden and renewed vigor. His anger had fresh fuel, fuel provided by Ashwell’s reckless statements. His father took a breath, seemed to swell up like some hideous toad. Faded milky eyes gazed at him from dark sunken sockets. They were orbs of frightful emotion, twin storehouses of a most negative and poisonous disdain.

No, Ashwell corrected himself, as his father opened his mouth to speak. The emotion he saw was more akin to a blind, unreasoning fury. Ashwell knew he was about to face an irrational wrath of terrible proportions.

The price I pay for Mother having dared to flee this abomination, he thought, before his aging father unleashed a long, powerful, and awesome flow of abuse upon him. Through it all, Ashwell had little choice but to stand there, with head bent in submission and take it, as the man rained down a venomous reproof upon him.

A part of Ashwell felt he deserved this. Those boys had humiliated him. Although luckily, the exact reason for it was unknown to his father. Still, to come home in such a pathetic state was a disgrace. There was no denying the fact.

The cause of his shame, the Greek god’s discovery of him and the resulting humiliation by the others, was a secret, one enforced by that same handsome youth upon the others. When he had discovered just who Ashwell was, the earl-to-be, he’d sworn the other young men to silence. Why he had done this, Ashwell couldn’t be sure.

Perhaps it was out of pity. Maybe, it was fear of having so mistreated and degraded one of his betters, his future lord. Whatever the reason, he had finally stayed their mistreatment of Ashwell, and had allowed him to pick himself up and leave.

Even so, a stripped, muddied, pissed-upon, and shamed Ashwell had to stumble home. He had tried to hide his disgrace as best he could along the way, whenever he encountered a passerby. These attempts at remaining hidden had not been enough upon his arrival at the manor house. Some of the servants had seen him despite his best efforts, had witnessed his deplorable state.

It was for this reason his father now verbally abused him so. He had shamed the House of Casterton. No doubt, the vile creature, Grogan the butler, had informed his father of Ashwell’s deplorable condition. It wasn’t Grogan, Ashwell blamed, though, but rather that tall and handsome youth.

You are responsible for this, Ashwell thought with a surge of anger as he mentally envisioned the naked splendor of the tall and godlike young man. You are to blame. You could have kept quiet. You didn’t have to expose me. You are their leader. You could have stopped it all much sooner, but you did not.

Rather than having done this, the youth, after having stayed the others from their hazing of him, had gazed down upon Ashwell with the strangest look. Yes, there had been some enjoyment there, but it had transmuted, become…what? Pity? Yes, there had been some of that, but something else, as well.

Although, just what had also been in that look, stumped Ashwell. He couldn’t place it or put his finger upon it. Still, this…whatever it was, had disturbed him more than the pity. It had rendered him defenseless and vulnerable far more so than any mere pity or hatred could.

After all, he’d endured hatred all his life. His father was very good at it. The poisonous old man had delivered it in quantities sufficient to kill a novice having to endure such a thing. Moreover, he’d tolerated pity, as well, a pity he had often seen in the eyes of the servants, if also mixed with scorn for the weak young lord of the manor.

Ashwell had learned to live with that, too. Not this, though, whatever this look had been, it had been far worse than either of those emotions…or far better. This is what confused him. He didn’t know how to react to such an enigmatic look, one he had never been the target of, had never seen before.

Ashwell knew one thing; something about that gaze had stirred something deep within him, and this frightened him. Being frightened, he became angry. The anger found an outlet in the person of that handsome young man who had caused all of this by discovering him, or so Ashwell felt.

As Ashwell stood there, went on enduring his father’s terrible tirade, he became sure of one thing, one overriding fact. This he clung to, as a bird might cling to a willow branch when blown by the winds of a mighty gale. Somehow, someway, someday, the Greek god would pay.

Up from the mud, the gods might have sprung into being, but someday, one of them would return to it. Ashwell would grind him down into the dirt under the harsh heel of his vengeful boot. He would suffer the same humiliation Ashwell had suffered. He would undergo the same shame and disgrace as Ashwell had.

Yes, Ashwell would punish the youth for that strange and so unsettling look, one that had seemed to penetrate Ashwell’s very being, the heart of his soul, and had made him feel so vulnerable.

You will suffer, he thought, darkly. Even though you finally saved me from the others, you will pay for this, because it was too late. It’s all because of you I am standing here now.

CHAPTER 2—THE NEW EARL OF CASTERTON

Goodbye, you vicious old stoat. Ashwell’s tone was bitter as he said this, but also held a touch of remorse, despite his best efforts. I never loved you, but the Lord knows I did try. You just never gave me the chance, not even half a chance. So you die unloved and that’s a sad thing for anyone.

Having said this, Ashwell turned his back upon the open grave, the one with his father’s mahogany coffin laying in it. Shielding himself from the driving cold rain as best he could with his black umbrella, Ashwell followed the path the other mourners had taken earlier. They had already left, having departed in their carriages. The people, neighbors, and supposed friends of his father, now headed for the manor, the food and drink awaiting them there. They had left Ashwell, thinking he needed time to be alone with his father to say his final and heartfelt farewell in private.

They had been right. Ashwell had needed the time. He had wanted the chance to say a few well-chosen and private words to his dead father. Moreover, they were heartfelt, but not in the loving or kind sense. Still, they were final. They would be the last ones he ever uttered to the despicable old man.

Of course, the others attending the funeral had no idea just what his words would be. That they were words of anger, hate, and recrimination was a secret, one only known to him. This would be his secret forever, one of many he would have, Ashwell was beginning to realize.

Rumors had long flourished about the poor nature of his relationship with his father, Ashwell knew. One would have to have been stupid not to know. Still, Ashwell had never willingly given such gossip substance, He had never done anything to support or deny the whispered-about, sad state of affairs that had existed between the two of them. To do so would only have confirmed the older man’s utter contempt for him, Ashwell, his only son, and in the eyes of all.

Ashwell hadn’t wanted this. He wanted no more embarrassment than he had already endured. His life until now had just been one long series of mortifications executed upon him by his hateful father. Now, the newly minted young earl only wished for his freedom, no longer to be subject to the cruel whims and malevolent dictates of a half-mad, syphilitic tyrant, or anyone else, for that matter. He just wanted to be his own man. How he had longed for this freedom.

Now that time, after long years of suffering on his part, had come at last. Lord Ashwell Rutherford Rutland, just twenty-two years old and the Seventeenth Earl of Casterton, had his freedom at last, but it came at a price. Ashwell was damaged goods. He knew this. His father’s active malice had left him, an impressionable young boy at the time, marked for life. The years of corrosive suffering had taken their toll. They had hardened him and yes, made him brittle in some ways.

Ashwell knew this, too. He considered this matter as he made his lonely way to the waiting coach. The carriage stood at the bottom of the path leading away from the ancient stone church. A liveried servant stood there, as well. The man’s attire was out of date, but then his father had been such a reactionary, so opposed to any updating of his servants’ clothes, or anything else, for that matter.

The footman held an open umbrella above his head, careful to protect the powdered horsehair wig he wore against drenching by the rain. The things were expensive, Ashwell knew.

The man set the umbrella on the ground, leaning it against one wheel of the carriage as Ashwell reached