Caroline's Rocking Horse (7 page)

"That's not quite true, sweetheart, is it?" Now there was something else there, pressing against the shaved lips of my little-girl part... what was it? It was harder than my Daddy's daddy-thing, but not so very hard.

"Um
..."

"Girls should only have things in their rosebuds when their daddies put them there."

"Yes, Daddy." There was a little click, and suddenly the other thing started to vibrate. A hum filled the air, and I thought that I had been shot out of a cannon into a strange galaxy of cruel pleasure.

I gave a wordless shriek of excess sensation.
My daddy held the thing against my pussy's center for a long moment while my hips bucked frantically against the ottoman and my shriek went on and on. Then he took it away and turned it off.

"Just as I thought. You are v
ery much in need of this lesson. Wanton girls like you need to submit their lewd desires to the will of a daddy who will degrade them to show them that he knows that they long to be degraded. Some girls, and you are one of them, also need to feel that they are little—that's where the infantilization comes in. You have the needs you have, young lady; never be ashamed that you have them, but let your daddy lead you through the shame that you cannot escape, the lovely shame that you cannot avoid because it gives you such pleasure."

Silently
now, he went back to teaching me in a much more direct way. He gently urged the thing in my rosebud inward, and outward, and inward. He turned the thing that vibrated on, and moved it gently about my bare little vulva until I was moaning, "Please... please..."

He turned the thing that vibrated off, but he continued to rouse me with his lovely fingers, as he said, "Now, young lady, you ar
e being trained in your rosebud to be a nice bottom-girl for your daddy. When your daddy puts his daddy-thing in your rosebud, your rosebud will be ready to give his cock the pleasure it deserves, won't it?"

"Ahhhh
... yes, Daddy—yes, Daddy."

"Are you going to take Daddy's cock in your little rosebud, Caroline?"

"Yes, Daddy!"

"Are you going to be my little bottom-girl?"

"Yes, Daddy!"

"Your time has come, young lady. You may let go of your bottom-cheeks. You may u
se your hands to touch yourself, to make your first time more fun for you."

Oh, it almost sounded like he had
... it was so wonderfully degrading to think that, like Mr. Hastings, he had fucked the asses of dozens of girls.... I put my right hand down to my vulva as I thought about my husband fucking other girls' bottoms.

I thought
again about what my Daddy had said: ". . . to make your first time more fun for you," because of course it wasn't really fun for a girl to take a cock in her ass; she did it because her daddy made her do it.

I felt the head of his
daddy-thing there, covered in lube.

"Push down, little girl. Let me in." He pushed. I gave a little choked sob. I couldn't
... I tried, but I couldn't open my bottom the way I knew I was supposed to.

"Let me in, Caroline, or I'm going to cane you again until you're ready to give me my way."

It was terrible and monstrous, but those words did it. I breathed in and rubbed my clit and pushed, and I felt my husband's cock pass where nature said it should not pass, and I heard him say, "Good girl. Such a nice, tight little bottom. Daddy's going to fuck it for you now."

With a moan, I pushed back against him, taking more of his cock inside me. I heard a gratifying groan, but then he gave me a spank—not a har
d one—and said, "Naughty!"

"I'm sorry, Daddy," I said, with difficulty. "It's just so hard." Then, unforgivably, I giggled.

He laughed himself, and it seemed to make the whole scene too marvelous for description. "Oh, Caroline, I love you so much," he said, with a grunt at the end to show that he liked being inside my anus really very much indeed.

"Oh, I love you, too, Daddy—George."

Then there was the slow part, then, abruptly, the fast and painful part, and then there was the stillness after the spasm. My Daddy withdrew from my bottom but not from me; he coaxed me over onto my side, facing him, and he gathered me in and held me close until we fell asleep.

My first holiday season as a little girl (oh, you know what I mean—this new kind of little girl) was wonderful. That was when the big room in the basement became the playroom, and my Daddy filled it with toys for both of us.

There was the cabinet for the daddy toys. In it hung a riding crop, a cane, a paddle, and a strap. There were some very big pillows in various shapes. There was a box that held the naughty things that my Daddy liked to put inside me. Most importantly, there was a soft rug that did not make rug-burns on my knees. There was a big chair that I would kneel in front of to please my Daddy. There were ropes and chains, handcuffs and gags, and blindfolds. These all lived in a kind of toy chest against the wall. And there was a big space where I thought the rocking horse would go.

There were new clothes for me, too. There was
a sailor dress and a schoolgirl outfit. Above all, there were the panties. There were the panties with no frills at all, in pink and blue and white cotton, and then there were the panties with just little bits of frill, to show that I was getting to be a bigger girl. Those were the ones that my Daddy seemed to like most of all. Most of the time he would leave them on me while he was doing various daddy-things to me. One of his favorite things to do was to force me to make a large wet spot on my little-girl panties. Then he would cluck and turn me over, pull the panties down and spank me. Then, overcome by his little girl's young charms, he would take me. Usually he took me over one of the big pillows, but sometimes he would just have me kneel on the floor and put my face down to the rug, and then he would ride me vigorously while he told me that the girls mustn't get their panties wet that way because it made their daddies want to use them roughly.

The best part of the holiday season was when George took me into the city to stay at a hotel one Saturday night in December. We both knew, thank goodness, that my little-girl clothes would l
ook ridiculous worn in public so I got to wear a nice elegant dress to see
The Nutcracker
, although under it, of course, I had to wear my little-girl underwear. On the other hand, no one could hear the things that George was saying to me under his breath all the way through the ballet and during the intermission and during the lovely dinner we had afterwards. He said terrible things about Clara and her Nutcracker Prince—about what he thought the prince wanted to do to Clara, and how she would have to let him do whatever he wanted, or else he wouldn't bring her back home.

My Daddy
described in minute detail what had happened in the gondola of the balloon when it was out of view of the audience. He described how the prince had raised Clara's little dress and ripped open her little drawers, unable to wait for a more civilized occasion to enjoy his little paramour. How Clara cried out when she felt the prince entering her, how above the clouds he had tasted her young sex and had given her a blissful feeling she had never imagined.

When we returned to the hotel, I was so aroused that I was having great difficulty maintaining the appearance of a modest little girl. I wanted to grab
my husband and enjoy him myself, in gratitude for his delicious torment of me. Indeed, I went so far as to take his hand, which I knew was now an action forbidden to me, since it was a sign of forwardness. He growled, "Young lady," in such a menacing tone that I gave up the idea at once, dropped his hand and folded my hands in front of me with my eyes downcast. I went on burning in silence until we got into the elevator to go up to our room. At that point, George took me by the shoulders, turned me around, and shoved me into the elevator wall, at the same time lifting my elegant red dress from behind, and yanking down my little-girl panties. I was desperate for him to enter me, but instead he began to spank me, very hard, with his open hand. The idea that the elevator might open before it reached our floor and admit another guest as a witness to my terrible embarrassment—the way a naughty little girl was receiving her just chastisement—made me flow into the partially-lowered panties, where the gusset still covered my bare young pussy, even though George had lowered the back of the pink panties to below my bottom-cheeks. I gasped and cried out and said, "I'm sorry, Daddy. I won't do it again."

"You most certainly will not, young lady," said George. "I could see the lustful look in your eyes, a look that a little girl should never wear."

Five minutes later, in our room, the red dress was still on but hiked to my waist. My panties, too, were still on but lowered to my knees, and I was on my belly on the hotel bed over two pillows, trying desperately to muffle my cries of passion as my Daddy-husband played Nutcracker-Prince to my Clara.

* * * * *

George was also working on something in his little woodworking shed, but he wouldn't tell me what it was. I thought I knew.

What happened Christmas morning is a little hard to explain, though I suppose it do
es conform to our pattern in general. It was just so much more serious an example of that pattern than any before or since that it remains inexplicable, in my mind. If I had to guess, it was because it was Christmas, that children's holiday of all children's holidays.

The pattern is that I become so thoroughly a little girl that I lose any shred of reasonableness about my little-girl
desires. I think the basic explanation of the pattern is that, because my reason is always threatening to ruin my erotic fun when I'm doing ageplay with George, I have—without even realizing it or trying—found a way simply to shut it off when I'm being a little girl. The up-side is that at those moments I'm so deep into my character as my daddy's young lady that the libidinous parts of me are utterly at his command, making for hours and hours of the hottest sex imaginable.

The down
-side is that I will sometimes for apparently no reason have little tantrums. That first Christmas morning as my Daddy's little girl was not a little tantrum, though; it was a very big one.

We had just come back from church. George had made me wait to see my presents until then, and I was being an angel bec
ause, you know, Christmas. Plus, I was so, so sure that there was going to be a rocking horse under the tree, and I was blushing and warming between my thighs every time I thought about my first ride.

Then, when at
last he let me into the living room, I saw a big teddy bear and a bunch of little boxes that might well contain lovely clothes or even jewelry, but they didn't matter in the slightest because there was no rocking horse.

I felt my eyes start to water
and my chin start to quiver. He had betrayed me, after all. There was one thing I wanted, and given the shameful things I had done for him—that he had
made
me do—he couldn't be bothered to get me the one thing I wanted—that I knew
he knew
I wanted.

"Merry Christmas, Caroline," he said, with love in his voice.

"But you said you were going to get me a rocking horse, Daddy!" I yelled, in response.

George laughed, clearly sure that I was joking.

"I'm not joking, you asshole!" I turned and actually started to hit his chest with my fists. "You turn me into your little-girl whore, and you don't get me the one thing I want! Did I not suck your cock well enough?!"

"Caroline! What the hell?" I rea
d bewilderment in his eyes—and also rising anger. I hit him again, and the wrath won in a very big way. As I struggled he grabbed my wrists and took them into his left hand, while with his right he half-dragged, half-walked me over to the couch. He sat and pulled me over his lap. I kept struggling, but he put my left hand under my chest and grabbed my right wrist and bent my arm back and held me there. My legs kicked, to no avail. He yanked my skirt up, exposing the blue panties with the lace trim that I knew he liked so much—that I had worn for him that morning as a Christmas present. He began to spank me—huge, punishing blows, incredibly painful, with no warm-up beforehand, incredibly painful even atop the panties.

"I don't know if you're just playing, young lady, but even if you are
, I'm going to teach you that good girls don't play that way." He emphasized nearly every word with a tremendous smack; he delivered them in sets of three: right, left, center. I was already howling with pain and the indignity of the way he was holding me down for my punishment. I kept kicking, though, still furious with him for betraying my trust.

"You were a foul-mouthed little slut a few moments ago, and this bottom is going to pay the price for that unacceptable behavior."

"Ow! Oh, Daddy, ow, oh please! Please, stop." He was hitting me very, very hard—so hard that I was close to using my safe-word.

"And for accusing me of using my little girl that way." My bottom was on fire—I was a hair's breadth away.

"You do use me that way!"

"No! Not that way, Caroline. I didn't
turn you into
my little-girl whore."

There was something important there, but it got lost for the moment, because he delivered another wallop, and I screamed, "YELLOW!"

And my Daddy gave me three more hard spanks.

I screamed, "I SAID YELLOW! You're hurting me!"

"That's my intention, Caroline, you shameless slut. You need to learn your lesson."

"What? Owwwwww! YELLOW YELLOW YELLOW."

He spanked me after each yellow, as if to say, "So?" In utter confusion, I felt the tantrum leave my body, and I went limp over his lap as three more spanks landed, at which I just gave little sorrowful howls of pain.

Then, suddenly, he stood me up in front of him.
"Take your clothes off, Caroline. We're far from done here. You're going over my lap now, as naked as the day you were born. You are a little girl, and little girls do not speak to their daddies the way you spoke to me earlier."

Trembling, I unhooked my cute gr
een Christmas dress at the neck and pulled the zipper down. This was awful. I had said "yellow" and... and what? Well, first, he hadn't stopped—at all. He hadn't spanked any softer; he hadn't checked to see if I was OK.

And then
... I hadn't said "red," and I wasn't saying "red" now. I felt like I was in a very strange place as my green dress fell around my feet and I looked at George. He was surveying, with a sort of mixture of anger and lust, my breasts and my thighs and the space between them, covered in the cute blue lingerie—but not covered for long, unless I wanted to... to stop it.

Was I consenting, then? Was I telling him that even though he had spanked me to "yellow
," he was the daddy and I was the little girl, and if he thought I needed to be punished this painfully he was going to do it, safe-word or no safe-word?

I put my hands behind me to unhook my bra, and George looked into my eyes. I
found I couldn't meet his gaze and dropped my eyes to look at his lap, over which I now had to go again, but this time as naked as the day I was born: a true, naughty little girl.

What would happen if I said "red"? I realized I didn't want to know; I wanted to trust
my daddy in a way that went far, far beyond anything about a rocking horse. I wanted to trust him to teach me about how to please him and for him to learn from me about how to please me.

Yes, my bottom hurt. It really, really hurt.

At this point, the pain thing—I'll tell you what I mean by that in a moment—resolutely took hold for the very first time, in a way it hadn't even when I'd had my caning for disobedience. The caning for disobedience had been about the disobedience, and the pain involved had been locked into the "Daddy's rules" part of our new ageplay dynamic. Now, however, Christmas morning after church, it was about the pain itself. I didn't want to stop being hurt by the man I loved. I just didn't, as insane as it sounds. Masochism, OK? Masochism. I wasn't going to say "red," because I liked it when my Daddy hurt me. This is going to sound crazy unless you're like me, but when you make me feel pain, I own you. I made you hurt me, and now I have the bruise to prove it, and the sensation coursing through my body, winding all my physical responses to a fever pitch that, at least for me, always goes straight to my wanton vulva.

It's an emotional logic that can lead very eas
ily, I think, to mental illness and self-harm. I get that. But it's how I tick, and it's how I get off, and perhaps the fact that I know about it makes me saner than those who have this kind of thing lurking inside them and never think it through. Perhaps.

Anyway, I pulled my blue
panties with the lace trim down and stepped out of them. Blushing and unable to look at him, I laid myself over George's lap again.

He put hi
s left arm around my waist, and to my surprise, moved me rightward, so that my right knee was on the floor, with my right thigh between his legs, while my left leg remained over his right. In other words, he exposed my vulva shamelessly. Was he going to spank me there? I didn't think I could bear it.

He didn't though. He
said, "Thank you for obeying me and undressing and laying yourself down so sweetly. I can tell that you understand the lesson I am trying to teach you this morning, young lady."

Oh, no. His fingers
... the fingers of his right hand were playing with my hairless pussy. I made shameless little grunts as he toyed the way that only my daddy knows how to toy with that wicked part of me. I hid my face in my hands, embarrassed at my tantrum and at the incredible immodesty I was now displaying as I demonstrated exactly why I needed my Daddy's firm hand. That terrible, brutal spanking had made me pant for these lascivious caresses the way only a little slut would pant for them.

"I did not
turn you into my little whore
, now did I?" he asked, softly.

"No, Daddy," I sobbed.

"Why not?"

"Oh, Daddy
... please don't make me say it."

"You must say it, little Caroline, so that I know you really do understand." He rubbed insistently but gently, and now he touched his little rosebud lightly, too. I made a shameful little cooing sound in my chest. "Say it, Caroline."

"I was always your little whore, Daddy."

"Good girl," he said, and began to spank me again.

The spanks he gave me now were not the wallops of before, but the stinging little slaps that sometimes hurt and sometimes actually don't hurt because of what your body is feeling in other places, and sometimes are a delicious mixture. This was delicious mixture time, especially because he also did deliver some of them to my poor little labia, at one point directing a series of spanks there with increasing force and making me simultaneously shriek with pain and flow onto the spanking hand so much that I could feel its stickiness as he kept up the torment.

Though time seemed to vanish, h
e kept it up for at least ten minutes until finally he stopped and began to nuzzle and kiss my little bottom, which made me scream so loudly I thought the glass was going to break.

Then he stopped, still holding me around the waist and just rubbing my chastised backside ever so lightly, while I continued to coo. Then even the rubbing stopped, and we just stayed like that for long minutes.