Chapter 9: The countdown hit zero and spotlights illuminated Betty's bound body dripping with flavored lube, her cunt lips stretched around the neon numbers as the first reveler dropped to his knees. 'Ten seconds per guest,' Mri announced over the pounding music, smirking as Roger shoved through the crowd for a better view, catching his wife's muffled moans through her ball gag when someone's tongue plunged deep into her asshole.
The sharp scent of silicone lubricant and expensive cologne mixed with champagne fumes in Mri’s loft. Roger, sweating in a cheap rented tux, jostled through the glittering crowd, his gaze snagging on the suspended figure at the room's center. Lit by pulsing, colored spotlights, a woman hung spread-eagled against the vast cityscape window, encased head-to-thigh in gleaming black latex. A tight hood masked her face completely, leaving only her mouth visible through a small O-ring gag. Her legs were brutally wide apart in complex straps, the taut latex emphasizing the swollen pink lips of her exposed pussy. Between them, nestled against her glistening slit, a bright, glowing plastic sign read "2024".
"Midnight feast, gentlemen," Mri announced smoothly, clinking a champagne flute. "Lick the year clean off her cunt, earn your vintage Dom. Clock's ticking." A drunken financier lurched forward first, dropping clumsily to his knees. He buried his face between her thighs, his thick tongue lapping roughly at the sign and the slick flesh beneath. Roger watched, mesmerized and sickened, as the man’s tongue dragged through her folds, slurping noisily, saliva dripping onto the floor. The woman’s body jerked against the restraints, a muffled whimper escaping the gag.
"Harder," Mri commanded softly. "Get that cheap glitter off my property." The financier grunted, his tongue jabbing deeper, circling her clit aggressively, making her hips buck. Roger’s breath hitched; the desperate, rhythmic movement, the curve of a thigh – something primal pinged in his gut. A younger man, maybe one of Mri’s programmers, pushed the financier aside. "My turn," he muttered, eyes glazed. He leaned in, licking slowly, deliberately, from her asshole up over the sign to her clit, his fingers digging into her latex-clad hips. Roger saw the woman flinch, then arch subtly towards the tongue, a low moan vibrating the gag. Recognition slammed into Roger like a truck – the specific hitch in her breath, the tiny mole just inside her left thigh. His wife. Betty. Suspended. Being devoured. His cock hardened painfully against his thigh as the programmer’s tongue plunged deep into her pussy, lapping furiously at the glowing numbers.
"Ten! Nine! Eight!" The crowd roared. Roger stood frozen, eyes locked on the stranger’s head buried between his wife’s legs, her glistening sex, the obscene glow of '2024'. Shame warred with a dark, undeniable throb of arousal. "Five! Four! Three!" The programmer stood, wiping his wet chin, grinning as Mri handed him champagne. Mri’s eyes, cold and amused, scanned the crowd, lingering for a fraction on Roger’s stunned face. "Two!..." Roger couldn’t breathe. "ONE! HAPPY NEW YEAR!" Confetti exploded. Cheers erupted. Betty hung, trembling, her exposed sex slick and glowing in the sudden cascade of light.