Daddy PI: Book 1 of the Daddy PI Casefiles

by Frost, E J

  “Head back, Emmy. Just relax and feel. Close your eyes for now. I’ll tell you when you can open them again.”

  I tip my head back over the wedge of pillows he’s made under me and close my eyes. Without my sight, the sensations intensify. The bonfire in my vagina and ass. The lingering sting in my clit. It’s a lot better now that he’s wiped most of the toothpaste off, but any enjoyment is overshadowed by the fact I can’t come.

  The warm swipe of his tongue is a shock. My eyes fly open, but there’s only the ceiling to look at, so I close them again. Only for them to fly open again when his lubed finger circles my sphincter before gently pushing inside. For the first few thrusts, his finger spreads the toothpaste and the burning-cold intensifies to an ice pick in my ass. I can’t hold still and fight to keep my legs spread while my ass tries to wiggle away across the bed.

  He nips my labia. “Emmy, stay still.”

  Try staying still when someone’s sticking an ice pick in your ass! But his command helps me center myself and I pin my butt to the pillows. His finger slides in and out, in and out, and slowly the ice pick sensation eases, helped by the soft, warm lap of his tongue over my clit.

  He lifts his head and blows over my clit, hot then cool. “That’s it, little girl. Relax and enjoy your reward.”

  This is not a reward! There’s nothing rewarding about being tormented and not allowed to come.

  I blow out a long breath as I try to center myself again and focus on the good sensations: the warm, slick pressure in my ass, the sweep of his tongue over the firming bundle of nerves at the top of my slit. My opening’s still burning, but that sensation merges into the other stimulation and adds an edge that suddenly has my thighs and belly shaking. “Yellow, yellow!”

  “Cold showers, Emmy,” Logan says, lifting his head. “Back off a little.”

  I imagine that first, skin-shrivelling shock of the cold water hitting my skin. My breath seizing in my chest. Raw and tight.

  “That’s it, little girl,” Logan rumbles approvingly, thrusting his finger a little faster in my ass. “Ride it and back off when you need to—"

  A beeping interrupts him.

  “Thank G-goodness!”

  It’s over. It has to be over. And the bathroom is only a few steps away. Scrub brush, here I come.

  Logan chuckles. “What if I told you that was a five-minute warning?”

  No, it can’t be. This has been going on for eons. It can’t only have been twenty-five minutes. “Puh-please, Sir, is it?”

  “No.” He kisses my mons and slowly withdraws his finger. I hear the snap of the latex as he removes his glove. “Let me clean you up, little girl.”

  I wrestle with myself for a second, wanting nothing more than to bolt for the bathroom. But he wants to clean me up, so I hold myself still and let him. Soft, cool swipes remove the last traces of toothpaste from my clit and sphincter. He leaves my still-burning opening for last, but finally, finally he wipes me there, too. Sweet relief.

  “Sir, may I go to the bathroom and wash up now?”

  He pauses in the middle of pulling the Velcro cuff off my left wrist. “Emmy, why aren’t you calling me ‘daddy’?”

  Because he’s been pure Dom since breakfast. Actually, pure sadist. I don’t identify that part of him as Daddy. “‘Sir’ feels right just now. Please, may I go to the bathroom?”

  He nods and releases my other wrist. I roll off the bed faster than The Flash, zip into the bathroom and close the door behind me. I don’t lock it because I don’t know how he’d react to that, but he’s so polite that I figure he’ll at least knock before coming into the bathroom, which will give me a minute to compose my face. Which, in the mirror, looks purely hateful. All this morning’s beauty is gone. My hair’s a rat’s nest. My face is red and sweaty. I’m not quite at Chernobyl levels, but all I’m really lacking is the snot, and now that I’m upright, I’m managing to produce that, too.

  Charming.

  I blow my nose, then run the cold tap until the water’s really cold, wet a washcloth and rub myself down. After I get his jism off my belly and cool off my poor vagina, I add soap to the washcloth and wash everywhere else. Much, much better. I’m not usually concerned about how I look during a scene, unless my nose starts running, but something about the edging is making me not only self-conscious, but horribly vulnerable. I want the thin defense of clean skin.

  A towel’s an even better layer of defense, and after a moment’s indecision, I wrap one around me and tuck the edge in across my chest so it stays.

  After I use the toilet and brush my hair and teeth, I open the bathroom door and peek out, half-expecting Logan to be gone. He said he’s doing interviews this morning. I’m not sure when they start, but it’s got to be around nine now, so probably soon.

  He’s lying on the bed, stretched out on his side. He took off his shirt before edging me, so he’s just wearing his jeans and belt. His bare chest’s firm with muscle, even relaxed. His skin glows a deep gold in the stormy light through the balcony doors. He looks pretty Greek God-like, except that he just gave me one of the more frustrating half-hours of my life so I’m not feeling particularly worshipful in this moment.

  “There you are, little girl. Nice and clean now?”

  I nod.

  He pats the bed and I start to climb up onto it.

  “Emmy, lose the towel.”

  I don’t want to. I really, really don’t want to. It’s keeping me warm in the cool room. More than that, it’s a barrier between me and the mean man on my bed.

  But that mean man is my Dom, and he’s given me an order. I slowly loosen the towel and let it fall.

  “Good girl.”

  His praise warms the goose bumps that rise over the skin I’ve just bared. I’m warmed further when he pulls me into his arms and wraps me in my Ravenclaw blanket. Once he’s got me settled against his chest, he rubs noses with me and gives me a daddy smile.

  “Better? I know you’re not happy with me right now, but can I be Daddy again or am I still in bad books?”

  His humor pulls the plug on my frustration and anger. I nestle into him and nuzzle under his jaw so I can smell his woody, spicy scent.

  “You can be Daddy again.”

  He makes a happy humming noise in his chest. “We’re not going to talk about your feelings about being edged yet, little love. I’m pretty sure I know what they are, but I will ask you about them later. Stick with it for the forty-five minutes after lunch, huh?”

  I nod into his neck, which is all I can manage.

  “Good girl. What are you going to do while Daddy’s working?”

  “Blog tour and write for a while. The bondage marketplace is open after ten. I might check that out when I need to stretch my legs.”

  “Sounds like a plan. I’m going to the gym at eleven. You’re welcome to come if you want, but I haven’t put it on your schedule since you’ve had a lot of exercise over the last couple of days.”

  “I’d like to come.” If only to watch my daddy while he’s lifting weights and grunting and being all studly. So hot. Of course, that might not be a good thing today when I’m already frustrated, but I’m still not going to pass it up.

  “That’s my girl. I’ll knock on your door at eleven.”

  “I’ll be ready, Daddy.”

  “There we go. Now you’re sounding a little happier. Look at me, baby doll.” He tips my head up with a finger under my chin and when my eyes meet his, he burrows through my brain and into my soul with that dark gaze while I squirm under his scrutiny and feel like the worst little girl in the world for not appreciating what he does for me. “No, none of that.” He bops the tip of my nose with his finger. “I know you’re frustrated and annoyed with me, but that’s not a reason to doubt me, is it? Or yourself. No bad thoughts. If you start having bad thoughts, you knock on the door. I don’t care what’s going on, I’ll answer and take care of you. Are we clear?”

  “Yes, Daddy. I’m not having bad thoughts.”


  Which is the truth. And reassuring. Doubting my Dom does bring on bad thoughts, but my hateful internal monologue is silent, so I can’t really be doubting Logan down at the level where my worst insecurities operate.

  “Mmm, just very self-critical ones. I know that look. Give me one happy thought, little girl.”

  I’m going to get mind-blowing orgasms after nine o’clock. That’s a happy thought. If we ever get there. It’s feeling very far off. And potentially unachievable. I settle for a less controversial happy thought.

  “I’m going to see you again at eleven.”

  He kisses my forehead. “We’ll see plenty of each other today and have lots of fun, even though I know it doesn’t feel like it right now. Enjoy your blog tour and if you leave the cabin, remember to take your phone so I can reach you.”

  “Yes, Daddy.”

  13

  I leave her with a few more kisses, reassured that she’s not in a downward spiral. Boy, was she pissed off. And, in a snap, her anger turned inward and had her doubting us and herself. That was painful to see. I hope I’ve brought her back onto an even keel, but I’m going to need to be flexible during our lunch-time session. If the edging is damaging things between us, I’ll have to be prepared to do something else.

  I like edging my bottoms, but only when it works for both of us. It wasn’t working for her in a big way. With the exception of the last minute or two, she didn’t seem to even enjoy the stimulation. She was too pre-occupied with the orgasm restriction, even when she wasn’t that close. This might be the down-side of her deep desire to please me: becoming consumed by the fear of breaking a rule. She was anxious over breakfast and I thought I’d reassured her, but maybe it wasn’t enough. I need to remind her that I’m not setting her up to fail; this is supposed to be a reward. I’ve worked a little orgasm training into it, sure, but mostly this is just supposed to be fun day where we fool around a lot and increase the circulation through her genitals so she heals faster. It was never intended to make her so angry that she starts doubting either of us.

  As I pull on a blazer and retrieve my laptop and notebook from the room safe, I consider whether this might also be a reaction to last night. It was an intense scene. Although I don’t think she remembers telling me about her feelings, she may be feeling excessively vulnerable today. I haven’t seen her transmute vulnerability to anger before, but we’re still learning about each other. Something to explore later.

  For now, I put thoughts of the failed scene aside to focus on finding the source of the brick. I have a little time before my first interview, and I spend it on the exciting task of downloading and reviewing the receipts that the Pink Pearl IT guys have sent me for all the victims.

  Before I even get through the second victim’s bills, there’s a clear pattern.

  The security guard, Clifford Ashton, is right on time. Despite his threat, or maybe because of my parting shot, Dan Reyes doesn’t show up. I take the guard through some “getting to know you” questions, during which I’m really evaluating his honesty. No evasions, no conflicting body language. No sign of a guilty conscience. I move on to recap him finding the brick in my bag yesterday. Ashton’s answers show how heavily Pink Pearl’s security relies on the sniffer dogs. He noticed the prescription bottle when he scanned my bag, but he wouldn’t have stopped me if the dog hadn’t alerted him. When I ask him what substances the dogs are trained to sniff for, Ashton just says, “Everything.”

  He himself is trained to turn over anything the dog flags to his security supervisor. Ashton wouldn’t have tried to identify what was in the pill bottle on his own. He says he assumed it was ecstasy, since that seems to be the passengers’ drug of choice.

  I ask him how often he catches a passenger trying to bring E aboard.

  He chuckles. “Weekly.”

  No one’s mentioned that in the briefings I’ve had from Pink Pearl, but I appreciate they’re more concerned about a kilo of cocaine or heroin being smuggled aboard than a few tabs of ecstasy. Since the dogs are catching even those few tabs regularly, they have some reason to rely on the dogs. But it’s never a good idea to become complacent. I make a note to suggest random spot checks with more obscure drugs to Ed Isaak.

  I ask Ashton the same hypothetical I put to Reyes. “How would you get pills aboard to distribute if he wanted to?”

  He scratches his chin for a minute, then shrugs. “Probably with the meds.”

  “What meds?”

  “We bring a lot of meds aboard. Everything from anti-sea-sickness pills which y’all are going to be popping like breath mints by dinner time.” He cocks a thumb at my cabin window, which is filled with darkening thunderheads. “To Z-paks and lisinopril. Someone with heart disease loses their luggage? We don’t want to send ‘em home. There’s pretty much a full pharmacy aboard. If I was going to bring something in, I’d bring it in with the meds.”

  That makes much more sense than Reyes’s heads of lettuce.

  “Medical staff would catch it, though, right?” I ask.

  Another shrug. “Probably not. Meds come through security like everything else. We check them in. Pursers move them to where they’re supposed to go. Anti-sea-sickness pills, non-prescription painkillers, that kind of thing, they’re not handled by the medical staff. Anyone can dispense those. Prescription meds go to the medical staff, sure, but they’ve got enough to do without having to keep track of the Dramamine.”

  Damn, that’s an open door. “Where are those drugs kept, the non-prescription ones?”

  “Purser’s storage on C-deck, behind the spa. Days like this, they’ll bring the anti-sea-sickness tablets out and have a bowl at the pursers’ stations and the bars. Otherwise, they’re kept in storage.”

  “Does someone keep track of how much the pursers dispense?”

  “Chief purser. We’re all given training on how many individual pills we can give out, and we log it by room number. You can OD with freaking Advil, evidently, so we’re only allowed to dispense four per cabin. No one’s going to give out too much. None of us wants to be responsible for a guest getting hurt.”

  I nod. As I said to Ed Isaak, Pink Pearl’s staff seem genuinely caring.

  “A guest has been hurt,” I tell him. “Not sure if you’ve been told about it. A guest by the name of Bill Black died of heart failure the night after he left the last cruise. I’m investigating his death.”

  Ashton looks genuinely surprised. “No, I didn’t know. Something happened to him on board?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to find out. If you heard about someone aboard, a staff member, distributing, what would you do?”

  “Distributing what?”

  “A drug. Kind of like Viagra. Maybe something you hadn’t heard of before.”

  Ashton gives me the correct reporting procedure, which means he reports it orally to Reyes and also files a written report with Pink Pearl’s head office. I approve of the double-reporting system, if for no other reason than it gives Pink Pearl’s upper management a good chance of hearing about security problems, so long as everyone on the boat isn’t in on it.

  I finish up the interview by getting Ashton to tell me some anecdotes about recent security incidents. Nothing stands out as a red flag and the guy seems genuine in his concern for the passengers and his enjoyment of his job.

  After I thank him and show him out, I sit and make some notes. After chewing over the interview for a little longer, I open my laptop and fire off an email to Ed Isaak, asking him to set up interviews with the chief purser and the purser for C-deck on Black’s cruise.

  * * *

  My next interview is with the kitchen manager. Since bringing the brick in and distributing it through the kitchens seems less and less likely, I keep the interview brief. The manager reiterates what Reyes told me about the kitchen staff having minimal contact with guests. He also explains that the cooks don’t know which guest the food they’re preparing is for. Room service orders are numbered sequentially, rather than by room number.
The waiter matches the order number to the room number during delivery. The waiter and cook would have to figure out some way around the system to sneak the brick out in room service orders.

  While I’m considering the demise of that theory, the manager blathers on about the system causing confusion.

  “But it won’t after next year,” he tells me.

  “You’re switching systems?” I ask, just to keep him talking while I think.

  “No, we’re piloting an automated delivery system. Little robots, just like Amazon.”

  I’m not aware of Amazon’s robots, only their drones, which I don’t approve of, either. Automation takes jobs away from human beings. Not a good thing, in my view. And it seems out of keeping with the tone of the cruise. But it’s probably a cost savings.

  Since it’s looking ever-less likely that Black got the brick through the kitchens, I wish the manager luck with the robots and wrap up the interview. Having moved through both the security guard and kitchen manager quickly, I’ve got some time before my next interview. I use the time to do a little digging online.

  By the time I’ve surfed the social media accounts of Roderick and Sarah McCall of Fresno, California, I’ve got a number of a pictures of them and am pretty sure from the height, build, and hair that it was Rod McCall who went into Black’s cabin on Saturday afternoon. I’m also pretty sure that Ed Isaak’s right and Rod McCall is a professional top going by the name Master Rico. Being a loving and supportive wife, if not very security-conscious, Sarah McCall has liked and commented on several of Master Rico’s pictures on Facebook, including a couple of shibari portraits. Master Rico isn’t just good with the ropes, he’s got a nice eye. Some of the portraits are fine-art quality.

  But what really catches my attention is that some of the shibari models are men. Master Rico’s online accounts are vague about his services, understandably, but he clearly tops submissive men. I’m not sure where his wife fits in, but she wasn’t the one topping Black. Rod McCall was.