Chapter 13: The Breakfast Servitude
The morning sun pierced the lingering library haze, painting sharp rectangles of light on the floorboards outside Colin’s bedroom. He woke with a deep, satisfied ache, a hollow tenderness between his legs where he had been filled. The scent of spent candles and male release still clung to his skin beneath the bergamot of his soap. He dressed slowly, each movement a reminder of the previous night’s devotion.
Downstairs, the dining room was a portrait of genteel order.Sunlight glanced off polished silver and white linen. The air smelled of smoked kippers, freshly baked bread, and Darjeeling tea.
Violet sat at the head of the table, sipping from a delicate cup. Daphne was to her right, arranging a small vase of winter jasmine.Anthony, already buried in a stack of ledgers, muttered figures under his breath.
Colin took his seat at the opposite end, a low, velvet-cushioned chaise positioned just for him beside his chair. He sighed as he settled, the soft velvet a cool contrast to his simmering blood.No words were exchanged about the night before.It simply was.
A footman, Thomas, entered with a fresh pot of coffee. He was young, with earnest eyes and strong hands.He poured for Violet first, then moved to Colin. As he leaned over to fill Colin’s cup, his free hand, hidden by the fall of the tablecloth, found the placket of Colin’s trousers.Deft fingers worked the buttons.
Colin let out a soft, shuddering breath.He picked up his fork, speared a piece of kipper.
Thomas sank gracefully beneath the expanse of mahogany. Colin’s hips shifted forward imperceptibly on the chaise. A low, wet sound, unmistakable and obscene, began beneath the polite clatter of cutlery.
“The tenants on the north acreage are complaining about the drainage again,” Anthony said, not looking up from his papers.His knuckles were white around his pen.
“Mm,” Violet said, spreading blackberry jam on her toast with precise strokes. “We must have it seen to before spring planting. It is a recurring expense.”
Beneath the table, Thomas’s mouth was a revelation of wet heat. He took Colin deep, his nose pressing into the thatch of coarse hair at the base, his throat working around the thick intrusion. Colin’s fork hovered mid-air.A soft moan escaped him, swallowed by the dining room’s high ceiling.
“Colin?” Daphne’s voice was gentle, melodic. “Would you prefer marmalade?”
He nodded, unable to form words as Thomas began to bob his head in a slow, relentless rhythm. The footman’s hands gripped Colin’s hips, pulling him deeper into that slick, sucking warmth. Colin’s head fell back against the chaise, his eyes glazing over the crystal chandelier.Another footman, James, entered with a rack of fresh toast. Daphne looked at him, then gave a slight, almost imperceptible tilt of her head towards Colin.
James set the toast down silently.He walked around the table, his steps muffled by the rug. Without a word, he knelt behind the chaise. His hands, smelling of soap and yeast, slid over Colin’s shoulders, down his chest, easing his shirt open. Colin arched into the touch, a broken syllable catching in his throat.
James’s fingers trailed lower, past Colin’s stomach, dipping beneath the waistband of his trousers which were now bunched around his thighs. They explored lower, finding the heated, tense cleft of his arse. One finger, slicked with something from a small vial, pressed against the still-loosened ring of muscle from the night before.
“Oh, fuck,” Colin gasped, his hips bucking involuntarily, driving his cock deeper into Thomas’s throat.The footman gagged but held firm, his eyes streaming.
“Anthony, the figures from the London house?” Violet asked, taking a delicate bite of toast.
Anthony cleared his throat, his own face flushed.“The… the revenue is up.Twelve percent. The modiste on the ground floor has renewed her lease.”
James’s finger slid inside Colin, then a second, stretching him with a practiced, gentle urgency.Colin cried out, a sharp, high sound. His hands fisted in the velvet of the chaise.
“Mind your language at the table, dear,” Violet murmured, not looking at him.
Daphne watched, her lips slightly parted, her own breakfast forgotten.Her hand drifted to the base of her own throat, fingering the pearls there.
Beneath the table, Thomas pulled off with a wet pop, gasping for air. In one fluid motion, he and James changed positions. Thomas stood, his own cock straining against his livery breeches, and presented it to Colin’s mouth. James took his place between Colin’s legs, his broad shoulders forcing them wider apart.Colin opened his mouth obediently. Thomas fed his cock past his lips, a blunt, salty intrusion. At the same time, James’s tongue, hot and flat and demanding, replaced his fingers, licking a broad stripe over Colin’s hole before plunging inside.Colin choked, then surrendered. His world narrowed to sensation: the cock fucking into his mouth, the tongue spearing his arse, the velvet scratching his bare back. He was a nexus of raw service. He tried to chew, to swallow the forgotten kipper, but it was impossible.Saliva and pre-come dripped down his chin.
“The… the drainage,” Anthony stammered, staring blindly at a column of numbers. “It will require a crew of six.For a fortnight.”
“See to it,” Violet said.
James worked his tongue deeper, then added the blunt pressure of his thumb, stretching Colin open obscenely wide for the dining room air to kiss.Thomas gripped Colin’s hair, fucking his face in short, sharp jabs. Colin’s moans were continuous now, a guttural, keening soundtrack to the breakfast.His body was a live wire, coiling tight. He could feel it gathering at the base of his spine, a white-hot point of inevitability. He pawed at Thomas’s hips, his own hips grinding back against James’s mouth.
“I’m… I’m gonna…” he slurred around the cock in his mouth.
“Not yet, dear,” Violet said softly, stirring her tea. “You have not finished your eggs.”
Colin sobbed, the pleasure bordering on pain.He forced himself to still, trembling with the effort of holding back. Thomas slowed his thrusts.James’s tongue softened to lazy, maddening circles.
For a full minute, the only sounds were Colin’s ragged breaths and the clink of Violet’s spoon. He floated on a knife’s edge of denial, every muscle taut.
Then Violet gave a slight, almost invisible nod.It was permission.Thomas slammed his cock back into Colin’s throat. James buried his face completely, his nose pressed against Colin’s perineum as his tongue fucked deep.The climax tore through Colin like a lightning strike. His body arched violently, lifting clear off the chaise.A raw, strangled shout was muffled by Thomas’s flesh. His cock, untouched, spurted hot streaks of come across the polished table leg, the linen cloth, a splash landing on the rim of his own china plate.
He convulsed through it, milked dry by the relentless assault on both ends.
As the final tremors subsided, Thomas pulled out with a soft groan, tucking himself away. James stood, wiping his mouth calmly on a linen napkin from the sideboard before resuming his station by the wall.
Colin slumped back, spent, breathing in ragged gasps.His mouth was bruised and slack. His arse throbbed with a deep, used ache.
Violet took a final sip of her tea, set the cup down precisely in its saucer. She looked at her son, his chest glistening, his expression shattered and serene.“More tea, dear?” she asked, her voice warm and perfectly ordinary.
Anthony finally looked up from his ledger, his eyes dark with a hunger that had nothing to do with food.He watched Colin, the god in ruins, and slowly closed the book. The day’s business, it seemed, could wait.