Chapter 26: Champagne & Choking
The cold water Iris splashed on her face did nothing to calm the fire in her blood. She tucked herself away, the fabric of her trousers now stiff and unpleasant against her spent cock. In the mirror, her makeup was still flawless, her hair sculpted and severe. Only her eyes betrayed the chaos—a wide, dark pupil swallowing the hazel iris, the look of a predator who had tasted its own blood.
She walked back into the party as if returning from a casual trip to the powder room. The noise was a wall. She accepted a fresh champagne flute from a passing waiter, the glass cold and brittle in her hand. She scanned the room, her gaze inevitably drawn to him.
JT was holding court near the grand piano. He had shed his tuxedo jacket, his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing the lean forearms that had just held onto a sink for purchase. He was listening intently to an older, revered director, nodding, asking a quiet question that made the older man gesture emphatically. He looked at ease. He looked like he belonged. The two golden statuettes sat on the piano bench beside him, casual as discarded coats.
Every laugh that echoed from his circle was a needle in her side. Every admiring glance from the women—and men—clustered around him fanned the embers in her gut back into a low, dangerous burn. Her cock, impossibly, gave a tired throb. It was sore, oversensitive, but the want was a deeper current now, a riptide pulling beneath the humiliation.
She drifted to the periphery of his orbit, a dark satellite. She caught snippets.
“…the vulnerability, it wasn’t performative,” a critic was saying. “It was like watching someone think in real time.”
JT smiled, a faint, self-deprecating twist of his lips. “Most of the time I was just trying to remember my lines.”
Polite laughter. It was warm, inviting. They were inviting him in. Into their world, their projects, their beds. The stylist from earlier was back, her hand now resting lightly on his rolled sleeve, claiming a piece of the territory.
Iris’s vision tunneled. The glass in her hand was a bomb. She set it down on a passing tray before she shattered it.
She moved then, not toward him, but away, seeking the edges of the room where the light from the crystal chandeliers bled into shadow. There was a heavy velvet curtain, burgundy and gold, partitioning off a small alcove meant for private telephone calls or a moment of silence. It was empty.
She slipped behind it. The space was close, muffling the party to a dull, rhythmic throb. It smelled of old dust and rich fabric. She leaned against the wall, the cool plaster a shock through the thin silk of her blouse. She shut her eyes, trying to master the tremor in her hands, the relentless, aching emptiness between her legs. She needed to recalibrate. The game had changed. His passivity had been a weapon she understood. This… this calm assurance was a new dialect, and she was suddenly illiterate.
The curtain rustled. She opened her eyes.
JT stood in the gap, then let the heavy fabric fall closed behind him, sealing them in the dim, reddish gloom. The sounds of the party became a distant ocean. He didn’t look surprised to find her there.
“Hiding?” he asked. His voice was neutral.
“Considering the venue,” she shot back, her own voice husky, “I’d say you’ve developed a taste for public displays.”
He took a step closer. The alcove was so small his shoes almost touched the pointed tips of her heels. He looked down at her, his face in shadow, the angles sharper. The gentle young man from the piano was gone. This was someone else.
“You left a mark,” he said quietly.
“I usually do.”
“Not that kind.” He didn’t elaborate. He just watched her. Then his gaze dropped, deliberately, to the front of her trousers. The prominent, unmistakable bulge, even in its softened state, was clearly visible in the tight white fabric. A damp patch, darker than the rest, marred the fine wool.
Her breath hitched. Shame and a violent, cresting arousal warred in her chest.
He reached out, not for her face or her arm, but directly for that bulge. His fingers, cool from holding his champagne glass, pressed against the thick shape of her cock through the cloth. He didn’t grope or stroke. He just pressed, his fingertips digging in with a calculated, assessing pressure, right against the sensitive head.
A sharp gasp tore from her lips. Her hips jerked forward, seeking more of that touch despite herself. Her cock, so recently spent, surged back to life with a painful, urgent swiftness, thickening and lengthening under his hand.
“Still so hard for me, Iris?” he murmured. His tone wasn’t teasing. It was clinical. “After everything. After the limo. After the bathroom. You’re still just… ready.”
“Fuck you,” she breathed, but it was weak, a reflex.
“You already did. Twice.” His fingers curled, gripping her through the fabric, a possessive, claiming squeeze that made her see stars. “You think ruining me in bathrooms makes you the dominant one? You think fucking me raw in a limo while I hold an Oscar proves you own me?” He leaned in, his lips close to her ear. His breath was warm. “It just proves you’re a slave to this. To me. To what I make you feel.”
The truth of it, articulated in his quiet, steady voice, was more devastating than any physical violation. She tried to speak, to deny it, but only a ragged sound emerged.
Then he moved. He dropped to his knees on the plush carpet.
The sight was so profoundly shocking that for a second, Iris’s mind went blank. He was on his knees before her, his face level with her groin. The Oscar winner. The golden boy. The victor. Here, in the half-dark, knelt before her raging need.
He didn’t look up at her. His hands went to the fastening of her trousers. His movements were efficient, unhesitating. He unbuttoned, unzipped, and tugged the white fabric and the damp silk of her underwear down just enough to free her. Her cock sprang out, fully erect now, jutting angrily, the head glistening with her own earlier spend and fresh, eager pre-come.
He studied it for a heartbeat, as if examining a fascinating, dangerous object. Then he wrapped his hand around the base, his grip firm, and without ceremony, took the head into his mouth.
The heat was instantaneous, shocking, divine. Iris’s head slammed back against the wall with a soft thud. A choked-off groan lodged in her throat. His mouth was hot and wet, his tongue a firm, flat pressure against her slit.
But it wasn’t worship. It was possession. He began to move, not with the tentative exploration of a novice, but with a ruthless, focused intensity. He took her deeper, his lips stretching around her girth. She felt the head of her cock nudge the back of his throat. He gagged, a wet, constricted sound that vibrated through her entire length, a sensation so filthy and perfect it made her thighs tremble.
He didn’t pull back. He pushed forward, swallowing against the reflex, forcing his throat to open. Tears sprang to his eyes, she could see them glinting in the dim light, but his gaze was fixed on some middle distance, unwavering. He began to bob his head, setting a brutal, punishing rhythm. Each downward plunge forced her deeper into that tight, clutching heat. The gagging sounds were constant now, a wet, rhythmic accompaniment to the slap of her hips against his face. She couldn’t stop herself. Her hands flew to his head, her fingers tangling in his perfectly styled hair, ruining it, holding him in place as she fucked up into that desperate, resisting warmth.
“That’s it,” she hissed, the words torn from her. “Take it. Choke on it. You want to serve? Then serve this.”
He looked up then, his tear-filled eyes meeting hers. In them, she didn’t see submission. She saw a cold, terrifying resolve. He was doing this. He was choosing it. He was taking the very thing she used to dominate him and was turning it into a weapon of his own. By swallowing her whole, by letting her use his throat like a cunt, he was demonstrating a control so absolute it bordered on the suicidal.
The realization tipped her over the edge. Her orgasm ripped through her with the force of a structural collapse. She came with a silent, shuddering scream, her body bowing over him as she pumped wave after wave of come straight down his constricted throat. He took it, his throat working, swallowing convulsively, some of it leaking from the corners of his stretched lips, dripping onto his chin and the pristine white of his shirt.
When the last tremor passed, she was boneless, leaning heavily against the wall. He slowly pulled off her, her spent cock slipping from his mouth with a soft, wet pop. He stayed on his knees, breathing heavily, his lips swollen and slick. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing the mess. He looked up at her, his expression wiped clean of everything except a deep, unsettling quiet.
The sounds of the party—the laughter, the jazz, the clinking glass—seemed to rush back into the alcove, a cruel reminder of the world just beyond the velvet.
JT rose to his feet. He adjusted his trousers, his movements slow, deliberate. He looked at her, still exposed, panting, utterly conquered in the way she had never anticipated.
“You see?” he said, his voice rough from her abuse, but clear. “I can play your game. I can be what you need. But it’s my choice now.” He reached out and, with a tenderness that was worse than any violence, tucked her soft, wet cock back into her trousers and zipped them up. The gesture was one of utter, devastating ownership.
He smoothed his hair, wiped his chin once more, and without another word, parted the velvet curtain and stepped back into the light and the noise, leaving her in the dark, the taste of her own power turned to ashes in her mouth.