Chapter 17: The Breakfast Mounting
The dawn light filtered through the east-facing windows of the Bridgerton dining room, painting the long mahogany table in stripes of pale gold. The air smelled of beeswax, fried ham, and freshly baked bread. It was a scene of impeccable normalcy. Silver domes covered plates on the sideboard. A pot of tea steamed gently beside a bowl of sugar cubes. The family was assembling, taking their customary seats with the quiet rustle of morning attire.
Colin entered last.
He wore only a loose pair of dark linen trousers, untied and hanging low on his hips. His chest was bare, the curls there still damp from a swift ablution. His hair was tousled, his expression one of focused, serene authority. And between his legs, his cock was already a thick, rigid presence, curving upwards against his stomach, flushed and ready. The formal ritual of the library had bled into the informal necessity of the morning. The god was awake, and it demanded immediate tribute.
No one remarked on his state of undress. It was simply fact.
Anthony, already seated at the foot of the table nearest the door, was reviewing a letter. He wore a stern black morning coat, every inch the Viscount. He did not look up as Colin approached, but a subtle tension corded the muscles in his neck.
Colin did not pause. He moved with the certainty of a predator. His hand shot out, tangling in Anthony’s carefully styled dark hair, and wrenched his head back. Anthony’s eyes flew open, meeting Colin’s for a fleeting second—a flash of startled submission—before Colin shoved his hips forward.
The broad, slick head of his cock pushed past Anthony’s lips, silencing any protest. Colin didn’t ease it. He drove it in, fucking into his brother’s mouth with a single, brutal thrust that buried half his length in the tight, wet heat of Anthony’s throat.
Anthony gagged, a wet, choking sound. His hands, which had flown to Colin’s wrists, went still. He forced them down to grip the carved arms of his chair, knuckles bleaching white. His eyes watered, streaming tears down his temples into his hairline.
Colin set a ruthless, piston-like rhythm. He held Anthony’s head still and pumped his hips, sliding his cock in and out of that constricting passage. The sounds were obscene: the wet slap of skin on skin, the choked gags, the ragged grunts from Colin’s chest. Spit dripped from the stretched corner of Anthony’s mouth, slicking Colin’s balls.
“That’s it,” Colin muttered, his voice a low, rough command. “Take your morning sacrament, brother. Swallow it down.”
He fucked Anthony’s face for a full minute, a mindless, mechanical release of morning urgency. Then, with a final deep shove that made Anthony’s body convulse, he pulled out. His cock emerged shiny with saliva, bobbing fiercely. Anthony slumped forward, coughing, sucking in huge, shuddering breaths, strings of spit connecting his lips to Colin’s glistening shaft.
Colin turned, his gaze sweeping the table. Benedict had frozen halfway through buttering a piece of toast. His eyes, always observant, were wide, his lips parted. Without a word, he rose from his seat, understanding his role. He turned his back to the table, bending forward slightly, bracing his hands on the polished wood.
“Good,” Colin said, a note of approval in his voice.
He stepped up behind Benedict. He didn’t seek preparation or oil. He grabbed his own cock, guiding it between Benedict’s thighs, from behind. The hot, hard length slid against Benedict’s perineum, the sensitive skin behind his balls, rutting in the cleft of his arse. Benedict was still fully clothed in his breeches and shirt, the fabric rough against Colin’s naked flesh.
Colin began to hump, a dry, frantic friction. He gripped Benedict’s hips, holding him steady as he drove his cock back and forth, the head catching and rubbing over Benedict’s tight hole through the barrier of fine wool. It was a simulation of possession, a promise of what would come later, in the ordered ritual.
“Fuck,” Benedict gasped, his head dropping. He pushed back against the thrusts, his own cock evidently hardening, pressing against the unforgiving edge of the table. “Yes… rub it there… claim it…”
Colin’s movements grew more erratic, his breath hot on Benedict’s neck. He was using his brother’s body like a toy, a convenient slot for his morning lust. After a dozen more grinding thrusts, he pulled away, leaving Benedict panting and achingly hard against the furniture.
Daphne was already moving. She had finished her sip of tea and placed the cup neatly on its saucer. She glided from her chair and sank to her knees on the Persian rug beside Colin, her hands folded in her lap, her face upturned like a flower awaiting the sun. Her expression was one of serene welcome.
Colin looked down at her, at her beautiful, obedient face. A surge of possessive heat flooded him. He placed a hand on the back of her head, his fingers threading through her golden curls. Not gently.
“Open,” he said.
She parted her lips, her tongue resting just behind her teeth. He guided his cock to her mouth. It was wet from Anthony’s throat, slick from grinding on Benedict. He pushed inside.
Daphne took him with a soft, accepting sigh. But Colin was not in a mood for gentle reverence. The mindless urgency was upon him, the animal need that preceded the structured worship. He began to fuck her mouth in earnest, his hips slamming forward in short, brutal jackhammer strokes. He wasn’t seeking to please her, or even to truly pleasure himself in a sustained way. He was marking her, using her, asserting dominance.
Her nose pressed into his pubic bone with every thrust. Tears sprang to her eyes, leaking down her cheeks, but she didn’t pull away. Her hands came up to rest on his thighs, not to push, but to steady herself as he ravaged her throat. Gagging sounds mingled with the wet, rhythmic slaps of his flesh against her face.
“Take it all, sister,” he grunted, his movements becoming frenzied. “Every fucking inch. This is what you come home for, isn’t it? This is better than any duke.”
He held himself deep for a moment, feeling the convulsive flutter of her throat around his head, then withdrew completely. Daphne sagged, coughing, dragging in air, her lip smudged and reddened, her makeup ruined.
Colin’s chest heaved. He was closer now, the pressure building in a furious tide. His cock, dark red and throbbing, dripped a steady string of pre-cum onto the rug. He turned, his gaze landing on his mother.
Violet sat at the head of the table, as always. She had watched the entire proceeding while calmly eating a piece of fruit. A small, serene smile played on her lips. She met his wild eyes with calm approval.
Colin stalked to her. He didn’t kneel. He moved behind her chair, bending over her. He pressed his rigid cock against the silk of her morning gown, just at her shoulder. He began to move again, a shallow, dirty grind. He rutted against her, his slick flesh sliding over the collarbone, up the column of her neck, leaving a glistening trail of saliva and pre-cum on the expensive fabric and her skin. The scent of her perfume—lavender and rose—mixed with the raw, musky smell of his arousal.
Violet did not flinch. She tilted her head slightly, giving him better access, her smile widening. She reached a hand up and back, her fingers stroking his hip. “My beautiful boy,” she murmured. “My sacred vessel. Let them see your power.”
Her acceptance, her encouragement, was the final accelerant. He humped against her a few more times, a clumsy, animalistic parody of intimacy, before pushing off with a snarl.
Eloise was next. She had been sitting rigidly in her chair, a piece of uneaten bread crumbling in her fist. Her face was pale, her eyes huge with a tumult of horror and a fascinated disgust she couldn’t suppress. As Colin turned to her, she flinched, a full-body recoil.
He didn’t grab her. He simply walked to her, his cock bobbing before him like a weapon. He pushed her chair back from the table with a rough shove. Before she could react, he stepped between her and the table, crowding her. He grabbed the modest neckline of her morning dress and chemise and yanked it down, not tearing it, but exposing the soft swell of her breasts above her corset.
“Colin, don’t—” she breathed, a real plea this time.
He ignored her. He pressed his overheated, slick cock between her breasts, forcing them together around his shaft. He began to grind, fucking the cleft he’d created. His balls slapped against the bone of her sternum. It was degrading, impersonal, a far cry from the kiss she’d been forced to give. This was raw need with no pretence of reverence.
Eloise stared straight ahead, over his shoulder, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. A single tear tracked through the powder on her cheek. She was utterly still, a statue of mortified shock.
The friction, the tightness, the sight of his cock disappearing between his youngest sister’s tits, sent Colin over the edge. The coil in his gut snapped.
He pulled back from Eloise with a guttural cry. He stumbled a step toward the table, his cock jerking in his hand. A thick, pearly rope of cum shot across the polished wood, landing with a wet splat directly on the silver butter dish. Another pulse followed, striping a porcelain plate beside it. A third, weaker spurt dribbled onto the tablecloth.
The room was silent save for Colin’s ragged panting. He stood there for a moment, his head bowed, his body trembling with the aftershocks. Then, as if shutting off a switch, his posture changed. The frantic energy drained away. He reached for a napkin from the table, wiped his cock clean with a few efficient strokes, and tucked himself back into his loose trousers, tying the drawstring.
He pulled out the chair at his usual place, right of his mother, and sat down. He picked up a porcelain plate, helping himself to eggs from a serving dish, careful to avoid the one he’d spattered. He added two slices of ham and a spoonful of beans. He picked up his fork and began to eat.
The mundane clink of silverware on china was the loudest sound in the room.
Slowly, the frozen tableau thawed. Anthony, having recovered his breath, used his own napkin to wipe his face and composed himself. He picked up his cooled letter, though his hands still shook minutely. Benedict adjusted his clothing and returned to his seat, his appetite seemingly gone, his gaze fixed on his empty plate. Daphne rose gracefully from the floor, retook her chair, and with a trembling hand, poured herself more tea, not drinking it, just holding the cup for warmth.
Violet took a final bite of her fruit, dabbing her lips with a napkin. She glanced at the butter dish, a faint, amused crinkle at her eyes. “We’ll need a new pat of butter,” she remarked, her tone conversational. “Hyacinth, would you ring for it?”
Hyacinth, who had entered unnoticed during the climax and had witnessed the end of the spectacle from the doorway, stood frozen, her hand on the doorframe. Her young face was a mask of stunned confusion. This was not the ordered ritual she’d been gradually introduced to; this was something else. Something feral.
“Hyacinth,” Violet repeated, a gentle steel in her voice.
The girl jumped, then scurried to the bell-pull by the fireplace and tugged it.
Eloise finally moved. She pulled her dress back up over her breasts with sharp, furious motions. She didn’t look at anyone. She stood, her chair scraping loudly, and walked stiffly from the room without a word.
Colin watched her go, chewing a mouthful of eggs. He felt a distant twinge of something—remorse? No. It was irritation. Her rebellion was a flaw in the perfect system. A problem to be corrected.
A footman entered, his eyes carefully averted from the table. “You rang, my lady?”
“Yes, James. The butter has been… contaminated. Please bring a fresh dish, and have this one removed.” Violet’s voice was light, as if discussing a fly in the jam.
The footman’s eyes flickered to the dish, glazed with Colin’s spend. He betrayed no reaction. “Of course, my lady.” He stepped forward, using a spare napkin to pick up the dish without touching the contents, and left the room.
The new butter arrived. The meal continued. Colin finished his eggs. Anthony muttered something about a meeting at the gentleman’s club. Daphne commented on the weather. It was all terrifyingly normal.
But beneath the surface, fractures had formed. The structured devotion of the library had been designed to contain the god’s power, to make it manageable. But Colin, in his morning hunger, had broken containment. He had acted not as a vessel in a ritual, but as a force of nature, imposing his will on them all, individually, violently, without the buffer of liturgy. The reverence in Anthony’s eyes was now tinged with a new, deeper shame. Benedict’s artistic fascination was shadowed by a dawning understanding of his own objectification. Daphne’s serene devotion had been stripped raw, revealing the brutal mechanics beneath.
And Eloise had broken rank.
Colin finished his tea, the warmth settling in his stomach. He felt sated, powerful, in control. The god was quiet for now, appeased by its rough morning offerings. He saw the shaken looks, the subtle tensions, and a part of him relished it. This was true power. Not just their willing worship, but their awed submission even to his chaos.
Violet rose. “I believe we have all had quite an illuminating morning,” she said, her keen eyes missing nothing. “We will reconvene at sundown in the library. The ritual will be observed. Precisely.” Her gaze lingered on Colin, a silent admonishment and a promise. He had strayed from the script, but he was still the star of the show.
As they dispersed, Colin lingered by the window, looking out at the sunlit garden. He thought of Eloise’s retreating back, of Hyacinth’s bewildered face. Seeds of dissent. They would need to be addressed. The family’s faith had to be unanimous, unquestioning. It was the only way the world they were building could stand.
He felt a faint, familiar stirring in his trousers. Not the urgent hunger of the morning, but a low, steady thrum of anticipation. Sundown. The library. The ordered worship. His lips curved in a smug, private smile. He would allow them their structure. He would play his part in the beautiful, dark liturgy his mother had written.
But the morning had shown him, and them, the truth. The structure was for their benefit, not his. The god, when it chose, would break its own altar. And they would let it.
He turned from the window and left the dining room, his bare feet silent on the polished floor, already counting the hours until the next devoted gathering.