by Carrie
Diary of A Rich Girl – Chapter 55
Little John wasn’t too happy when I told him that he couldn’t be my newborn’s uncle. He said, “Who makes her smile all the time?” I reminded him, “You tickle her.” “Who buys her gifts all the time?” I said, “I can’t even return them, the places you go to.” He didn’t like that and pouted, “I gotta be related by blood, too?” “That’s the usual procedure.” “Well, procedure my ass.” He went on talking to himself ; I certainly didn’t listen.
Little John wasn’t finished, “You might think I wouldn’t be a good uncle, but I got the experience. I got three sisters.” Three sisters, really? “How many times have we been through this?” He moved away from me and pretended he had better things to do.
“And why you bein’ so prudish today? This refined gentleman is waitin’ over at the museum from Europe. He sulked on, “Now that you’re a mom you think you can’t do it no more.” I said, “I’m not that kind of girl. I never was.” “Whoa? Hold on there. Who you think you’re talkin’ to? And just what kind of girl are you?” He was beginning to lose his cool. I told him, “Decent.” Little John jumped up and walked around as if he had just been kicked in the pants. Too bad.
While he went over to get a hot dog and a Yoohoo from the park vendor, my mind drifted back to when I was fifteen and the family was in France for all of that July. I had read online about a French artist who had just passed away. We were staying at a lovely country house and our neighbor was a painter, that artist, and mother promised that he would let him have me one afternoon to model. It was he who got me into modeling couture clothing, which started my first career and got me to where I am today, but I didn’t know a thing about it back then.
I remember entering his studio wearing a simple dark green sundress and coffee brown leather sandals I had just picked up in Morocco. I was tanned and looked exotically Mediterranean. I had a simple Bedouin woven cloth shoulder bag hanging low off my shoulder. I had been photographed in Morocco wearing the same outfit by a photographer and my picture was in Paris Match the following week with the quote: Who’s this girl? They eventually found out.
I stood there in the silence of his studio taking in the smells of paint and the stacked canvasses crowding the floor. Mother said that Jean loved the way my chestnut hair rolled off my shoulders and that he wanted to do a painting of me very much. I was extremely desirable at fifteen, about five-five, and I had a natural poise or was it glow? I waited for Jean to acknowledge my presence. He was behind a canvass busy working.
Moments later he leaned out and said it was okay to approach him. I did and I was surprised to see he had been painting me from memory, “What do you think?” He had painted me naked. I wasn’t embarrassed as much as curious why he had me so flat chested, and I looked heavier. Too heavy, in fact. It wasn’t me and I told him so, and he said, “That’s an artist’s prerogative.”
Then in that French way, he instructed me to take off my sundress. Naturally I refused. Naturally he explained that he was an artist. He said, “Your father said it would be a good learning experience for you to pose naked for me. Your mother said it would be a privilege.” “What did I say?” He laughed, “Pardon moi, I should have asked. Will you do the honor and pose for me?”
It was summer and hot and all I was wearing underneath my sundress was a skimpy creamy lace v-string panty and matching bra. I had spent the whole morning at the farmers’ market with mother buying wonderful things for lunch. Mother and I had walked there and back so when we got home I was sticky and had wanted to go to the beach to cool off in the water, but father then mother insisted I visit Jean. She told me she’d spank me if I didn’t go.
Jean was tall with strong artisan’s hands. His hair was wild with streaks of gray. It seemed to sprout rather than grow from his head. It made him look scary, but it also seemed to reflect his artist’s temperament: A man with a vision who had to have his own way. I was so young and he was so intimidating. I looked up at him. He towered over me and commanded me to undress. I didn’t want to, but I also didn’t want to get spanked, so I lowered my shoulder straps, crossed my arms and nervously lifted my sundress up over my head letting it drop to the ground so he could see me.
He told me to slip off my sandals and I did. He put his hand on the lacy satin dip of my panty and rubbed, “You’re all grown up.” It was a skimpy panty and some of my bush flowed over, he noticed. “How old are you?” I said, “Fifteen.” “Are you still a virgin?” I sort of mentioned that one or two boys had had their way with me. He asked me if I liked it when they did and I just shrugged. He rubbed my panty some more and slipped his hand in because he said that’s what artists do.
I was young and bushy and he liked that and he slipped his other hand into my panties and grabbed my tight firm bottom. “I heard your father tell me about your trip to Morocco and how that boy tricked you.” He was talking about the local boy fucking me. Father walked in my hotel room and chased the boy out. I told father that the boy was nice and tricked me, but father spanked me hot and made he cry and holler.
Jean slapped my bottom and called me a bad girl. I let out a howl and he slapped again. Then he said he wanted to see my big tits because all the boys had been talking about how big they were when they saw me topless on the beach. He unclasped my bra, pulled back the straps and slipped it off. “The boys are right.”
He asked, “Do you let the boys touch you?” I said, “No, I just walk on the beach.” “Would you like them to touch you?” I said, “I don’t know. I don’t think so.” He took me over to the couch and had me hold onto it and spanked my tush good and hard. Then he straightened me up and stared at my large tits, but he didn’t touch them, he slapped my face and told me to get dressed.
Several days later I had met this boy on the beach and we took a walk. I was wearing nothing but a stringy thong. Everyone could see my nice big tits but father said it was okay because all the girls were topless. I noticed Jean. I took the boy’s hand and Jean didn’t like that. I turned to the boy and let him kiss me and stroke my large tits. Jean hated that. The boy and I found a spot nearby and we made out the whole afternoon. Jean hated that, too. That night I didn’t struggle when the boy and his friend took me to the beach and tugged my panties down.