Ringing In The New Year 4

When Carrie agreed to provide the "entertainment" at a rich guy's New Years party, she knew to expect some weird kinky bullshit - but she didn't expect to enjoy it this much...Sensitive content warning, 5.5k words.

Content Warnings/Tags: Under-negotiated kink, & power imbalance (consensual sex work). That's it, this one is practically tame by my standards - just some good clean fun.

Carrie was never letting Isabelle talk her into anything ever again.

"Easy as pie," Isabelle had assured her. "It's a private New Years party, no cameras allowed. It goes from five until midnight, quickest grand you'll ever make in your life. All the guys there have to submit clean tests ahead of time, and you're only doing blowjobs, so it's totally safe."

"Uh-huh. Sure," Carrie had said. "Totally safe, until one of them gets drunk and decides he wants something that's not on the menu."

"Won't happen," her friend said firmly. "It's not that kind of crowd. Last year I only saw one guy get properly drunk, and the host sent him straight upstairs to sleep it off."

"Right." Carrie had still been extremely skeptical; serving as the entertainment at some rich guy's Christmas party in a remote cabin in the middle of the woods sounded like the set-up for some kind of horror movie--or maybe a rom-com, and she didn't particularly want to be starring in one of those, either.

But...a thousand dollars was a thousand dollars, and she could use a thousand dollars.

Putting herself through college was expensive, and even with loans to cover tuition, there was rent and groceries to consider. Her car needed repairs. She brought in some pretty good tips waitressing, but it was a college town, and she knew from experience that the place would be dead through the winter break, everyone else going home to their families and leaving just her and the few other sad-sack students who lived there year round, plus the townies who had a grudge against anyone under the age of twenty-five.

And Isabelle clearly hadn't been murdered--or married--last year, so...

"Why aren't you doing it again this year, if it was so easy?" Carrie had asked.

"I've got other plans," Isabelle had said, all casual. "Listen, I promise, even if a guest gets handsy, he won't be able to get at your pussy or anything. There's this chastity belt thing."

"What? Isabelle, that sounds fucking medieval."

"It's a kink thing. You're such a prude sometimes," Isabelle snorted. "Listen, do you want me to give the guy your number or not?"

Carrie, because she was an idiot--an idiot with an empty bank account--had said yes.

And now here she was, contemplating exactly why Isabelle had passed on the thousand dollars this year.

It wasn't that Isabelle had lied about anything. It was true that the party was nothing like the rowdy frat bash that Carrie had been fearing; there were about thirty men in attendance, ranging from her own age to significantly older, but none of them were throwing themselves at the booze like animals. The vibe was different from any party that Carrie had ever been to; it felt almost like a gala or something, not that Carrie had ever been to one of those. But she definitely got the idea that all of the men in attendance were rich as hell, and most of them were there to do something besides just party.

Exactly what they were there to do, she had no idea. She had the vague impression that there was some sort of wheeling and dealing going on, handshake agreements and business arrangements conducted behind closed doors, but none of that was happening in front of her.

Carrie was restricted to what the host had called "the great room", a large room at the back of the cabin--rich people had a different idea of what a cabin was, apparently, because the two-story structure was bigger than a normal suburban house--that was plushly outfitted with furniture to sit and chat on, expensive art to look at, and a massive Christmas tree to her left that looked like it had been decorated by a team of professionals.

The guests drifted in and out of the room, and she caught enough of them changing the topic of conversation as they came in, or one man inviting another to step into a different room to "talk business", that she'd gotten the sense that there were some rules about what could and couldn't be discussed in the great room.

She had already decided that she preferred it that way. For all she knew or cared, they could be arranging illegal weapons deals or bribing politicians; as long as she didn't hear about it, she wasn't involved. She was just the entertainment.

So, no, the men weren't really the problem. Even being basically naked in front of them wasn't a huge issue for Carrie--it was a bigger audience than she was used to, sure, but they were never all in the room at once, and they didn't leer. They stood near her, and sometimes admired her like she was another piece of art, if they weren't actively making use of her. It wasn't too different from some of the nude modeling gigs Isabelle had set her up with in the past.

She didn't even mind that she'd been put on a big cushion on the floor. She'd thought at first that it kind of reminded her of a dog bed, but nobody would put such an expensive cushion out for their dog, and together with the kinky little outfit the host had put her in--a brown collar with dangling gold accents and a gauzy piece of fabric that accessorized her body more than covered it--it was really more of a 'pampered harem courtesan' vibe, which wasn't so bad.

No, the real issue was that fucking chastity belt. The one that Isabelle had talked about so reassuringly, that would protect her from rowdy party guests. The one that Isabelle had made sound like a benefit.

That lying bitch.

It had been obvious to Carrie as soon as she saw it that the purpose of the belt was not to protect her from anyone. And now that she was actually at the party, the idea seemed silly; she was sure that if any of the guests tried anything shifty with her, they'd be damaging their reputation with all of the other men there, not to mention the host, an older man who they all seemed to have a great deal of respect for.

(Carrie didn't know his name. He had told her she wasn't going to know any names at all, and she was alright with that, just like she was alright with not knowing what they were talking about in the rest of the cabin. He was a nice man to look at, though, if a little unusually shaped and older than anyone she would seriously consider dating.)

No, the belt was not to keep the men from touching her. It was to keep Carrie from touching herself.

It wasn't like she was some kind of slut for sucking men off or anything--she didn't hate it, but it didn't make her especially hot. At least, not before tonight; the whole experience might be building in a Pavlovian reaction that would make her life a bit more interesting in the future.

But there was one other thing the host had given her to wear, besides the collar and the breezy bit of fabric and the belt.

A slim vibrating dildo tucked up inside her, locked into place by the belt. A toy that the host held the controller for.

And he'd been teasing her mercilessly since the start of the fucking party.

Carrie groaned around the cock in her mouth as the vibrator hummed away inside her, sending hot pulses of arousal through her gut. The host liked to jump around through the lower settings, not anywhere near strong enough to make her come usually--but it had been going steady for a while now, and she could feel herself slowly, slowly creeping towards what would be a fantastic, bone-shaking orgasm.

She gripped at the knee of the man she was sucking to steady herself as her hips lurched without her permission, trying to rock into the sensation, searching for any extra bit of pressure or friction.

The man laughed and patted her head, and then--when Carrie groaned again--he came down her throat.

The intensity of the vibrations jumped up a tick, and Carrie made a garbled noise of involuntary need, almost choking on the come she was swallowing in the process. The man hummed in gratification as her frantic noises and swallowing drew out his pleasure.

He pulled out, letting go of her head, and Carrie doubled over, spreading her legs and bracing herself to try and avoid humping down into the cushion.

God, she was close, she was so close, if she could just--

The vibrator went still and silent inside her, leaving her burning with unsatisfied arousal again. Right on the edge.

Just as she'd been left several times already since the start of the party.

Carrie whimpered.

The host chuckled from beside her. She hadn't noticed him walking up. "Doing alright there?"

"Fine," Carrie muttered, flushing as she thought about what she sounded like, what she must look like. Even as she tried to adjust herself into a more natural position, she couldn't help but squirm her hips, seeking the rocking movement of the toy inside her. Even the little movements of her own body around it, the reminder that it was still in there, made her toes curl. She could barely think around the desire to pry the damned belt off and just fuck herself vigorously with the thing, to rub her clit, to come already.

"Let me help you up, then," the host said."Break time."

One ten-minute break every hour. That was part of the job, and it was the only way Carrie really had of keeping track of the time, because there was no clock that she could see in the great room.

This was her fourth break of the night. That had to mean the party was past halfway over; three more hours to go.

This thought did nothing to console her rippling, bereft cunt, which was still trying to find a way to milk the orgasm it wanted out of the toy.

As the host took her hand and pulled her to her feet, her knees trembled, and she felt the wet smear between her thighs where she'd been leaking around the edges of the belt. She stumbled shakily after him as he led her into the hall, to the master bedroom directly across from the great room.

This was the other room she was allowed in; t was where she had gotten dressed, and it was where he brought her for breaks. There was a little spread of bottled water and snacks that she'd realized were just for her, which was nice; the host leaned in the doorway and watched her now as she drank half a bottle of water and grazed through some nuts and a few orange slices.

"I have to pee," she admitted eventually.

He only nodded and gestured towards the en suite bathroom.

She took off the belt--it wasn't actually locked on her or anything; there was no point, when she was the center of attention all the time anyway, not like she could sneak it off--and pulled out the toy, unable to keep a small grimace from her face as she felt her cunt flutter and squeeze around the sudden emptiness. She left both items on a towel spread out on the bed, and then picked her way over to the bathroom, leaving the door half open behind herself so that he could...monitor.

That was part of the deal. He'd explained it during her first break. She was guaranteed to get the thousand dollar payment just for showing up, even if she had to tap out early, but there was more money on the table: tip money that all the attendees put in as they left the party. He hadn't given her an amount, but he'd implied that it would be significant money.

She would only get that if she stayed until midnight, and only if she didn't sneak any self-pleasure in the meantime.

She'd promised that she could do that.

At this point, Carrie was so horny that she was briefly tempted to break her word.

Her clit was right fucking there. She could feel it twitch as she sat down on the toilet. She could just reach right down and...and...

She closed her eyes and grit her teeth. No. If there was more money to be made here, she was going to fucking get it, or else she was going to feel like an idiot.

Just three more hours. She only had to hold out three hours, and then she'd be able to come as much as she wanted. What kind of weak-willed hedonist would she be if she couldn't last three hours? She'd already done four.

Her cunt rippled, hungry.

"Ugh," she groaned, gripping her knees, and then she focused on the task at hand, forcing her bladder to empty even though her body was really concerned about other things at the moment. Wiping was a delicate operation, more dabbing than anything, and she also took the opportunity to dry off the wetness on her thighs.

Not that it mattered. She'd be wet again soon.

She washed her hands and went back out to the bedroom, where the host watched her slide the toy back into herself--fuck, but it felt good going in--and clip the belt back on, sealing it snug inside, and then she let him lead her back to her spot in the great room.

Just three more hours.

***

An hour later, Carrie was practically out of her mind.

She had been in the middle of sucking another guy, and the vibrator had switched to a pattern that was driving her absolutely nuts, thumping inside her in sharp bursts. She'd had to pull off the cock and brace her head against the guy's thigh instead, panting and then gasping out, "S-sorry--ah--ah--" as her hips snapped in the air, her stomach muscles tightening. "I--oh, fuck--"

"No worries," the man said, taking his own cock in hand and starting to stroke lazily. "You're close, hmm?"

"Y-yeah, I--" Carrie inhaled sharply, then reached down and pushed her fingers at the outside of the belt, trying to get some pressure on her throbbing clit. "Fuck--mmm--"

The man stroked himself faster, pointing his cock at her face. Carrie cringed back, not especially excited about the idea of getting a facial, but she didn't care, not really, because the thumping rhythm was still pounding away inside her and this was it, it was coming, she was gonna--!

The vibrator switched back to a low, solid buzz, barely enough to tickle her.

"No!" Carrie gasped, her fingers scrabbling at the belt desperately. "No, no, please..." the man put a hand on her head and pulled her forward gently until she got the idea and, with a desperate resignation, took the head of his cock into her mouth again and started sucking, her pleas turning to moans and whimpers.

"That's it," he said, and then grunted as, just a few seconds later, he came on her tongue, still stroking himself. "Thanks, sweetheart."

Carrie moaned in despair. She'd never been edged this many times in a row. Her cunt throbbed; her body burned. Every part of her sex felt swollen, hyper-sensitive, tingling in time with her pulse and begging to be touched.

She needed to come.

She needed the money more.

***

Her final break was extra long, because the host sat her on the bed--on top of the towel--and fingered her for a while.

It wasn't part of what she'd agreed to, but by that point she was too desperate to care. She'd lost count of how many times he'd brought her to the edge of orgasm with the toy and then denied her. The pleasure of his fingers was a new stimulation, refreshing, and she was aching for it.

She even let herself hope, with it being nearly the end of the night by that point, maybe he would make her come that way. Maybe he wanted that for himself, to feel her finish on his fingers. She'd practically whined as she humped his hand, feeling the way he pulsed pressure against her g-spot, making her need sharp and urgent.

When Carrie got close, though, he just pulled his fingers out again and wiped them on the towel. She cried out like a starving woman being denied food; he just smiled and handed her the toy and the belt.

"Fuck," she gasped, squirming on the bed. "I--please."

"Just one more hour now. Come on, you can do it."

"I can't," she moaned, but even as she said it, she pushed the toy back in, shuddering.

***

"Don't stop, please, please, fuck, you can't stop, please--"

Carrie was begging frantically, writhing on the cushion. There were several men, including the host, gathered around to watch, and she was probably supposed to be offering to suck them off, but she couldn't, she couldn't.

The toy inside her was buzzing away on low, a setting that wouldn't have brought her even to the edge a few hours earlier, but she was so strung out now that ten minutes of the gentle vibrations had her so fucking close that she could feel it in her teeth.

Or maybe that was just the pain from gritting them so hard.

She felt like she'd been on the edge for the past two minutes at least, the climax that she needed flirting cruelly with her, flickering in and out of reach as the delicate humming of the toy tormented her. Every muscle in her body was tight, sweat dripping down her spine and making the gauzy fabric of her costume stick to her skin.

She was rolling her hips steadily down into the cushion, bent forward to brace her shaking arms on the floor, trying to hump it the way she had done with pillows as a teenager when she was just learning how to masturbate and was too nervous to actually put her hand between her legs.

"Oh fuck," she sobbed as the pleasure sparked inside her again, making her pussy clench and pulse hungrily, doing its best to squeeze just a bit more sensation out of the toy--and then it sank away, leaving her dangling on the edge again, suffering that disappointment of not-quite-enough. "Fuck. Fuck--"

"I think that's enough of that for now," the host said, and then the toy clicked off again, just as her body was starting to build up towards another attempt to come.

"No!" Carrie squealed, her voice breaking with distress. "No, no, no, please, I need to come, I need to fucking come!" Her hips kept on going, whether she wanted them to or not, blindly trying to find friction in the cushion. Her clit, encased safely in the hard metal, twitched over and over, screaming for attention.

"Oh, you can make it," he said, friendly and reassuring, like she was just complaining about a long work shift, instead of so overdue for a come that she was fucking a pillow on the floor like a harlot. "It's half past eleven. Last call is coming any minute now."

"Please," Carrie begged. She didn't even know what 'last call' meant in this context. Would she finally get to come? Or would it just be more torture?

"Come on." The host gestured. "Up. I think my friend here wants to make use of you."

She whined, and then finally pushed herself up to her knees again, forcing herself to abandon her fruitless humping and open her mouth. The man who fed his cock into her mouth thanked her politely.

As his cock touched the back of her throat, the host tapped the control, and the toy started gently pulsing inside her. Still the lowest setting, but now a gentle, fluttering pattern that would make it even harder for her to get off.

She moaned in despair.

The next twenty minutes were excruciating. As long as she sucked cock, the host would reward her with the toy's gentle buzzing, picking between patterns at random--but he always turned it off as soon as the guy was finished with her, and he'd switch patterns for the next one, and none of the men lasted more than a minute or so in her mouth, which wasn't nearly enough time for her to get there.

Some of the patterns were better than others. There was one in particular, a rapid pulsing, that brought her eye-wateringly close to coming, and when the man spilled down her throat after only thirty seconds and then pulled out and the toy turned off, she wailed out loud at the loss and started humping into the cushion again.

The man she'd just sucked off laughed, then said to the host, "I don't think she can take much more. I guess I'll be the first out, tonight. Happy New Year."

Then he took out his wallet and tossed a bill onto the floor next to Carrie's cushion.

She expected it to be a ten, maybe a twenty, and was shocked when it fluttered to the floor and she realized the man had just casually tossed a hundred-dollar bill at her.