Caroline's Rocking Horse (3 page)

"Caroline," he said, "for G
od's sake!"

My eyes flew open
as my body figuratively tumbled down that orgasmic slope whose top it had almost reached. I jerked my hands guiltily out of my panties.

"You never
... but here you are..."

There was something in his voice that was quite different from any tone I had ever heard him use. Part of it was something wolfish: something that sounded almost hungry to me. Part of it was that he seem
ed to be genuinely angry, to my astonishment.

I've always thought that my reaction caught him by surprise, too. I was defiant, in a w
ay that I had never been before about anything. As a professor, I have authority in my classroom; when conflicts with the administration arise, while colleagues protest, I simply throw up my hands and adopt the fatalistic attitude of one who knows that no lasting good ever comes from something called "the administration," but very little lasting bad comes from it, either. In my adult life, there has never been a need for an emotion approaching defiance. But there was something happening now with George that was taking place outside that adult life—or at least it seemed like it might be taking place there. I defied him the way a little girl might. "Oh, come on, George. It's not like you were home. It's my body, and I'll play with it however I want."

This was the crucial moment. If George had responded differently to me, and if I had then responded differently to him, perhaps we would
be looking at divorce now. But miraculously, experimentally, George said, "Is it?"

His tone was nearly un-readable. The words had been uttered firmly, but not angrily. Was he saying something erotic, or something ethical? Either way, in the question I saw a possibility of which I had never dreamt. He was standing next to the bed; now I, having hastily replaced my nightdress into a demure arrangement, knelt up in front of him. I looked up into his blue eyes.
"No, Sir?" I said.

There was a long silence. Then George said, "No. It's mine."

I felt myself blush like Miss Lewis. I looked down at the bedclothes.

"Something has to be done about this," said George. I started. Those were the words of Mr. Hastings.

"What?" I whispered.

"What should I do?" George asked, steadily.

"You should spank me," I whispered.

The only reaction that I could see on his face was a slight narrowing of his eyes. I knew him, though, and I was sure that he was thinking very hard and very quickly. I suddenly realized, however, that I had already passed the hardest part. I had expressed to my husband the
desire that I had thought I could never express. And the look on his face was not the one of disgust that I had feared so much.

Finally he said, with a convincing
assurance that I found it hard to believe he actually felt, "In that case, you had better take two pillows and put them on the bed and lay yourself down over them, so that your bottom is ready for a spanking."

"Yes,
Sir," I said quietly.

G
eorge stepped back from the bed with a dazed expression in his eyes. Where they had been narrow a moment before, they were now wide, in what I thought must be wonder. That I was obeying him, or that he had given me the command? Or maybe, just maybe, at how turned on he was?

I confess that, for my own part, I've never been so turned on in my life. In a dream of lust, I rose from th
e bed and took two of our plump down pillows, one in each hand, and laid them one atop the other halfway down the bed. I got back onto the bed on my knees and crawled over to the pillows. Wanting the moment to last forever, I lay myself over them, feeling the delicious way they raised and displayed my ass. I was conscious of the white cotton nightdress covering my thighs down to my knees and my blue cotton panties with the little flowers on them. I pictured what I hoped would happen in just a moment: the way that George would lift up the hem of the nightgown and see before him those little blue flowers.

Now the George of my imagination was not the Ge
orge I had known in the bedroom. It was the
idea
of him I'd had before we slept together the first time: the idea that the dominant traits in his personality, the ones that came out when he was playing an authority figure on the stage, would come into the bedroom. I remembered my very first fantasy about him: that one night, walking home after rehearsal, he would claim his rights as my husband on stage in
The Merchant of Venice
. He would say, "I think we need to do some method acting, Caroline. Lorenzo seems to me like the kind of guy who takes what he wants from Jessica. After all, he's saved her from what he thinks of as her Jewish error—as anti-Semitic and awful as that is. He probably feels the need to spank her sins out of her, don't you think? He's clearly an older guy; he might take Jessica over his knee when he feels like it."

Then he wou
ld take me to the common room of my dorm—deserted at that hour—sit in one of the easy chairs and tell me to lay myself over his lap. Then he would say, "You'd better pull down your jeans." He would spank me, and I would cry, and he would say, "Is this your very first spanking, Caroline? I think you're going to have to get used to it; I'm going to be doing it a lot." After the spanking, when my bottom was warm and red, he would tell me to get up and then he would rise himself and bend me over the arm of the chair and take me brutally, all the while saying, "Oh, you're very good girl, aren't you? I'm going to have so much fun with you."

Remembering this fantasy as I waited for Georg
e to come and uncover my bottom, I blushed violently, and I felt my panties dampen.

"I have never spanked
you, Caroline," I heard him say perfectly, as if it had always been his right—and even his duty, from which he had misguidedly refrained. "But something must be done about your conduct."

I heard the tone in his voice, and I knew he had found the center of his character. More than that, the character was George. George really did want t
o do something about my conduct. In the scene, of course, the thing he was doing something about was my self-pollution, but I felt the hope rising within me that by playing that scene we might also be doing something about the erotic connection between us. One thing I knew was that I now wanted George to make love to—no, to fuck—me. It was the first time I had wanted to be fucked in months and months. Suddenly the idea that I really wanted to be fucked by Mr. Hastings didn't seem as terribly shameful as it had before, for it seemed like George was willing to be Mr. Hastings for me.

"I'm going to raise your nightgown now, Caroline," he said. "Girls who have played with their panties down must learn to take their punishment with their panties down."

I couldn't help it; I moaned. There was something about the direction his performance was going that made me think things were about to get even hotter. A paternal note was creeping into his words.

"Caroline," he said, "you should be ashamed of yourself. What is that wanton sound I just heard from you?" He rais
ed the hem of my nightgown and placed it on the small of my back, laying open before him my panty-clad bottom. "Little girls in flowered cotton panties should not make that kind of sound, should they?"

Then it happened. Without forethought, I said, "No, Daddy."

There was a long silence. Then George said in a thick voice, "Daddies sometimes have to spank their little girls don't they?"

"Yes, Daddy," I replied.

We were through the looking glass. I waited with commingled trepidation and arousal for his next command. Surely my new daddy would know what to do next.

That's what I felt, but in reality this had been a fantasy for me much longer than it had been for him. Indeed, as he later said, he had never even considered the possibility before. His dominant fantasies to that point, he confessed, had been utterly nonspecific. I'll let him talk about that in his own words, though, when we get to the aftermath.

So at that moment he didn't know what to do. That's when his old college acting experience kicked in. As if it were a rhetorical question, he asked, "And what else do daddies need to do with their little girls?"

He really did fool me for a moment into thinking the question was rhetorical, and I was silent. His character, however, gave him the impetus for what to say then, or at least what to say after he had delivered the first spank I had ever received in my life. I felt his
hand come down hard on my panty-covered bottom, and I yelped in surprise at the sting. Then, at the mingled shame and warmth, I felt my moisture begin to flood into those same panties.

"Answer me, sweetheart," he said in a low voice
, with a tiny touch of menace. "What else do daddies need to do with their little girls?"

"They, ah, they
..." I managed to squeak out. I felt my face grow even hotter. "Sometimes they... sometimes they inspect them."

"That's right," said George. "I will definitely have to inspect you, Caroline. And why should I inspect you?"

"To see..." I whispered, "to see if I've been naughty."

"That's right, sweetheart. Now I think we both know you have been naughty. It's very impo
rtant, however, that your daddy be able to determine just how naughty you were tonight. We'll have to have a look at those panties, then, won't we?"

I fel
t him put his weight on the bed as he crouched behind me. I felt his breath on my thighs. I knew he must be looking very closely at the gusset of my panties. I couldn't help emitting a little whimper.

"This is very bad," my d
addy said. I felt him shift slightly, and then I felt his fingers on my panties, just where I was naughtiest. I whimpered again.

"I'm afraid that even without taking your panties down, Caroline, I can tell just how in need you are of discipline. Indeed I can see how damp you have become inside these panties
by simply inspecting the outside of them. This is a terrible state for a young lady's panties to be in. Not only does it indicate that you have been engaging in lewd practices, but I believe things could not have reached this shameful state if you did not know things that a young lady should not know. Have you been reading naughty books, Caroline?"

"Yes, Daddy," I whispered.

"I'm afraid," he replied, "that despite the danger of re-arousing the wantonness of which you have been guilty, I shall have to hear what was in those naughty books so that I can determine the proper manner in which to treat you and how to handle your chastisement." His fingers moved lightly up and down the outside of my panties where they covered the part of me that had now become much, much too warm for comfort. "Tell me, sweetheart, what was in the book you were reading? What was it about?"

"Oh
, Daddy, please don't make me!" I wailed.

"You must, C
aroline," he replied sternly, "or else I shall have to spank you very hard."

"I won't do it!" I said.

George got off the bed, came to stand next to me and put his hand on my waist. "Very well," he said. "I shall have to spank you then, Caroline. First with my hands and then with my belt."

"Oh
, no!" Truthfully, I hadn't thought of the belt at all. And now I really was scared of it, in that delicious way that I would come to know so well.

He hooked his forefingers into the waistband of my panties.

"Oh, Daddy, no!" I cried. "Please don't take down my panties!" George's breathing seemed to become a kind of pant, like a dog's. At that moment, I felt like I had been waiting all my life to cry, "Please don't take down my panties." But it was to no avail; nor was it, of course, supposed to be. My panties came down to the bottoms of my thighs.

"It's time for your first spanking, sweetheart," said
my daddy. "Remember that this is for your own good. You have been a very naughty girl, and Daddy needs to help you be a better girl. Sometimes that will mean that Daddy has to spank you, but Daddy will always love you even when he's spanking very hard."

I whispered, "Do daddies like to spank their little girls?"

"I'm afraid they do," he replied. "They like it very much. It's very important that little girls understand that their daddies may spank them anytime they like. Sometimes it will be because the little girl has been naughty, but sometimes it will be just because her daddy wants to spank her."

"Yes, Daddy," I said. Then for the first time my Daddy, my husband, began to spank me in earnest.

George learned quickly. In the beginning
, there were some spanks that fell in unfavorable places, like the lower end of my tailbone—causing me to make a sound very different from the one I made when he landed one of his better spanks right on my bottom. I could tell that the auditory feedback from me, and from the spanking itself, was very helpful for him, because the proportion of his spanks that made the wonderful spanking sound, the sharp noise that rings out like nothing else in the world, began to increase greatly.

The best part of all was that it was really, really working. My yelps were making him spank harder, not softer—that was how I knew.
My daddy really did like to spank me.

It hurt—yes
of course it hurt, especially after it had gone on for a couple of minutes. But knowing that the pain my bottom felt was because George wanted to claim my erotic soul as his own and be my daddy once and for all, made the pain also exquisitely arousing. It was so arousing that I felt myself climbing back up the slope towards a climax merely with the way his spanks made me rub just a little against the pillows under my hips.

My cries were a wild, ambiguous mixture of pleasure and pain
. I was at the very edge of coming, when George suddenly stopped spanking and began to rub my bottom. "You've got a very warm bottom, young lady, don't you?" he murmured.

Frantically, I tried to m
ove my hips to capture his hand somehow, where it would do me some good and help me to the top of the slope. He clucked softly in disapproval. "Little girls who are having their bottoms spanked really shouldn't behave like that," he said. Then he became severe again. "Keep that bottom still!" He spanked it—once, and again, and again.

"Oh, Daddy!"

"No, Caroline. It's time you learned how to be a well-behaved young lady."

He delivered a hard spank right across both cheeks, with the clear intention of seeing how I
would react to some of the stinging's finding my burning pussy. I reacted with a wild cry of submissive pleasure.

"Do you need that pussy spanked? Do you?" I wasn't sure he had ever uttered the
word "pussy" in his life—at least to refer to a woman's pudenda. He put his hands between my thighs and spread them.

"No, Daddy—please don't spank my pussy!"

"I think I have to, you bad little girl! It's the only way to teach you!"

He delivered the first spank.
It was way too hard, but in being way too hard it was also like an electric shock straight to my erotic core. I screamed. He spanked again, not quite as hard. I screamed again—this time, with more pleasure involved, for not only did the second spank deliver a better ratio of pleasure to pain, but it also mingled with the receding sting of the first one.

On the third spank, I could feel that George's hand came away terribly, shamefully wet.

He got off the bed. What was he doing? He came around to where my face lay on the sheet, looking wonderingly at him, as he stood there still dressed in his work clothes. He presented his right hand, glistening in the light of the bedside lamp by which I had been reading about Mr. Hastings and Miss Lewis, to my face.

"Look at that, Caroline
Dawkins! Look at that! Does a modest young lady leave that sort of disgusting stuff on her daddy's hand?"

"No, Daddy."

"You are a little slut, aren't you, Caroline Dawkins?"

"Yes, Daddy." Where did
that
come from—"slut"? I would never in my life have imagined that George could say something like that—I would even have thought he might refuse a part in a play in which he would be required to use that sort of language.

"Frankly, I think your case may be a hopeless one."

"Couldn't you..."

"Couldn't I what, young lady?"

"Well, if... if I learned about just how naughty I am—I—I might be able to understand what was necessary to rid myself of these... these, um, nasty habits."

His eyes narrowed, and his brow furrowed in his kind, blond face. His beard grows fast, and I could see the prickles on his chin glinting redly in the dim light of the bedside lamp as he lifted his chin slightly, the way he does when he's thinking. I couldn't tell if his puzzlement were real—bu
t it was at the very least well-played, and it made me feel like a refractory girl for whom a stern but kind daddy had to exercise all his paternal skill to keep in line.

"And how would that kind of learning be accomplished?" he finally asked, lowering his chin again and seeming to study my face closely where it lay innocently
on the pillow while my lower body was so naughtily arranged and exposed below.

"By—by you, um, making me feel that way
... and, you know, making me feel that way... a lot."

He laughed
scornfully. "Are you seriously suggesting that I should
pleasure
you, Caroline, to teach you to be modest?"

"What if you—if you gave me a lecture at the same time? To make sure I understand that I'm a naughty girl who needs to learn?"

"Hmm," he said doubtfully, "I suppose it's worth a try." Oh, I loved him. I didn't know if he could be my Mr. Hastings, but I loved him for trying. "But," he said as he wandered down the bed again, back towards my bottom, "I believe I'm going to have to add an element."

And he spanked me again, hard: once, twice, three times.

"OW!" I yelped. He can do it, I thought. He can really do it... "Ah! Oh, George..." (for now, he had begun to make me feel "that way.")

"Daddy," he sa
id, with a warning in his voice, removing his lovely fingertips from my aching furrow and spanking me, once, on the sit-spot.

"Daddy!" I cried, my eyes watering. "Oooo
..." (for the fingertips were back immediately).

"You, Miss Dawkins, are a little girl. Is that not so?"

"Ummm... Yes, Daddy." I had to admit his hand had always known how to drive me wild. I knew I was supposed to be listening to my daddy's lecture, but I was having a very hard time paying attention to anything but what his hand was doing to my little pussy.

"Little girls are supposed to be modest and demure, aren't they?"

This time I couldn't even answer, but instead started trying to ride his hand a little. That earned me yet another spank.

"Caroline! It's becoming clear that this is a very bad
idea. Nevertheless, once your daddy decides to try such an experiment, he thinks it very important to continue on with it. Sometimes..." (He rubbed quickly and firmly right on the little part that feels so wonderful, and I moaned, like... I blushed... like a little slut) "even though the results seem unpromising at the start, they can surprise one at the end."

He spanked again. "Hold! This! Bottom! Still! Caroline Dawkins!"

"Oh, Daddy... oh, I can't."

He bent down and p
ut his left arm around my waist and held me tightly and spanked me again, and again, and again. It really, really hurt now, but as before, it brought me closer and closer even without his fingers.

"Very well. You will have your pleasure now, and then you will listen to me." The fingers attacked. I can't think of another way to put it:
they dominated my tender cleft from back to front, and then one of them on the left hand touched me there between the burning cheeks as the right hand tormented me in front, and I screamed. Every muscle in my body seemed to tighten like the rigging of a boat in a gale, and then I seemed to explode outward—all of me, everywhere.

I think I can be forgiven
in describing this very first ageplay orgasm, for saying (because it's true) that it was the most incredible climax I had ever had. After that one, the other ones I'll be describing were all wonderful, but it's not as easy to say which surpassed all previous ones. This first one of our new dynamic was as far above every previous orgasm I'd had as Angel Falls is above its catch-basin, so it's a lot easier to describe it in such terms.

Afterwards, I collapsed onto the pillows. G
eorge sat on the bed next to me stroking my hair.

"Wow," I said.

"You still have a lecture coming, young lady."

"Yes, Daddy."

"Wait a moment, please, Miss Dawkins. I need to prepare myself a little before I begin."

"Yes, Daddy."

He rose and began to undress.

"Daddy, what are you doing?" Somehow there was actual panic in my chest at the sight of my husband undressing—something I had seen him do hundreds and hundreds of times: with the ru
sh of arousal in the early days, with lewd interest in the not-quite-as-early days, and then, crushingly, with utter familiarity the last few years. Now, though, the sight of his bare chest, then the sight of his boxer shorts (not the belt tonight? I thought, with a strange bit of disappointment), then the obviousness that there was something making a kind of tent in those blue-striped boxers.

At that moment I knew that we really can
find—or, perhaps, some blessed number of us really can—in our fantasies a way to make reality magical. My utter commitment to this fantasy, fomented by George's willingness to try, provisionally, a commitment to it, had turned me into a little girl. But I was not a real little girl, with real innocence that it would be a real crime and a sin to destroy—I was changed, somehow, into a fantasy little girl—the impossible little girl who is possible only in fantasy—the little girl who both knows and doesn't know what the thing lurking in a man's blue-striped boxers might be.

And that fantasy-constellation was making my chest tighten in a physical response indistinguishable from real fear, except that there was another part, riding high—riding very high indeed—inside my mi
nd, saying "Shh, it's all right; that's your husband's cock, and right now you want it more than you want anything else in the entire universe."

George heard the note of ac
tual panic, paused and looked into my eyes. He saw—he must have seen—the grown-up lust in my eyes, and it gave him the all-clear sign to keep going.

"I am getting undressed, young lady, so that I can give you what you really, truly need."

"But, Daddy, I'm such a little girl; should I be with a man this way?"

My word
s had an electric effect on him. He gasped; he was gasping the way he used to, before he was inured to the touch of my hand on his manhood. It was just like in the early days whenever I had found him lurking inside his jeans in the sweet vanilla passion of youth. He gasped, and his right hand found himself, and with a burst of lust that reawakened my loins in record time after that enormous orgasm of only a few minutes before, I watched my husband, like an animal in rut, rousing himself willy-nilly and rubbing through the fabric of his boxers, outlining his lovely phallus.

Nor could I help what I did then: I licked my lips—not like some pornographic seductress, but like an innocent little girl who sees a treat she wants very badly and can't help showing it.

"Did you just lick your lips, young lady?" he asked, his eyes wide at the current of eroticism flowing so overwhelmingly between us.

I widened my own eyes
as if to say, "Please, Daddy, I couldn't help it."

He responded by pulling down his boxers. "Did you lick your lips for this, little girl?"

I breathed deeply, fearfully, and nodded my head on the pillow. My Daddy's cock: his beautiful cock that I knew, if I were a good girl, I could make feel so good. Nestled in a little cloud of wiry reddish-blond hairs, pointing at me like an arrow, straight and hard and swaying in threat. Pink and textured with lovely veins along its length and strange wrinkly skin at the helmet on its end and with its wonderful little eye that was just glistening a tiny bit to show me that Daddy wanted me very much.