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pussy.
    "Little girls are supposed to be modest and demure, aren't they?"
    This time I couldn't even answer, but instead started trying to ride his hand a little. That earned me yet another spank.
    "Caroline! It's becoming clear that this is a very bad idea. Nevertheless, once your daddy decides to try such an experiment, he thinks it very important to continue on with it. Sometimes..." (He rubbed quickly and firmly right on the little part that feels so wonderful, and I moaned, like... I blushed... like a little slut) "even though the results seem unpromising at the start, they can surprise one at the end."
    He spanked again. "Hold! This! Bottom! Still! Caroline Dawkins!"
    "Oh, Daddy... oh, I can't."
    He bent down and p ut his left arm around my waist and held me tightly and spanked me again, and again, and again. It really, really hurt now, but as before, it brought me closer and closer even without his fingers.
    "Very well. You will have your pleasure now, and then you will listen to me." The fingers attacked. I can't think of another way to put it: they dominated my tender cleft from back to front, and then one of them on the left hand touched me there between the burning cheeks as the right hand tormented me in front, and I screamed. Every muscle in my body seemed to tighten like the rigging of a boat in a gale, and then I seemed to explode outward—all of me, everywhere.
    I think I can be forgiven in describing this very first ageplay orgasm, for saying (because it's true) that it was the most incredible climax I had ever had. After that one, the other ones I'll be describing were all wonderful, but it's not as easy to say which surpassed all previous ones. This first one of our new dynamic was as far above every previous orgasm I'd had as Angel Falls is above its catch-basin, so it's a lot easier to describe it in such terms.
    Afterwards, I collapsed onto the pillows. G eorge sat on the bed next to me stroking my hair.
    "Wow," I said.
    "You still have a lecture coming, young lady."
    "Yes, Daddy."
    "Wait a moment, please, Miss Dawkins. I need to prepare myself a little before I begin."
    "Yes, Daddy."
    He rose and began to undress.
    "Daddy, what are you doing?" Somehow there was actual panic in my chest at the sight of my husband undressing—something I had seen him do hundreds and hundreds of times: with the ru sh of arousal in the early days, with lewd interest in the not-quite-as-early days, and then, crushingly, with utter familiarity the last few years. Now, though, the sight of his bare chest, then the sight of his boxer shorts (not the belt tonight? I thought, with a strange bit of disappointment), then the obviousness that there was something making a kind of tent in those blue-striped boxers.
    At that moment I knew that we really can find—or, perhaps, some blessed number of us really can—in our fantasies a way to make reality magical. My utter commitment to this fantasy, fomented by George's willingness to try, provisionally, a commitment to it, had turned me into a little girl. But I was not a real little girl, with real innocence that it would be a real crime and a sin to destroy—I was changed, somehow, into a fantasy little girl—the impossible little girl who is possible only in fantasy—the little girl who both knows and doesn't know what the thing lurking in a man's blue-striped boxers might be.
    And that fantasy-constellation was making my chest tighten in a physical response indistinguishable from real fear, except that there was another part, riding high—riding very high indeed—inside my mi nd, saying "Shh, it's all right; that's your husband's cock, and right now you want it more than you want anything else in the entire universe."
    George heard the note of ac tual panic, paused and looked into my eyes. He saw—he must have seen—the grown-up lust in my eyes, and it gave him the all-clear sign to keep going.
    "I am getting undressed, young lady, so that I can give you what you really,