Chapter 11: The Breakfast Altar
The morning sun streamed through the tall windows of the dining room, painting warm stripes across the polished mahogany. The table was set with impeccable precision: crisp white linen, sparkling crystal, silver that glinted like captured moonlight. The air smelled of beeswax, freshly baked bread, and the faint, lingering scent of last night’s ritual—blood, sweat, and seed now masked by beeswax and lemon oil.
Colin sat at the head of the table. He wore a deep blue dressing gown, loosely tied. His face was paler than usual, shadows under his eyes, but there was a serene stillness to him that hadn’t been there before. A purified emptiness. His hands rested on the arms of his chair. And tenting the front of his robe, blatant and unavoidable, was the solid, thick outline of his erection.
Violet stood beside him, a small silver pot in her hands. Benedict, Anthony, Daphne, and Eloise—who had arrived late the previous night—stood around the table’s end, their morning clothes neat, their expressions serene.
“The night’s chastisement has borne fruit,” Violet said, her voice soft but carrying in the quiet room. “The vessel is clean. The god within is… hungry.” She untied the silk belt of Colin’s robe and pushed the fabric open, exposing his torso and his lap. His cock sprang free, fully hard, the head a dark, flushed red against his pale thigh. It curved slightly upward, a proud, arrogant line despite the purpling bite mark on his inner thigh and the faint bruises around his hips.
“Kneel,” Violet instructed.
They did, without hesitation. The rustle of fine cloth on carpet was the only sound. They formed a semi-circle around his chair, their eyes fixed on his cock as if it were a religious relic. Which, to them, it was.
Anthony was first. He leaned forward, his hands on his own knees, and pressed his lips to the side of the shaft. “I honor your strength,” he murmured, his voice rough with sleep and devotion. “I honor the seed you spill, which binds us.” He moved his mouth to the tip, where a bead of pre-cum glistened like a pearl. His tongue darted out, licking it clean with a slow, deliberate swipe. He sat back, swallowing visibly, a look of profound peace smoothing the usual stern lines of his face.
Eloise went next. Her intellectual sharpness was softened by reverence. She didn’t kiss it. She leaned close, her breath feathering over the sensitive skin. “I honor your truth,” she whispered, a heresy to anyone who knew her published philosophies. “The base, bloody truth of you that underpins all my pretty words.” She opened her mouth and took just the head inside, sucking gently for a moment before releasing it with a soft pop.
Benedict was less formal. He grinned, a flash of white teeth. “I honor the fucking beauty of it,” he said, and without further preamble, he leaned in and licked a long, wet stripe from Colin’s balls all the way to the tip, then took the whole glans into his mouth, sucking hard.
Colin’s breath hitched. His fingers tightened on the chair arms. A low moan escaped him as his hips gave a tiny, involuntary thrust upward into Benedict’s mouth.
“Greedy god this morning,” Benedict mumbled around him, pulling off with a laugh.
Daphne was last. She moved with her customary grace, her pale blue morning dress spreading around her like water. She didn’t speak. She simply bent her head, her golden hair falling forward, and kissed the very tip with a tenderness that was almost wifely. Then she opened her rosebud mouth and took him in deep, her throat working immediately, accepting his length with a practiced, wet ease.
Colin’s head fell back against the chair, a shudder running through him. He watched her from under heavy lids, his lips parted.
Violet observed, a small smile playing on her lips. She dipped two fingers into the silver pot, scooping out a thick dollop of golden honey. “For sustenance,” she said. She leaned over Colin’s lap, her body brushing his, and smeared the honey in a slow, sticky circle around the base of his cock, then in a dripping line up the thick vein on the underside.
The smell, cloying and sweet, mingled with the musk of his skin.
“Clean it,” Violet said, stepping back.
Anthony moved first, his tongue broad and rough, lapping at the honey from Colin’s balls. Benedict joined him, his mouth searching, sucking the sticky sweetness from the skin. Eloise licked delicately at the trail on the shaft. Daphne, her mouth still full of Colin, reached a hand down to cradle his balls, rolling them gently as she sucked.
It became a frenzy. A quiet, desperate, sticky frenzy. They were no longer taking turns. They were a single organism, feeding. Anthony shoved Benedict’s head aside to get his mouth on the honey-smeared root. Benedict retaliated by biting playfully at Anthony’s ear before diving back in. Eloise was kissing and licking Colin’s inner thighs, her glasses fogging. Daphne’s head bobbed steadily, her throat making wet, guttural sounds as she took him deeper, her nose pressed into his pubic hair.
Colin was panting now, his hands coming up to tangle in Daphne’s hair, then in Benedict’s, guiding, pushing, pulling. His hips began to piston upward in shallow thrusts, fucking into Daphne’s face. “Yes… oh God, yes, just like that, suck it…”
Violet watched, her hand slipping inside the high neck of her own dress, her breath coming quicker.
The door from the servant’s passage swung open.
Two footmen entered, bearing large silver domed trays. They stopped. Their eyes took in the scene: the Viscount on his knees, his cheek pressed to his brother’s thigh, tongue working furiously; the celebrated artist and the bluestocking author wrangling for space at their brother’s groin; the Duchess of Hastings with her brother’s cock buried to the hilt in her throat, gagging gently as tears streamed from her squeezed-shut eyes; the matriarch, flushed, her fingers moving rhythmically beneath her bodice.
The footmen did not startle. They did not gasp. Their faces remained impassive, polished masks of professional discretion. They had seen variations of this before. One gave a barely perceptible nod to the other. They proceeded forward, their steps measured, and carefully set their heavy trays on the sideboard. They uncovered them: scrambled eggs, bacon, kedgeree, a rack of toast. The aromas of butter and smoked fish joined the cocktail of honey and sex in the air.
As one footman poured coffee into the waiting cups, his eyes flicked once, neutrally, to where Colin was now groaning, his body tightening. “Harder, Daph… make me come down your fucking throat…”
The Duchess redoubled her efforts, her hand frantically working between her own legs, hiking up her skirts.
The footmen finished their tasks. They turned and left, closing the door silently behind them.
The moment the latch clicked, Colin cried out, a raw, broken sound. His body arched, his cock pulsing violently in Daphne’s mouth. She swallowed convulsively, her throat working around each thick jet, her own moans vibrating along his length. Anthony and Benedict licked and sucked desperately at his shaft and balls, milking every drop, lapping up the honey and the salty-sweet spend that leaked from Daphne’s stretched lips.
They collapsed around him, a tangle of limbs and damp, rumpled clothing. Breathing filled the room, heavy and satisfied.
Colin slumped in his chair, spent, his cock softening slightly, glistening and utterly debauched. He looked down at his family, his eyes hazy with pleasure and a deep, possessive warmth.
Violet finally removed her hand from her dress, smoothing her skirts. She walked to the sideboard, picked up a plate, and began to calmly serve eggs onto it. “The kippers look particularly fine this morning,” she remarked, her voice perfectly even. “Anthony, you must keep your strength up. You have that meeting at the Lords at eleven.”
Anthony, still on his knees, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Yes, Mother.”
“Daphne, darling, don’t let your coffee get cold.”
Daphne pulled herself up, using Colin’s knee for support. She smiled, a blissful, sated smile, and reached for her cup, taking a sip without even wiping the sheen of spit and semen from her chin.
Colin accepted the plate Violet handed him. He picked up a fork, speared a piece of bacon, and brought it to his mouth. He ate. They all began to eat, passing the dishes, pouring coffee, the quiet clink of cutlery on porcelain the only sound. The sun continued to shine on the table, on the food, on the naked, worshipped man at its head, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Which, in Bridgerton House, it was.