Caroline's Rocking Horse (6 page)

We woke up Saturday morning at almost the same moment; at least we became aware of one another,
lying face-to-face in bed, at the same time. Our smiles seemed to mirror one another, and then, before the slightest doubt could re-enter my mind, George reached out his hand and put it gently around the back of my neck, possessing my face once again, and I cooed at him—positively cooed.

He said, "My little girl."

I said, "Daddy."

He drew my face towards him, the dominant husband and protector, and kissed me to show me I was his.

"Tonight," he said, "will be your first inspection."

"Yes, Daddy."

"You remember that I said I would test your body's responsiveness when I inspect you?"

"Yes, Daddy."

"Well, we need to go shopping this morning for the things I'm going to use to do that testing."

I thought I knew exactly what store he meant, and I blushed—my first of the day. "Couldn't you go shopping for those things by yourself, Daddy?" I asked. "I don't think that's the kind of shopping a modest little girl should be a part of."

"I could, but it's important to me that you be there because I want to show off my little girl at the shops."

Oh, no. Being shown off at that store
... honestly, even entering that store. "Oh, no, Daddy, please..."

He moved his hand
from my neck under the covers to my bottom, which still stung just a bit from the terrible beating he had given me with his belt, and took both cheeks in his hand. I whimpered a little.

"Do you remember what I said about disobedience? Do you remember the last rule?"

"Yes, Daddy, but..."

"I'm not joking, Caroline. You will be severely punished. This is your final warning."
How could something be so frightening and so thrilling (let alone so arousing) all at once?

"Yes, Daddy."

"Also, you are going to shave this morning." He moved his hand around from back to front and twisted his fingers gently into the crinkly hairs on my little pussy. I had thought often about what it would be like to be bare and girlish down there—I had even thought about surprising George with my bareness—but had always been afraid of what he would say. Now I was being ordered to do it for my Daddy's pleasure and not my own, and he would inspect me tonight. I swallowed.

"Yes, Daddy."

"If you're a good girl, I won't make you show the person in the shop that you're shaved."

"Oh, my
... Daddy! You wouldn't!"

"You never know, do you, little girl? If Daddy wants you to show someone how pretty your little
lips are, you are going to show them, aren't you?"

"Um
..." I knew he could feel me getting very, very warm down where his fingers were now gently working their way further down—and in.

"Um what?"

"Um... Yes, Daddy. Oh, Daddy, oh Daddy... please..."

He chuckled
and withdrew his fingers.

Submissively and gingerly (for my bottom really did still hurt from the night before), I went to the bathroom to do as my Daddy told me. I had read enough how-to guides on the Internet to give me a very good idea of how the depilation of my young pussy should be accomplished. Actually doing it, however, was very st
range indeed. I got my scissors and stood the way you're supposed to stand, with one foot on the edge of the tub. Thinking about what I was about to do and about why I was about to do it and about George laying down his rules the night before, I put down the scissors, giving into temptation, and let my hands wander around the region where I was supposed to be removing hair. Feeling like I needed to be obedient, I picked up the scissors again. I brought them close to the place where my arousal seemed only to keep growing. Tentatively, I grasped a small lock of my hair down there in the fingers of my left hand, tugging it outward so that I could cut it with the scissors, low down. But the feeling of pulling on it made the problem of my wantonness worse, and I found myself letting go of that lock of hair and using the fingers of that left hand to make a long journey from bottom to top, along the lips, which were increasingly moist. I made a little mewing sound, and hearing myself, I realized that it was going to be very difficult to make progress this way.

To make matters worse, that was when
my Daddy opened the bathroom door. "Do you need my help, little girl?" he asked.

I blushed crimson, of course—I could see myself in the mirror. "Oh, Daddy,
" I said, "this is very hard. Every time I try to start shaving..."

To my surprise and dismay,
he suddenly knelt on the floor and began to look at the problem.

"Yes, I see," my d
addy said, "Your wickedness is very evident." He gave a little kiss there, which made me groan. He stood up again and said, "I think there is only one solution."

I looked at him wonderingly.

He stood behind me, put one hand around my waist to steady me, and then brought his other hand up between my legs, possessively and roughly, so that I gave a little startled cry.

"Clearly," he growled in my ear, "we have to make sure that you don't become too naughty while you're doing that." He had two fingers inside me, and his thumb at the same time was rubbing firmly on my most sensitive spot. "Sometimes little girls have big girl needs," he continued, as I could do nothing but moan again and again. He was wearing jeans and a T-shirt, and I could feel his hardness against my backside through the jea
ns. I felt shamefully dominated and degraded. I looked in the mirror and saw a wanton scene that I would never have imagined on my own. The contrast between his clothing and my nakedness, the redness of my face with shame and arousal and the way his fingers were claiming me so brutally all conspired to make me feel like his possession—like a toy that he could use in any way he chose.

At the sight,
I went over the cliff of my orgasm, giving a shriek at the intensity of the feeling.

He
held me back against his chest while the shaking left my body. He kissed my cheek. He said, "Good girl," and left me to finish making my young pussy look the way he wanted it to look.

* * * * *

The trip to the wicked store with the sex toys was everything it had promised to be. I was in one continuous blush as we moved through the section with the various things that naughty girls played with, and my daddy, his hand firmly on my bottom, asked, over and over, something like, "What do you think a girl would do with this?" and I replied, over and over, something like, "I'm sure I don't know, Daddy. It looks like something only a very bad girl would use."

"Well, Caroline," he would say, "that's true. But if a Daddy wanted to play with his little girl with a toy like this, what do you think it would feel like?"

Then I'd giggle and grab his upper arm, bury my face in his chest and whisper, "Oh, Daddy. You make me feel so funny."

"Do I need to inspect you right now?"

"George for God's sake, you're making me so, so hot. Please take me home and fuck me."

"Little girl, I'm shocked! Your bottom is going to pay for that naughty language! Now you go stand in the corner over there while Daddy makes his purchases."

* * * * *

Even better was later when we were home
and George made me show him on the computer all the different naughty sites I liked to visit. There were lots and lots of books to show him, of course, and he made me read my favorite part of each of them. He heard how a great many schoolgirls had to undergo shocking things and about endless spankings of grown women who had discovered at some time in their 20's (just like me) that a daddy's firm hand was exactly what they had been missing all their lives.

After three or four of these little excerpts,
it became even more interesting because my Daddy told me I really should take off all my clothes so that he could get a close look at how these literary moments of feeling were affecting me, and also in order that he could easily enact any of the things in the stories he wished, if the "spirit" moved him to do so.

(Since I am baring my soul to you,
dear reader, I should admit that I lied to my daddy that day about my true favorite passages. You see, all my real favorite passages were about authoritative men enjoying young women along the "narrower passage," as it is sometimes called. As you'll see, I was amply, if symbolically, repaid that very night for this dishonesty, but at the time I simply couldn't yet admit in what direction my very lewdest desires lay.)

Thus it was that I read to him the part of the faux-Victorian novel (or at least I've always assumed it was faux, though information on this particular novel—as is true of several of the ilk, actually—is hard to come by) where the young girl named Jane, naked on her knees before the middle-aged o
fficer, innocently uncovers him and starts to fellate him as if she were enjoying a piece of candy.

George liked that one a lot; in fact, to the extent that anyone ever looks like his eyes are going to bug out of his head, George
's did, when the officer decides he has no choice but to introduce little Jane to the delights of sixty-nine.

Thus it was that, naked on my knees in front of my
daddy, I uncovered him and sucked on him like a piece of hard candy, more for my own satisfaction than for his (that turn of phrase is borrowed directly from the "novel"), just as Jane had enjoyed the taste of the officer's. While she was made to understand more and more forcefully what a little girl's duty is to an older man's prick, I was made to submit to the demands placed on me by my daddy's own prick, until I came, gurgling around his rigid sex, and then he came, growling, "Swallow it all, now, little Caroline."

And I did, just like little Jane, thinking of myself as quite the grown-up miss to have performe
d such an adult duty for my daddy.

I think that was at about 4 in the afternoon. We took some time to recover; I probably called my parents in Florida, as I usually do on Saturday afternoons, though I don't have a specific memory of having done so. We almost certainly had take-out that evening, as we do almost every Saturday; the percentages suggest that it was pizza.

After the kitchen was cleaned up, I looked at George, who was staring back at me, obviously in serious thought. With that fluttery feeling that was becoming familiar, I understood that he had once again become my Daddy.

He said, "I'
m going to go sit in the living room. Please join me there in five minutes, young lady."

"Yes, Daddy."

When I arrived, the furniture had been thoroughly rearranged. Most prominently, the large ottoman had been placed in the center of the rug where the coffee table usually resided. I knew exactly what an ottoman was for when daddies were playing with their little girls, and my tummy flipped.

My Daddy
said, "Now that you know the rules, young lady, it's time for your first inspection. Come stand in front of me."

Reluctantly, embarrassed, I went to stand in front of him where he was sitting on the couch. The ottoman seemed to men
ace me with its capacity to hold a girl, who could be so easily draped over it. George saw me glancing in that direction. "Make no mistake, Caroline," he said, "you will be over that ottoman before long."

My hands flew to my face to cover my blush—an atavistic feminine reaction that at the same time made me very warm inside the pink panties with the red hearts that my Daddy had picked out for me to wear tonight.

"Put those hands down, little girl!" my Daddy said, with a flash of anger, "and look at me!"

I put my hands, balled into fists, at my sides. I looked into his blue eyes.

"Lift your skirt and show me your panties."

So simple—so much less lewd, in the grand scheme of lewdness, than so many things we had already done—and yet so terribly, basically shameful. "Show me yours and I'll show
you mine"—except that with my daddy it was just, "Show me yours," (and then of course it would be, "and I'll enjoy you with mine," but that was in a different dimension. "Lift your skirt and show me your panties" was all about a little girl's submitting to her Daddy's command to show him her special private underwear that she wasn't supposed to show to anyone).

"Don't make me repeat myself, Caroline. Lift that skirt this instant."

I did, narrowing my lips to a thin line and closing my eyes as I felt the hem of the blue skirt rise over my thighs until the air flowing down there told me that I had complied fully with my Daddy's will.

"Hmm," my Daddy said. "Those really are lovely panties, young lady. Perhaps it seems a bit irregular, but I think any daddy who happened to be lucky enough to see them would feel the same way I do." There was a long pause, and I knew he was leaning forward
to make a very close inspection because I could feel his breath on the place where, despite the cotton covering of the panties, I nonetheless still felt much naughtier than a little girl should.

"Truly, you look so sweet, Caroline, that I can't resist
..." he said, and then he touched me with his thumb, I think, just very, very lightly, in the very middle. I moaned shamelessly.

George clucked. "This isn't going very well, is it? At least insofar as I was hoping to discover that I had a demure little girl
..."

Now he was holding my hips underneath my skirt and turning me gently about
until he was looking right at the back of my skirt, which he raised with his left hand to reveal the seat of my panties. "On the other hand, this bottom..." (Here he touched it; I didn't moan, but I did make one of my little sounds.) "is so very pert and shapely that I can't believe its owner is immodest."

I felt him give a little kiss to my pantied bottom on the right, then on the left.
That was when he made a confession: "Caroline, your Daddy has dreamed for a very long time of having you like this."

"Really, Daddy?" I asked.

"Yes, sweetheart. But I never had the courage to ask you to submit to me."

"Oh, George
... thank you so much for telling me that."

I felt him reach into the waistband of the p
ink panties with his right hand and pull them down to just below my bottom. With his left hand, he tucked the back hem of the skirt into its waistband. He spent a long time looking at the sight of my bare bottom he had revealed, running his fingertips across it and up and down, making me shiver from time to time. Finally, he turned me around to the front again, where my little vulva was still covered with the panties, and pulled them down all the way to the ground.

"I want to see your shaved pussy, little girl," he said, simply. He put his hands on the backs of m
y knees and urged them apart, so that his view of my secret places was unobstructed.

The inspection meant a
bove all that I belonged to my daddy. As he uncovered my private places and looked at them, they burned under his eyes and his fingers. I knew that George was affirming that he wanted those private places to be set aside for him, for his pleasure. When he said, "You did a lovely job on this sweet young pussy," and gave me a little kiss there, my soft cry of pleasure wasn't only because it felt so wonderful, but because I knew that my Daddy liked the way I had prepared my pussy for him.

Then he said, "Al
l right, my dear. All your clothes off and over the ottoman, please."

Feeling like a slut and an innocent little girl
all at the same time, I turned my back to him and looked at the ottoman, picturing myself over it, little girl and sex-slave. My reason said, "Are you nuts? You're a feminist literary critic, for God's sake." My libido gave my reason a rude gesture with its middle finger, and I unbuttoned my skirt and let it fall. I tugged my blouse over my head and dropped it to the side. I unhooked my bra and let it fall atop the blouse.

Still picturing what I looked like (long light-brown hair over my sh
oulder, shapely hips, narrow waist, well-muscled calves and thighs from aerobics), I sank to my knees before the ottoman, which was covered in black plush and came up to the middle of my tummy. I hesitated a single moment, and then, grasping the ottoman's opposite corners, I lay myself over it the way I knew my Daddy wanted me: my bottom at the edge, sticking out so that he could play with me just as he liked.

He drew
up a chair, which made me blush because of course it meant he intended to spend a long time in this inspection.

But that w
as when things took a very different turn, for my Daddy said, "All right, young lady. Let's start with a test of your obedience. Please put your middle finger inside your little bottom-hole."

A
lthough I wanted to—I really, really wanted to—I couldn't. I blushed crimson. "I can't..." I said. "It's just... I can't, in front of you. Please, maybe later?"

His face grew dark,
and I remembered the final rule, with a start of fear. "Will you disobey me this way, young lady? Will you?"

"Oh, but Daddy
..."

"Don't 'But Daddy' me, Caroline. I think it's time you learned that I meant what
I said about disobedience and how it will be punished." He pointed to the arm of the couch. "Over that, please. Right now. I am going to cane you."

Wait—he hadn't bought that cane had he? I couldn't move; my heart quailed, and I didn't stir from my position over the ottoman.

"I'm warning you, Caroline. You're making it much worse for yourself." I heard him shift his position, and I saw out of the corner of my eye that he had reached into a black bag that had appeared earlier that afternoon. Out of it came a bamboo cane.

"Oh, no," I said quietly.

"For every stroke I have to give you here over the ottoman, Caroline, you're going to get two more strokes when you finally obey me and get over the arm of the couch."

He gave me no time to consider, but moved so that he was standing right next to my waist. I saw him make what seemed like a very small motion with his arm, and was grateful for a moment that he wasn't going to beat me the way I'd always imagined Mr. Hastings beating Miss Lewis, with huge, swinging cuts.

But then I heard it, and then I felt it.

"FUCK!!!" I screamed. "Oh my God, George, um
..." He gave me another stroke. I yelped.

Shaking like a
leaf, I finally managed to rise and walk the three steps back to the couch. I looked at the end where I was supposed to go over the arm. I felt the dreadful sting in my bottom-cheeks, and not giving myself time to think about anything, since my Daddy's calculus had made this act time-critical, I lay myself down, stretching my arms out before me.

"Good girl," said my d
addy, approvingly. The phrase went straight through me from soul to genitals, the way it always does, and I realized that the pain of the cane, distracting though it was in its extremity, was working the same magic all chastisements seemed to work on me, just in a more complex way.

I heard the swish, and I had another burning line across my sit-spot, and I managed not to cry out, but George had decided to give me my penalty strokes a
ll together, four-in-a-row. By the fourth one I was screaming again, but I was screaming, "Daddy! I'm sorry! Please, Daddy!"

He stopped. "Do you see how seriously I take my fifth rule, young lady?"

"Yes, Daddy."

"In that case, go to your room
and get into your nightgown, then into bed, and wait for me. Daddy is going to use you now."

I waited in bed, under the covers. I didn't want to think about why I was so aroused at the thought of my Daddy coming to join me in my bed—whenever my mind started to question, I stamped the whole subject with the word TABOO, and went back to thinking about how my clean white nightgown felt
so innocent over my bare charms and how soothing it was on the cane-welts across my bottom.

Then my Daddy did com
e to my bed. He opened the door and said, "Caroline? Sweetheart?"

"Yes, Daddy?" I replied with a little tremble in my voice.

"Daddy's going to get into your bed now."

"Yes, Daddy."

"We're going to do some big-girl things."

"Yes, Daddy. I know it's not demure, but I like it when we do big-girl things."

He slipped into the bed, behind me. He was naked, and I said, "Oh, Daddy. You don't have any clothes on!" My bottom was still on fire from my caning, but the feeling of his cock against it was all the more arousing for it.

"No, I don't, sweetheart. That's so we can do the big-girl things."

"Your daddy-thing is very big, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is—that's because I'm really looking forward to what we're going to do now."

"What are we going to do?" I asked innocently.

My Daddy
made me get on my hands and knees on the bed, and then he made me lower my cheek to the pillow and stretch out my hands behind me, alongside my knees. That seemed to be daddies' favorite way to play with their little girls, from everything I knew about the subject.

Then he said, "Reach back
now, sweetheart, and open up your bottom. We're going to do something very grown up. Daddy is going to fuck you in your little rosebud."

I felt the blood rush both to my face and to my vulva.

"Oh, no. Please—Daddy, not my bottom."

"Shh, Caroline. You know that it's my right to enjoy you as I like, so you had better do as I say if you don't want even more cane-stripes across your disobedient rear end. Bad girls need to learn what happens when they disobey, and this is still part of your lesson."

Yes. Anal sex was for bad girls, for dirty girls. And I was one of those; I definitely was. I had imagined the act many, many times, but never with my husband—always with Mr. Hastings or someone like him.

But now my husband
was
my Mr. Hastings, and it was time at last for my bottom to be deflowered and enjoyed as my Daddy wanted to enjoy it.

I reached back. "Ow," I said softly as I touched the cane-welts, my punishment for disobedience. I
took the sore little peaches into my fingers while my Daddy watched. I parted them, opening myself for him to have his way.

I heard a little snapping sound;
it was the very first time that now-so-familiar sound had been heard in our bedroom. George had opened the little bottle of lube. With a shudder of embarrassment, I felt it drip onto the very top of the valley between my bottom-cheeks and a cool trickle begin to run down between them.

Then came Daddy's fingers. I made a bad-girl noise when I felt the first one go in, but that didn't stop Daddy f
rom teaching me about my bottom and his control over it.

"Young lady," he said, "b
ecause your inspection was rudely interrupted by your disobedience, we're going to have the most important part of it right now. I am going to test your responsiveness and your wantonness, and I want you to consider the meaning of what is happening to you now. You are a very bright little girl, and I know you can understand me when I talk about things like submission, and degradation, and infantilization. Am I correct, Caroline?"

"Yes
... y—yes, Daddy." It was hard to speak because my Daddy was teaching me at the same time about how a little girl's bottom-hole is for her Daddy to make wider and wider when he wants to get her ready for him.

"Very well. Your bottom is the part of you that, as a well-raised young lady, you think of as your most private,
your most secret, and your dirtiest and naughtiest part. Is that not so?"

"Oh! Um, yes, Daddy." He had put something else in there—something hard and smooth and perfectly round, but which got wider the further along it went.

"Should girls have things in their little rosebuds?"

"No, Daddy." He turned the thing just a little, and I gasped.