MfM: Charity Raffle

Microfantasy Mondays are a small erotic-writing exercise sponsored by Ang at Sweltering Celt. This week’s them is cards.

~ o ~

Charity Raffle

(Fsub, bdsm, nosex, bond)

I stood on the dais, naked, except for a pair of black high heels and a blindfold. My hands were bound over my head wrapped, if I had to guess in some of Master George’s soft black rope. He’d also bound up my hair with rope into a pony tail, and — judging by the angle — looped it high in the wall behind her. Thankfully, it gave me just enough balance to stand comfortably, which was a good thing, because George had some odd ideas for the day. Ones that would leave me standing for a while.

Last night, over dinner he’d said, “The shelter needs the money, right?”

When he’d led me in, I saw the implements he’d choisen: a couple of kinds of floggers, both a wooden and a lexan cane, her heavy wooden paddle, and a pair of thick leather gloves. They were arranged on the dias, in a circle around where I would stand, handles out, inviting. “My, that’s a lot of toys,” she said.

“The better to beat you with, my slut.”

That’s when he started tying me up. When he finished with my hair, he showed me the fishbowl. There was already a half-inch layer of business cards in it. “This is just the folks I talked to personally,” he said.

“Good thing you’re rich,” I said, smiling.

He laughed as he slid the blindfold over my eyes.

Last night, as he drank his wine, he’d said, “They don’t need to know where it came from.”

There were a lot of people in the room. Mostly men, judging by the voices. “There’s no need to rush, ” George said. “This is a raffle, everyone gets a chance. And since we don’t have tickets, there’s no need to rush.”

“How much is it again?” A young man, perhaps a tenor, asked.

“Five bucks in my hand gets you a card in the bowl,” George said. At least he wasn’t raffling her ass off cheaply.

“What if we have more than one card?” A woman this time, with a sultry voice. I’m pretty sure George seeded her in the crowd to ask the question. She sounded like she knew the answer, or hoped for it at least.

“If you’ve got the cash, go for it,” George said.

There was a quick rumble of voices, followed by scooting chairs and what I imagined was their collective reaching for wallets. I felt her nipples harden, and her pussy lips moisten.

Last night, over negotiations, he’d said, “They don’t need to know how it was raised.”

“How does this work again,” the woman asked. She was a plant alright, although I was sure she was also playing. Who was it? Linda? Bethany?

“The rules are simple,” George said. “I’ll let my dear Charity explain it.”

That was my cue. “It’s simple,” I explained. “Once we have all the cards in the fishbowl, Master George will pull a name. That person can select one of the implements below and use it on me a set number of times.”

“A set number of times? Anywhere?” someone asked.

“Not anywhere, but anywhere safe,” George answered. “The number of times is ten with either of the canes, fifteen with the paddle or gloves, and thirty with the floggers. That’s what we agreed to?”

“That’s right,” I woman said. There was rumbling through the crowd, as my Master ran his hands over me. He chuckled knowingly as her ran his fingers between my legs.

“The bowls about half full,” he spoke lowly, only to me. “There’s probably five hundred cards in here.”

Last night, as we’d gone back to my place, he’d said, “Plus, I’ll match it, dollar for dollar.”

“Anymore takers?” he asked. “Remember, this is for Charity!”

Laughter rippled through the room, but there wasn’t much more movement. He shook the fishbowl next to my head then walked around. It gave a nice thunk, and I thought, “At least five hundred cards. Maybe more now.”

People were paying to beat me. They were paying quite a bit. I wondered how many knew what it was really for, if they’d have given a similar donation to keep the homeless shelter going for another few months. I didn’t know, and it didn’t matter. They were paying to have a chance at beating me.

“Well,” my Master spoke. He had that tone in his voice that said he was disappointed. It was slightly condescending, and disapproving. “I’d really hoped we’d fill the bowl. This really is for a good cause.” He paused for a moment. “I mean, if you thing welts on my sluts’ ass are a good cause.”

I guess he hadn’t told them.

“What would make you donate a few more cards?” He asked.

“How about multiple winners?” Sultry-voice asked. “One for each of the implements you have?” She was definitely a plant.

“Oh, yes!” George said. “That’s an excellent idea!”

“No!” I said. “No!” I struggled a bit with the ropes. My safeword sat on my tongue, but I couldn’t bring myself to say it. My breath was short with arousal, strangers. Six strangers — I might know them, but I wouldn’t know who unless they told me — were going to beat me, and pay for the privilege.

The crowd bustled about again, and George went about gathering their cards.

Last night as he undressed me, he’d said, “And, my slut, you’ll love it and you’ll come so hard.”

He was right. I did.

We’re planning another in six months.