Chapter 15: Champagne Brutality
The low murmur of the Purple Tags gathering tablets and straightening ties was the only sound besides the frantic thud of Pete’s heart against his ribs. Derek leaned back in the executive chair, swirling the dregs of his whiskey, his eyes never leaving Pete’s naked, trembling form still awkwardly half-turned towards the whiteboard. Mark had been dismissed with a curt nod minutes ago, leaving Pete alone in the lion's den.
"Helena," Derek called out smoothly as she moved towards the door. She paused, turning with an expectant, coolly professional expression. "We'd appreciate some additional… consultation time with this resource." He gestured vaguely at Pete with his glass. "Ensure the projections meet Titan's exacting standards."
Helena’s gaze flickered over Pete, taking in his flushed skin, the lingering evidence of his unwanted arousal, the raw humiliation etched on his face. "Of course, Derek," she replied, her voice devoid of inflection. "You and Liam possess equivalent access privileges as representatives of Titan Partners. The resource is yours to utilize for the necessary duration." She scanned the room, her eyes landing on a junior Purple Tag lingering near the minibar. "Ensure Pete understands the protocol for acknowledging our guests appropriately before you leave." She didn't wait for confirmation, striding out, the door clicking shut with finality behind her.
The junior Purple Tag, a man Pete vaguely recognized from Compliance, cleared his throat. He avoided Pete’s eyes, staring instead at a point on the wall. "Red Tag," he stated flatly, "you heard Ms. Helena. Greet our Titan guests properly. Standard acknowledgment protocol." He practically fled the room, the door sealing Pete in with Derek and Liam.
Silence descended, thick and suffocating. The city lights blurred beyond the glass walls. Derek set his glass down with a soft clink. Liam pushed his chair back, stretching languidly, a predator surveying trapped prey. Pete’s breath hitched. He knew what ‘standard acknowledgment protocol’ meant. Karn had explained it once, grimly, after Pete witnessed another Red Tag perform it for a visiting Silver Tier vendor. It wasn’t about words.
Trembling intensified, a full-body shudder Pete couldn’t suppress. His gaze darted between Derek’s cold smirk and Liam’s eager grin. Riverton flashed before his eyes – the locker room taunts, the stolen lunch money, the feeling of being pinned down, powerless. His mother’s worn face superimposed itself over theirs. ‘Need this job, Pete. We need it.’ Karn’s absence was a physical ache. No buffer. No deflection. Just cold, hard vulnerability.
Slowly, feeling every nerve ending scream in protest, Pete sank to his knees on the polished tile floor. The cool surface bit into his skin. He shuffled his knees wider apart, spreading them deliberately, obscenely, offering a clear, humiliating view of his genitals. He clasped his hands behind his head, fingers laced tight, elbows jutting out. The posture forced his chest forward, exposed everything. He kept his gaze fixed on the floor between Derek’s polished shoes.
"Mr. Potter. Mr. Carter," Pete forced the words out, his voice tight but clear, the politeness a grotesque mask. "Welcome. Thank you for utilizing Red Tag resources. I… I request acknowledgment of my service." He swallowed, the sound loud in the quiet room. "Please… acknowledge me with your toes."
Liam burst out laughing, a harsh, grating sound. "Holy shit, Derek! Look at him! Riverton High's salutatorian! Bent over backwards, quite literally, begging for attention!" He nudged Derek. "Remember how he used to act all high and mighty? Scribbling in those notebooks? Now look!"
Derek’s chuckle was low, menacing. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, peering down at Pete. "Oh, we see you, Petey. We see you very clearly. Acknowledgment, huh?" He exchanged a look with Liam, pure malice dancing in his eyes. "Well, since you asked so nicely… and since you seem to be… responding… Liam?"
Liam was already kicking off his expensive loafers and peeling off his socks. Derek did the same. They both stretched their bare feet out towards Pete, wiggling their toes mere inches from his face. Pete flinched, a low whimper escaping him.
"Go on, Riverton's pride," Derek purred. "Show us you mean it. Show us you want to be… acknowledged." Liam snickered.
Pete squeezed his eyes shut for a second, fighting the hot sting of tears. Mom. The rent. The job. He leaned forward slightly, just enough to bring his exposed erection within reach of their outstretched feet. He couldn't look. He felt the rough, cool skin of Derek's big toe brush against the sensitive underside of his cock. A jolt shot through him. Liam’s toe joined in, clumsily rubbing the shaft. The sensation was bizarre, violating, utterly degrading. Not hands. Toes. Tools for walking, now instruments of his humiliation.
He kept his posture rigid, hands locked behind his head, knees spread wide. He focused on the grain of the wood in Derek’s chair leg. The toes probed, stroked, scraped. It wasn't skilled or sensual; it was clinical, mocking. Liam giggled as he fumbled. Derek applied more pressure, grinding his heel slightly against Pete’s balls. Pete gasped, his body betraying him utterly. Despite the terror, the shame, the raw violation, his cock swelled under the abrasive contact, stiffening fully under the ministrations of their feet. The unwanted arousal was its own fresh hell, a physiological betrayal that made bile rise in his throat.
"Look at that!" Liam crowed. "He likes it! The fucking honor student gets hard from getting his dick rubbed by feet!"
Derek leaned back, withdrawing his foot with a look of disgusted fascination. "Pathetic. Utterly pathetic. But acknowledged, Petey. Consider yourself… serviced." He wiped his foot on the plush carpet.
Pete’s erection throbbed, a traitorous monument to his degradation. Tears welled, spilling hot and silent down his cheeks. He bowed his head low, forehead almost touching the cool tile between Derek’s feet. "Th-thank you, Mr. Vance. Thank you, Mr. Carter," he choked out, the words thick with tears. "Thank you for acknowledging me."
Derek stood up, towering over Pete’s kneeling form. "Get up." The command was sharp. "Onto the table. Now. Kneel. Spread wide. Let’s see this… resource… properly utilized."
Pete scrambled clumsily to his feet, his legs shaky. He clambered onto the smooth, cold surface of the massive conference table, the leather chairs looming like dark sentinels. He assumed the position again, kneeling near the center, forcing his knees wide apart, presenting himself completely. The polished wood felt icy against his skin. He clasped his hands behind his head again, staring straight ahead at the empty chair Helena had occupied, trembling uncontrollably.
Liam bounced over to the minibar, rummaging. He emerged with a bottle of champagne, frosty condensation beading on the green glass. "Found the good stuff!" he announced cheerfully.
Derek positioned himself beside the table, close to Pete’s exposed side. He ran a finger slowly, possessively, down Pete’s spine. Pete flinched violently. "Hold still, Riverton," Derek murmured, the threat implicit. "Wouldn’t want any… accidents… reaching your dear mother, would we? Footage of her little scholar begging like this? Covered in… refreshments?"
Liam popped the champagne cork with a loud bang that made Pete jump. The fizzy liquid overflowed, spilling onto the table. Grinning, Liam stepped forward. He didn’t pour it into a glass. He tilted the bottle directly over Pete’s rigid erection.
The cold hit like a physical shock. Pete gasped, his body convulsing. The icy stream cascaded over his cock and balls, soaking his inner thighs, pooling on the table beneath him. He gritted his teeth, trying not to cry out, trying to obey, to hold still. His skin prickled, muscles clenched against the freezing deluge. He shivered violently, teeth chattering.
"Look at him shake," Liam chuckled, continuing to pour, watching the champagne foam and run down Pete’s thighs. "Like a wet puppy."
Derek watched, his expression unreadable for a moment, then hardened. As the last drops fell from Liam’s bottle, Derek snatched it. It was still frosty cold, half-full. Before Pete could register the movement, Derek stepped between his spread knees. Pete’s eyes widened in dawning horror. Derek didn’t hesitate. He pressed the chilled, wet glass base of the bottle firmly, deliberately, against Pete’s exposed anus.
The shock was electric, invasive, terrifying. Pete cried out, a raw, involuntary sound of protest and fear. His body instinctively tried to jerk away, but Derek grabbed his hip with his free hand, fingers digging in painfully, holding him immobile.
"Stay still, Riverton," Derek hissed, his voice low and vicious, leaning in so his face was inches from Pete’s. He ground the chilling glass harder against the vulnerable opening. "Not a fucking twitch. Or your mom gets front-row seats to the show. Every. Begging. Second." His eyes bored into Pete’s, filled with a cruel, absolute certainty of his power. "Understand?" The icy pressure was relentless, a violation deeper than the boardroom, deeper even than the toes. It was a promise of worse to come, freezing him in place, inside and out.
The icy glass base pressed harder, a searing cold that stole Pete’s breath, locking his muscles rigid. Derek’s grip on his hip was iron, the threat against his mother echoing louder than the champagne cork’s pop. Pete squeezed his eyes shut, tears leaking hot tracks down cheeks already chilled by evaporated alcohol. Every instinct screamed to recoil, to shove the bottle away, but the image of his mother’s weary face, the weight of their reliance on this job, anchored him in place, trembling violently on the cold, wet tabletop.
“Good boy,” Derek murmured, the false warmth in his voice as jarring as the chill. He finally withdrew the bottle, leaving behind a numb, violated ache. Pete gasped, relief warring with fresh dread. “Now, hands.” Derek stepped back slightly, gesturing towards Pete’s own rigid, unwanted erection, still slick with champagne. “You wanted acknowledgment, Petey. Real acknowledgment. Show us how much. Finish yourself off.”
Liam leaned against the table, grinning. “Yeah, Riverton. Show Titan Partners your full… commitment. Bet you’ve been dreaming about this since homeroom.”
Pete’s hands, still clasped tightly behind his head, felt like blocks of ice. Move. He had to move. His mother’s face swam before him again, fragile and tired. Slowly, mechanically, he lowered one hand. His fingers brushed his wet, chilled skin, flinching at the contact. The cold made his erection feel alien, detached. He wrapped his fingers around himself, the touch clumsy, repulsive.
“That’s it,” Derek encouraged, his voice dripping with mockery. “Show us how grateful you are for our visit. Put your back into it, Riverton’s pride.”
Pete closed his eyes tighter, trying to disappear, trying to think of anything else – the hum of the AC, the distant city lights blurring through the glass, Karn’s calm voice explaining a Spirit Archive query yesterday – but Derek’s sneer and Liam’s chuckle anchored him firmly in the horror. His hand moved in jerky, unpracticed strokes. Shame burned hotter than the unwanted friction building beneath his touch. He felt sick, violated by his own body’s treacherous response.
“Look at him go,” Liam snorted, taking a swig from the champagne bottle. “Guess he really needed that acknowledgment, huh, Derek?”
The pressure built, a relentless tide against his will. He fought it, clenching every muscle, but the degradation, the fear, the cold, Derek’s voice, Liam’s laugh – it coalesced into a physical force he couldn’t contain. A choked gasp tore from his throat as the orgasm ripped through him, intense and utterly humiliating. Thick ropes of semen erupted upwards, splattering warm and sticky across his cheekbone, his temple, his lips, some catching in his eyelashes.
Derek let out a sharp bark of laughter. “Perfect! A real Titan welcome!” Liam whooped, clapping slowly. Pete stayed frozen, hand still grasping his softening cock, trembling violently, the cooling stickiness on his face a brutal brand. The scent, sharp and intimate, filled his nostrils. He felt hollowed out, scraped raw.
“Alright, cleanup’s done,” Derek announced briskly, pulling out his phone. He snapped a quick picture, the flash blinding Pete momentarily. “Stand up. Escort duty. You’re taking us to the main lobby. Now.”
Pete numbly lowered his legs from the table, his movements stiff and graceless. He stood on the wet tile floor, naked, shivering, his face painted with his own release. He couldn’t meet their eyes. Derek tossed him a discarded cloth napkin from the minibar. “Don’t wipe it off. Souvenir. Let’s go.”
The walk down the executive corridor felt like navigating a minefield naked. Every step echoed in the hushed space. Pete walked slightly ahead, the sticky residue tightening on his skin as it dried, the smell potent. He heard the soft click of Derek and Liam's dress shoes behind him, their low conversation as casual as if discussing the weather. They passed a junior Purple Tag emerging from an office; the man’s eyes widened comically, darted away, then snapped back with horrified fascination before he quickly retreated inside. Pete kept his gaze fixed on the polished floor tiles ahead.
Turning a corner toward the central atrium, the low hum of the lobby grew louder. People. Lots of people. Employees milling about before heading home, others waiting at the reception desks, clusters talking near the abstract sculptures. The bright, open space felt like an arena. Pete hesitated, a fresh wave of terror seizing him. Derek nudged him sharply in the small of his back with his knuckles.
“Keep moving, Riverton. Center stage. Kneel.”
Pete stumbled forward a few steps into the open expanse of the lobby. Fluorescent lights glared down, reflecting off the marble floor. Conversations faltered. Heads turned. A collective intake of breath, then a spreading wave of murmurs. Dozens of eyes locked onto him – naked, trembling, face streaked with drying semen. Red Tags from his own floor stared, mouths agape. Purple Tags from other departments paused mid-sentence, expressions ranging from shock to disdain to morbid curiosity. Visitors from partner companies pointed, whispered.
He stopped where Derek indicated, near a large potted fern that offered no real cover. The silence was deafening. He could feel the heat of every gaze. Slowly, forcing his trembling legs to bend, Pete sank to his knees on the cold marble. He clasped his hands in front of him, a parody of supplication, head bowed, facing Derek and Liam who stood before him, impeccably dressed, radiating smug power.
“Louder, Riverton,” Derek commanded, his voice cutting through the stunned quiet. “The whole lobby needs to hear Titan Partners is appreciated.”
Pete took a shuddering breath. The words scraped his raw throat. “Th-thank you,” he rasped, forcing volume, his voice cracking. “Thank you for your visit, Mr. Potter, Mr. Carter.” He swallowed, the taste of salt and something else metallic on his lips. “We… we sincerely appreciate Titan Partners’ collaboration.” He forced the next sentence, each word a shard of glass. “We hope… we look forward to… to your return.”
Derek smiled, a slow, predatory stretch of his lips. Liam chuckled, shaking his head. “Oh, we’ll be back, Petey,” Derek said loudly, ensuring the watching crowd heard. “Count on it. Titan values dedicated resources like you.” He clapped Pete once, hard, on the shoulder. “Enjoy the rest of your evening.”
With that, they turned, Derek giving a casual wave to the stunned onlookers, and strode confidently towards the revolving doors, laughing together. The doors whooshed shut behind them. Pete remained kneeling, naked and exposed in the center of the lobby, the drying streaks on his face the only covering he had. The low murmur of the crowd surged back, louder now, buzzing with shock, speculation, and undisguised gossip. Groups coalesced, eyes fixed on him, fingers pointing, heads leaning close. He was the spectacle. The object lesson. Utterly alone.
The marble floor chilled Pete’s knees, the murmurs of the lobby crowd buzzing like angry wasps against his skin. He kept his head bowed, the dried streaks on his face tightening like a cracked mask. Red Tag colleagues averted their eyes as they hurried past; Purple Tags paused, their conversations stalling mid-sentence, gazes lingering with detached curiosity or faint disgust. Someone snickered. A camera phone flashed, the light searing his closed eyelids. He flinched.
"Alright, show’s over, folks," a bored security guard’s voice cut through the noise, thick with routine dismissal. "Move along." The crowd reluctantly dispersed, leaving Pete kneeling in the abruptly quiet expanse, the security guard tapping his foot impatiently. "You. Up. HR wants you. Rostova’s office. Now."
Pete’s stomach clenched. Anya Rostova. HR. More procedures. More eyes. He pushed himself up, muscles protesting, legs shaky. He walked naked through the emptying lobby, past the reception desks where clerks suddenly found their screens fascinating. He took the service elevator, the mirrored walls reflecting his stained, trembling form from all angles. He looked away.
Anya Rostova’s office smelled of antiseptic and expensive perfume. Frosted glass walls offered privacy, but the fluorescent lights overhead were brutally bright. Anya sat behind a minimalist steel desk, her dark hair pulled into a severe bun, fingers steepled. Her gaze, cool and assessing, swept over Pete the moment he entered, lingering on the dried streaks on his face and the state of his body.
"Peter," she stated, her voice crisp, devoid of warmth. "Close the door." He did, the latch clicking with finality. "Stand there." She gestured to the center of the small room, a space devoid of chairs, only a filing cabinet and a tall, professional camera on a tripod pointed at the spot.
She leaned back, tapping a manicured nail on her desk. "Feedback from our Titan Partners representatives, Mr. Potter and Mr. Carter, was surprisingly positive regarding your... engagement today." A ghost of something unpleasant flickered in her eyes. "They found your demonstration of corporate spirit... noteworthy. Unique."
Pete stared at the camera lens, a cold dread pooling in his gut. Noteworthy. The champagne. The bottle. The lobby.
"They specifically requested a visual record," Anya continued, picking up a sleek tablet. "For their internal reference. A token of our productive partnership." She stood, walking around the desk with predatory grace, stopping near the camera. "They were particularly impressed with your current presentation. Your... readiness. They wish it documented."
She gestured towards his flaccid state. "Replicate it. Fully erect. Now." Her voice brooked no argument, clinical and detached.
The word echoed in the sterile silence. Erect. After the lobby. After everything. The humiliation was a physical weight, crushing. Tears welled instantly, hot and unbidden, spilling over and tracing paths through the dried residue on his cheeks. He looked at Anya, her expression impassive. His mother’s face, worn and worried, surfaced in his mind. Rent. Groceries. The fragile thread holding them together. Need this job.
With a choked sob, Pete lifted a shaking hand. He squeezed his eyes shut, blocking out Anya's cool stare, the accusing lens of the camera. He focused on the violation: Derek’s voice, the icy bottle, Liam’s laughter, the crushing weight of dozens of eyes in the lobby, the feel of his own release drying on his skin. Shame, terror, and the desperate, animal need for this to be over coiled together into a sickening knot. His hand moved in quick, rough jerks, a perverse parody of self-pleasure. It felt like tearing his skin off. A ragged gasp tore from his throat as his traitorous body responded, swelling painfully under his punishing touch.
Anya watched, unmoved, as he achieved the required state, his body trembling violently, tears dripping steadily onto the cool tile floor. She picked up the camera remote.
"Arms down. Stand straight. Look at the lens." Her commands were sharp, efficient. The camera whirred, its shutter clicking rapidly. Front profile. Left side. Right side. Close-up of his face, tear-streaked above the dried, flaky residue. She moved closer, the camera pointed downward. Close-up of his rigid erection. Close-up of his scrotum. "Turn around. Bend forward. Hands on the cabinet. Spread."
Pete obeyed, mechanical, hollow. The cold metal of the filing cabinet bit into his palms. He bent at the waist, presenting himself fully. He felt utterly dissected. The camera whirred again, zooming in, capturing every intimate detail from behind. The click of the shutter echoed the frantic thud of his heart. He heard Anya adjust the lens for an extreme close-up, focusing on the one place Derek had violated with the bottle. The humiliation was absolute, a violation deeper than any before.
The whirring stopped. Anya lowered the camera. "Acceptable," she stated, reviewing the images on the small screen. "These will be sent immediately to Mr. Potter and Mr. Carter for their records." She tapped her tablet screen. "Your dedication today will also be added to your HR profile under 'Demonstrated Dedication'. An... unusual commendation, but noted."
Pete straightened slowly, the unwanted stiffness beginning to fade, leaving him feeling boneless and raw. He turned to face her, tears still silently streaming. Anya looked up, meeting his shattered gaze with perfect indifference. "You may go. Resume your duties. Or go home. Your time remaining today is discretionary." She waved a dismissive hand towards the door.
Pete nodded, a jerky, tearful movement. He couldn't speak. He turned and opened the door, stumbling out into the harshly lit corridor. He walked on numb feet towards the locker room, the image of Anya reviewing his photos burned onto his retinas. His naked form, broken and exposed, captured in high definition. His humiliation, his violation, documented. And now, those images were downloading onto Derek Potter's phone. Liam Carter’s tablet. His rivals held his complete degradation in their hands. Forever.