Read Online Caroline's Rocking Horse by Emily Tilton, Blushing Books - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Emily Tilton, Blushing Books
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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,
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,
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