by Carrie
By lunch time I was able to return the calls I had missed that morning. Annie, my secretary, brought in the list. Bixby’s was first. “Should I see who that is Ms. Dupree?” I crossed the name off. “No.” “He was insistent, Ms. Dupree.”
I could be, too. She got the message, “Oh, the photographer thinks you should model with the other girls the new line for Europe and Asia as well, that is in the introduction clip.” “Fine.” She waited, as always respectfully, then left quietly.
I checked my e-mail. No message from any butlers, but there was a blunt one from Trevor. “Expect to be whipped, panties down, at 8.” A photo was attached. It was of a woman, about my height, drop dead gorgeous, and naked except for heels and a laced black panty waist. She was back to camera, bent forward, bottom out, a whip was resting on her bottom; it was a photo of me.
I had it taken the first time I was whipped. Some guy, some artist, downtown had been known for photographing women in that way. Some kind of statement, some deep artsy stuff about the world and women and power and men and money and politics — all of the stuff that you need to know as an undergraduate art major, which I had been.
His work intrigued me and at some art event I was introduced to him. I agreed to visit his studio. Within an hour of hand wringing I submitted to posing for him in nothing but my panty skirt and heels, and then I agreed to getting whipped, that is after the photo session. It was more of an introductory whipping, a show-and-tell scenario, to see how it was part of his art, nothing more, I swear. I think he was more interested in seeing my big tits.
The next day he e-mailed me the shot. It was the one with my bottom facing the camera so I gave him permission to use it. It’s since been in several galleries and now in his new book/collection; somehow Trevor had found out about it. I was worried that somehow he could use it against me and cause a scandal.
The thought of that only made me feel worse. Getting whipped is enough, but now my stomach was in knots. I was edgy and it showed and everyone kept asking if I was alright . I wasn’t. Though I’ve been whipped a few times, I still couldn’t stand the thought of it.
Despite the fear, after three butlers, I’m now more or less amenable to getting spanked. Farrelli and Thisley share me or alternate me at least once a week and both find me reasonably punctual, mostly obedient and generally cooperative, if not difficult at times, which they know I can be, and I must say are very good about my occasional childish tantrums and thus spank me accordingly. But a whipping — that has always scared me; I suppose the way an actor feels before going on stage. Stomach vile. The need to go somewhere.
I want you to know that I left the whip on the night table as a sign of my appreciation, as something symbolic, but not to use it on me. I didn’t want to be whipped and I wanted to tell Trevor but couldn’t because I felt if I did I might be whipped even harder. If I was going to get whipped he had to be serious about it. Otherwise I would run away forever.
Then I got an idea to call the artist who first whipped me and ask him how Trevor might have gotten the photo. He told me, “Oh yes, he was down here with a client looking at the photograph I took of you.” I interrupted, “You didn’t tell him who it was? That’d be a betrayal of trust.” He said, “No, but I did put your name on the back as a reminder and well…I’ve since found a better way, less sloppy, of cataloguing.”
“That doesn’t help me at all. You didn’t tell him that you whip me?” The artist said, “Well, prior to his finding out I said that she, meaning you, have frequented here.” “But you didn’t tell him that I call you?” He said, “I’m sorry but it was before he found out. I thought what was the harm?” I said, “You shouldn’t have said anything.” He said, “You shouldn’t be calling then.”
“That’s a lie. I never call you. I just like you and want to see you and talk to you” He said, “As far as I’m concerned, it’s the same thing.” I was mad as hell, “Then you no longer have permission to use my photo.” He said, “Wrong. You already gave it,” and hung up. I was hurt. Furious. Worse, totally helpless.
I called Trevor. “Look. No, Trevor, listen to me. I don’t want to get whipped tonight.” He said, “I’ll decide that.” I said, “No, Trevor. I’m afraid.” He said, “That’s because you need to be whipped.” “That doesn’t make sense.” He said, “Maybe this will. You lied to me.” “I didn’t lie to you. I’ve never lie to you.” He said, “You gave me your trust and now you betray me all of a sudden by wanting to take it away. By doing that you end our relationship.”
I said, “No. I don’t want to take it away or end our relationship. It’s not about that. I’m just terrified of getting whipped.” He said, “That’s not what the artist friend of yours said.” “Trevor, listen to me, he doesn’t really whip me. It was play. Just play. He plays this scenario. I undress. I’m to be his thing, but that’s all it is. If you want to play with me, fine. I’ll be your thing, But I’m afraid you don’t want to play with me. I think you want to really whip me very hard.”
He said, “I do, but at a measured and consistent application. It will hurt you, but at a carefully orchestrated pace. I have experience in this, Carrie. You can trust me. You must be whipped the proper way. You must submit. Show your faith. Come as a supplicant.”
I said, “No, Trevor, no, I don’t want to.” He said, “You will, Caroline. You will. Now if you don’t mind, I was napping.” “Wait Trevor. Wait. If I don’t come home tonight…” He said, “You’ll come home. It will only be worse for you if you don’t. ” He hung up. I was sick.
Annie walked into the office. “Are you alright?” I stared at her, “Yes.” She stared at me otherwise. “I’m perfectly fine. Don’t look at me like that. Now about Milan…” “I have everything here for you.” I said, “Good. Call in the staff. I want to get to work on this now. We’re eating in.” “Yes, Ms. Dupree. Anything else?”
There was. I wanted her to hug me, hold me, tell me my whipping wouldn’t hurt me, that it was all a big joke and that I was going out dining and dancing instead and be treated like a princess. But she wouldn’t, couldn’t. “No. Nothing. Not a thing. You can leave. Go. Goodbye…..”
End of Diary of A Rich Girl – Chapter 159
Diary of a Rich Girl to be continued…
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