The Daddy P.I. Casefiles: The First Collection
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The Daddy P.I. Casefiles
The First Collection
E. J. Frost
The Daddy P.I. Casefiles
The First Collection
Copyright © 2019-2021 E. J. Frost
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the written permission of the author. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable for criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, locales, business establishments or organizations is strictly coincidental.
WARNING: These novels contain mature themes which may considered offensive by some readers. This collection is for sale to adults only, as defined by the laws of the country in which the purchase is made.
DISCLAIMER: These novels contain descriptions of practices which may be injurious to the practitioner’s health. They are not intended as a guide or handbook. The author is not responsible for any loss, harm, injury or death resulting from the use or demonstration of the acts or practices contained in these books.
The quotation from Robert Frost’s “Fire and Ice” (1923) is in the public domain.
The quotation from Sherlock Holmes, from “The Adventure of the Bruce-Partington Plans,” in His Last Bow (1917), is in the public domain.
The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or any other electronic means without the permission of the author is illegal and punishable by law. By purchasing an authorized edition, you are supporting the author’s rights and encouraging the creation of more books. Thank you!
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Contents
Daddy P.I. 0.5: Negotiation
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Daddy P.I. 1.0
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Daddy P.I. 2.0
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
The Case of the Missing Collar
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Extras
Glossary of Slang and Unusual Terms
Logan and Emily’s Contract
Missing Ink
About the Author
Other Books by E. J. Frost
Chapter One
Logan
Upstate New York on a Saturday afternoon. Not where I should be.
I should be on the way to Los Angeles, or at least getting ready for the trip: emailing my contacts on the Left Coast, researching my client’s business.
I should be videoconferencing with Miranda, giving her the précis I’ve got on the five victims and toxicology reports. Bouncing ideas off her on how to interview the four survivors and the widow, who still won’t answer my calls or emails, and the best way to approach the investigation on the boat. I should be packing her favorite toys and thinking about how to spend our downtime on the cruise together.
Instead, I’m in upstate New York and Mir’s at home in London. Probably planning her goddamn baby shower. While I try desperately to replace her.
At a kink expo.
I make another circuit of the main convention hall, passing a table of sex toys, most of which I already own. The prospects are dismal. One, to be exact: a curvy little redhead who is staffing a table for a local piercing studio. She’s advertizing its services so heavily I have trouble making out her features. I didn’t actually know you could tattoo your upper lip. I’d need to scrub her up before I take her on the boat. She’d stick out like a sore thumb among the hard-body Californian crowd.
A woman walks up behind the redhead and kisses her on the back of her tattooed neck.
Fuck, my radar’s malfunctioning.
I’m usually better at identifying women who share my sexual preference, even if a match with my particular set of kinks can be hard to spot. But, then, a kink expo isn’t my usual fishing grounds. I glance around the brightly lit hall, cluttered with kiosks, stands, banners, tables and chairs. A million miles away from the candlelit interior of my club with its dark wood, cool leather and warm flesh, where I usually look for partners. The people swirling through the hall, in various stages of undress, costumes, and fetish-wear, are a million miles away from the women I look for. Too bad looking for a partner at my club is . . . complicated right now.
This was a mistake. I might have to call Sophia and apologize.
I rock up onto my toes with a creak of my boots at the thought. Ten days on a cruise ship with Sophia will have me jumping overboard.
A small arrow over an open doorway catches my attention. Hall B.
Well, it can’t hurt to look.
I follow the arrow.
* * *
Hall B’s smaller than the main floor, with fewer flashy kiosks. It’s packed tighter than Hall A, both because the room’s smaller, and because the center of the room’s taken up with tables and chairs, populated by expo-goers taking a load off. Maybe that’s why it takes me a full circuit of the hall to spot her.
When I do, my internal radar pings loud and clear. Bingo.
She’s sitting by herself at a small table she’s draped with a white cloth. Her head’s bent over a book; dark brown hair in a plait down her back, secured by a floppy, white silk bow. Her table’s empty. She’s not selling anything. There’s just a handwritten sign, printed in neat capitals, pinned to the front of the table. I’m at a bad angle to read it, so I move past, taking in her face: a pale oval, a dotting of freckles across her nose, long brown lashes shading her eyes. No obvious makeup.
On the second lap, I get a look at her sign. Nothing dissuades me, although I haven’t tried her particular kink. I start angling toward her on the third lap, but a man beats me to her table.
I turn, pretending to browse a selection of home videos, and watch them out of the corner of my eye.
She looks up from her book, speaks to the man briefly, then goes back to reading.
The Dom stands over her table for a moment, looming, confusion beetling his brow. Then he wanders away.
Guess he wasn’t what she’s looking for. My own brow tightens. The guy looks the part, and he’s not too far off my coloring, if not my height and build. If she’s looking for a blond, blue-eyed All-American to top her, I’m shit out of luck.
I lurk around the hall for a quarter-hour, giving each stall and table much more attention t
han they warrant, watching her without being too obvious about it. It’d be nice if she’d register my interest, maybe flash me a smile or at least a wide-eyed glance, so I know I won’t be immediately rebuffed. But she doesn’t. She only looks up from her book when someone approaches her. When they do, she sends them packing after a few words. I’m close enough to hear what she says to the third guy who approaches her, who is blond, if not blue-eyed.
“I’m sorry, I just don’t think we’d be compatible,” she says in response to his spiel, which includes the words “anal” and “fisting.”
She’s very polite. I’d have decked him if he’d said that to me.
“Uh,” he stammers in response.
She puts her head back in her book, dismissing him. I give him a minute to wander away. Bad pitch, buddy.
“What’s a smart lady like you doing looking for a Daddy-Dom?” I ask, leaning over her.
“How do you know I’m a smart lady?” she responds, without looking up.
I reach out and flick the spine of her book with one finger. “Baudelaire. In the original French.”
She looks up, and her eyes linger on my chest, before she meets my eyes. From a distance, I couldn’t tell what color her eyes were. They looked muddy, hard to read. All I could tell is that they were big and bright and that, as she was reading, they flicked eagerly from line to line. Up close, her eyes are light brown, flecked with green. There’s a faint quizzical cast to those hazel eyes as she looks up at me. She bites her lower lip.
I’ve piqued her interest.
“My mother’s French. It was my first language,” she says. “Do you read it?”
I can hear the soft lilt that her native tongue has given her. It’s pretty. So’s she. Soft, rounded features around those big eyes.
I take the book from her. “They pass before me, these Eyes full of light,” I translate. “Eyes made magnetic by some angel wise.”
“Is your mother French, too?” she asks, tilting her head to the side.
That lilting tongue is pert, too. I can’t wait to discipline it.
“No.” I return the book to her. “Languages and maths. That’s all I was good at in school.”
“Maths.” She closes the book, lays it on the table, and taps a pink-manicured finger to her lips. “You were educated abroad. England?”
Perceptive woman. “Yeah.”
“But you don’t live there now,” she says. “That accent’s pure New Yawk.”
It is now. When my family relocated to New York from Morecambe, I shed my northern accent, painstakingly, to fit into my new home.
“We moved when I was ten,” I tell her. Then, to see how she’ll respond, I put a little command into my voice and say, “Answer my original question.”
She sits up straighter and tucks her legs under her chair. Like she’s kneeling.
Nice.
“I know what turns me on,” she says. “I came to terms with my kinks a couple years ago.”
I know what turns me on, too. She fits the bill.
I lean backwards, as though I’m reading the sign pinned to the tablecloth. “Heavy play preferred. How heavy?”
“Nothing that leaves permanent scars.” Her voice goes quieter, softer, with each word, but doesn’t turn into a baby-girl lisp, which is good. I’ve been a Dom for over a decade, but I’ve never played Daddy. I don’t have any doubt that I can. I’ve never failed at anything I set my mind to. But I’m not sure whether age play will turn me on, and no matter how much of what I’m going to ask her to do on the cruise might be an act, my own arousal is the one thing that’s damn hard to fake.
“So, no branding,” I say, to see how she’ll react. I’ve branded bottoms before. I’ve been with some serious masochists and branding is seriously painful. “Even if someone was a very, very good girl?”
Her pupils expand. “That’s negotiable.”
Good, she’s not turned off. If she can handle that level of pain, then all that’s left is to iron out the details. I reach out and snag an empty chair, turn it around in front of her table and straddle it.
“Okay, let’s negotiate.”
A soft pink flush stains her cheeks as she follows my movement with her eyes; she straightens a little more in her chair. I hear a whisper of skin on skin. Is she rubbing her thighs together under the table? If she is, we’re more than good. We’re golden.
“No degradation or bathroom play,” I say, not even pretending to read her sign.
She shakes her head, eyes wide as she watches me.
“Please answer me verbally,” I say, so she knows my expectations right from the off. “I like to display my bottoms. Would you find being displayed naked degrading?”
“No, sir.”
Not only wouldn’t it be degrading, but she’d like it. She’s biting her lip so hard now it’s turning white and the flush in her cheeks is mounting.
“What would?” I ask, to see where her boundaries lie.
“Being made to eat off a dirty floor,” she says, her voice tiny.
“But not being fed out of your daddy’s hand?” My cock twitches. I love hand-feeding my bottoms. If that’s within the realm of what she wants from her daddy, I could get into it.
“No, sir,” she says, barely more than a whisper.
Although I haven’t really earned it yet, I love that she’s calling me “sir” already. Not sure how I’ll feel about her calling me “Daddy,” but I guess I’ll get used to it.
I try a little praise, to see how she responds. “Good girl,” I murmur, deep and low.
Her flush spreads down her throat to disappear into the collar of her white silk dress. Nothing wrong with that response.
“No blood play,” I say, tapping her sign. “I generally don’t like to break my bottom’s skin because of the risk of infection, but I do like to bite. Is that off the table if I bite hard enough to draw a little blood?”
She shivers. Not off the table.
“That would be fine,” she murmurs.
Yes, it would. Very fine.
“Can you travel?” I ask. “Do you have a passport?”
She nods.
“A job you have to get back to on Monday?”
She shakes her head, her plait swishing over the silk of her blouse. “I’m self-employed.”
“What do you do?”
Her sign says, “no financial support required,” but doesn’t specify why not.
She reaches down beneath the table, draws out another book and offers it to me.
“The Laird’s Lost Lamb.” I read the title overlaying a picture of a half-dressed woman swooning in the arms of a beefy, kilted man. “By Victoria Cage.”
“That’s my pen-name,” she says, her voice firming. “I write historical romances.”
Bestselling Author, the book jacket also says. I guess she doesn’t need a daddy’s financial support. “And your real name?”
She swallows, her pale throat working. “Could I write it down? I’d rather not say here.”
Here at a BDSM expo. Fair enough.
“It can wait,” I tell her. “Your sign says no permanent attachments. Why not?”
“I did it once.” She shrugs one shoulder. “It didn’t work out. I’m not up for it again.”
“Divorced?” At her nod, I ask, “What do you want to know from my end?”
“Are you married? I don’t do cheating.”
“Not married. This might help.” I pull a folded sheaf of paper from the back pocket of my jeans, smooth it open and offer it to her.
Those bright hazel eyes scan the first page curiously. “Thirty-five. Single. No communicable diseases.” Her finger traces down the page and stops. I know what she’s seen, and wait for it. “You’ve had . . . a lot of sexual partners.”
Diplomatic. The number’s over five hundred, and I know that can be a turn-off, which is why I’m up front about it.
“I like sex,” I tell her frankly.
“Are you, um, afraid of commitment?”
“No. Turn the page.”
She does, and reads silently for a minute. “You’ve been with the same sub for five years. She’s very . . . complimentary.” She lifts her eyes to mine; her pupils have contracted to tight black points. “Is it over?”
The second page is a letter from Miranda. It’s over a year old, written as a bona fide for a European club I was trying to get into. I included it so it doesn’t look like I’ve got some kind of “one and done” rule, and because Mir detailed my experience as a top.
“Miranda’s married,” I explain. “She was all while she was my bottom. Her husband knew about us. She said he understood what she needed from me.” When the rubber hit the road, that turned out not to be entirely true, like so many of the things Miranda told me. “They decided to try for a baby. I didn’t want there to be any questions or complications, so I stepped back.”
All true. As far as it goes. Without the mess, the anger, or the pain, of the way we actually broke up.
“Did they succeed?” she asks.
I nod. “Miranda’s due at the end of September.”
“And after the baby’s born?”
If you’re not looking for anything permanent, sweetheart, what’s it to you?
“It’s over,” I say.