by Carrie
Diary of A Rich Girl – Chapter 34
“The Pagan Six Inches.”
The busboy saw me take the gun from the nightstand and smiled: “You gonna shoot me again?” I sort of felt funny laying there naked on my bed with a freshly whipped bottom and a gun halfway between the nightstand and the Mexican busboy. I pointed it around and at him, and said: “Not if you make me.”
“Maybe I put some of dat shit on your ass. Make you feel good? Or maybe I make you feel good then put some of dat shit on your ass? How’s dat?” He dropped a big smile to show that he could be friendly while being up to no good. I said: “You’ve got some nerve showing up here.” He looked at me like I had sent him an invitation to come.
I kept the gun on him and said: “The hell are you doing here, anyway?” He shrugged his shoulders like he had an itch. Maybe he was allergic to not getting his way and said: “I remember the good times. You remember the bad times. Well, me, I forget the bad times, life bad enough. Why don’t we both forget?”
I had a feeling he almost meant what he had said. He just stood there absent of any aggression, sort of like Rodney, my old butler, waiting for me to tell him what to do. I said: “You were out side? By the window? Listening?”
“Me? I just pass by and I hear your window and I look in and I see the negro,” rolling the “r” the Spanish way, “and I look in like you need help.” “You think I needed help?”
The busboy looked at me unsure, as if he hadn’t yet made up his mind, “He give it to you good, the negro,” his eyes dropped to my bottom, sort of half excited, half surprised, “He give it to you real good. I hear you on the beach. I not the only one. So, I forget the past and see if you need help.”
It was hard not to believe him. It was harder not wanting to like him for feeling that way, but I played it tough. My experience with men is that they best lie when their dicks are hard, and his was hard, very hard. I said, “So, why didn’t you bust in here and rescue me if that was the case?”
He did that shrug again and said, “That negro, he is big, real big.” “I see. You didn’t want to get your ass whipped as well.” He smiled big. That’s what he was trying to say, and added, “I want to call the police, but he stop, and he fuck you.” And as if having found a word for a crossword puzzle. “Tha’s when I know not to call the police.”
I handed him the cream and told him to rub it on my hot little bottom. I lowered my head onto my pillow and said, “But keep your shorts on. Or I’ll get that big bad negro after your ass.”
The busboy was good with his hands. Very good. He tried slipping them up to feel my good tits, but I pushed his fingers away, though I didn’t stop him from rubbing the cream all over my back and up my neck, that was alright, that was good, that was real soothing.
He was sure that I would soon give in and roll over for a fucking. But he was wrong. Dead wrong. He asked, “Why can’t I fuck you no more? I fuck you good. You love I fuck you.” I said, “Somebody else fucks me. Let’s leave it at that,” and got up from my bed and feeling much better I reached into my panty drawer and put on a hot candy striped string panty for the beach. I had to meet Marge. I was taking the boys, Ned and Ryan sailing — teach them how to be explorers.
But the busboy was still on my bed, waiting for me to come back, and be the old me. I told him: “Time for you to leave, and I mean now.” He dropped his shorts and showed me his fat cock so red and hard. I walked over to the bed, sat down next to him and stroked it nice and slowly for him and asked: “Are you still fucking Cynthia?” He nodded that he was. I let go of his cock and said: “Stop fucking her. She’s a juvenile. Fifteen years old.”
And then I remembered when I was fifteen years old — at a party having smoked and drunk some and these two cool boys who had been staring at my nice tits all evening took me to the live-in quarters to show me something and shut the door and put me on a bed and rotated fucking me because they were older guys, cool guys, and I wanted them to like me, my tits, and they did, and so did their friends. I was known as the gorgeous slut, but only for a while, until I got my act together, then I became the dirty slut.
I walked out of my bedroom, but the busboy was still there on my bed and jerking himself off, squirting his stuff all over my good bed sheets screaming: “I fuck you Cynthia, I fuck you Carrie…” Men and their pagan little six inches.
