(We're continuing from here.)
(WARNING: this episode has VERY intense ageplay.)
(I mean, seriously, if you thought it was intense before. . .)
(Just don't hate me for the third paragraph, OK? The purpose of EXPLORATIONS is to explore the dark regions, right?)
It was a bit-gag, with reins. Like all the best training devices, my first reaction was "Never!" and my second reaction was "Ohmygod always." Charles pulled out of my ass, leaving me with that lovely forlorn feeling that I always get when I know there's more to come, and came around to the side of the bed, and patted my head (stroked my mane), as he put it in. "Good little pony," he said. I thought the heat in my pussy was going to incinerate me.
Maybe there needs to be a new word to describe this kind of thing, some sort of portmanteau of "wrong" and "hot": aeschroerotic (that's Greek) or stupramorous (Latin), or shamesexy. Let me see if I can capture how it felt in a single thought: at one and the same time, I wanted to make sure that no one ever know that my husband, pretending to be my Daddy, had bridled me and then ridden my ass like an, I don't know, ass-jockey--wanted it even to be erased from our own memories, and sent wherever terrible experiences go to be forever lost--and I was trying as hard as a girl with a bit in her mouth can try to communicate that Charles had to take a picture, and that that picture had to be framed and then hung in some secret room where we could go and look at it while we were having sex, and that that picture had to be kept so that I could look at it and play with myself whenever I wanted between now and the end of space-time itself.
For the moment, I had to settle for risking Daddy's displeasure by jumping off the horse and getting down from the bed, and pointing violently at the mirror, and mewing pleadingly around my bit, then pointing at the horse, and twirling my finger, then clasping my hands in front of me, to say "Please, Daddy, would you turn the horse around so I can see you riding my little bottom like a Daddy should ride a little girl's bottom because even though it's wrong her little bottom is so pretty that her Daddy can't resist, and Daddies' pleasure comes first, and so if a Daddy wants to put a bit and bridle on his little girl, she has to let him, because if she didn't he would spank her very hard, until she was a good little girl, and let him take his pleasure in her bottom, the way a Daddy is always entitled to take his pleasure, because a little girl's bottom-flower is for her Daddy to put his big thing inside."
And, miraculously, my Daddy understood my Proustian silent plea, and turned the horse around, but then he put me back on it, and said, "Emily, I'm afraid I have to spank you now, because you got off your horse without permission." I hung my head, but Daddy took my reins and pulled my head up, and then he started to beat me. Eventually, he had a riding crop that he used on these occasions, so I'll just conflate that in here, too.
"Little ponies sometimes need very severe lessons, don't they?" he asked, as he covered my bottom-cheeks with precise, stinging slaps of the keeper at the end of the crop. My head was reined in by his left hand, so I could only jerk my chin a bit in respectful assent. My eyes were watering, and the saliva was dripping down my chin onto the bed, and I could see it all in the mirror. I was in sub-heaven.
And then, at last, he rode me in earnest, his little ass-pony, holding my reins so tight that the tension in my neck travelled down my torso and into my flanks, and produced a sensation so painful and pleasurable that my face in the mirror, distended by my bit, looked like I were undergoing some horrendous torture at the hands of a sadist from Nazi Germany, or Mars, or something. And yet it was just my Daddy, who was riding his little girl because that makes Daddies' things feel so good, and they can't help what they do to their little girls, and their little girls love them for letting their little girls give them so much Daddy-pleasure.
"Oh, Emily. . ." Daddy grunted, "You. . . you don't know. . ."
There is nothing in the world to compare to the sight of the man you love taking pleasure beyond speech, beyond comprehension, in you. I don't care if you're staring up adoringly at him while he makes love to you tenderly in missionary position, a look of sweet vanilla pleasure on both your faces, or you've got a bit in your mouth and you're calling him Daddy and your Daddy is pounding your ass like a pseudoincestuous, pseudopederastic jackhammer: the look that comes just before an orgasm is incommensurable with any other phenomenon I can think of.
". . . what you do. . . to--oh, God--to your Daddy."
I throw my literary hands up. The word "thermonuclear" occurs to me as a way to describe his orgasm in my little bottom, but you'd never catch me using that kind of metaphor.
He came. He liked it. I liked it.