by Carrie
Diary of A Rich Girl – Chapter 51
With his other hand he tugged my panty down a little more and slowly worked his finger in me. The shade was up and I could see all the windows of the building across the street, but I was in that sublime state all girls go into when they give themselves away. I forgot the possibilities of those looking in.
I stood there by the bed in a hazy glaze of submission, finding it harder to stay on my feet, my breath a shiver with each whisper speaking, “Own me. Own me.” He took out my collar and cinched it. He attached the chain. I felt the pull and obeyed. Then, as if time had warped, it was hours later.
We were in that downtown club where those kind of people go. I with my collar and chain, and dressed in a bridal white panty skirt and gartered stockings and high heels, his vestal virgin following. I, the glamorous socialite, was being paraded through the dark wide open basement rooms for all to see. I wore no panties. Everyone could see my hot bush and white slut branding. Envy raged in some men’s eyes, mostly white, but some dark as well. It was then that L.J. would take his whip and strike my bottom to let them know that I was his. Heads turned and admired my submission, the total control, the absolute somnambulant obeisance on the chain. I was being taken somewhere to some particular room for some particular abuse.
And then again as if in time warped I was on the Paris runway dressed the same and on the chain, with eyes on me as I was paraded by applauding editors and coutures. I stopped and was given a hand. I turned and swiveled for both sides of the runway, and was led off the stage with the whip on my bottom. No sooner, I was back in the downtown basement on all fours, the voyeurs around me in the center room, as L.J. gently but firmly whipped my bottom, not fast, but timely, so I could shudder and moan and then recover. He always let me recover so I could take my time whimpering, and it was in between the whip that the time was mine, all mine to make noise and suck on my breath.
Voices in the darkness wanted me to get beaten hotter and faster, but Little John owned me, not they. And he owned me at his pleasure and mine, and he whipped my bottom slowly as I rocked forward and hollered and shook my lovely head and hair always coming back into position when ready, but in time, on my own, for my next hit, with my head up in the air and eyes shut, ready again and then smack. When he was done with me he took me out of the room and back onto the streets where he walked me and sold me.
