Rocking-horse training, part 1

(We're continuing from here.)

(WARNING: this episode has VERY intense ageplay.)

The next week found me in the saddle.

"We're going to do some serious ageplay in the next few units, as I've planned them, Emily," said Charles. "I just want to make sure you're OK with that. I mean, I know that ageplay is a big turn-on for you--and it is for me, too--we established that a long time ago."

I blushed. "You mean when I called you 'Daddy' way back at the Waldorf?"

"That is indeed what I was thinking of."

"Oh."

(I fictionalize that moment in Emily's First Caning as happening on our honeymoon, but it actually did happen at the Waldorf, though I don't describe the moment in detail in my early blog posts about that night. For the "real" story of what happened on our honeymoon, see the post-series that begins here.)

"In fact, I want to see if we can get to the bottom" (miraculously, he kept a straight face as he said this, though I nearly lost it) "of your ageplay needs, with the help of a friend of mine."

There was a dramatic pause. For a moment I really did think he meant a human friend, and the safeword was on the tip of my tongue, but then he said, "My punishment horse."

"Glug," I said.

"If you'll permit me, I want to try to take you way back."

"Um, OK."

"I've seen some pictures of you when you were ten or eleven. . ."

Where was he going with this?

". . . at riding lessons."

I felt the blood rush to my face.

"And your mother has told me that at one time you were quite the equestrian."

I couldn't do anything but nod. I had no idea why I was getting so heated about Charles knowing about my oh-so-standard horsy phase, but there was something about the association of that kind of riding with his punishment horse that made me think of the very, very young Elizabeth Taylor in National Velvet, and that scene where she's in bed imagining riding her wonderful, powerful, enormous, dangerous, leg-separating, loins-warming horse (The Pie, OK? The Pie. Yes, I know the name of the horse in National Velvet. Sue me. I even know why that's the name of the horse).

"So," my trainer continued, "I think we'll forego your usual uniform this evening. Please put on your short white nightgown."

We also eschewed the basement-dungeon; training was in my room, aka the guest-room, that night.

As instructed, I sat in my nightgown (and only my nightgown) on my bed. Charles brought in the horse, without an upthrusting dildo attached and thus quite innocent-looking, and placed it on the bed, while I looked wonderingly on. The best part about Charles and me, I think, is how well we play pretend. Years of drama classes let me slip right into my twelve-year-old self, just coming out of my riding days, knowing that the heavenly feeling I had had atop my favorite horse Justin (a gelding) wasn't really about the riding, but that there was something else waiting there.

"Emily, you are to call me Daddy, now."

I swallowed hard. "Yes, Daddy."

"It's time for your riding lesson, Emily. Mount your pony."

I was already so, so hot that I groaned a little when I swung my leg over, and my nether-lips came up against the plush fabric of the horse. Instinctively, I assumed a jumper's crouch--not because I was thinking about my old equestrian training, but because it brought the center of my girlish arousal hard against the firm cushion. I made a little whimper in my throat.

Daddy put his hand on my bottom, over my nightgown, and the whimper happened again. He rubbed, gently. "Oh, Emily," he said, "your riding lessons are becoming more difficult for you, aren't they?"

"Yes, Daddy," I said. Then I tried an improvisation: "I don't know why, riding makes me feel so funny now that I'm getting older."

"How, sweetheart?"

I blushed. "In my. . . between. . ."

"Down here, you mean?" asked Daddy, and put his other hand on the nightgown, over the place that was burning to be touched.

"Oh, God, Charles. . . I don't think I can. . ." It just burst from me, because the heat of the scene was indeed going very, very deep, in every way I could imagine.

"Do you want to stop?" he asked.

"No! It's just so, so wrong. . . but also so right. . ."

With his left hand, in front, he raised the hem of the nightgown, to expose my little vulva.

"Oh, Daddy," I said. "Please. . ."

"Sometimes Daddies have to touch their little girls here to help them feel better," he said, and touched me there.

"Hmmmmmm," I said, or something like that, though the pitch was rather higher than I can suggest with the letter M.

"Does that feel better, Emily?"

"Yes, Daddy."

"Would you like to start riding, now?"

"Yes, please."

"Well, then, you may begin."