Caroline's Rocking Horse (4 page)

"Yes," I whispered.

"Didn't I just tell you that young ladies in my house are to be modest and demure?"

"Yes, Daddy," I watched his
... what was I supposed to call it? I just couldn't call it that... that terrible naughty grown-up thing I had just called it in my mind a moment before... his—his
daddy-thing
jerked a little at the sound of my voice, and I felt the strange fantasy-fear grow at the same time I felt my... little-girl part?... felt it start to melt and flow, shamefully, warmly.

"Is it modest and demure to lick your lips when you see a man's private part?"

"No, Daddy."

"Al
l right, then. How should you feel when you see this?" Now he weighed it on his fingers, brandished it at me. I almost giggled.

I did giggle: nervously. (Good L
ord, had I ever been so wet?)

"Ashamed?"

"Yes, sweetheart, that's right. You should feel ashamed that you're here with your nightgown up and your panties down, and that the only way Daddy has to teach you to be good is to show you his..."

"His
daddy-thing?" I supplied, hoping he might adopt it, since it seemed to work for me.

"Yes. Yes. His
daddy-thing." He weighed it on his fingers again, gently. More melting down below for me. Oh, how I wanted to kiss it, to suck it. The number of times I had touched my husband's penis with my mouth to that point could almost certainly be counted on two hands, but I was hopeful now—to my shock—that that number would soon be growing very swiftly.

He continued
a little haltingly—which made it clear that he was improvising on the fly, for which I loved him forever, because that kind of improvisation takes an extraordinary amount of mental effort, and I knew he had already had a very long day. "Yes, that's right... so... I think it's very important that you... um... have my daddy-thing right in front of you while I... um, talk to you about what's important about the things you need to know...."

"
About my young body?" I offered to help.

"That's right. That's right
... you need to know how a Daddy likes to, um, to use..."

He nearly stopped there, having uttered that verb—that terrible, terrible, wonderful verb. I put everything I had into showing on my face just how very hot
that terrible verb had made me in my little-girl part.

"To use his little girl," he finished.

"Oh, Daddy," I said. "I want to make you happy! Will it make you happy to use me like that?"

He took the cue
so very marvelously I could hardly believe it. He said with authority, "Yes, Caroline, to use you with my daddy-thing will make me very happy indeed."

"Will it hurt, Daddy?"

"It may hurt a little, but I will be as gentle as I can be with you."

"Thank you, Daddy."

There was a pause; we were both trying to figure out what came next. "Daddy," I said, "may I kiss your daddy-thing?"

"Y—yes," he said. The first "Y" clearly meant that he was as desperate to have my lips on his cock as I was to put them the
re. The hesitation meant that he realized there was a breach of character involved; a modest, demure young lady shouldn't be allowed to bestow fellatio. The full "yes" meant that he had thought of how to proceed.

"Yes. You are going to give
my daddy-thing one sweet little-girl kiss right on top and then Daddy is going to ask you about what you were reading. Do you understand, sweetheart?"

"Yes, Daddy."

He leaned closer, putting his knees on the bed at the very edge. I watched his daddy-thing come towards my mouth and pursed my lips into a little-girl's moue. The temptation to put a hand down to touch my little-girl part was almost unbearable, but I balled my hands against my knees into little fists as the cock at last touched my fantasy-reluctant lips.

"There," said my daddy
with an enthrallment in his voice that I adored. "Oh, little Caroline, you don't know how much I want to have my daddy-thing inside your mouth right now, but it's not time for that yet."

He withdrew his
daddy-thing and sat again on the edge of the bed. I could just make out a little of his beautiful erection rising between his thighs, out from the wiry hair, as he stroked my cheek and said, "Now, Caroline, we will discuss what you were reading."

"You can read it for yourself," I protested.

"If I am to guide you properly, I must enforce on you the need to confess your naughty thoughts. It is not sufficient that I know about them; you must admit to your fantasies, and we must discuss them."

I felt my face grow hot once again. George idly stroked my bo
ttom-cheeks with his right hand and made me whimper. "Anytime you're ready, sweetie," he said.

I swallowed hard. "There's this schoolgirl," I said. "She goes to school at the house of a man named Mr. Hastings."

"What does the schoolgirl look like?" said George, rather salaciously.

"Hmm," I said. "It doesn't say, but why don't we say that she has red hair
and freckles. She's about five-foot-four."

"Is she, um, well-developed?" he asked.

I giggled. "No," I said. "She has, um, small breasts and not very much hair down there."

"Is it red, though?"

"Yes," I said, "it's red."

"Very nice," George said. Suddenly I realized that my husband and I were having the most intimate conversation we had ever had. Nothing in our three years dating or our five years of marriage had come close. We had never really talked about sex before at all. I didn't even know what he liked beyond what we had done in our previous vanilla way. I felt something
opening deep in my heart—something that had never been opened before.

"So what happens to her?" George said impatiently. "Do I have to start spanking you again?"

"Well, it turns out that Mr. Hastings is a very special kind of headmaster."

"In what way?"

"Well, he requires a letter from his girls' parents saying that he is allowed to teach them in any way he sees fit, especially about their young bodies."

"Really?" said George. It sounded like a genuine question, which meant
, I supposed, that he had never read any Victorian erotica.

I continued
, "And so this girl, named Miss Lewis, has a crush on him, of course, and she fantasizes about him all the time, and it affects her schoolwork." I said that last part ominously, wondering if he would know what happened to girls whose schoolwork was "affected" in Victorian schools in my books.

He didn't, though, and said, "So?"

"So she's caned, of course."

"Caned? You mean like in Malaysian prison?"

"Well, not really that bad. But the way they used to do it in British schools."

"Huh," he said. "That's
... interesting."

The way he said it made me fear for my bottom's future. He wouldn't really, would he? I did want him to be my headmaster, but I wasn't sure I wanted that part.

"Is that all?" he asked.

"Well, no," I said. "Afterwards, the headmaster
... um... teaches Miss Lewis about her young body."

"How exactly does he do that, now?"

"Well, he touches her...."

"Like this?"

"Oh, Daddy, please keep doing that."

"Do I need to teach you about your young body?"

I couldn't respond at that moment, because I was crying out with pleasure. I followed the cry, though, with another cry—this one in the form of the word "Yes!"

"Would you like to request that?"

I gave a little whimper and said, "Please, Sir... Please teach me about my young body."

"Why should I teach you about your young body?"

"Because I am so naughty. I need a firm hand to guide me."

"Where should that firm hand go? Should it spank your bottom?" He withdrew the
fingers from between my thighs and gave me a hard spank on both my cheeks.

"Yes!
Um... yes," I said, as his fingers returned to where they had been before, rubbing gently up and down the slippery folds.

"Should it pl
ay with your young pussy?" That was a special moment in and of itself, for we had never talked dirty before.

"Yes,
Sir." But he withdrew his hand cruelly. "Ask for it," he said.

"I shook
my head. Please don't make me, Daddy," I said. "I'm a good girl."

"You know that's not true, young lady," he sai
d. "Young ladies in this house do what their daddies tell them."

"But it's a bad word!" I protested. "Good girls don't say bad words, do they?"

He spanked me again—three times, hard.

"Ow!" I cried. "What did I do?"

"A proper young lady knows that the most important rule is that she does whatever her daddy tells her to do. Is that clear, little girl?" Three more spanks. Now my bottom was very warm and very painful.

"Yes, Daddy," I said
tentatively.

"Now ask for my hand on your young pussy," he said.

"Please, Daddy, please use your firm hand on my young pussy." My cheeks were warm with embarrassment.

"Al
l right, my good girl," he said. He returned his hand to the lovely, tormenting pursuits it had been occupied in before. "What's this?" he said. "My good girl's little pussy seems to be much wetter than it was a few moments ago. Really, I can't decide whether you're a good girl or a bad one. So what else happens to Miss Lewis?"

"Mr. Hastings inspects her," I said, "and
..."

"And what?"

"And he touches her... between..."

"Here?" George asked.

"Oh! Yes, Daddy, there."

"Does he only touch her?"

"No," I said. "He—puts his finger..."

"Should I teach you about this place
, too? I rather think I shall have to."

Again
I couldn't reply. The sensation was simply too great. I could only give a little mew, which I hoped would be taken as assent. He had one finger inside there now, moving it gently back and forth. He had claimed that part of me at last.

He was still
sitting on the side of the bed while I lay atop the pillows. I looked up at him; he had turned his upper body (fit but not hunky, I suppose) backwards so that he could reach his right hand down to my little-girl backside and teach me this shameful lesson. He was intent on the lesson; I blushed crimson at the feeling of having to let him use my bottom as he liked, just because he was my daddy. His face was set towards that lewd, humiliating act. He never looked at my face because all my daddy wanted to see was how his finger looked inside my naughty red cheeks as he urged it inward and outward. His disregard for anything but his own lascivious desires where my little-girl posterior was concerned made me quiver with embarrassment but also moan with erotic responsiveness and again to try to ride the pillow to some kind of satisfaction.

But my d
addy wasn't having any of that.

He clucked his tongue. Now he looked me in the eyes, his blue irises seeming to shine with mischievous amusement. The finger in my bottom-hole was still. "Bad," he said. "Very, very bad."

"I'm sorry, Daddy."

"As long as you're so terribly
wanton, though..." I waited, "I might as well test the bounds of your immodesty by making you do something very shameful, indeed."

"What, Daddy?"

"You're going to suck my daddy-thing now, sweetheart." He removed the hand from my rear end and stood, turning so that his daddy-thing was again the center of my perception of the world. It was long and hard.

Oh, yes, I thought, but "Oh, No!" I cried.

"You had better not make a fuss if you know what's good for your bottom, young lady," George said resolutely, and even with a note of anger. "Scooch yourself over here and get your mouth ready. Put your face at the edge of the bed, open your lips and stick out your tongue."

I did as
my daddy commanded. I parted my lips and stuck out my tongue. He bent his legs to position his loins favorably for the terrible thing he was going to do, and in my vision his daddy-thing moved closer towards me, and I could smell a daddy-smell that made me feel very embarrassed. It smelled dark and damp and made me feel that I wasn't old enough to have a daddy-thing inside my mouth. This wasn't what a modest little girl should do. I closed my lips without even thinking about it.

"Don't do that," said
my daddy, warningly. "Open up, or I'm going to have to spank you again. When your daddy wants to use your mouth, he's going to use your mouth. Open up now, Caroline."

I took a deep breath
and again breathed in the scent of my Daddy's lust for me. With a whimper I opened my mouth again and stuck out my tongue little bit.

"No, sweetheart. Stick that tongue out further."

Feeling utterly degraded, I complied. Holding his daddy-thing on the fingertips of his right hand, he brought it close to my face, and I watched him guide it so that the tip hung just a fraction of an inch from my mouth. Somehow having my cheek on the covers and being about to take his penis in my mouth in such a strange way—horizontally, that is—made the shame even greater—and the arousal that came from the shame greater, as well. My daddy used his fingers to make the tip of his daddy-thing move a bit side-to-side, so as to bring it up against my tongue. At the moment of that first contact—really, the first time in at least a year that I'd had my mouth even near my husband's penis—George made a little grunt of satisfaction which was not really all that distant from one of my own whimpers. That sound in turn made me whimper with the thrill of having found something that worked so well erotically for both of us.

"Quiet, now, Caroline,
" my daddy said. "It's time for my pleasure. I don't want to hear your little sounds."

But that authoritative, dominant utterance
itself drew from me a low moan. He pushed himself into my mouth a little bit so that his daddy-thing rested inside my right cheek, as he took his right hand and gave me three sharp spanks. "I said, quiet!"

I turned
my eyes up to look at his face and saw that he was looking down rapturously at where his daddy-thing was sheathed about a third of its length into my mouth.

Seeing me looking up at
him, he said in a kind of atavistic growl, "Little girls mustn't look at their daddies when their daddy-things are in their mouths. You may close your eyes or you may look at what you're doing down there, but if I see your eyes turn to my face again, I'll spank you for it."

My heart seemed to flutter like a bi
rd in my chest, and a lightning bolt of lust went through me, making my hips buck against the pillow, seeking some way to assuage the burning there. I could scarcely believe how erotic I found it that he was making that kind of harshly dominant rule for me. It was so monstrous and yet so delicious to think of him as paying no heed to my will at all and simply taking his pleasure at my expense. I turned my eyes down, and then I felt his right hand on the back of my neck. I realized with a rush of shame what was going to happen now. Even inside my mind I had to whisper it to myself: "face-fucking." My kind Daddy was going to fuck my face now.

He was tentative, of course,
at first. He stopped as soon as he heard the slightest hint that I was gagging. And because this
was
my first time I did a lot of gagging. But the intensity of the sensation worked its magic upon him as time went on. He was unwilling to let my discomfort stand in the way of his pleasure. When I realized that I loved him for it, I had a momentary doubt about my sanity. How could I be melting between my thighs because my husband wanted to fuck my mouth whether it made me gag or not?

Every so often
he would remove his hand from my neck to give me a spank, which made me yelp around his cock. He was spanking me just because—just because a daddy likes to spank his little girl. Then the hand would be back on my neck. He couldn't get enough of my mouth, of pushing himself in and out, of mastering me like that.

That was it. I had never,
ever, felt as desirable as I did right then. That was why I wanted him to face-fuck me to his heart's content, because his very will to lustful satisfaction said to me, "Caroline, there is nothing in the universe that I want more than I want you; there is no pleasure I could feel superior to the pleasure of ramming my cock into your mouth. I don't care if it's wrong, or unnatural, or uncomfortable; the pleasure I am getting from you exceeds all those bounds, and I will have it, whether you gag or not." The ageplay, in turn, ratcheted that up to nearly unendurable heights; not only was this a husband fucking his wife's face, but this was also a daddy, fucking his little girl's face.

He had
a rhythm, and he was making little grunts at each in-thrusting as I tried to breathe through my mouth and keep my teeth wide. He sheathed himself very deeply and held himself there while I struggled, my mouth full of my daddy.

Then he withdrew
and said, "All right, little girl. I'm afraid your daddy can't wait any longer to use your young pussy."

He straightened up,
took the few steps to the end of the bed and climbed up on it. I had never dared ask him to take me from behind, thinking that he would find it dirty, but it appeared that tonight dirty was what we were doing, and I felt his hands on my hips just the way I had imagined Mr. Hastings' hands on Miss Lewis'. I was a dirty little girl, and I was going to pay the penalty in the pleasure my Daddy took from me.

He pulled my hips back
and began to move his daddy-thing to find the position and the angle he wanted. When we were vanilla, I would help, so I reached back and was about to try to adjust, but my daddy said, "No, Caroline. I'll put my daddy-thing in the way I want. Get your hands away from there."

I blushed furiously
and obeyed. He took his time, pressing and rubbing and pushing in and then withdrawing, with his stiffness against me and just inside me. It was delicious and tormenting. All the while he murmured, "Such a good girl. It's a lovely little pussy. Daddy likes to have his thing here where his little girl is so naughty." He found the angle he liked and pushed all the way in. I groaned. "Shhh... shhh, little girl. It's time for your Daddy to have his way."

Having his way meant gripping me around the waist and gradually increasing the pace of his movements until he reached an animal ferocity I had never felt in him. He was utterly silent—his silence seemed even more dominant than his words, accompanied as it was by the pounding he was giving my bottom, in which there
still lingered some of the warmth from the spanking he had given it.

I couldn't help starting to cry out agai
n, but George didn't silence me; my cries of passion and commingled discomfort seemed to drive him onward, until at last, with an incoherent shout, he came deep inside me, holding me against his own hips fiercely and possessively.

"Good girl
..." he whispered in my ear. "You're a very good girl."

He withdrew
at last and lay down next to me on his back.

"Daddy?" I asked.

"Yes, sweetie?"

"May I get off the pillows?"

"Yes, you may."

I climbed down
and put the pillows back at the head of the bed, lying with my head on them, facing him. My nightgown was around my waist and my panties were still around my knees. I didn't want that to change until it had to because it made me feel like something new was starting, like I was finally the naughty little girl I was supposed to be. That girl's lewd conduct and wicked fantasies had at last provoked just punishment, and it was only right that in the presence of my daddy, my wanton parts should be exposed the way he liked them so that I could learn that they were his to use as he wished.

I imagined the things he might do with me: ways to touch me, things to make me do and places to make me do them, punishments and caresses he might bestow. Now that this part of me
had been unleashed, it seemed like my imagination wouldn't—couldn't—stop.

I imagined my husband taking me out to lunch dressed in a little sailor-dress, like a real little girl. He
would offer to buy me a big lollipop, but I would say, "No; little girls don't look as demure as they should look when they have those big lollies and are vulgarly licking them."

But then in my fantasy he led me to the men's room and forced me to my knees and gave me quite a different kind of lollipop to suck: one that I couldn't refuse, though I tried. "Little girls
must learn to suck what their daddies tell them to suck," he was saying as he frantically and roughly used my mouth to seek his release.

That was when I imagined the
rocking horse for the first time. I had always wanted to take riding lessons, but my parents had never indulged me, so my only experience of riding was a few girlhood pony-rides and the big (or so it seemed to me when I was small) rocking horse that stood in the playroom, upon which I had spent many innocent hours.

I don't know why I thought of it just then, exactly; if I had to guess, I would say it was probably because my girlhood memories were percola
ting through my brain, and something about the pounding rhythm of George's enjoyment of me had given this one an extra emphasis. I imagined myself back on that horse, but the horse had a big, big daddy-thing sticking up out of the saddle, and George was telling me that I had to ride it, but I was saying that it was much too big, and that I was just a little girl, and I couldn't.

The fantasy was so vivid that I felt my face flushing hot at the forbidden
-ness, the violated innocence of it, while of course, down below I grew warm and wet at the very same thought.

"George," I said, putting my hand on his blond-furred chest, "Daddy
... may I please have a rocking horse?"

"Hmm
... wh-what?" He had nearly fallen asleep.

"A
rocking horse. May I please have a rocking horse for Christmas?"

He turned his face to mine, with his eyes half-closed. "Mmm-hmm," he said, and promptly fell asleep.