Monday, March 9, 2015

Celebrating the dirtiness of Caroline

Oh, why not. This is a passage that I couldn't believe I'd written, after I'd written it. There aren't that many things I've written that still give me an erotic chill even thinking about them, but this is one of them. Buy the ultra-affordable box-set on Amazon by clicking here!

Sometimes daddies like to make their little girls do wicked things. There was no way around it, I thought, as I felt my own daddy put his hand in my hair and start to control my motions. I struggled to please him, my eyes watering with the effort since I always gagged a little—I couldn't help it—when my daddy held himself in as deep as he really liked and filled my little mouth full of him.

Now that this had become a regular part of our new erotic lives, I could say that I loved it and I hated it when George enforced his will on me that way—loved it because it meant that having his cock in my mouth was something that made his cock feel good, and there were ways to make my mouth so pleasurable that he refused to deny himself the feeling—for example, the back of my throat enveloping the head of his penis. I hated it because there was nothing I could do but try not to retch while he sought out his pleasure, driving my head down upon his rigid length, allowing me no world except the world of his crotch where he was unquestioned master.

But then... then there was the part that was past both love and hate, where there lived the simple rightness of my daddy doing with me what he pleased. That was where, it seemed to me, his voice originated when he said, quietly but very clearly, "Yeah, you're a little cunt-mouth, aren't you Caroline?"

Let me confess fully here, near the end—near the place where I will close the ring and bring you back, dear reader, to the playroom and the wooden rocking horse. To be called a "cunt-mouth" drove me wild with lust. How does it happen that a woman with a Ph.D. in English Literature can at certain times apparently want nothing in the world more than she wants to be on her knees in front of her husband with him holding her face down on his cock and calling her "cunt-mouth"? I'll try, as a gesture of good will, to answer the question.

First, we need to consider the meaning of "cunt-mouth." It seems, really, quite transparent: a "cunt-mouth" is a girl whose mouth feels to a man like a pussy. We shouldn't neglect to bring into consideration also that this compound word (portmanteau word, really) may also be the most demeaning thing an intelligent woman could ever be called. I would argue for that point based on the centrality of the mouth as the organ of speech—the place from where a woman displays her reason and mental acuity. In my case for example, as a scholar I make my living with my mouth and with my pen and my keyboard; given that the phrases "cunt-pen" and "cunt-keyboard" are patently ridiculous, "cunt-mouth" would seem to be the most demeaning thing anyone could call me. George was saying that the mouth that had delivered countless lectures and countless public talks about topics as diverse as the symbolism of the garden in George Eliot and the role of herbal lore in Hamlet really had no better use than as an imitation vagina for his cock to take its pleasure.

Also consider the element of skill involved. It's not especially easy for a person who has teeth to provide a sensation that would provoke her husband to call her "cunt-mouth." I believe that my arousal at—and frankly, love of—being called a "cunt-mouth" begins from the pride that I feel at the very thought that George would even think of calling me that.

But to pretend that my love of the term comes just from satisfaction that I'm showing my daddy a good time would be utterly dishonest. I wrote earlier in this story that I have a pain thing. I have a degradation thing like unto it. The more George degrades me (within, of course, certain hygienic limits), the more I grasp my value to him, and the more I feel that I belong to him. 

When he calls me "cunt-mouth," he is actually saying that I am his cunt-mouth. He claims me as an object which is worthless and gives me worth specifically in that I am valuable to him in having a mouth that feels to him like a cunt—indeed, one that feels even better than a cunt, or wouldn't he be fucking my cunt instead of my mouth?

But finally, that line of reasoning leads to the most important point of the debasement thing: the real reason he isn't fucking my cunt is that he wants to debase me by putting my highly-educated mouth to a purpose that says to me, "You may very well be a Ph.D. in English Literature, but I know what your mouth is really good for: you are a cunt-mouth." 

And the most important part of all is that I am giving him my mouth to use like a cunt of my own free will because giving him what he wants, playing this lovely game of daddy-dominance-and-little-girl-submission actually makes us equal partners in helping each other find mind-blowing erotic fulfillment. Like the fulfillment my daddy then found as he made me swallow every drop of semen that came forth from his convulsing loins, and the fulfillment I likewise found as I complied with my Daddy's silently-expressed commands.

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