Jennifer’s fingers drummed against the laminated fundraiser spreadsheet, the numbers glaring back like an accusation. Across the folding table, two of her closest friends, Lindsay with her perpetually messy bun and Rachel who still dressed like she ran a corporate boardroom, exchanged glances that said what they wouldn’t voice aloud: This isn’t working. The school’s annual “Feed the Children” bake sale had netted $487.50 last year, and this year’s car wash barely cracked a thousand.
“You know what gets rich men to open their wallets?” Lindsay finally said, peeling a sticker off her thermos with a slow, deliberate drag of her nail. Rachel arched a perfectly groomed eyebrow, but didn’t interrupt. “It’s not brownies. It’s not even guilt.” The pause stretched just long enough for the unspoken implication to settle between them. Jennifer inhaled sharply, not in shock, but in recognition. They were all thinking it.
The air conditioner hummed, suddenly too loud, as Rachel leaned forward, fingers steepled. “The Delahunt Charity Auction does seven figures annually,” she murmured. “Black-tie, wine tastings, the whole bored oligarchs with checkbooks circus.”
Lindsay grinned, sharp and knowing. “But none of those stiffs have ever seen items like us on the bidding block.” Jennifer’s pulse jumped at the plural. Us. The spreadsheet blurred as warmth prickled up her neck, her own nipples tightening beneath her silk blouse like a traitorous confession.
The dressing room mirror would be cold against her bare back tonight. She already knew, had always known, exactly how she’d stand when the bidding began: black Louboutins sinking into the velvet stage, hips cocked just enough to make the garter straps wink under the slit of that scandalous Valentino she’d never dared to wear outside Bergdorf’s fitting room. The thought of heavy silk whispering against her thighs sent a slow curl of heat through her belly.
No bra. That was the genius of the boned corset Rachel would help lace her into—structured enough to hoist her tits into obscene perfection while leaving her nipples bare beneath the translucent fabric, pebbling against the chill of too many hungry eyes.
She’d bite her lip when the auctioneer’s assistant, some twentysomething intern who’d forget his own name the second she turned toward him, peeled off her faux-fur wrap. The collective inhale from the crowd would be better than champagne. Lindsay swore the trick was making them work for it, letting the robe pool at her elbows while she pretended to hesitate, back arched so the corset’s satin ribbons dug into her waist.
Look but don’t touch, until the numbers climbed high enough to justify letting the strap slide off one shoulder. Four figures? She’d turn slowly, let them see how the lace cupped her ass. Five? The garter clips would unsnap with theatrical slowness, one at a time.
Rachel had rolled her eyes when Lindsay insisted on vintage stockings, “No one cares about seams anymore”, but she knew better. There was power in the way the silk whispered against her thighs when she crossed her legs, in the way the back seam cut a straight line from ankle to the shadowed curve where the garter met bare skin.
She’d practiced the walk in her bedroom mirror last night: three steps, pause with one hip cocked, fingers trailing down her own ribcage like she was surprised to find herself so exposed. The jewellry mattered too, real diamonds at her throat, fake ones glued to her inner thighs. Let them wonder if they were allowed to lick them off.
The corset was a masterpiece of cruel engineering. She’d picked crimson satin specifically so the marks would show when Rachel finally unlaced her, the crisscrossed imprints branding her waist like a receipt for services rendered. She imagined the auctioneer’s voice cracking as she ran her tongue over her teeth, slow, deliberate, while pretending to adjust the clasp between her breasts. The trick was timing: wait until some hedge fund dick had already bid twenty grand, then let the strap slip. Make him think it was his idea.
Stockings were next. Lindsay rolled the sheer silk between her fingers, testing the tension. She’d vetoed Rachel’s boring thigh-highs for proper garters with real metal teeth, the kind that left little half-moon dents in skin if you wore them too long.
The left one would dangle loose by the third round of bidding, its clip straining against the weight of expectation. She’d arch just so when reaching to fix it, letting the split in her dress gape wide enough to flash the audience a glimpse of bare skin above the lace. No panties. Let them see the shadow where her thighs met and imagine how she’d taste.
Rachel’s fingers trembled slightly as she adjusted the platinum vibrator nestled between Jennifer’s cheeks, custom-engraved with the charity’s logo, because of course it was. The jeweller had laughed when she’d requested the emerald-cut diamonds to be set just so, but he’d stopped laughing when she handed him the black Amex.
Every facet would catch the stage lights when Jennifer bent to retrieve her fallen wrap, the stones winking like a challenge. The remote was already tucked into Lindsay’s clutch, programmed to a slow, teasing pulse that would make Jennifer’s breath hitch right as the bidding hit fifty grand.
Her own plug—onyx, with a thin gold chain connecting it to her choker—shifted as she leaned in to whisper. “You know they’ll fight harder once they see it’s real.” The sharp intake of Jennifer’s breath confirmed she understood. No silicone fakes for this auction; these were heirlooms, the kind of toys that came with insurance riders and required a signature upon removal. Rachel had chosen hers specifically for the way the bulb stretched her, the way the flared base would tap against her clit when she walked. Let the men in the front row do the math—count the carats, then imagine how many fingers it would take to match the girth.
She adjusted the clip of her garter absentmindedly, already tasting the champagne she wouldn’t drink. Not until after, when some CEO with a Rolex thicker than his wedding band would press the flute into her hand just to watch her throat work around the bubbles. Her thighs clenched at the thought of his palm spanning the back of her neck, how he’d probably call her “sweetheart” while sliding four fingers into her without asking.
Good.
Let him think he was the first to try. The plug warmed between her cheeks, its weight promising what she already knew: the highest bidder would have hands like a linebacker and a cock that made her jaw ache just picturing it. She’d arch her back prettily when he peeled the stockings off, let him see the angry red marks from the garters, proof she could take what he dished out.
Rachel’s fingers drifted to the chain dangling from her choker, tracing the links down to where they disappeared between her legs. The jeweler had guaranteed the platinum wouldn’t tarnish, no matter how much sweat or spit or come slicked her skin tonight. She imagined some silver-haired bastard, the kind who vacationed on yachts named after ex-wives, jerking off to the way the diamonds caught the light when she bent over.
Would his dick be veined and thick like she hoped, or just long enough to make her whimper when he bottomed out? Either way, she’d bite the pillow when he fucked her doggy style, the plug still in place so he could watch it jiggle with every thrust. Maybe she’d beg him to leave it in while he came, just to feel the sticky heat of him dripping down her thighs later.
Lindsay licked her lips, watching Jennifer pace in those impossible heels. The click-clack of stilettos on marble was louder than it should’ve been—the acoustics in this place were designed for gasps and whispers to carry. She’d practiced this walk in her bedroom too, but Jennifer had a natural sway that made men forget their own names.
The slit in her dress wasn’t an accident; it was a calculated risk, high enough to flash a hint of garter when she turned, but not so high that the old-money wives would clutch their pearls. Yet. That would come later, when the bids hit six figures, and Jennifer let the robe slip from her shoulders entirely, revealing the corset’s cruel embrace.
The emcee’s voice cracked like a teenager’s as he introduced her, “Our next item is… uh…” and the crowd’s murmur died the second the spotlight hit her. Jennifer let them look. She stood perfectly still, one hip cocked, while their eyes crawled over her like ants on spilled sugar.
The corset pushed her tits up so high she could’ve rested her chin on them if she wanted to, and the sheer fabric did nothing to hide the dark peaks of her nipples, stiff from the chill of the air conditioning or the weight of their stares, she wasn’t sure which. A man in the front row actually dropped his paddle when she turned, the seam of her stocking cutting a straight line up the back of her thigh, drawing every eye to the place where the garter met bare skin.
The bidding started at ten grand and jumped fast. A silver-haired CEO with a Rolex thicker than his wrist bid twenty. His wife, all tight lips and tighter Botox, pinched his elbow hard enough to leave marks, but he didn’t flinch. Jennifer smiled, slow and deliberate, and when the number hit thirty, she shrugged one strap of her dress down her shoulder. The collective inhale was almost funny.
Fifty grand came from a tech bro with a soul patch and a wedding ring he kept twisting around his finger. His wife, pretty in a cold, sharp way, bid sixty just to watch him squirm. Jennifer rewarded them by stepping out of her Louboutins one at a time, curling her toes against the stage like she was testing the water. The CEO’s paddle shot up again. Eighty. She unhooked the garter on her left thigh, letting the clip dangle by a single tooth.
At ninety, the third couple entered the fray, he had the build of a retired linebacker, she had the smirk of a woman who’d already decided how she’d use Jennifer first. The wife bid ninety-five grand while running her tongue over her teeth.
Jennifer turned her back to the crowd, arching just enough to make the corset’s satin ribbons strain. The dress pooled at her feet when the hammer hit a hundred, and the gasp that followed wasn’t for the money, it was for the way the boned crimson satin carved her waist into an hourglass, for the way her nipples stood at attention beneath the sheer paneling. The tech bro’s wife actually licked her lips.
The linebacker’s paddle shot up. “One-fifty.” His voice was rougher than his wife’s manicured nails digging into his thigh. Jennifer rewarded him by reaching behind her back, teasing the laces loose one inch at a time. The corset didn’t budge, not yet, but the promise of it had the silver-haired CEO mopping his forehead with a monogrammed handkerchief. His botoxed wife bid two hundred, and Jennifer let the straps slither down her arms until her tits threatened to spill over the top.
The tech bro choked on his martini when she finally popped the clasp between her breasts. The corset gaped open, revealing the pink marks from the boning and the sweat-slick valley between her tits. The wife, cold, sharp, hungry, raised her paddle. “Two-fifty.” Jennifer arched her back, letting them see how the corset’s edge bit into her soft belly, how her nipples were so hard they ached. The linebacker’s wife licked her thumb and smoothed it over one peak, smearing Jennifer’s own gloss across the stiff bud. “Three,” she purred, just to watch the men squirm.
The CEO’s paddle hit the table with a crack. “Three-fifty.” His wife’s manicured nails dug into his thigh hard enough to draw blood through his tuxedo pants. Jennifer bit her lip, partly from the sudden buzz between her legs where Lindsay had dialed up the vibrator, partly from the way the CEO’s eyes locked onto the wet spot now darkening the lace between her thighs. She turned slowly, giving them all a view of the vibrator’s glittering base nestled against her swollen vulva, then bent forward at the waist, letting the corset fall open completely.
The vibrator slipped deeper with the movement, its ridges dragging against her walls in time with the auctioneer’s staccato chant of numbers. “Four hundred, do I hear four-fifty?”
The tech bro’s wife reacted first, shooting up from her chair so fast her champagne flute shattered on the marble. “Five hundred thousand.” The words dripped with dark promise as she strode toward the stage, her stilettoes clicking like a metronome. Jennifer gasped, Lindsay had cranked the vibrator to its highest setting, just as the woman grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked her head back.
“Show them what they’re buying,” she hissed, shoving Jennifer onto all fours. The sudden shift made the vibrator hit her cervix hard enough to wring a choked moan from her throat, her slickness now dripping audibly onto the stage. The CFO in the third row actually dropped his paddle when the spotlight caught the wet trail glistening down her inner thighs.
A guttural noise tore from the linebacker’s throat as Jennifer arched her back, deliberately clenching around the vibrator to make its jeweled base twitch against her swollen labia. “Five-fifty,” he growled, shrugging off his tux jacket like a man preparing for war. His wife laughed, a razor-sharp sound, and traced the back seam of Jennifer’s stocking with the tip of her stiletto.
“Six,” she countered, dragging the heel upward until the fabric tore at the thigh. The vibrator buzzed louder as Lindsay pulsed it in time with the auctioneer’s hammer, each burst coaxing another pearl of fluid to drip onto the velvet-covered block. Jennifer’s corset straps hung loose now, the crimson satin sliding down her torso with every ragged breath.
“Going once, going twice, sold for $600,000,” proclaimed the auctioneer.
Jennifer sat naked on the lap of the winning bidder, her back arched against his chest, his hands roaming freely over her trembling body. She could feel his erection pressing against her thigh through his tuxedo pants as his fingers traced the angry red marks left by the garters. The CEO’s wife had stormed out after losing the bid, her face tight with fury.
Meanwhile, Lindsay stood center stage, her emerald-green silk dress clinging to every curve. The auctioneer cleared his throat nervously as he introduced her. “Our next item…ah…is a rare vintage indeed.” Lindsay smirked, knowing exactly what was coming. Unlike Jennifer’s slow tease, Lindsay’s auction would be hard and fast. The bidding opened at $50,000, triple Jennifer’s starting bid, and immediately two men and one woman raised their paddles.
The woman was a tech CEO, her tailored suit jacket barely containing the predatory gleam in her eyes. The first man, a silver-haired financier, kept adjusting his tie as if it were choking him. The second was younger, all sharp edges and sharper bank account.
Lindsay rolled her shoulders back, making the silk whisper against her bare skin, no bra, just like Jennifer, but where Jennifer had gone for soft seduction, Lindsay would deliver pain wrapped in pleasure.
The bidding hit $100,000 before Lindsay even moved. Then, with a slow grin, she reached behind her neck and unclasped the emerald choker. The dress didn’t fall, not yet, but the room held its breath as she traced the thin chain down between her breasts to where it split into two delicate strands, each leading to something hidden beneath the fabric. The tech CEO’s paddle shot up. “$150,000,” she snapped, her knuckles whitening around the stem of her champagne flute.
Lindsay rewarded her by rolling her shoulders forward, letting the silk slide just enough to reveal the glint of platinum beneath. Not jewelry, clamps. Intricate, cruel things shaped like snarling panthers, their jeweled fangs sunk deep into her nipples.
The younger man made a noise like he’d been gut-punched when she arched back, making the chains pull taut. “$200,000,” he choked out, his wedding ring clicking against the paddle.
The financier licked his lips. “$250,000.” His voice was hoarse, eyes locked on the way Lindsay’s breath hitched when she twisted the tiny dial between the clamps. The tech CEO’s knuckles whitened. “$300,000,” she spat, standing so abruptly her chair toppled. Lindsay turned her back then, fingers working the first emerald-hued wrap loose. The fabric slithered to the stage with a whisper, revealing the lattice of red marks left by the corset’s boning. The financier mopped his brow. “$350,000.”
The younger man’s paddle trembled. “$400,000.” His wife dug her nails into her own thighs. Lindsay peeled the second wrap free, baring the twin chains linking her nipple clamps to the obscenely jeweled ring glinting between her legs. The tech CEO’s breath caught. “$450,000.” The financier lunged forward, cufflinks catching the light as he roared, “$500,000!”
Lindsay pivoted, letting them see the cruel beauty of her restraints, the clamps engraved with thorned vines, the rubies embedded where the teeth met flesh, the way the platinum chain threaded through her clit ring pulled taut when she arched. Gasps erupted. The younger man’s paddle clattered. “$550,000!” His voice cracked.
The financier didn’t blink. “$600,000.” He loosened his tie further, revealing a jagged scar—like someone had once tried to carve out his throat and failed. The tech CEO’s stiletto tapped a staccato rhythm. “$650,000.” She stood, rolling up her sleeves to expose forearms corded with muscle.
Lindsay rewarded her by twisting the clamps’ dials, the panthers’ fangs bit deeper, drawing twin beads of blood that trailed down her ribs. The financier’s nostrils flared. “$700,000.”
The crowd froze. Somewhere in the back, a woman muffled her moan against her husband’s cock, her lips stretching around him as she watched Lindsay’s clit ring glint under the spotlight. The younger man’s paddle clattered to the floor, he’d run out of money or nerve. Lindsay exhaled sharply through her nose, arching to make the chains sway. The CEO’s knuckles cracked. “$725,000.”
Financier didn’t blink. “$750,000,” he rasped, thumbing open his cufflink case, inside, a matched set of platinum nipple clamps, their teeth sharpened to points. The message was clear: he knew exactly how to make her scream. Lindsay rolled her shoulders, letting sweat trace the path of the blood down her ribs. The CEO watched it pool in the dip of her navel before slamming her paddle down.
“One million.”
The tech CEO’s voice sliced through the silence, sharp as the stiletto she’d just driven into the financier’s ego. Lindsay didn’t flinch when the financier’s cufflinks clattered to the floor, his hands were shaking too badly to undo them properly. The CEO’s smirk widened as she stalked forward, her tailored slacks tightening around powerful thighs with each click of her heels. “I’ll take delivery now,” she purred, snapping her fingers. Two bodyguards materialized with a steel briefcase, popping it open to reveal stacks of banded hundreds still smelling of ink.
Rachel watched from the wings, running her tongue over the platinum chain clipped to her canine. Three hulking figures shifted in the front row, defensive linemen from the Chicago Bears, if their Super Bowl rings were any indication. Their wives sat stiff-backed beside them, designer clutches white-knuckled in their laps.
The auctioneer barely finished introducing Rachel before the first paddle shot up, $200K, from the middle linebacker whose neck was thicker than Rachel’s thigh. His teammate countered immediately: “$250K.” Their voices rumbled like engines idling.
Rachel stepped into the spotlight, letting the emerald satin pool around her ankles in one smooth shrug. The collective inhale was almost comical, three hundred people realizing at once that her collar wasn’t just jewelry. A thin platinum chain ran down her spine, disappearing between the cheeks of her ass.
The left tackle, 6’5″, 320 pounds of pure aggression, choked on his bourbon. “$300K,” he coughed, meaty fingers leaving fingerprints on the paddle. Rachel turned slowly, letting them see how the chain pulled taut when she arched. Where was the chain connected?
The answer came at $450K, when the defensive end, all biceps and bad decisions, bid with his wedding ring clenched between his teeth. Rachel pivoted, bending at the waist with the slow precision of a ballet dancer, until the crowd could see the chain wasn’t just disappearing, it was threaded through a platinum plug studded with emeralds that matched her collar. The stadium-sized men groaned in unison.
The safety, youngest, hungriest, slammed his paddle down so hard the wood cracked. “$500K!” His voice cracked too. Rachel rewarded them by grasping her own ass cheeks and spreading, revealing how the plug’s flared base nestled snug against her pucker, how the jewels caught the light when she clenched.
The linebacker’s wife suddenly stood, her Chanel jacket sliding off one shoulder to reveal a fresh set of bite marks. “$550K,” she said, staring straight at Rachel’s gaping mouth. The plug’s chain jingled as Rachel straightened, letting them all see how it connected to the ring piercing her clit, a delicate platinum loop that glistened with her arousal.
The safety lunged forward, his Super Bowl ring catching the spotlight as he roared, “$600K!” His teammates looked ready to tackle him. Rachel exhaled sharply through her nose, arching to make the chain pull taut against her throat. The plug shifted inside her with the movement, its ridges dragging deliciously.
Her husband, watching from the shadows with the remote clenched in his fist, dialed the vibration to ‘earthquake’. Rachel’s knees buckled. A pearl of slickness hit the stage with an audible splat. The left tackle mopped sweat from his brow with a monogrammed handkerchief, his other hand fumbling for his paddle. “$700K,” he gasped, just as the plug’s rotation function kicked in. Rachel’s scream was muffled by the safety’s palm, he’d vaulted onto the stage and clamped his hand over her mouth, smelling of bourbon and desperation. “$800K,” he hissed against her ear, his other hand sliding between her thighs to catch the drip.
The linebacker’s wife countered by shoving past them both, Louboutins crunching the abandoned paddles underfoot. “$900K,” she announced, hiking her couture skirt to reveal a strap-on thicker than her husband’s neck. The crowd erupted, wives fainted, men tore their bowties loose, the auctioneer dropped his gavel. Rachel’s husband cranked the remote to ‘obliterate’. The plug’s emeralds blurred as it spun, its flared base tapping Rachel’s clit in a brutal staccato that left her shaking. The wife didn’t wait for permission; she gripped Rachel’s chain like a leash and yanked. The plug popped free with a wet thwop that echoed through the silent ballroom.
Rachel barely had time to gasp before the wife’s fingers were inside her, knuckle-deep and twisting. “Look at her,” the wife snarled, spreading Rachel’s dripping folds for the crowd as she rammed the strap home. Rachel’s scream hit a shattered-glass pitch when the wife bottomed out, her thrusts timed to the plug’s relentless revolutions.
The safety, pants around his ankles, jerked himself raw, splattering Rachel’s thigh with his bid. “$1.5M!” he bellowed, just as the wife angled the strap to grind against Rachel’s g-spot.
The silence that followed the $2M bid wasn’t just quiet—it was the sound of bank accounts hemorrhaging. Heads whipped toward the back, where a slight figure in a Thom Browne suit stood. The linebacker’s wife froze mid-thrust. “Excuse me?” she hissed, the strap twitching inside Rachel. The suit stepped into the light—sharp cheekbones, and a smile like a straight razor.
“Two million,” she repeated, tossing her paddle onto the stage with a clatter. It landed between Rachel’s splayed knees, the number gleaming under the sweat-slicked spotlight.
The football players huddled like it was fourth down, shoulder pads rustling as their wives hissed calculations. The left tackle’s wife kept glancing at Rachel’s wrecked hole, still spasming around nothing.
“She’s offering tax deductions,” the safety’s wife breathed, her manicure digging into her husband’s bicep. “Through her offshore philanthropy arm.”
The linebacker wiped bourbon from his chin with a Super Bowl ring. “And we still get to…”
“Destroy her?” The heiress finished his sentence while uncapping a fountain pen with surgical precision. “Within negotiated limits.” She slid the contract toward them, its clauses gleaming under the chandeliers.
Rachel writhed on the stage, the plug’s absence leaving her clenching around nothing.
The linebacker’s wife snarled, cinching Rachel’s platinum leash tighter.
Across the ballroom, Jennifer arched beneath the tech CEO’s grip, her corset ribbons now binding her wrists to the headboard of a hastily assembled four-poster. Lindsay’s moans echoed from the VIP lounge where the financier’s platinum clamps bit fresh blood from her nipples.
Time became irrelevant. Champagne flutes refilled themselves. Ice melted untouched. The women’s slickness gleamed under chandeliers as bidders took turns claiming their prizes, Jennifer’s thighs trembled around the CEO’s strap while the linebacker’s wife rode Rachel’s face, her Louboutins digging into Rachel’s spine. Lindsay lost count of how many tongues traced the engraving on her clamps after the eighth orgasm.