Blood Dreams

by Cynthia Trusscot

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© Copyright 2019 - Cynthia Trusscot - Used by permission.

Storycodes: FM+/mf+; haunted-house; display; capture; bond; rope; gag; chairtie; blood; donation; costumes; cons; X

“All right,” said the lady at the Blood Donation Center. “the next time you can donate will be in six weeks.  That’s…October 24th. Just one week before Halloween!”

We both chuckled a little. Then a devilish thought came into my mind. “Do you guys do any Halloweeny type stuff? Like, costumes?”

“Oh little things, decorations, cat ears. Nothing elaborate.”

“well…I’d like to make a suggestion. It would be fun, and I could get you some more donations. Not sure you could do it, with the rules about donating.” I explained my idea. She was surprised, then scandalized, then thoughtful.

“We would have to be very careful about sanitation,” she said thoughtfully, “but as long as nothing is done to the equipment that may not be a problem. Let me ask my supervisors.”

A few days later she called. “Once they got done laughing, they said we can do it if we are extra-careful. And I have a phlebotomist willing to play the part.” I called some of my friends in the kink community, and we arranged for a very small, private blood donation setup to be operated the day before Halloween.

We started with a Haunted House, run by a local charity. The blood people had a trailer they used for remote donations like we were doing. This was set up behind the tent housing the spooky stuff. People wishing to donate were given assigned times so that the trailer wouldn’t be too crowded, and given a chem-glow necklace so that they could be spotted inside the haunted house. They were also asked what kind of thrill they wanted to experience.

I wore my Italian Widow’s outfit: blonde wig, black dress with medium sleeves, lace stockings and chunky pumps with thick high heels. At my assigned time, I put on the red glowing chemtube and joined the people walking through the House. No one looked askance at me as we experience the pop-up devils, chain-saw fiends, and other monsters.

It was totally unexpected. Walking along, I was startled by a really scary looking demon. As it waved skeletal arms and moaned, I was grabbed from behind! A rough hand clamped over my mouth, an arm wrapped in linen bandaged encircled my waist, and I was dragged back through a fake swamp, through a slit in the tent and into the trailer. The waiting area was lit with red and blue flaring electric torches and hung with cobwebs and huge spiders with glowing eyes. I was forced down into a chair, a thick gag tied through my mouth, and soon I was securely tied to the chair. I struggled against the ropes, but to no avail.

A white-faced ghoul in blood-splattered scrubs advanced on me with an evil smile. “Time for pain, dearie,” she cackled. Then she efficiently took a hemoglobin blood stick, took my temperature around my gag, and measured my blood pressure. “Oooh, lots and lots of blood in there,” she said. “We’re going to drain you dry! Hang you up by your ankles and let you drip into a bucket! Won’t that be lovely!” I had the distinct feeling that she really wanted to.

I sat, bound and gagged, for several more minutes. Then a Frankenstein Monster and a Golem came in. They untied my body and legs, and pulled me towards the door. A sign over it said, “No One Can Hear You Scream” –a nice change, I thought, from “Abandon All Hope…” As I was dragged through the portal, a Dom friend of mine was brought in from the haunted house, ineffectually fighting the Mummy who had ahold of him.

The  phlebotomy Chamber was dimly lit, and had a few scary items hanging from the walls and ceiling – but nothing near the clean, donation couch. The Monster and the Golem dumped me on the couch. There they roped my body to it, and tied my ankles and legs. My arms were strapped down to the arms of the couch. I squirmed and struggled for vermissilitude. Then I held very still, my gag-covered face a mask of terror, as the phlebotomist approached. She was dressed as Vampirella, in a well-filled black bustier and high-heeled boots. Her nitrile-gloved hands held a large, gleaming needle. After following all the proper procedures (while chortling nastily) she Plunged! The needle into my vein.

“We’re going to take it all! She crowed. I continued to struggle, kicking my bound legs and incidentally squeezing the rubber ball.

After 15 minutes or so, the timer went off. The needle was removed, bandages were applied, and I was released from the chair.

“Be Unconscious,” somebody whispered, and I was dragged out, a limp “corpse”. Red streaks on the floor showed where other victims were dragged away.

In the third chamber were the usual snacks and juices. “Please stay for at least 15 minutes,” I was told by the attendant, a grandmotherly murder victim with a fake cut throat.

“What if I won’t?” I asked playfully. Catching my drift, she tied my to the chair with my hands bound in front so I could sip juice and munch cookies. A couple of my friends were there, too, but I was the only one who had opted to be tied one last time.

Finally I could leave. The attendant untied me. As I exited, I went past a stake with a blackened skeleton chained to it, charred sticks around its feet. A sign said, “She didn’t make another appointment to donate!”

They play rough around here.

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