by Carrie
Diary of A Rich Girl – Chapter 111
He pulled my nipples. It hurt. He grabbed my other nipple ring and pulled both my tits. I was about to fall into him “ Stand up straight.”
“I can’t with you doing that to me.” He slapped me. My hair shook over my face as my head recoiled. I steadied myself. I don’t mind getting slapped around if it’s the right person. He wasn’t. But it really didn’t matter; it was late and I had to go to the gala. The kid should’ve been done with me by now.
He turned me around. Finally. I was going to get spanked. I decided I could be a little late. But he saw my tattoo. I said, “Get over it.”
I wasn’t the little school girl anymore. I let him know that it was an act and that I could turn it on and off whenever I felt like it. And when I turn it off, better watch out. The boy pointed to the tattoo, “What is that?”
A year and a half ago Little John decided I needed a tattoo. I was thinking of butterflies, flying dolphins, pretty things for a pretty Park Avenue fashionista. In the tattoo parlor Little John put me on my stomach and told me to slip down my skirt and panties for the tattoo artist.
Little John showed him a piece of paper and the guy got to work. Of course I was curious and I was going nuts asking LJ just what he had picked out for me while the guy was burning his needle on my bottom. And it felt good, almost as good as not knowing what he was doing.
When the guy finished his work he took out a mirror. I looked back. It was hard to see because it was barely three quarters of an inch in height. I leaned over further. In bold crate box letters it read: slut.
I lost my breath for a moment. I hadn’t expected that at all. My first impulse was to feel totally and utterly betrayed. I wanted to get up, run away and cry. Then the tattoo artist told me to calm down. He showed me the two letters engaged over each other like a trademark at the corner of the tattoo. It was L and J. I was Little John’s slut. Not just anybody’s. I liked that. I understood that.
Little John said, “You’re my girl. Always mine. I will love you and protect your ass come hell or any shit comes down your way.” It wasn’t exactly poetry, but then what do you expect from a pimp.
I stared at him and whispered: Slut. I found out that if said in a certain way it had cache, a certain defiance, a shock value that could never go away. I got the tattoo guy to put the mirror over my bottom again. I liked it so much I said, “Too bad you didn’t make it bigger.” I made both their days. Especially the tattoo artist’s. Little John walked out and let him fuck me.
But back to Marco. I told him, “It’s a tattoo. You’ve never seen one before?” “Yeah, but yours says slut.” “I know what it says.” Still confused, “You’re a slut?” I said, “You’re an idiot.” He was seeing the tough no bullshit side of me now.
I decided I had had enough . I’d been in the little shop for almost an hour and hadn’t gotten spanked. So I pushed him to the side. Pissed he said, “The fuck’re you doing?” I said, “I’m getting my gala dress and if you try to fuck with me I’ll stretch your balls down to your ankles.”
He looked like I had already done it. He boo-hooed, “What’s gotten into you?” I took my dress. His father appeared. I said, “Farrelli, when I come down here, don’t waste my time with some kid.” I walked out. Halfway down the block I heard Farrelli pine. It was the real Farrelli not the one I allow him to be. I ignored the dumb shit and went to the museum gala to enjoy the champagne, dining, culture, but most of all the little secret on my bottom.