by Carrie
Diary of A Rich Girl – Chapter 48
That evening Cynthia’s mother, Abigail, was having a cocktail party at her beachfront home, which was just a couple of houses down. I got there a little late, and it wasn’t because I was angry with Cynthia for behaving like such a slut, though I had good reason to tell her mother about her horridly despicable behavior. What that girl needed was a good hot spanking to set her straight. Abigail was raised in the ’60s, which must have been part or all of the reason that she was so neglectful of her daughter; Abigail seems to be suffering a Woodstock hangover, even though she is a socialite and shows up in the finest of clothes.
But the real reason I was invited was that I had recently graduated from Princeton and I was already a successful alumna. Abigail had been hounding me about writing a recommendation for Cynthia, which at first I was quite enthusiastic to do, but after what I had witnessed last year and this with that creepy creature, the only letter that I wanted to write was a recommendation to a leading reform school that offered a full curriculum of spanking wayward girls.
What made things even worse was that the little party was being catered by the local restaurant and that undersized sex maniac was employed as an hors d’ouerve waiter. He had on a silly white jacket and bow tie to match his silly grin. I want you to know that I completely ignored him, and I kept an eye on Cynthia who couldn’t keep her eye off him. It was wretched business, but there was nothing else I could do. Abigail approached me and I knew just what was on her mind.
“Carrie, you’re the most beautifully pregnant woman I have ever seen.” I noticed Cynthia slipping out of the room. I said, “Thank you. I’ll send your daughter a letter of recommendation.” Abigail went on, “And to think you can walk around the beach in nothing but a lacy thong and look so pretty. Marge tells me you don’t exercise and can eat anything you want.” I said, “Some girls are lucky,” with my eye still peeled out for that underage tart.
Abigail said, “I hear quarter-cups are all the rage in Paris.” I was wearing one with a cute rose silk midriff T-shirt that just covered half my ripe tummy. I wore a matching rose flowered silk hip skirt that just tipped at the top of my bottom showing the band of my hot pink thong. It was humid and hot. Abigail said, “Your breasts are so full and lovely, but you don’t mind that they show through?” I told her I didn’t. She tilted her eyes and looked at my ripe nipples. I must mention that unlike her daughter, Abigail is flat chested and is always on the look-out for women with nice tits, a sort of obsession of hers.
She said, “But men will look.” I said, “That’s the idea. Isn’t it?” I was going to say women looked as well, but I didn’t. Then I noticed a cute guy staring at me. He was turned on and it showed. I gave him a quick smile and turned away. Abigail caught that little moment and said, “I wish I were you sometimes.” At the moment I was feeling miserable. I had sent that greasy perverted sex crazed creep packing last summer and he had the nerve to return – – and she wanted to be me!
