Deep in the mines of the dwarves, technician Thorabean is washing Master Gibbling’s back. The roughness of his skin washed away, leaving behind smooth but scarred skin covered in tattoos.
Around them the entire room is carved out of a magnificent geode. Master Gibblings sits in a ruby tub while the more slender fingers of the technician perform their task.
Thorabean continues soaping and rinsing off the body of the muscular dwarf. He longs to touch more of it. To touch in places that no dwarf should touch another.
The technician turns away from the forbidden thoughts. “Why was this geode left in place, master?” The technician asks, seeking distraction.
“You younglings don’t remember a time before war.” The dwarf rubs his forehead. “We are a race of craftspeople… master craftspeople, master tinkerers, and master engineers, and yet now we just strip the valuables and leave behind nothing.” His shoulders fall at the thought.Thorabean’s wide mustache fall in sympathy as he feels the sense of loss for things he doesn’t understand.
The master dwarf turns a gilded silver knob, and the water begins cycling out. The black water slowly turning clear.
“What was it like before?” Thorabean asks as he scrubs the same spot of skin for the 4th time.
“It was art and science and beauty. And the food had flavor,” the master dwarf filled with pride and then loss says. he Pulls himself back together.
“It sounds amazing,” Thorabean begins washing the old dwarf’s shoulders and then the back of his neck.
“we were amazing, and we will be again. We are a proud people; our home is ours, and we will take it and hold it till the end of time!” The dwarf brings his hand down on the edge of the tub.
Thorabean bites his tongue watching the muscles ripple. ‘I am a deviant. Help me, great engineer.’ Thorabean moves his upper body closer to the dwarf washing his upper arms.
“Well,” the older dwarf says, making Thorabean drop the soap in the tub, “are you getting in?” The dwarf flexes his now clean arm, looking at the bronze-colored skin. “Not bad for 452.” He looks back at Thorabean expectantly.
Thorabean frowns. “It would be improper,” he mumbles, the weight of the cultural stigma hanging over him like a loose igneous formation.
“Nonsense!” He slides over, making room. “Get in; your master commands it.”
Thorabean’s stomach flutters. The idea of showing his pale naked body to the master makes the fine hair that covers his body stand up. He sheds the heavy armor and sets it in a pile. He stands naked before the master. Naked in front of another dwarf for the first time in his memory.
His body is flush with desire; he has no experience. But the rumors persisted of dwarfs going insane and having more than camaraderie with a fellow dwarf. He feels a wave of lightheadedness.
‘I must be sick; I want him to touch me.’ Thorabean thinks guiltily, ‘He wants nothing more than to make sure I am clean, and I want nothing more than to touch him, those broad shoulders and tight pecs. Chiseled out of marble abs.’ Thorabean feels his nipples get hard.
‘Well? Get in,’ Master Gibblins harumphs. Noticing Thorabean’s arousal, ’And you’re almost mine, so close.’ He thinks whimsically.
Thorabean climbs into the chilly water and begins washing himself with his hands when Master Giblin hands him the soap. Soap with fragrance is an entire experience of its own, so overwhelmingly classy to Thorabean.
He sits in the chilly water, his naked body less than a foot away from the object of his obsession. The water turns brown and red with the rust and dirt that covers him.
Master Gibblins watches with satisfaction as, inch by inch, the dwarf reveals its soft technician body. ‘He has a slight amount of fat!’ Gibblins remarks to him self as he feels a tightness grow in his body.
He watches for a few moments more, his sedimentary patience wearing out. He touches the younger dwarf’s hand and takes the soap.
Thorabean shivers as the master touches the skin of his fingers. The bar of soap taken away from him, Thorabean looks at his fingers, his wide mustache wiggling in confusion and loss.
Master Gibblins begins washing the front of Thorabean, taking care and patience the same as when he picks where to strike with his pickaxe.
“You have no marks of valor and only your own clan tattoo,” the master huffs as he washes Thorabean’s belly button. The simple act of swirling the soap around the crest is enough to make Thorabean weak.
Thorabean wishes he knew what to do, what to feel, or how to express his intense yearning for the master. The rumors whispered in the dormitory after lights out are not enough to help him with the complex emotions he is feeling.
Master gibblings leans close to Thorabean. he kisses his forehead. “I fancy you, thorabean.”
Thorabean lowers his head. “I fancy you too,” he whispers before crossing his arms to protect himself.
Master Gibblins kneels on the edge of the tub and holds a hand out for Thorabean to take. “Let me show you how a dwarf shows his fancy”
