Caroline's Rocking Horse (8 page)

As I lay there, exhausted from the spanking, I was i
n a welter of emotions almost impossible to sort out. Anger—but at myself, for the tantrum. Pride—for the tantrum, somehow? For obeying my husband? For not going to "red"? Gratitude to George for hurting me?

The whole thing was still only a few weeks old, and I wasn't yet used to how it could, frankly,
still fuck with my head. But then, as now, the overriding emotion was contentment—contentment with this thing that had already begun to seem my lot in life—being my Daddy's little girl.

At last, George gathered me from over his lap and snuggled me into it. I felt his hardness through his grey flannels, under my thigh, upon which I was sure there was now
a stain that would require dry-cleaning.

"Caroline, sweetheart, look at me,"
he murmured. I looked into my daddy's kind blue eyes. "You
are
getting a rocking horse for Christmas."

"What?"

"In fact, you're getting two—and you're getting the first one right now." The last part he said with a hint of self-mocking menace that I didn't understand until he started to shift me about. I remembered the rule about how I must adopt whatever posture my Daddy wanted. I let him guide me firmly but without force, so that I was straddling him on the couch, my knees on either side of his thighs. Then I got it: I was going to ride a very special rocking horse now—his. I blushed.

He reach
ed down and unfastened his belt buckle, then wriggled out of his grey flannels and boxers. I whimpered gratefully when I felt the soft tip of him brush against my inner thigh. I looked down to see his cock standing straight up, pointing right at my bare little pussy at just the right angle.

Thinking I knew what he wanted, I started to lower myself, but Daddy gav
e me a hard spank on my already-sore backside. I said, "Ow! I'm sorry, Daddy!"

"You should be, little girl. Modest young ladies do not lower themselves onto gentlemen's cocks like animals in heat. Modest young ladies wait to be told what is required of them."

"Yes, Daddy."

"What is required of you right now is that you hold yourself very still." I nodded, unable to speak, for now he was teasing me with his wonderful cock, moving it back and forth over the exquisitely sensitive
, smooth folds of my little vulva—positioning it just there, where it would slide inside so nicely, and then moving it away, to knock its tip ever so lightly against the most sensitive place of all.

The tension in my bo
dy was both lovely and terrible as I held myself up with my hands on the back of the couch on either side of George's handsome face. He had told me not to act like an animal in heat, but I felt so very much like one, desperate to ride my Daddy's cock, to feel its warmth inside me and be astride my rocking horse at last.

"Caroline?" he murmured. "How much do you want a
rocking horse?"

"Oh, Daddy. I want one so very much
... I—I think I'll die if I don't get my rocking horse."

"Then put your hands o
n my shoulders now."

As I did, he moved his
daddy-thing just the right way so that everything lined up perfectly.

"Then ride your
rocking horse now, my wonderful little girl."

I lowered myself, saying softly, "Oh, Daddy, oh my Daddy," almost afraid I would faint at the loveliness of the sensation.

In my mind, as I began to ride my first rocking horse—my real rocking horse, the one that I should always ride in preference to any other—I saw Miss Lewis and Mr. Hastings. That wicked headmaster, overcome by the sweetness of Miss Lewis' girlish love for him, had sat himself down on the little settee in his bedchamber and had his young leman, all blushes, put her knees around his thighs and position her little cunny just where she should, so that she could ride a St. George upon her kind Papa who taught her so much.

I had no idea how I could be both
Miss Lewis and Caroline Dawkins, how George could be Mr. Hastings at the same time he was George Lane. Maybe it was that I was naked and George was still wearing his blue blazer and his white oxford and his Christmas tie, so it felt like the most formal, Victorian sex I had ever had. Maybe it was just that when you start letting the fantasies in and start letting them tell you how to feel the things you never let yourself believe you could really feel, the portal between imagination and reality opens wider and wider until you ARE the Victorian girl, shamefully (but delightfully) used by the proper headmaster.

However
it was, Mr. Hastings was very wicked, for he kept murmuring the naughtiest things as I moved up and down upon him. "Does that feel nice in your cunt, sweetheart?"

"Oh, Daddy, please don't say such things!"

"I'll say what I please, Miss Lewis... and I think I should make you say naughty things, too...."

I felt my face getting hot yet again.

"Yes, Caroline, I think you should certainly tell me about how your cunt feels right now."

I bowed my head so that I wouldn't have to look at him, but that of course mean
t that I was looking just at the spot where his daddy-thing was inside my little-girl part, which made me blush even harder. I had to close my eyes.

Mr. Hastings rubbed his thumb gently across the most sensitive place of all and said, "This place is called your clitoris, Miss Lewis. Your clitoris is the most lovely part of your little cunt, don't you think?"

"Yes!" I said.

"Say it," my d
addy commanded.

"Oh, no
... oh, no... m—my cunt..."

"Your cunt what?"

"It's got a big, big cock in it!"

"What has a big cock in it, Caroline?"

"My c—my cunt... it has my daddy's big cock inside it... oh, God... oh, God..."

My Mr. Hastings, my d
addy, held me very tightly while I came. Then he gently lifted me off him and rather unceremoniously said, "Sweetheart, get on your knees, please, in front of me. I'm going to come in your mouth now."

Something about that co
mmand absolutely undid me. I'd had my ride on my rocking horse, and it had been lovely—a lovely present from my daddy. But now it was time for me to remember that my daddy's needs came before mine, and my daddy wanted to use my mouth, and it was time for me to be a good little girl and try as hard as I could to please my daddy's cock.

It tasted like me, like the naughtiness of my little-girl part, and that made me bad, because little girls shouldn't have naughtiness that flowed and pooled and tasted like that—but it also made me good, because even though it was terribly
shameful to taste myself on my daddy's big cock, I had taken him inside my mouth, and I was tasting myself and him because that was what my daddy wanted.

Sometimes daddies like to make their little girls do wicked things. There was no way around it, I thought, as I felt my ow
n daddy put his hand in my hair and start to control my motions. I struggled to please him, my eyes watering with the effort since I always gagged a little—I couldn't help it—when my daddy held himself in as deep as he really liked and filled my little mouth full of him.

Now that this had become a regular part of our new erotic lives, I could say
that I loved it and I hated it when George enforced his will on me that way—loved it because it meant that having his cock in my mouth was something that made his cock feel good, and there were ways to make my mouth so pleasurable that he refused to deny himself the feeling—for example, the back of my throat enveloping the head of his penis. I hated it because there was nothing I could do but try not to retch while he sought out his pleasure, driving my head down upon his rigid length, allowing me no world except the world of his crotch where he was unquestioned master.

But then
... then there was the part that was past both love and hate, where there lived the simple rightness of my daddy doing with me what he pleased. That was where, it seemed to me, his voice originated when he said, quietly but very clearly, "Yeah, you're a little cunt-mouth, aren't you Caroline?"

Let me c
onfess fully here, near the end—near the place where I will close the ring and bring you back, dear reader, to the playroom and the wooden rocking horse. To be called a "cunt-mouth" drove me wild with lust. How does it happen that a woman with a Ph.D. in English Literature can at certain times apparently want nothing in the world more than she wants to be on her knees in front of her husband with him holding her face down on his cock and calling her "cunt-mouth"? I'll try, as a gesture of good will, to answer the question.

First, we need to consider the meaning of "cunt-mouth." It seems, really, quite transparent: a "cunt-mouth" is a girl whose mo
uth feels to a man like a pussy. We shouldn't neglect to bring into consideration also that this compound word (portmanteau word, really) may also be the most demeaning thing an intelligent woman could ever be called. I would argue for that point based on the centrality of the mouth as the organ of speech—the place from where a woman displays her reason and mental acuity. In my case for example, as a scholar I make my living with my mouth and with my pen and my keyboard; given that the phrases "cunt-pen" and "cunt-keyboard" are patently ridiculous, "cunt-mouth" would seem to be the most demeaning thing anyone could call me. George was saying that the mouth that had delivered countless lectures and countless public talks about topics as diverse as the symbolism of the garden in George Eliot and the role of herbal lore in
Hamlet
really had no better use than as an imitation vagina for his cock to take its pleasure.

Also consider
the element of skill involved. It's not especially easy for a person who has teeth to provide a sensation that would provoke her husband to call her "cunt-mouth." I believe that my arousal at—and frankly, love of—being called a "cunt-mouth" begins from the pride that I feel at the very thought that George would even think of calling me that.

But to pretend that my love of the
term comes just from satisfaction that I'm showing my daddy a good time would be utterly dishonest. I wrote earlier in this story that I have a pain thing. I have a degradation thing like unto it. The more George degrades me (within, of course, certain hygienic limits), the more I grasp my value to him, and the more I feel that I belong to him. When he calls me "cunt-mouth," he is actually saying that I am
his
cunt-mouth. He claims me as an object which is worthless and gives me worth specifically in that I am valuable to him in having a mouth that feels to him like a cunt—indeed, one that feels even better than a cunt, or wouldn't he be fucking my cunt instead of my mouth?

But
finally, that line of reasoning leads to the most important point of the debasement thing: the real reason he isn't fucking my cunt is that he wants to debase me by putting my highly-educated mouth to a purpose that says to me, "You may very well be a Ph.D. in English Literature, but I know what your mouth is really good for: you are a cunt-mouth.

And the
most important part of all
is that I am giving him my mouth to use like a cunt of my own free will because giving him what he wants, playing this lovely game of daddy-dominance-and-little-girl-submission actually makes us equal partners in helping each other find mind-blowing erotic fulfillment. Like the fulfillment my daddy then found as he made me swallow every drop of semen that came forth from his convulsing loins, and the fulfillment I likewise found as I complied with my Daddy's silently-expressed commands.

That was how
the next morning, still a little sore from my punishment and my ride on my Daddy the day before, I was led down to the playroom to see my real rocking horse, the one with the beautiful mane and the shameful part sticking up out of the saddle. I had slept naked, the way I usually did now, so that George could claim the parts of me he wanted to claim whenever he liked. And really, it wasn't all that (lovely) possessive stuff: I could tell from the start that he loved seeing me so bare and vulnerable. He would put the covers over me and snuggle me up, just like a real little girl and whisper in my ear, "Does that feel nice and warm?"

And I would say, "Yes, Daddy. Thank you." And then I would drift off to sleep, warm and safe.

So when the next morning my Daddy came to get me in bed and had me brush my teeth and drink my coffee, all naked and in front of him. That still made me color a little when I thought of how he was allowed to wear clothes whenever he wanted, but he generally commanded that I wear none. I was in a proper frame of mind, naked little girl as I was, to see my new toy.

As it turned out, however, perhaps just because
it was so early in the morning I ended up defying him without thinking about it. Embarrassed at the thought of being watched naked on the horse with its phallus impaling me, I made the mistake of asking to be alone with the rocking horse and ended up touching my toes and being paddled for talking back to my daddy.

That's where we started this story, if you recall.

After the twelfth stroke of the paddle, he said, "If you think about it, sweetheart, I'm sure you'll understand why after all the work Daddy put into this horse he wants to see you ride it."

"Yes, Da
ddy." I held my posture so well now that I felt a little pride, despite the way my bottom-cheeks felt like someone had sat me a hot stove.

"Al
l right, you may straighten up."

I
straightened and looked at the horse in front of me with the menacing horse-thing rising out of its saddle. I made a fearful little noise in my throat.

"Shh, Caroline. Let's get you up and in the saddle."

"But..."

"Don't talk back to me, young lady. Or do you want another spanking?"

"No, Daddy."

"Th
en put your foot in the stirrup and get your pussy on that leather cock, or I'm going to get the cane."

"Daddy!" I said
, shocked at the terrible word he had used.

"Daddies may use whatever words they want, little girl. You need another lesson, I think—but I won't get the cane. Go
to the horse and suck its cock, to get it ready to fuck your pussy."

I turned to look at him, pleading with my eyes, but he was having none of it. He wanted to see this naughty, naughty thing he had just imagined.

I was but three steps away from my new rocking horse now, and as I stepped closer I saw at close range, for the very first time, the leather thing sticking up at a slight angle. The back of the big horse itself came up to my breasts, so the top of the phallus was just level with my chin.

"Kiss it, Caroline," said George.

Feeling my face grow as hot as a furnace, I bent my head and touched my lips to the top of the leather cock.

"Not like that, little girl. Show that you love your new horse. Show that you know your new horse is going to fuck you, and because you're a bad girl, you're going to love it."

Somewhere deep and hidden I had an enormous surge of love for him, for the way he was pushing my buttons with the dirty words. The wickedness of it—that shameful feeling that I was a good girl doing bad things—sent a thrill of arousal through my vulva that left me a little weak in the knees as I kissed the leather tip of the thing more earnestly now, thinking about where it was going to go—where it had to go, because my Daddy wanted to see it go there.

"Now open your mouth all the way,
little girl, and let this horsey know how much you want him."

I complied and
lowered my head, and the leather filled my mouth, tasting dark and bestial. Oh, no, I thought, what's this... suddenly the thought of the horse filled my mind, and the wickedness multiplied itself. I gagged a little; George stepped forward and grabbed me by the hair and started pushing my head up and down on the horse's cock.

He pulled my head up
and held it there for a moment, waiting, I think, for the safe-word. But there was no way I was going to give it. I was gushing down below.

"Slut," he murmured. "Just a little slut."

He pushed my head down again onto the horse-cock, and moved it up and down. His little girl, his slut.

My Daddy
let go, and I left my mouth there, fellating the leather phallus frantically, showing my Daddy how much I wanted to please him with my wickedness.

"A
ll right, little slut. It's time to get up on the horse."

Without hesitation
, I put my left foot in the stirrup. George held my bottom, not neglecting to rub lewdly between my legs to make me moan and helped me put my right foot in the right stirrup, leaning far forward so that the leather cock came up against my tailbone.

"It's time, young lady," he s
aid, and raised my bottom again while I reached down and moved the phallus back and forth to find the place where it had to go. George let go, and I settled down so that the tip was inside me. Then George took hold of my hips.

"Oh, Daddy, please, no."

He pushed down, and I screamed. It was big, too big. I couldn't... but it felt so good, too, filling me up. At last I had the whole thing inside, and I sat in the saddle, and you would never have known that this naked girl on the horse had a big horse-cock inside her.

George stepped back
to watch, and I began, with little movements, to ride.

My eyes were clo
sed as I rode my horse, posting and rocking, learning how to create a rhythm that would please me. I was so ashamed that my Daddy was watching me be so immodest, but at the same time I knew he must be enjoying himself greatly. When I ventured to open my eyes just a bit, once, I saw he had taken off his clothes and was watching me on my horse, holding his daddy-thing in his hand, rubbing it the way daddies are allowed to do because they get to say. The sight seemed so shameful and forbidden that I closed my eyes again immediately and kept up with my riding. I found that I could time my motions so that the rocking movement of the horse made the phallus rush into me at just the moment I was lowering myself, invariably making me cry out like the bad girl I was. I started to scream, "Oh, Daddy, oh, Daddy, oh, Daddy," my cries in perfect rhythm with my ride.

I suddenly felt George's hand on my hips. My eyes flew open, an
d I turned my head to see that he was standing behind me on a low platform that he had maneuvered into place while my eyes were closed. He held his cock, glistening with lube, in his right hand, while with his left he had stilled my motions on the horse.

"Hold still, Caroline," he commanded. I tried, with a little mew of frustration, to obey.

Then I said, "Oh, no," for I felt what he had put up against my little bottom-hole, covered in lube.

"Shh. Yes."

"Oh, please... I—I can't."

"You will, Caroline." He leaned, and pushed.

I cried out in terror and discomfort. The rocking horse phallus had already filled me full, or so it felt to me. There was no room left. Sobbing, I tried to push down with my bottom so that my Daddy could have me the way he wanted, that wicked way that he liked so much. I felt him enter inside, felt him triumph over my tightness there, felt him have his terrible way with my bottom, and I was full as I had
never
been full before, shared between my husband and his rocking horse.

"Ride
now, little girl," he whispered.

It was not riding, certainly, but it w
as definitely a kind of rocking. My daddy stayed still at first and let me move upon my terrible saddle, forwards and backwards.

I came, screaming;
at the same time, my daddy took command of my hips. The horse was still, but my daddy was riding me. On and on he rode while I clung desperately to my horse's mane, feeling debased and used as I never had before.

T
his wonderful horse was the means of my daddy's ultimate possession of every bit of me and of my modesty. I cried out at the indignity and the discomfort, while George said, "Good girl... nice bottom... sweet—so nice and tight..."

I felt his whole body tense
and his cock pulse. He groaned, and his hips seemed to spasm against my bottom as he sheathed himself painfully deep, making me moan. It was as if my daddy had won a lusty victory over his naughty little girl, winning his pleasure from her at the expense of her shame and her discomfort—as if he had ridden in triumph to a pleasure that could only be had through my tears of lost innocence and painful experience.

We stayed completely still for a very long time.

Then, ever so gently, George helped me ease myself off the back of my rocking horse. My legs felt like overcooked spaghetti; I didn't trust them to support me, so I leaned my weight against my strong husband, and he walked me slowly over to the playroom couch, a big old comfortable thing from sometime in the 1980s, I think.

H
e sat and pulled me onto his naked lap and held me close. I spent long minutes re-entering the real world, still feeling in some part of my mind like I was rocking on the horse, or riding on ocean-waves, back and forth, with the painful pleasure of the leather phallus and my Daddy's cock driving me out into some world beyond our world, where little girls were prized like jewels, and their daddies somehow kept them safe while at the same time brutalizing them the way they wanted and the girls deserved.

At long last I turned my face from where it had rested against his furry chest, seeing nothing but the comforting expanse of his freckled skin, his
pink guy-nipples, and the horse across the room. I blushed, thinking about how the phallus would need to be cleaned now because of my immodest ride upon it.

"Daddy?" I asked.

"Yes, sweetheart?"

"Thank you for my
rocking horse."