Chapter 10: The Altar of Pain
The library at Bridgerton House had always been a sanctuary of ordered thought. Tonight, it was a chapel of inverted faith. The heavy drapes were drawn against the London night, and the only light came from a single branch of candles on the desk, casting wild, leaping shadows up to the coffered ceiling. The air smelled of beeswax, leather, and a sharp, coppery tang of anticipation.
Colin sat in a heavy carver chair, stripped to the waist, his torso gleaming with a fine sheen of sweat. His arms were pulled taut behind the straight back, bound at the wrists with a silk cravat. Another was tied around his chest, pinning him to the wood. He was not struggling. His head lolled back, his chin tilted toward the ceiling, his eyes closed. His breathing was ragged.
His cock stood rigid against his stomach, a thick, veined pillar already glistening at the slit. It was the only part of him that looked powerful, an arrogant exclamation point in the center of his vulnerable body.
The family stood in a semi-circle around him. They were still dressed for the evening, a bizarre contrast to his half-naked captivity. Violet in aubergine silk, Anthony in severe black, Benedict in rumpled navy, Daphne in pale blue. Their faces were masks of solemn concentration, but their eyes blazed with a feverish light.
“Look at it,” Anthony murmured, his voice gravelly. He took a step forward, his boots silent on the Persian rug. “After tonight, after his little performance for the Duke… it swells with pride.”
“It does,” Violet agreed, her tone analytical, as if assessing a painting. “It believes the spectacle was for its glory. Not for ours. Not for the unity.”
“It has forgotten its place,” Benedict said, a strange smile touching his lips. “It thinks it is the master. Not the vessel.”
Daphne said nothing. She watched the bead of fluid gather at Colin’s tip, swell, and then slide down the shaft. She licked her lips.
“It needs a reminder,” Anthony stated. He moved then, fast, his hand encircling Colin’s erection. He didn’t stroke it. He squeezed. A brutal, punishing compression of the root.
Colin’s eyes flew open, a raw gasp tearing from his throat. His body arched against the restraints, the muscles of his abdomen cording tight. “Anthony—”
“Quiet,” Anthony hissed, leaning close, his face inches from Colin’s. “You do not speak unless the god within you speaks. And right now, it’s just a cock. A proud, stupid cock.” He gave another punishing squeeze, and Colin cried out, a genuine sound of pain.
“Please—”
“Please,” Anthony mimicked, his voice high and mocking. He released his grip, only to bring his other hand up in a sharp, open-palmed slap against the swollen head.
The sound was a wet crack. Colin jolted, a sob hitching in his chest. The slap wasn’t hard enough to truly damage, but the shock of it, the indignity, rippled through him. His cock, impossibly, seemed to swell further, a dark purple flush spreading.
“See?” Benedict laughed softly. “It likes the disrespect. It’s thirsty for it.” He stepped up, nudging Anthony aside. He regarded the pulsing flesh with a cocked head, then leaned down and licked a broad, slow stripe from base to tip.
Colin whimpered, his hips giving an involuntary, tiny thrust.
Benedict’s mouth turned cruel. He pursed his lips and blew a cool stream of air over the wet path. Then, without warning, he sank his teeth into the sensitive flesh of the inner thigh, just shy of Colin’s balls.
Colin screamed. It was a short, sharp sound that echoed off the bookshelves. A line of saliva trailed from his mouth. “Stop… God, please, stop…”
“God is here,” Violet said, her voice calm as she glided forward. She knelt gracefully before him, her silk skirts pooling around her. She looked up at her son’s agonized face, her expression one of tender pity. “My poor boy. It hurts him so, when the god is restless.” She leaned in, her mouth hovering just over the throbbing tip. Her breath was warm. “Shall we soothe it?”
She didn’t wait for an answer. Her mouth opened, and she took him in, not with the reverent worship of before, but with a clinical, sucking hunger. Her head bobbed, her cheeks hollowing, a loud, obscene slurping sound filling the quiet room. Colin moaned, a tormented sound of confusion, his body torn between the searing pain in his thigh and the devastating heat of her mouth.
After a minute, Violet pulled off with a soft pop. A string of spit connected her lips to his glistening crown. She looked over her shoulder at Anthony. “It’s not enough. It needs to break.”
Anthony nodded. He grabbed a handful of Colin’s sweat-damp curls and yanked his head back, forcing him to meet his eyes. “You gave yourself to Hastings’ eyes tonight. You offered our mystery to an outsider. You made the divine profane. Now you pay.”
He released Colin’s hair and stepped back, undoing the fall of his own trousers. He freed his own erection, thick and heavy. “Hold him,” he said to Benedict.
Benedict moved behind the chair, grabbing Colin’s shoulders, pinning him down. Daphne finally moved, coming to kneel beside Violet. She didn’t look at Colin’s face. She watched his cock, her hands fluttering nervously.
Anthony spat into his palm, slicked himself, and positioned himself at Colin’s entrance. There was no preparation, no oil, nothing but violation.
“No, brother… Anthony, don’t—” Colin pleaded, his voice a broken thing.
Anthony drove forward.
The scream was muffled this time, choked into a guttural rasp as Colin’s body seized, his back bowing against the bindings. Anthony sank in to the hilt in one relentless, tearing thrust. He stayed there, buried, his own face a grimace of effort and dark pleasure.
“This,” Anthony panted, his voice hot against Colin’s ear, “is where you belong. Beneath us. Taking what we give. Your cock is a beacon. But this—” he withdrew slightly and slammed back in, earning another shattered gasp, “—this hole is your truth. Empty. Needing to be filled. By me.”
He set a brutal, punishing rhythm. The chair groaned and scraped on the floor with each drive. Colin’s cries fragmented into whimpers, his head rolling from side to side. Tears carved clean paths through the sweat on his cheeks.
Violet watched, her hand moving beneath her skirts. Daphne reached out, her fingers trembling, and began to stroke Colin’s abused cock, her touch feather-light, a counterpoint to the violent fucking he was receiving.
“Does the god feel this?” Daphne whispered, her eyes wide. “Does he feel you being taken? Does it humble him?”
Colin could only sob. The sensation was a tempest of agony and a shameful, creeping pleasure, the relentless stimulation of his prostate warring with the sear of the invasion. His cock, in Daphne’s gentle hand, began to leak in a steady, pathetic stream.
Anthony’s pace became frantic, his breath coming in ragged grunts. “Going to fill you,” he snarled. “Going to mark the god’s temple with my seed. You’ll carry it inside you.”
With a final, deep plunge, Anthony froze, his body rigid. A hoarse shout was torn from him as he pulsed, pumping his release into his brother’s clenching, unwilling channel. He held there for a long moment, shuddering, before collapsing forward, his forehead against Colin’s shoulder.
The room was silent except for the crackle of the fire and their ragged breathing. Anthony pulled out slowly, a wet, obscene sound accompanying his softening exit.
Colin hung in his bonds, utterly spent, sweat and tears and semen glistening on his skin. He was a ruined altar.
Violet rose. She took a linen napkin from the sideboard, dipped it in a carafe of water, and approached. With a mother’s tenderness, she began to clean his face. “There, my love,” she whispered. “The pride is purged. The god is chastened. He is clean again.”
She moved the cloth down his chest, over his trembling stomach. She carefully wiped his cock, now softening, curled against his thigh like a wounded creature. Finally, she crouched and gently dabbed at the blood and seed smeared between his legs. Colin flinched but did not resist.
Benedict untied the silk bonds. Colin’s arms fell limply to his sides, his wrists raw and circled with red marks.
They helped him from the chair, supporting his weight as his legs buckled. They guided him to a chaise lounge, laying him down on his side. Daphne covered him with a soft, woolen blanket.
The family stood around him, their faces now smooth, serene. The fever had passed.
Anthony refastened his trousers, his expression once more that of the stern, controlled Viscount. He placed a hand on Colin’s damp head. “Rest now,” he said, his voice quiet. “The ritual is complete. The balance is restored.”
Colin stirred, turning his face into the cushion. His voice, when it came, was a raw whisper, stripped of all defiance, all smug pride. It held only a shattered, bottomless need.
“Thank you,” he breathed.