Several hours later I was standing in line at one of the small sized supermarkets which no one outside of New York would believe exists. If the cash-out line is more than four people long it gets in the way of traffic at the other end of the store. The aisles are about as tight as a rush hour subway car and the variety of products are minimal and always overpriced.
My problem was that I was at the end of the line. Everyone was bumping their carts against my very sore bottom as they made their way around — it’s a good thing I didn’t turn around, that part was sore too. One guy in particular, over at the next line, noticed my wincing and paid particular attention.
He was an odd bespectacled man, bald, with one of those bow-ties people of the New York literary circle wear. They usually ride bicycles to work and have a book of poetry stuffed in their coat pocket. Another bump. This time I let out an embarrassing squeal. I sneaked my hand over my bottom and gave myself a nice soothing rub.
The bow-tie man was still gawking, but I paid him no attention other than noticing that we were both buying lemon Perrier, which meant we were both preparing for cocktail parities that evening. A temporary butler was upstairs busy with the caterer for my museum friends. I was doing what I always do after a good spanking and that is walk it off, which usually takes a good day or two.
I saw Sandra Lee, another Park Avenue gal, with her little girl. We waved and promised to get together as soon as possible. I thought I was tall at 5’9”. She must be six feet. She’s lean like me, full up top, and pretty beyond delight. She blew a kiss. Whoever colored her hair understood the mystery of making a blonde.
On my way out I kept a step ahead of the bow-tie man who was in cool pursuit. He sidled up with his armful of bags, “Are you Caroline Dupree? I’m giving a party for my gallery friends tonight. I thought maybe you could join us. I know it’s short notice. By the way, I’m Trevor Bingham.” I had heard about him and I had assumed he would be more dashing and less owlish. He extend his hand. I reluctantly gave him mine.
“We’d love to have you over.” I said, “Thank you, but as you can see I’m stocking up for my own party. Maybe some other time.” He said, “I was thinking of pulling committees together. Yours and mine. It would create a nice buzz in town and…” What he was saying was that he needed money and wanted to shake down some of my people. Well he could fuck me on the moon before that was going to happen.
The light changed and I left him in mid sentence. But he caught up, “Did you fall on something?” “I did happen to fall, but I’m alright now.” I tried walking a little faster. He said, “Or did you just get spanked?”
End of Diary of A Rich Girl – Chapter 151, by Carrie
Diary of a Rich Girl to be continued…
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