Caroline's Rocking Horse (5 page)

In the morning, the whole thing seemed like a dream. At first—just when I
awoke—it seemed like a wonderful dream. But then, more and more as the day progressed (it was a writing day for me, which always puts me too deep into my thoughts anyway), it seemed to me to have been much more like a bad dream. I knew—I just knew—that George had been pretending, only pretending—maybe even to toy with me just to see how incredibly disgusting a pervert I was. He had gone to the office before I even awoke, and I was sure that that was because he couldn't bear to look at me.

I suppose I could try to string you along, wondering whether he had really been pretending or not, but of course he hadn't
been. I mean, look at the title of the book you're reading! No, I was doing everything I could to convince myself that what had happened the night before had been too good to be true, because, I think, I was so frightened of the crushing disappointment (in fact "disappointment" is much too tame a word for the existential emotional annihilation I really feared) I would feel if I got my hopes up that it could ever happen.

That amazing first night of
ageplay had happened on Wednesday—a Wednesday in the middle of November, so Christmas was actually coming—and we barely saw each other at all on Thursday. I saw on my phone that George had called a couple times, but I was so angry that he had tried to manipulate me (as I kept persuading myself) that I refused to pick up.

Friday I had an early class
and decided that I had to get out of the house before George woke up so I dressed and slipped out, feeling—by my own wretched fault, I thought, for getting my hopes up—worse than I had before Wednesday—and stupid for having let it happen. I felt that I had bottled up the fantasies for so long that their unleashing was terrorizing the rest of my reason, overwhelming it with the desire to make sure it never got re-bottled, and my reason was fleeing in panic in any direction it could. George was manipulating me; I was a pervert; I needed to get far, far away.

Really, it was less than forty-eight hours between the time George came home late on Wednesday and the whole thing began
and the time he came home early on Friday and the whole thing finally got put on a firm footing (though, as you'll see, not without some fireworks). It seemed, however, like an agonizing eternity in which I thought I was going crazy; part of me knew it was real, but my reason refused to admit that part was even there, and my mind was like a house divided against itself. I got home from school at lunchtime, but I didn't eat—highly unusual for me—and I didn't read, which was even more unusual. I just sat, thinking (it seems absolutely incredible to me now) about leaving my husband.

He knew about me
now, you see. He would leave me if I didn't leave him, and I wasn't going to let that happen. What an asshole to toy with me like that on Wednesday night! How could he think it was OK to play with my feelings and then just ignore the pervert?

How could he have spanke
d me when it was obvious that he wasn't into it? Christ, how could he have spanked me so well? And then...

To my shame and horror,
I realized that I had somewhere along the way of my thoughts splayed my thighs as I sat on the couch looking out the window at the little wood behind our house, and now my hand had crept up under my black "teaching" skirt (simple knee-length wool-blend, nearly identical with three others in my closet) and was resting—all right, not really resting—really rubbing gently—right where all the trouble had started. The erotic part of my soul didn't care that George had been faking it for reasons I couldn't fathom but knew had to exist. The erotic part of my soul wanted those fingers to find their way under the elastic of the gusset of the pink panties to where the moisture was, godammit, beginning to pool; it wanted me to probe, and rub, and sigh, and throw my head back with closed eyes, and remember George telling me not to look him in the eye when he was fucking my face.

It made me use my left hand to pul
l the gusset gently to the side and expose the tender, warm, complicated flesh, with its soft hairs that were somehow also so crinkly, and it told my reason to take a break and just enjoy the wonderful feeling of being touched in my naughty places by my naughty fingers, earning a spanking like the one he had given me. Thinking about that spanking now—giving in and remembering how it had felt to have his hand punishing me, claiming me, telling me that I was a bad girl but that he wanted to help me be a good one—for him—I heard myself making the little submissive sounds a bad girl should make when she is being trained.... I was getting so close, so fast, thinking about this thing that could never be.

George
had walked in; I hadn't heard his car drive up or the back door open, being so distracted by my body's war with itself, and it was only the creak of the floorboards in our aging house that made my eyes fly open to see him standing there, looking right at me with a stern look on his face and his belt, doubled, in his hand.

"I was
..."

"I can see what you were doing, Caroline."

"But I was thinking about you!"

"That's very nice to hear, but it doesn't change the fact that y
ou're now going to get the belt hard and long for refusing to talk to me."

That made me mad—though as I'm sure you can see, reader, it should have been clear to me by then that I was utterly in the wrong. Professors are pretty good at mental gymnastics that put them in the right, however, and I had been producing a masterpiece of self-righteous justification for the past thirty-six hours. I wasn't about to stop just because I had the evidence in front of me that my husband was into the same stuff I was into.

"You can forget about that act, George. I know what you're trying to do, and it's not going to work."

That made him furious, I could see, in turn. Really furious? Or a
cting furious? Shit, I realized he was never that good an actor, was he? My reason was beginning to wonder if maybe I shouldn't have been so hasty.

"Call. Me. Daddy," he said
—quietly, precisely and with the air of one who is about to put his hand around your throat.

I felt my eyes go wide and my heart start to pound wildly.

"Daddy," I whispered.

He came
towards me. As he did so, he actually began to slap the belt in his right hand across the palm of his left to emphasize his words. The gesture did nothing for my
sangfroid
.

"Now, Caroline, we are going to make sure we don't have any more misunderstandings like the one we seem to have had over the last couple of days. As far as I can tell, you are accusing
me of—how shall I put it—shining you on with regard to what I would like to be the new sexual dynamic of our relationship?"

Jesus, this was real. He wasn't playing a ch
aracter; he was playing himself: corporate attorney, high-culture aficionado, and newly, my dominant husband.

"We will leave aside for the moment th
e utter lack of faith in me that supposition displayed. You have enough to answer for simply in regard to ignoring my calls. You seem to have persuaded yourself that I was calling to say that I wanted your perverted posterior out of my life; I assure you that nothing could be further from the truth." His voice had gradually been rising in volume. He now stood three feet in front of me; I still sat with spread thighs and lifted skirt and disarrayed underwear.

He
thundered, "Your Daddy was calling to tell you that he loves being your Daddy and hopes that you love being his little girl, and he wants to spank that perverted posterior as much as he hopes you want it to be spanked."

I burst into tears. "I'm sorry, Daddy—I'm so sorry. I was—I was
... while I was playing with myself—I was thinking about you!"

His voice quieted again. "As I said before, that's good to know, but it do
esn't change what has to happen now. Get up and turn around, and put your hands on the couch cushion. It's time for you to feel my belt."

I felt like I was frozen in place.

"I'm waiting, young lady. I have no need to see your disgraceful display of self-abuse any longer."

I found I could move,
motivated by the shame of which George seemed to have made himself master. Feeling my face redden, I closed my thighs and smoothed my skirt down over my panties, still in disarray. Shakily, I stood. I couldn't look him in the face; my attention was focused on the loop of the black leather belt that he was holding.

"Now turn around." I turned around.
"Hands on the couch." Feeling my blush spread all the way down my neck, I obeyed, terribly conscious of how that posture made my bottom the most prominent part of me, of how it put that bottom at my Daddy's mercy—gave it to him to do with whatever he happened to think I deserved.

I felt his hands at my hem; the right one
was still holding the belt, so that the buckle came up against my bare thigh and made me shiver. I felt my skirt being raised, slowly—up my thighs, over the sit-spot, over my bottom-cheeks, over my tailbone. He bunched it around my waist and tucked the hem into the waistband so that it wouldn't fall down. Even that small gesture of authority made me moan.

The air moved across my bo
ttom, bare now but for my still-disarranged pink panties. I imagined what I looked like, as if I were the heroine of one of my naughty books:
Mr. Hastings smiled at the sight of Miss Dawkins' shapely young bottom in its pink schoolgirl panties. He knew he was going to give her as much discipline as he wanted, no matter how she struggled or cried. She was a bad girl, and she was going to pay for it.

"Caroline," said George, interrupting my Victorian-themed reverie, "I want you to know that from now on, this lovely bottom belongs to me. It is going to receive exactly what I want to give it,
whenever
I want to give it."

"Hunnh," I moaned.
"Yes, Daddy." He pulled the pink panties down to my tightly-clasped knees.

"After I
stripe you, I am going to tell you some of the rules that you are going to follow from now on."

"Mmm
," I whimpered. "Yes, Daddy."

"But for now
I want you to remember that this is for your own good." He didn't wait for a response but put his left hand on my waist and began to strike me with his belt, over and over again upon my bare bottom.

It was my first actual punishment, and though I would soon be able to count several others in the number, this first one has always stayed in my memory because it was the first time
I realized that real pain actually was in its own way something I craved. George really had decided to hurt me with his belt, and he succeeded admirably and quickly.

Again I had the feeling of possible insanity, but I wasn't going to
submit to mere reason so stupidly again. Yes, I liked being hurt by my daddy. Yes. Yes. Ow! Yes!

I realized he was saying something, was asking a question, and I hadn't even noticed. I was somewhere else—in the air? The sanity
question pressed itself upon me, but for goodness' sake, this felt better than anything—even better than Wednesday night. It felt like I was
me
, in a way I hadn't been since... since I was a
real
little girl, and I realized that the world didn't think the same way I did about everything. My mind floated in a faraway, submissive, mist.

Faintly in that misty distance I could hear
the snapping of the belt, and George was practically yelling, now. He had no idea, of course, of the very strange thing going on in my head and thought I was being defiant. God, my rear end hurt! And my daddy just kept hitting it with his belt, over and over and over, teaching me my lesson.

"Will you answer my calls?" was what he was yelling, I realized.

"Yes, Daddy!" I screamed. Where had I been for the last five minutes? I didn't know, but it had been so wonderful that I wanted to go back there as soon as I could. It wasn't being, or doing: it was just feeling—feeling loved, and pleased, and wonderful. And all because my husband had been punishing me with his belt?

George actually was unnerved
at that point. This was our first experience with "subspace," and neither of us knew what was going on. Belt marks fade pretty quickly so I never got a proper understanding of what my posterior looked like at the point where I finally responded. I take George's word for it that he had beaten me by then to his own satisfaction, and he had begun to freak out a little that I was just panting and emitting little moans that were slightly ambiguous but definitely sounded like moans of pleasure. That was, of course, because they actually
were
moans of pleasure—not to minimize the fact that, when I had finally dropped out of subspace, my backside hurt like hell.

At any
rate, I responded just in time because George (he says) was about to stop the whole thing to see if I was OK—and possibly call 911.

His left hand moved down from my waist to explore my punished bottom. A
t the touch of those fingertips I cried out in actual pain. I felt the fingers stop.

"Caroline, are you listening?"

"Yes, Daddy."

"Our
safe word is 'Red'. If you're worried about something, say 'Yellow'. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Daddy."

The fingertips returned to their exploration. I cried out again. This time the fingertips didn't stop. I cried out; still they didn't stop. I felt my little-girl pussy flow at the very thought that he hadn't stopped hurting me that way—that he didn't care. He was going to explore his handiwork, and if it hurt me, so much the better. That moment in my memory feels like the moment I really became my Daddy's little girl—or, if you want to put it this way, his little slut—his little pain-slut.

Finally, the probing of my welts (his welts!) stopped. "Now, young lady, you are going to have corner-time, and then you are going to come sit in my lap," George said. "Straighten up, please." I did. He led me
to the opposite wall, which formed a little corner against the wall of the kitchen. My skirt was still up, but my panties threatened to fall to the floor. Daddy pulled them up to mid-thigh, where the elastic would hold them. "I like to see my little girl with her panties pulled down," he said, conversationally, by way of an explanation. He turned me to face the corner and stroked my hair for a moment, and then, once again, my punished bottom. Then he left me there.

I heard
my daddy sit on the couch. I started to cry. I don't know exactly why I started crying just then. I suppose that one very big part of it was just emotional release—that is, my body just needed to cry (or, to put it in the technical BDSM term, it was subdrop)—but what it felt like right at the moment was that I was crying because I had been so mean to my daddy, when all he had wanted was to tell me he loved me.

He was up again
and next to me, holding me around the waist and kissing me all over—my cheek, my neck, my hair. He led me back to the couch and sat, pulling me into his lap and holding me tight while I cried.

"I'm so sorry, George—Daddy. I'm so sorry. I love you so much."

"Shh, it's OK... it's OK. I love you, too. You were a very good girl for your punishment."

The words "good girl" seemed like a shaft of light piercing the strange black cloud that had suddenly enveloped me. If George had asked me what I was feeling, I would have had no idea how to answer him. I was still exulting in the pain and the shame, but I was somehow also still plunged deep in abject sorrow at my shortcomings as a wife, a little girl,
and a person.

My tears found a
n end the way they always do, and I rested my face against his chest, covered in the silky cotton of its ultra-expensive oxford shirt. That comforted me; I suppose it was because that shirt meant he was George—corporate attorney George, who loved oxford shirts, the higher the thread count the better, and yet still loved Ibsen. I kissed the shirt; I couldn't help it. He kissed the top of my head in response.

"I'm going to lay down my rules, now, little girl. Are you listening?"

"Yes, Daddy."

"Fi
rst, your body belongs to your daddy." He moved his hand from my knee and pulled up the front of my skirt. He urged my thighs apart and laid his hand gently on my little pussy for emphasis. "I will play with it whenever I want." He played a little, and I sighed.

"Yes, Daddy."

"Second, you will wear what your daddy wants you to wear. If I want you to wear crotchless panties..."

"Oh, Daddy!" I blushed to the roots of my hair.

"If I want you to wear crotchless panties so I can enjoy you while you are wearing them, you will. If I want you to wear a little jumper and carry a teddy bear, you will do so."

"Yes, Daddy."

"Third, when your daddy wants you to be naked, you will be naked. Sometimes that will be because he wants to use your young body, but more often it will be because he wants to make sure you understand that you are a little girl, and little girls' pretty young bodies are for their daddies to look at and to enjoy whenever they please. Most importantly, Daddy will inspect your young body regularly. Inspecting your secret parts will involve testing your responses there, and you will not resist this inspection or this testing in any way because it is what Daddy likes to do. Also, you will keep your body free of hair, except the lovely hair on your head because that is the way Daddy likes it."

"Oh!" I said.

"Do you understand, Caroline?"

"Yes, Daddy."

"Fourth, when Daddy wants to spank your little bottom, he will spank it. This is partly because daddies simply like to spank their little girls' bottoms and partly because Daddy knows that a naughty little girl like Caroline
always
needs to be reminded to be good, and spanking is the best reminder Daddy knows."

He held me very close as he finished telling me this rule, as if he wanted to make sure I knew it was something that came from his love for me. But I had no need—absolutely no need—to be reminded. It may sound strange, but this was my favorite rule of all.

"Yes, Daddy."

"Fifth, when Caroline disobeys
or is slow to obey, she will be punished severely." I shivered. "Obedience is the most important duty I require of you, and I will regard failure to obey as needing harsh correction. You may expect to have bruises and welts on your bottom, I am afraid, because it is important to me that I leave my mark there to show both of us that justice has been done. You may expect not to be able to sit down for several days."

I was so aroused and so frightened that I couldn't ev
en utter a syllable in response but only nodded, quivering a little all over my body as I did.

"Do you understand all these rules
, little girl? There will certainly be others from time to time but these are the ones that are most important to me."

I nodded. "Yes, Daddy."

"All right, then. I think it's time for you to be naked. Please stand up and remove all your clothing."

Now the
part of this life that I was still getting used to began to grow and grow. The role had begun to be overwhelming. Just as I had been really scared of George's belt, I was now really embarrassed to be commanded to undress for him. I am in general a fairly shameless person; perhaps that's exactly why I needed this, but it was very strange suddenly to feel truly demure. Indeed, it was a sort of method acting, I think—the kind that I had never been able to attain to on the stage. Or perhaps I mean on the stage in a theater, because it now appeared that what George and I had created together was a stage in its own way.

I stood up, hesitantly. "Do I have to, Daddy?" I asked.

"Yes, sweetheart, you have to," he replied. "I want to see your young body, and you had better not disobey if you know what's good for you."

I thought about how much my bottom hurt already, and I grew a little frightened.
My Daddy was strict with me, but the most important thing was that he got whatever he might want. I was losing myself in the fantasy, and it was like a delicious skinny-dip in a dark lake.

"But, Daddy, isn't it wicked to let someone else see you without your clothes on?"

"Sometimes daddies like to make their little girls do wicked things," he replied. "Then, I'm afraid, they sometimes punish their little girls for doing them."

I actually stamped my foot. "That's not fair!"

"I don't care, Caroline," George replied, levelly. "Now get those clothes off."

I felt the lovely scared feeling again, and I put my hands down to the waistband of my skirt. The skirt fell to the ground, and then, blushing furiously, I began to unbutton my blouse.

"Very nice," said my daddy. "Good girl." His words made it worse—and better. I couldn't even think about looking at him now, but my moisture, as usual, was flowing.

I shrugged the blouse to the floor. I
was in my pink bra and panties and nothing else. "Stop a moment," said George. "Come here."

I was only perhaps four feet away from the couch, but I shuffled towards him.

"Closer," he said. I shuffled forward a little more so that my pink panties were only a few inches from where he had leaned his face forward.

I heard him breathe in deeply through his nose. I
bit my lower lip in an ecstasy of embarrassment. My eyes found an upper corner of the wall and rested there, both hoping and not hoping that this would go on forever.

"Oh, young lady," George said, "I am afraid that the way you smell down here is very naughty indeed."

"Oh, Daddy, please," I said, "don't punish me for that. It's not fair. You're the one who makes me feel that way."

Then I felt his fing
ers on the front of the panties. I felt him running them down the sides of the gusset and pulling it aside to expose me to his view.

"Oh, no, plea
se," I moaned. I really felt it. I really felt the shame and the fear that he was going to make me feel pleasure I shouldn't feel—and then punish me for it. That feeling by itself made me so wet that I was afraid I would actually begin dripping right in front of George's eyes.

Then
I felt his tongue.

"Oh my God, George," I screamed. I couldn't help pu
tting my hands on his shoulders to steady myself—otherwise I would simply have fallen down.

I felt the tongue withdraw, and George said, "Young lady, you ought to know that a little girl who has a pussy this swee
t is always liable to have her daddy taste it."

"Oh, please
..."

"Don't make a fuss now, Caroline. Daddy is going to taste your little pussy as much as he wants."

And he did: he tasted me, and tasted me, and tasted me. All the while, he kept saying "Hush, hush." Sometimes he said it gently, and sometimes he said it sternly. Sometimes, when he said it strictly, he emphasized the word with a sharp spank to my bottom.

I tried desperately t
o hush. I clamped my mouth shut so that what would have been screams came out as strangled little cries, building and building and building until at last there was one long moan, and with the explosion of my climax I would have fallen down, even with my hands on George's shoulders, except that with his left hand he seized me around the waist as he made his final attack with the tip of his tongue.

After that, he picked me up and carried me to bed. I still had not had my first real inspection, I realized
, as he laid me down on the bed and covered me up. I had a little flutter of anticipation of what the next night might hold.