Three great books by best-selling author of age-play erotica!
Caroline’s Rocking Horse
Caroline Dawkins is a professor of English who has never confessed her age-play and spanking fantasies to her husband, George Lane, a corporate attorney. After George comes home one night and finds Caroline pleasuring herself, over the course of an extraordinary month Caroline and George utterly transform their erotic life together in the pattern of those taboo fantasies.
From the lovely, degrading preparation and inspection of Caroline’s charms, to the dark erotic practices she never thought she would get to try, George and Caroline taste the forbidden delights of age-play and connect emotionally as they never imagined they could.
Caroline’s Little Friends
When Caroline overhears two of her former students, Mary and Angela, talking about how they saw her getting a spanking from her husband, George, the stage is set for a new phase of Caroline and George’s age-play relationship.
Using experiences gained from new friendships with couples in age-play relationships, Caroline and George will travel deeper into their taboo fantasies in an attempt to help Caroline’s students and to deepen their own connection to each other and to their new friends.
From a “little party” where Caroline and her new “little” friend Caitlin play Colonial Girl dolls, to a steamy weekend with Caitlin and her husband Joe in New York City, Caroline and George find new ways to satisfy each other’s longings. At the same time, Caroline finds herself drawn to Caitlin in a way she never imagined. In the end, will Caroline decide that, even though she is first and foremost her husband’s little girl, she can take on the responsibility of helping Mary and Angela realize their own fantasies? Will her new friendship with Caitlin help her discover what it means to take the upper hand with someone, while still remaining obedient?
Publisher’s note: “Caroline’s Little Friends” is an erotic novel intended for adults only. It contains explicit sexual activity and domestic discipline themes in an age-play setting. All characters in “Caroline’s Little Friends” are adults and are explicitly portrayed as such.”
Caroline’s Little Club
When a picture Caroline took of her former students Mary and Angela after a spanking goes viral among the alumni of Caroline’s school, it seems like Caroline’s ageplay life with her husband George, and with Mary and Angela, could become embarrassingly public. With the help of her friend Caitlin, and fortified by a steamy weekend with George, Caitlin, and Joe in Bermuda, Caroline will have to get to the bottom of a mystery, while trying to find suitable ageplay partners for Mary and Angela.
Luckily, Mary has met a young but supremely confident guy who calls her “young lady,” and Caitlin has found a rich New York theater producer who may be a stern protector for Angela. But who was it who really posted that picture, and what will it take to get them to see that ageplay can be magical for adults wired that way?
Caroline’s Rocking Horse
My new rocking horse was very beautiful. It was stained a lovely chestnut brown, and its mane seemed perhaps to be made from real horsehair. Looking at it, gratitude to George for indulging me so very thoroughly swelled inside my chest.
My new rocking horse looked very sturdy, and it had adjustable stirrups that a grown wife like me could use to find the best possible position in which to ride.
Finding the best possible position was going to be essential, because of the part of the new rocking horse that made the little girl inside me blush crimson as I looked at it: the leather phallus that stuck up from its saddle like a naughty sentinel, slightly bent as if to beckon me towards it.
"Daddy?" I said.
"Yes, sweetheart?" my husband asked.
"Do I have to ride my rocking horse right now?"
"Yes, sweetheart, you do. Daddy wants to see you on it."
"But what, Caroline?" His voice was becoming a little stern, and I knew even as I continued that no good would come of it, at least as far as the immediate state of my backside was concerned. An essential element of our dynamic, though, was this never-ending fount of shame into which I loved to think myself beyond anything?to be a little girl, so embarrassed about these new things my daddy wanted me to do and wanted to do with me and to me.
"Couldn’t I ride it by myself the first time?"
"What do you mean, sweetie?" He furrowed his brow, as if puzzled by the suggestion that a girl would want to enjoy a toy without her daddy present.
"Couldn’t I have it to myself for a little while?"
George sighed?a little theatrically, I thought, and said, with the tone of authority that goes straight to my loins, "Caroline, bend over and touch your toes, please."
"I don’t know how I failed to get this message across to you, but this rocking horse is something you and I will be playing with together. You may call it yours if you like, and sometimes if you’re very good I may allow you to go for a ride by yourself, but in reality it is MY rocking horse, that I built so that I could play with my little girl."
His voice was so very stern now that I obeyed and bent all the way over just as he had asked, knowing as always that my nakedness exposed me almost entirely before him in that position.
"Spread your feet a bit, sweetheart," George said, more gently now in view of my obedience.
I pushed my feet apart, feeling the way the parting of my thighs let even more of the naughtiest parts of me come into contact with the air of the big room in the basement that we called the playroom. I closed my eyes for a moment, but that made it impossible to keep my balance, so I opened them again and tried to look only at the rug, as I heard George opening the cabinet that had his daddy-toys, as I always thought of them. I swallowed hard.
"Little Caroline," he said, "Daddy doesn’t want to hurt you, but he needs to help you understand how important it is that you please him." His hand came to rest lightly atop my head, the long, straight, light-brown hair now all around my face. He adjusted my hair tenderly so that it all fell on the right side, while he stood on my left. "Do you understand, little girl?"
"Yes, Daddy," I said. I felt his body tense slightly, and then I felt the little puff of air that always comes before the paddle hits my bottom. "Ow!"
"Count, please, sweetheart," George said.
"One, Daddy." I made the little sobbing sound in my throat that I always make.
"Two! Daddy, how many?"
"As many as I think you need, sweetie."
"Three! Oh, please…"
"Please may I ride your rocking horse now, Daddy? Ow! Four!" I straightened up, unable to help myself.
"Get that head down, Caroline!"
I made it even worse: I put my hands on my bottom to cover it; I didn’t know what had gotten into me. Something about the rocking horse was turning me into the sort of naughty girl I never, ever was with my Daddy.
(Well, really, I was pretty much that naughty all the time, but part of the magic was that we could both imagine that I was almost always a good girl whom my Daddy only spanked once in a while?really only because he liked to spank his little girl, and not because I was naughty.)
* * * * *
I’m getting way ahead of myself, though. I should probably tell you about how we got to this point, with a new, shamefully phallus-bearing rocking horse in the playroom. Indeed, I need to tell you how there happened to be a playroom at all.
George and I had been married five years when the change that led to the rocking horse began. We had met in college, acting together in some of the more serious plays put on by student groups: Ibsen, Chekhov, Shakespeare. Neither of us was good enough to contemplate trying to go on in theatre, but both of us loved acting and had been the stars of our high-school productions. We met during our freshman years in a production of The Winter’s Tale but didn’t really notice each other, except the way every college actor sizes up every other college actor as competition for the good parts; neither of us impressed the other.
Sophomore spring, when he played Lorenzo to my Jessica in The Merchant of Venice, the sparks began to fly. Our first date, from the outside, must have been absolutely disgusting: a continuous recitation of all the great parts we’d had and all the funny theatre stories we had accumulated to that point. We were sleeping together before opening night. We both came from the suburbs of the Northeast: George from New Jersey and I from Long Island, and both of us had the traditional script very much ingrained in our imaginations: marriage, two careers, children "someday," cared for by a combination of both parents plus daycare and nannies and au pairs until they became self-sufficient and left the nest to continue the cycle.
George proposed right after we graduated. This story is about sex, of course, so even if I’m not graphic in discussing our erotic lives up until the point where our story really begins, I probably should at least be frank. I suppose on a purely objective scale, the sex was good. I mean, one hears and even reads about a lot of people can’t even get it to work right. But, as you’ll see over the course of the beginning of the story, there were aspects of it that didn’t match what was in my imagination. That wasn’t really a problem in the beginning when the newness of the thing and the contentment of having a stable relationship, when so much else in our lives was changing so quickly, could carry us through any doubts about the erotic dimension.
So, to establish a baseline: missionary position or me on top, occasional oral?and a couple of times, in the very early days, sixty-nine. That was it. I didn’t come during sex, certainly, but George was happy enough to lick me to an orgasm afterwards, though there was always something about it that felt wrong to me, as if his dutiful lapping were the reversal of the natural?or at any rate the imaginary, as far as my own imagination is concerned?order of the world. (So now I’m getting into it, but I’m going to make you wait a little while as I fill in some of the more boring details.)
I’m a professor of English and George is a corporate lawyer. We both value our careers very highly. The electricity of our early drama days never really went away, but you get distracted. Research needs to get done and briefs need to be written. Suddenly you find you haven’t had sex in months, and you haven’t even noticed, and you aren’t even spending very much time together. You used to go to the movies every weekend and to the opera every month and go to plays three times a season, but now you sit and watch TV, waiting for him to come home, and when he does, your resentment is so great that you don’t even talk to him. The worst part is you can’t even figure out why you resent him.
In one sense, this story ends up being about how we figured out at least part of where the resentment was coming from.
See, here’s the thing I haven’t told you yet: the reason we weren’t having sex was that I was avoiding it. I was avoiding it because I was having more and more trouble reconciling myself to the distance between what I fantasized about when I was by myself (and sometimes even when George was atop me going about his vanilla business) and what the actuality was of being in bed with George.
I wanted to be vanilla the way I thought George was vanilla. I wanted to yearn for tender, affectionate lovemaking the way it happened (or seemed to be about to happen) in Shakespeare and Jane Austen and Anthony Trollope. I suppose that means that I wanted to want to be vanilla. But I couldn’t help myself; when I read Lolita I was, horrifyingly, constantly aroused, constantly having to pull my hand away from whither it inevitably drifted down as I imagined the terrible things Humbert Humbert enforced on his nymphet. When I read Clarissa, I imagined what the monstrous Mr. Solmes wanted to do to the heroine, had she been forced to marry him the way her family wanted. Their wedding night would have been a terrible ordeal, and terrible was the longing that I felt for that kind of wedding night. Watching La Boh?me, or even simply listening to it, I imagined?not that Rodolfo and Mimi shared passionate kisses, but that he spanked her for her naughtiness and called her "good girl" when she took his sex deep into her bohemian throat.
George seemed to me still to be perfectly happy. He caught me more or less by surprise with a passionate kiss on a Saturday night, to have his missionary way with me and then go down on me until, guiltily fantasizing about something very, very dirty, I finally came with a pallid sort of orgasm. The problem was I felt wretched about it afterward and then generally looked forward in low-grade misery to the next time it would happen. I didn’t feel wretched because I had lost any affection for George?on the contrary, as the years went by I was more and more grateful for him and more and more convinced of his great merits as a man and as a spouse. I felt wretched because I wanted more, or different, when it came to the erotic part of my life, and even as time brought new conviction of my husband’s good nature, it also brought confirmation that there was something wrong with me when it came to sex.
The things that I thought about were dirty, plain and simple, according to the understanding of the clean and the dirty with which I had been raised. Spankings, and anal sex, and little girls made to do shameful things. Truthfully, it’s really a misnomer to say I had been "raised" with those values because that word implies that my parents had intentionally inculcated those values in me. In fact, I had simply been left to my own devices to pick up from the culture around me?and above all, from the stories I loved?what my values about sexuality were. Those were stories of princesses, and later, of gentlemen’s daughters. Princesses and gentlemen’s daughters, however, are never fucked up their proper backsides by an authoritative, paternal, older man the way I, to my distress, wanted to be.
Caroline’s Little Friends
"You’re making that up."
"No, I swear.? I was standing ten feet away.? I couldn’t move because once they’d started it would have been sooo embarrassing if they knew I was there?for them and for me!"
"He seriously called her ‘young lady’?"
"I haven’t even gotten to the good part."
"He spanked her."
"He said ‘I can’t let this go’?I guess she hadn’t called him and he was worried, or something?and she said?get this?"Yes, Daddy."? And then he bent her over the hood of the car, and pulled up her skirt…"
The silence from the other girl (Angela Heathers, I was almost positive:? black hair in a ballerina’s bun, tall and willowy, dark eyes) spoke volumes.? I pictured her mouth hanging open.? My face felt as hot as the sun, as I sat, trapped in the toilet stall while they, just a few feet away, discussed my intimate life of ageplay with my husband.
"And she was wearing these pink little-girl panties that?I’m just saying?were really hot in that wrong sort of way."
It so happened that I was also wearing those same panties?George’s favorites?right then.? Indeed, they were currently around my knees.
"Did he pull them down?"? Another pause.? "I mean ?"? (was that embarrassment in Angela’s voice?) "because… um…"
The other voice (Mary McCall, I knew:? blonde and petite) decided to help, "Because that would be hot.? No?but it was still really incredible and…"? Her voice dropped to a whisper that I couldn’t hear… what was she saying?
Angela giggled.? "No, no," she said, "I would have, too."? Had Mary just confessed that seeing me spanked had gotten her wet?
"So he said, ‘Are you going to do that again, young lady?’ and started to spank her…"
"With his hand?"
"Yes?but he said…"
"He said he was going to cane her later, because she had worried him so much."
And he had.? I had completely forgotten that we were supposed to have dinner with another lawyer from George’s firm, along with his wife, and I had turned off my phone while I was reading in my office.? George was forced to show up at my door.? The moment he saw I was OK, he gave me the look that signified my backside was not going to be in pristine condition by the end of the night.
"So what was she doing?"
"She just kept saying she was sorry, and, you know, kind of acting like a little girl, and calling him Daddy."
"And then he said…"? (the whisper again, as they left the bathroom, and I could finally pee).? I remembered what he had said, vividly and with a blush:? "I’m going to cane you, and then I’m going to fuck you in your little asshole to remind you whose little girl you are."
I remembered the rest of that night:? the utter abandon with which George had caned me and the incredible anal orgasm that went on and on as he pounded my little bottom-hole.? He had been angry, but our new dynamic really did seem to let him take out his aggression on me in a way that healed us?erotically.
As I washed my hands and stepped out of the bathroom, myself, I wondered what would come of the conversation, if anything.? Mary and Angela had been two of my favorite students the previous semester; they weren’t in any courses with me now, in the spring.? I had been positive I could hear in their voices that they were both turned on; to my distress I realized I was now turned on myself.
Surely, I thought to myself, I can’t let them misunderstand.? Surely they need to be told what ageplay really is?
I closed the door of my office behind me and leaned up against it.? I closed my eyes.
Surely they deserved a spanking, over my knee, didn’t they?
So very dangerous, but the free play of my fantasies had been a cost of my new erotic life with George.? Whereas before the previous winter I had never had trouble in professional situations damming up the raging outflow of my libido into fantasy, now when something caught my eye as a possible source of a play element I might try with George (a particular pair of panties in a catalogue or a naughty scene in a TV show, for example), my imagination tended to run wild.
Undoubtedly that was because my husband was now making my dreams come true, and I was frantic to make sure that I had a huge stockpile of them for us to play out.? If there were panties that struck me in that funny way, as being particularly "little," I would leave the catalogue out, with a circle around the picture and little hearts, and a few days later my Daddy would tell me that I had better go change into the new panties I would find on the dresser.? Then, of course, my Daddy would have to inspect me in them, to make sure the workmanship was as fine as it should be on such an important garment.? The inspection could quite possibly cause me to fidget a bit, whereupon the panties would have to be pulled down to my knees.? I would have to kneel on the floor and go over the little spanking stool that now waited innocently in our living-room; then my Daddy would get my special paddle and give me a sound spanking while I whimpered and said, "Daddy, please, no, it hurts."
Usually, I would then have to spend a long while in the corner, my pretty new panties still down, before I was ordered into the bedroom, and told to get myself ready for my Daddy to take his pleasure.? My husband would enter and get into our bed.? He would turn on the lamp that I had modestly turned off, and pull the sheets down, even though I said, "Please, Daddy, I’m so ashamed for you to see me with no clothes on."
He would say, "Little girl, when your daddy wants to see your pretty young pussy, that’s exactly what he’s going to do."
My Daddy would turn me onto my side, facing away from him, perhaps.? He would pull the panties all the way off, and then he would lay them in front of me, so that we could both see them while he used my little pussy.? (Neither of us could figure out exactly why that was so hot; maybe it said, "Little girls whose panties have been taken off by their daddies deserve to have their daddies use them hard.")
Propping himself up on his elbow behind me, he would lift my knee, and then take his Daddy-thing in his hand and put it where it belonged, just at the entrance to my warm, shaved pussy.? He would rub me there until I was crying out to have him inside, and then he would thrust inward and gently use me with his lovely back and forth Daddy-rhythm, using his hand to please his little girl all the while. Sometimes I would come while thinking about how my Daddy was using me, even though as a little girl I shouldn’t like it, and I shouldn’t be doing such big-girl things.
Sometimes he would say, "Good girl, such a nice little cunt," and just keep repeating those words, as if they were an invocation.? All the while, in my head, in counterpoint, my own mind would say, "Such a bad girl, Caroline; such a bad girl to have a cock in your little-girl cunt."? I would look down (Sometimes, George whispered in my ear, "Look down, little Caroline.") and see that my little pussy had a Daddy-thing in it, moving in and out, possessing me, and I would blush and usually come again at the thought of how wicked I was.
And then he would come:? my Daddy, my husband, my George, would make his helpless little grunt, and his hips would writhe, and he would gather me tightly into him, against his body.? It was almost better than my own orgasms to feel him give himself that way, the ultimate proof that I had pleased him.
I realized that while leaning against my office door I had bit by bit raised my blue skirt until it was high enough that I could work my fingers inside those little pink panties.? As I let my fingers comfort my pussy, just a bit, my thoughts turned to Angela and Mary.
I remembered how it felt to hear them start into the conversation I had overheard:? "Oh my God… I have to tell you what I saw on Monday night.? Professor Dawkins and her husband…"
"You mean that incredibly handsome blond guy?? The lawyer?"
"Does she have another husband?"
I had realized immediately what they were talking about, of course, and felt the blood rush to my face.
And I had gotten a sudden, unexpected urge?the first urge to switch that I’d ever had.? I thought of Angela and Mary, of how cute they were, and of how wicked they were to speak of me that way.? And I wanted to spank them.
Now, standing there, I let my imagination go, and I saw Angela standing in the corner of my office, while Mary had to go over my lap.
"Now, Angela," I was saying, "watch carefully, since you are going to have your spanking in just a moment.? Mary, once I am done with you, you will watch me spank Angela.? Then you will both stand with your noses against the wall and display your punished bottoms."
I looked down at the seat of Mary’s jeans, then back up at Angela.? "In fact," I said, "Angela, I want you to lower your jeans and panties to your knees right now and put your hands behind your head.? Mary, you lower your jeans and panties, too.? Now, please."
They were both wearing sexy lingerie under their tight jeans:? Angela a simple red thong and Mary a black lace one.
"Girls," I said, "we are going to have to have a talk about your underwear.? Those panties are absolutely unacceptable for young women whom I am taking under my wing."? I thought for a moment and made a decision.
"Angela, come strip Mary’s jeans off?and her panties?that’s right, all the way off.? Now take off your own jeans and underwear, please.? I am confiscating your panties, girls.? You will return to your dorm without underwear, to remind you of how naughty you were to talk about a professor that way.? Then you will put on modest panties, and from now on, until you have a Daddy or a Mommy who can guide you and may instruct you to wear big girl underpants again, you will wear such modest panties."
The girls, now without any clothes on below their fashion T’s, blushed furiously, but I said, "Yes, girls, it’s time that you learned some shame.? I hope that being returned to the discipline we traditionally bestow on young people will help you learn better manners."
I began to spank Mary.? In my mind, it was a delicious feeling?as if I were sharing my own little girlhood with another, and yet exercising over her a kind of dominance loaned to me by my own Daddy, my husband.? As I punished her in my fantasy, warming her lovely undergraduate bottom-cheeks with a firm maternal hand, I was imposing George’s will.
It was an odd, but marvelous kind of fantasy:? Mary’s little moans turned into cries of "No, professor, please!? I’m sorry!"
I looked over to Angela, who was wincing a little on her friend’s?and her own?behalf.? "See, Angela?"? I said.? "Don’t you think Mary’s learning her lesson?"
"Yes, professor," she replied, with a little sob of fear, which Mary answered with a wail.
"Hush, Mary," I said, the way George always told me to hush.? I continued to spank her, alternating between her right and left bottom-cheeks, which began to turn bright red, as I said, "Do you think you’ll ever talk about a professor so disrespectfully again?"
"No, professor," said Angela.? "Oh, please…"
"Please what, Angela?"
"Please don’t spank Mary so hard."
"Mary was a naughty girl, and she is getting what naughty girls need."
My cell phone rang.
Caroline’s Little Club
The trouble began at the end of August, with the posting online of a picture I had taken of Mary and Angela’s punished backsides, by a fake account someone had given the name "Spank Mybottom."
The caption read, "Professor, may we have another?"
I took a picture every week, as Mary had asked me to do. By the third week (this was in June), I had added the detail of putting little whiteboards just below their bottoms to remind them why I had spanked and/or caned them. Before I punished them, I had them write on the whiteboards, in the third person, their promises to amend their conduct. I had hoped that to see those promises below their chastised bottoms, besides being, frankly, ultra-hot, might also keep them mindful, when they looked at their pictures, of their need of continual improvement. In the photo posted, which came from our fourth session at the end of June, the whiteboards read:
Mary will get out of bed promptly at eight to work on her graduate school applications. Six strokes for laziness.
Angela will talk to her boyfriend about what she needs from their relationship. Six strokes for failure to assert herself.
Needless to say, the photo went viral among the student body and the recent alumni of Harton College. Mary and Angela spent hours blocking "friends" on their social networks and reporting harassment to the authorities. I suspected Angela’s ex-boyfriend, Craig Lowe, from the very beginning. He seemed to be the only one who could have had access to the picture, via Angela’s phone, and I had been trying since the beginning, if not to break them up, at least to get Angela to see that their relationship, as it had existed to that time, didn’t do her any good. When she finally had broken up with him at the beginning of August, I had felt vindicated and happy for Angela that she had rid herself of him.
Angela made only a half-hearted attempt at denial. I felt like I really deserved much of the blame for continually telling Angela that she had to talk to him about what she really wanted out of their relationship, but Angela refused to let me take any responsibility.
"You were exactly right, Mamma," she said. "I just didn’t want to admit that he was really an asshole." Angela giggled at that, given the coincidence of her word choice and the issue that had caused the problem. From that giggle, I could see that she would be all right, and that relieved most of my fears. "And it was my fault for showing him the picture in the first place. He just refused to believe that I could really want to be spanked."
Mary was taking the whole situation stoically too, thank goodness. "What about you, though, Mamma?" Mary asked. "Are you going to get in trouble?"
We were sitting in their little living room. It was Wednesday morning, the time for our usual discipline-session. We would sit and talk for as much as an hour about the events of their lives and of mine, about current events, even about such things as literary criticism and metaphysics, represented no unusual part of these sessions. Our current conversation over tea (which suited us perfectly?me playing, of course, their mamma, with the British stress on the second syllable) didn’t differ much from the way Wednesday mornings always went. The matter of the photo simply added some urgency.
"I think not," I said. "None of my colleagues has mentioned it, and I’m not sure they even know."
"I’m worried that Craig is going to send a link to someone," Angela confessed. "He… he doesn’t like you very much. That’s my fault, because when he got mad and asked why I was breaking up with him, I told him that you had said it was okay to play out, you know, ageplay stuff, and that there was nothing wrong with me for wanting anal, or wanting a daddy. That’s when he said he didn’t believe me, and I showed him the picture. He must have taken my phone and sent the picture to himself while I was in the bathroom."
"That reaction to ageplay is exactly what I would have expected, sweetie," I said. "Don’t blame yourself."
* * * * *
The whole matter had built from something Mary had said back in the spring, about how Angela was doing something very dirty with her boyfriend. My friend, Caitlin, who was a much more experienced ageplayer than I, agreed with me that I should press the issue a little bit with Angela. Since my husband, George, and I had met Caitlin and her husband, Joe, my ageplay life had deepened and broadened, and though I had only met her a few months before, I considered Caitlin my best friend in the world?a kind of sister?and above all, a kindred spirit. I trusted her in everything that had anything to do with sex these days.
Caitlin’s approval had emboldened me to say to Angela at the beginning of July, "Miss Heathers, I think you need to tell me what’s going on with Mr. Lowe."
Angela shot Mary a venomous look, but Mary spread her hands in a "Don’t blame me&q