by Carrie
Diary of A Rich Girl – Chapter 27
The boyfriend passed me the beer, a good excuse for me to let go of the other guy’s hand. I wished I could let have go of his annoying eyes. I know I’m hot, and I know what I do to guys, and I like that, but I didn’t like the girlfriend setting me up, and I wasn’t about to be their little toy slut. I said my goodbyes. The boyfriend yelled. You’re not going to stick around? I told him: I made plans before I met you, and they weren’t to stick around here.
I reached out for my little panty. The boyfriend said he didn’t have it. I told him: Stop playing games. You had your fun holding it. Now hand it over…But he played dumb. Real dumb — he scratched his head and shrugged his shoulders, all on cue. The girlfriend was too busy chatting it up with the black guy, trying to get something on. I told the boyfriend: Stop being a prick…His answer was: Fuck you, you cunt.
I’m not Bruce Lee so I let him be a big baby and went on my way. But I was pissed. I wanted to hand that guy his head, but all I could do was eat my anger as he hollered: Check out the bitch’s ass, everybody. She’s a white slut…And so on.
I swear, if I had had a weapon on me I might have done something real dumb. So I stayed smart and went on my way and took all the insults as bravely as I could. But I was hurting inside. I tried to choke it, but I couldn’t. I started to cry. I did the best I could to wipe away my tears and hide behind my sunglasses.
I wished Little John was there to protect me, but he wasn’t. He could be tough with me, but he loved me and was always tender when I needed it most. That’s what a girl wants from a guy, and if she can get it, she’s his. Then I thought about that little something I had back at my beach house
Little John wanted to get me a collar to wear around my neck. I told him I’d think about it. On the way to the beach, I decided I’d just might like one. So I stopped off at one of those stores and had one fitted. I almost called him up to tell him. Instead, I took it out to the beach. (It was already becoming a fashion statement with acceptability.)
As I came up to my beach Marge waved and then pointed. I yelled that I had lost my panty swimming. I don’t know if she believed me. All the people on the beach tried very hard to make believe they weren’t looking at me, which is what they avidly were doing. I suppose some saw my branding, but my beach is scattered and few — a very quiet family beach.
March gave me a towel and cried: What is that? I said: It’s exactly what it is…I left her with her mouth open and headed home. My two admirers came running after me. It was Snickers time.
I walked in the door with Ned and Ryan on my heels. It wasn’t even two, yet. I had the whole day ahead of me. I sneaked into my bedroom, slipped on a hot little panty, got my collar and put it on. It’s one of those black leather things with those silver spike stubs. I stood in front of the mirror and took in my hot new look. Little Ned came in crying.
Your brother do something to you?…He cried: He took the last Snicker…I marched out into the kitchen, but Ryan was already gone. I had some more stuff, but it wasn’t frozen. Nevertheless, I gave Ned his Snickers. He felt better, but he wasn’t completely done crying. I left him there, went back to my bedroom, stood by the mirror and let myself get hot.
I slipped my panty off. I looked even hotter with just my collar on and nothing else. I wished Little John was there. I was dying to see how he’d react. I then turned my bottom into the mirror to see my branding: white slut. I walked back and forth with my butt in the mirror, goggling at my branding and my collar. Ned walked in my room and sat on my bed. I grabbed my panty and quickly slipped it on. His chocolate filled mouth cried: I caught you!
I firmly took the little wiseguy’s hand and proceeded to march him back to his mother, minus the collar. I didn’t get far. There was a bald man, about fifty, with a gray haired pony tail and a big beer belly standing near my entrance. I sent Ned on his way. The man said: Is this yours?…He reached out his hand and dangled my little white hip-tie panty.
I said: Yeah, but how did you know I lived here?…He said: The woman on the beach…He meant Marge. I asked him: Yeah, but how did you know I lived here on this beach?…He said: I didn’t. But I saw you head this way. All I had to do was ask around.
I took my panty and said: Thanks…He said: I like what you’ve got on your bottom. I know what it means, unlike other folks who don’t…I said: Alright, what does it mean? He said: It doesn’t mean what people think. It’s something that goes on between two people, or maybe more. I’ll leave it at that.
And I did. I walked up to my deck which faced the ocean. I turned around and told the guy: Go into my kitchen and bring out two beers…He did what he was told. I stepped into my bedroom, which is off the deck, and slipped my collar on and took off my lacy black panty then headed back out looking and feeling hot. I wanted to be the real me, especially when there was someone around to appreciate it. I made sure that when I got on my lounge chair he could see my hot branding.
He told me his name was Bert, short for Bertram. That he was named after his father whose father was also a Bertram. I told him my name was Caroline, named after no one. He sipped on his beer, stared at my collar and branding, and let himself get turned on. He asked: Somebody own you?…I said: Yes, of course somebody owns me.
He played with his can of beer, but didn’t drink it. Instead, he looked into it like he was consulting someone. Finally, he said with a lonely reach: I own someone, too… I asked: Where is she? He said: She heads some big brokerage company and is in Palm Springs for the weekend with all the V.P’s. and the rest. At least, that’s what she tells me.
What do you do? He said: I’m a musician. Bass player…he wiggled his fingers on an imaginary neck and went on: She was straight when I met her, or at least she thought she was straight. Six months into our affair she discovered the real her and I’ve owned her ever since, about two years now.
I doubted that, but Bert went on: I have a friend over. A musician friend. He likes only white girls. He’s got a thing about them. He’s has this pretty blond girl, but she’s straight if you know what I mean. She likes to cook and make house and hold hands, all nice stuff, but she’s not a slut, just color blind. I think my friend would enjoy a woman like you. One who is a slut, and not necessarily color blind. If you know what I mean.
I knew just what he meant. He said: And you have an amazing body, in fact, unreal…I said: Thanks: What does he look like?…Bert said: He’s thirty-nine. A good looking boy…Then he paused to check me out. He liked what he saw and took his time seeing it.
He went on: I saw you on the beach, back there. That high fashion walk of yours. All the guys were lusting, me too as a matter of fact. Then I spotted your branding, the way you moved your hips with that: I don’t give a fuck attitude. And with your super hot bottom and nice tits, you were making sluts out of us. I couldn’t understand, though, why you were crying.
I said to him: Someone hurt me. You want me to meet this guy, right? He said: Your master may not like that. I said: I’m my own master. He said: Then why the collar? I said: That’s the other me – we share me…He liked that and laughed. He asked: What’s your real master is like?
I told him: He’s a street pimp…Bert raised his eyes like he saw a fist coming at him. I said: That’s right. A street pimp…Bert asked: How the hell a girl like you get with a street pimp. I told him: He picked me up in the park. He’s picks a lot of white girls up in the park. He has this way, this charm that white girls like, so that you don’t want him to go away, and when he did go away I wanted him to come back, and the only way, and he didn’t force me, but the only way was to let him pimp me. That night, in fact.
Bert asked: You’re a whore? I said: No. I don’t get paid. I do it for him. For nothing. I’m a slut. Not a whore. He fucks me; his friends fuck me; his Johns fuck me. There’s a difference. I’m HIS slut.
Bert asked: His lets his friends fuck you? I said: I fuck whomever he wants me to fuck. I don’t ask why. The other day in the West Village we were holding hands and we ran into a friend of his who lives there. He wanted me so I went upstairs with him. That’s how it is. You know what I mean? Or don’t you? Bert said: Yeah, I understand. But how about here, on your own? Are you a slut or should I say a nice girl? I said: A little bit of both…And smiled, but not too much.
He said: I’ll introduce you to my friend…I quickly straightened him out: I don’t think you get it, do you? See what’s branded on my bottom? Look, so you don’t forget – – white slut.
Bert had lost whatever edge he thought he had. I told him: I’m a piece of meat. Understand? A well brought up Waspy rich girl who’s a complete tramp. I don’t want to be introduced. I want to be taken and fucked and thoroughly treated rotten. Something very few men know how to do, and in that order – – except for my pimp. I’ll stand on street corners in heels and panties, and fuck for him….…I got up and said: It was nice talking to you, but I’ve got friends coming over.
My mind drifted for a second and replayed what I had just said. That afternoon, walking naked on the beach with my branded white slut butt, had made me feel like a hot tramp. I liked that feeling, even better now that I had verbally expressed it. I would wear my collar the next time, maybe have a little coming out party all by myself.
Bertram begrudgingly went on his way. A few minutes later Marge poked her nose through the sliding door and said: I got Kim to watch the boys. Want to take a nap? I said: Sure…She pulled out a strap-on. I said: I’ll be right with you.
