by Carrie
Diary of A Rich Girl – Chapter 14
The weekend out at the beach had been peaceful and relaxing. I did stop by for drinks at Alexa’s, but she seemed to be quite busy with her crowd. I was surprised to find so many of her followers determinedly vying for her attention. I didn’t mind that, but I’m a leader, not a follower, and I wasn’t about to fawn over Alexa no matter how wonderful and beautiful she is.
After nursing my drink for half an hour and avoiding several gorgeous yet vapidly boring wolves she came over to rescue me, “I know you’re suffering. Why don’t just the two of us meet for lunch when we get back to the city? This way we can talk without being disturbed.” I thought that was smart of Alexa. I graciously accepted her invitation.
When I returned to the city that Tuesday I had a lot of catching up to do at the office, and by the end of the afternoon I felt I had put in a whole week’s work. As I got ready to leave the office I took a call from Mr. Farrelli. He said it would be fine if I stopped over. I had been long overdue.
It was exactly six-thirty when I entered his little tailor shop. He turned the closed sign over his old door and showed me to the back. He helped me unzip my black sleeveless Armani dress. I stepped out of it and handed to him.
I was wearing a black quarter cup bra because it was cool in this hot weather and also because it was very sexy. I love the way it pushes up my good tits. So did Farrelli. I caught him staring, especially at my ripe nipples. I reminded him, “I’m here to get spanked, not get ogled over.” He recovered himself and went about hanging up my clothing.
I almost foolishly slipped my gorgeous black lacy panty, but I planned on keeping it up for as long as I could. Farrelli diligently led me to the small padded armchair he kept in the back. I knew exactly what was expected of me. I knelt on it and perked my bottom up high so it would be in proper position.
Mr. Farrelli always begins a session by commenting on how wonderfully tight and perky my bottom is, and how it just seems to ‘know’ exactly how to artfully rise right up. I took the compliment and perked it up even higher for him to smack.
But there had been something else on his mind. He showed an apprehensiveness. Several times he shied away from saying something only to begin again. Finally he came out with it, “If you don’t mind me saying, since our relationship is so much indebted to you, I feel I have been a bit, well you know, easy with you.”
And to think how timid he had been at first about spanking me. I was about to answer him and tell him not to worry when I noticed a cane slowly sliding in his hand. I hadn’t expected that. He slapped it across his palm. Each finger tightly curled up and clenched the narrow instrument.
He obviously had this item for a while and was now ready to use it on me. Its sleek rigid shape riveted my attention. It was so firm and stiff. It lacked the flexibility of a hand or belt. It definitely was something that considered moderation a waste of time. Then he continued.
“Have you ever been beaten?” I shook my ahead. Of course not. He uncurled his fingers and ran the cane up and down his palm as if he were sharpening it. “Would you like to be beaten?” I didn’t know what to say. What kind of question was that? I was afraid, unsure, and strangely disassociated for a moment. I looked at the long hard cane with trepidation. I didn’t want to be beaten.
He approached me and showed me the cane. He treated it with a reverential delicacy, as if it were something more than it was. He pressed it against my bottom and held it there so I could feel its rigid power. He said, “Nice, isn’t it?” I didn’t know what to say. He pressed it deeper into me. I let out a slight moan.
Then he took the tip of the cane and slipped it into my panty, down between my cheeks, and pressed it good and hard. My pussy ashamedly loved the way it felt as he stroked it. I looked into his eyes and he knew what I wanted as I shamelessly rode my bottom up and down the cane. I couldn’t get enough of it. I was such a whore. Then he removed the cane and put it under my chin. He tilted my head high up and asked me again, ” Do you want to be beaten?” I could barely open my mouth.
He removed the cane from my neck and slipped it under my bra and stroked my back so I could get to know the piece of wood even better. He slowly and unpredictably grazed it across me. It crept and slid as if it had eyes. Then he told me to raise my hand. He gently slipped the cane into my palm. I delicately gripped it and slowly hovered my fingers down the hard wood. When they reached the bottom I said, ” Go ahead.” “Are you sure?” I lost patience, ” Beat me.”
Farrelli took off his coat. He took the cane and tossed several strokes into the air that made an eerie whining sound. Then there was a silence. It hung heavily and was broken as he struck me on my pantied bottom.
It felt as if a current of shock jolted in a very narrow, but long singing line across my sexy hot bottom. I jerked forward and jutted out my head and clenched my teeth. I swallowed my first scream and gasped, “Oh, God, don’t stop.”
Farrelli barely let me catch my breath. He beat me more. My bottom pressed up and wide as the cane carved into me. My knees were wide out and deep into the armchair. I arched up my hot bottom as high as I could and looked back, “Beat me.” He beat me as wickedly as he could.
Then he stopped. I dared to turn back and look. My mouth was agape. Bits of saliva dripped from my mouth, but before I could wipe them way he tore off my fancy panty and flung it. I watched it disappear into the dark corner.
He stroked my firm hot bottom with his hand then pushed the end of the cane up my cunt. My whole body jerked as he worked it up me. Then he pulled it out and sniffed it. “You still want me to beat you?” In a low private voice I affirmatively said, “Yes. And don’t stop.”
He beat me silly. My head bobbed and shook as I hollered and screamed. Several times I was bad and tried to get away, but he smartly grabbed my arm and pressed it behind me. Holding me tightly in his grip he continued beating my beautiful naked wanton body.
My eyes were glazed and nearly shut as I quivered back and forth under the cane. He told me to shut up, but how could I? So he tore off my brassiere and turned me around. He slapped my face one, two, three, four, five…ten times, then he smacked my good large tits back and forth. They swung wide and full as they were beaten.
He grabbed me by my mane of hair and slapped my face again a half dozen more times. Each hit sent my head to my shoulder. Then he held me up by my hair, separated my legs, and beat my cunt. I cried so loud that he threw me face down on the armchair. He beat me, fucked me, then shot his load and left me there.
For several minutes I couldn’t move. I was exhausted. He went to the bathroom to clean himself off. I turned over. My pussy was full with cum. He came out the bathroom. Something in him had changed. He handed me my clothing and told me to get dressed and to get out. I didn’t even have a chance to wash his cum off me. I grabbed whatever I had and put it on.
I knew he was sick of me. Well, I was sick of him. Farrelli, “You fucked me. Don’t forget to tell your wife that. Or I’ll do it for you.” He was embarrassed. Suddenly his anger and bravado dissipated, and the small man reappeared. I didn’t find his remorse very touching. He tried to apologize, but I quickly brushed him off.
He began to harass me. I ignored him and finished dressing as fast as I could. He handed me my shoulder briefcase and pushed me out the door. I needed several steps to catch my balance. I hobbled about on one leg as I tried put my pump on. I quickly composed myself and fought back my tears. I felt horrible. I was crying. I ran my hand through my hair and straightened my self out. Then I noticed Martha Stewart coming down the street. I looked back at Farrelli and wondered.
