Chapter 2: The Breakfast Altar
The scent of toasted bread and strong coffee mingled with the beeswax polish of the long dining table. Sunlight streamed through tall windows, illuminating swirls of dust above a scene of perfect, ordinary aristocracy. And at the head of it all, Colin sat, still radiating that post-ritual languor.
He wore tailored trousers and an open-collared shirt, his hair still damp from ablutions. Before him, a plate of eggs sat untouched.
The family assembled. Anthony, now impeccably dressed for the day in a navy coat, stood rigidly by the sideboard, pouring coffee. His hands, however, trembled slightly. Daphne arranged a sprig of lavender in a small vase. Violet presided over the tea service, her movements fluid and precise.
Then the door opened, and Benedict slouched in, smelling of turpentine and last night’s brandy. His artist’s eyes, always observing, swept the room and settled on Colin. A slow, understanding smile spread across his face. Eloise followed, a book tucked under her arm, her sharp gaze missing nothing.
“Good morning,” Colin said, his voice a warm rumble that seemed to vibrate in the very china.
A chorus of murmured greetings returned to him. But no one sat.
Violet set down the teapot. The click of porcelain on silver was a softer bell. “Before we nourish our bodies,” she said, her tone conversational, as if suggesting a toast, “we attend to the heart.”
It was the signal.
Anthony was the first to move. He came to Colin’s left side and went down on one knee, the starched fabric of his trousers pulling taut. Benedict, with a sigh that sounded like relief, mirrored him on the right. Daphne glided to kneel before Colin’s chair, her silk skirts pooling like blue water. Eloise, after a perceptible hesitation where her fingers tightened on her book, joined them, settling on a cushion Violet nudged forward with her foot.
Colin leaned back in his chair. His hands rested on the carved arms, fingers loose. He looked at each face turned up to him—Anthony’s hungry devotion, Benedict’s artistic appreciation, Daphne’s serene adoration, Eloise’s curious intensity. Violet remained standing, a silver pot in her hand that wasn’t for tea.
With a nod from his mother, Colin parted his legs. His hands went to the falls of his trousers. The fabric, fine wool, rustled. There was no fumbling, no awkwardness. A practiced, unveiled display.
The morning erection, revived by the attention, lay heavy against his thigh. The rose oil from earlier gleamed.
“The affirmations,” Violet intoned softly.
Anthony went first. He leaned in, his breath a warm gust. He did not kiss, but pressed his forehead against the heated skin of Colin’s inner thigh. “My strength is your vessel,” he whispered, the words gritted out like a confession. “My authority exists to serve your pleasure.” He turned his head, his voice dropping even lower. “Let me taste purpose.”
Colin’s hand came to rest on the back of Anthony’s neck. “You may.”
Anthony’s mouth opened, took the head inside with a shuddering reverence. He held it there for a count of three heartbeat throbs, then pulled back, a thin, pearlescent string connecting his lower lip to Colin’s skin. He swallowed. His shoulders slumped in profound relief.
Benedict was next. He approached it like a study. “Perfect line,” he murmured, his painter’s eye tracing the shape. “The divine geometry.” He offered a soft, chaste kiss to the base. “My inspiration flows from you.” He then leaned up, his tongue darting out to catch a bead of moisture Anthony had missed. He licked his lips, thoughtful. “Salty. Like the Aegean.”
Daphne’s turn. She smiled, a beautiful, fond thing. She produced a slim lace handkerchief from her sleeve. With unimaginable tenderness, she dabbed at the glistening tip. “My happiness is your echo,” she whispered, the words a familiar, soothing psalm. She lifted the dampened lace to her own lips, then to Colin’s. He kissed it, his eyes holding hers.
Eloise watched, her analytical mind visibly processing. When her turn came, she shifted on her cushion. “My mind… rebels at everything,” she said, her voice dry. “Except this truth.” She didn’t kiss. She simply leaned close, her breath whispering over the length. “You are the only mystery I have no desire to solve.” She closed her eyes, inhaling deeply, as if memorizing the scent of musk and rose. “That is my devotion.”
Violet stepped forward then. The silver pot’s lid was lifted. Inside, not cream, but thick, golden honey. Using a small glass rod, she gathered a dollop. “The sweetness of our house,” she said, and let it fall onto Colin’s shaft.
It was warm. It pooled. It began a slow, sticky trail.
“Tend to it,” Violet instructed the kneeling figures.
And they did.
With soft, worshipping touches, they spread the honey. Anthony’s calloused thumbs, Benedict’s slender fingers, Daphne’s gentle palms, even Eloise’s cautious fingertips. They anointed him, their hands mixing, working in unison, a silent, sticky communion. The air grew thick with the cloying, sweet smell.
Colin watched them, a faint, possessive smile on his lips. His breath hitched only once, when Anthony’s thumb circled a particular spot with too-knowing pressure. He saw the flush on Daphne’s neck, the focused glaze in Benedict’s eyes, the way Eloise’s intellectual resistance had melted into fascinated participation.
“Enough,” Colin breathed.
Their hands stilled. They remained kneeling, their fingers and palms glazed with honey and him.
Violet produced a bowl of warm water and clean linen. Starting with Daphne, she cleansed each of their hands, the act as