You crawl on all fours behind Sir, as his leash guides you, your body encased in tight aqua blue latex, your hair in pigtails, the latex displaying every curve, every slit, every orb, you are Sir's shiney bauble, his trophy, at this New Year's party.
There are smirks and smiles, and yet no one is shocked or surprised. Bemused at most.
You look up at the smartly dressed men and women, only able to communicate with your eyes due to the pink ball-gag stuffing and stretching your mouth.
"Happy New Year", they tell your Master. One of the classy looking women looks down at you, "aawww, such a cute little bitch", as she pats your head, her voice, smooth as velvet, coddling and mocking you.
You're certainly popular with the guys, many of whom leer at you, which your Master has no problem with. One of them slaps your wiggling ass, and you simply accept it, knowing that only Sir can object to you being groped, spanked, or anything else.
Sir steadily turns up the vibrator every couple of minutes, controlling your needy little cunt, and thus your brain, filtering out anything approaching independent thought.
As drool dribbles from your ball-gag and the crotch of your latex suit develops a darker shade of aqua blue, you fantasise about being fucked by all the men present.
Instantly you feel Sir's cane strike your shiney ass. Unfortuanately for you, Sir knows your thoughts, knows what a slut you are (because he made you into one). You cannot hide anything from him, your mind as spread wide open by him as your pussy.
And as you crawl behind him, your bum swaying enticingly, he masterfully increases the intensity of the vibrator stuffed inside your slurping honeypot, increasing the pressure, and making you more desperate and dumber.
He parades you around as the New Year looms, and you recall being here last year, dressed in smart white pants dinner jacket, with red tie, looking like a classy girlboss.
That was before you met Master, who stripped away your pretence and revealed unto you your true self, now revealed to the NYE party goers.
As the clock ticked down, and the carefully, expertly calibrated buzzing in your crotch intensified, all you could think about was Sir and those around you railing you into the New Year.
As you knelt at his feet, you hoped that was what Sir had in mind as part of the celebrations, as the clock counted down, all you could think of was it being a countdown to cock.