“Soon you’ll be down on all fours, begging for my thick cock.”
As my teeth come down on the skin of his thumb, I know he’s right, and I can’t wait.
1
Gavin
I like charity.
Not a lot of guys in my position do, unless “charity” is the name of a stripper. Most guys, when they get as rich as I am, they just want to hold on to their wealth as much as possible. But to me, that’s so shortsighted and foolish.
We’re all in this world together. Might as well help some people.
Besides, I remember what it’s like to struggle. I remember going to bed without dinner because my parents could only afford one meal a day. I remember the struggle, the stress, and the fucking pain of having nothing at all. I remember all the time and effort I put into getting something, and I wish someone had helped us back then. Most guys like me, they didn’t come from absolutely nothing. They don’t know what it’s like to really want for the basics.
So charity is my thing. I have money, a lot of it, and I can afford to give some away. Which I do, as liberally as possible, sometimes too much if you want to listen to my business manager.
But these rich ass, upper crust charity events, these aren’t usually my thing. As I walk into the banquet hall, I keep to the edges of the room after grabbing a glass of whisky from the open bar.
Fortunately, I’m pretty anonymous in here. Everyone else is a rich business magnate, just like me, and so I can hang around and keep a low profile. I’m not particularly well-known, mostly because I’ve worked to keep it that way. Everyone knows my business and my name, but not everyone knows what I look like. That’s helped me lead a relatively normal life.
And so I blend in wearing my tuxedo and drinking my whisky. I’ve been around this crowd for years now, I’m thirty-nine years old and I’ve been rich for ten of them, but this is only my second charity auction.
I hate these things. They’re not really about the charity. They’re more about the opportunity to network with other rich assholes, maybe to bribe a few politicians, that sort of thing. Sure, there’s a real charity, and they write a check at the end of the night, but the shit that goes on during the event is loathsome.
I’m only here for two reasons. First, my business manager Rick keeps begging me to come to these things, says it would be good for the company. Being here tonight is one way to get him off my back and maybe a little bit to prove him wrong. Second, and more important, what’s being auctioned fascinated me, and I couldn’t help myself.
“Excuse me, ladies and gentleman, please have a seat.” An older woman, maybe ten years older than me, stands at the microphone on the stage. There’s a general murmur and commotion as people move toward their seats around the large banquet tables. “The auction will begin momentarily,” she says, before heading off to the side of the stage.
I find my place at a table in the back. I specifically requested this spot, and I’m glad I did. I don’t recognize anyone at my table, although my neighbor to my right is a large drunk man with a thick beard. He clearly wants to chat, but I’m not in the mood.
The crowd waits, a little restless, until music starts. The woman returns, this time to applause, and beams out at the crowd. I assume she’s the one that organized all this, though I haven’t paid much attention.
“Thank you all for being here,” she says. “And the children of Mercy General thank you as well.” More applause before she holds up her hands. “Our first girl hails from Rhode Island. The daughter of Patricia and Linus Vanderhoot, Layla Vanderhoot loves horses, skiing, and plaid skirts. Come on out, Layla!”
The crowd erupts into wild applause as a small girl with brown hair and dressed in an elegant gown steps out into the stage. She’s probably mid-twenties, pretty but not beautiful.
“Do I hear one thousand?” the woman at the microphone says, and the bidding begins.
It’s a fascinating spectacle. Daughters of the wealthy elite are paraded out onto the stage, one after another, and equally wealthy men bid outrageous sums of money to take them out on dates. The first girl, the Vanderhoot girl, is pretty but fairly plain, and even she fetches twenty grand, a respectable sum. I hope she enjoys talking horses and skirts with her suitor, who is clearly in his eighties and making lewd jokes with his peers.
Winning a date doesn’t guarantee anything untoward, of course. It just means you get to take the woman out on a date, probably chaperoned, for one night. That’s all it is, and it’s supposed to be innocent, but there’s a strange and creepy undertone to the whole thing.