by Frost, E J
She smiles, but it’s not the grin she was wearing a minute ago. Did she read them for masturbatory material, too? Is she ashamed of that? Or is it something else?
“I read them because they were cheap,” she admits after a long silence. “I only had ten dollars a week from babysitting. There was a used book and comic store near where we lived. I’d cycle there every day after school. They’d let me stay all afternoon and read anything I wanted as long as I bought something. The comics were the cheapest. I could go every day after school if I bought one comic a day.”
“You must have a huge collection,” I say, watching her. She’s drawn into a ball. Everything about her body language is projecting pain. Is she ashamed of being poor? Of not having enough money to buy books? Or is it something else?
She shakes her head. “Just the EQ. I had more, but, um, my mother got rid of them. I took the EQ with me to college, so she missed those.”
“She threw out your comic collection?” I ask, trying to keep my tone neutral. I don’t want Emily to think I’m criticizing her mother, particularly since she’s told me the woman has dementia.
Emily nods. “She’d kill herself if she knew how much some of those are worth now. I mean, I didn’t have any Action Comics or anything, but I loved Batman, so I had a really good collection of Dark Knight. Once the owner of the bookstore realized I was collecting, he sold me an entire box of New Mutants from the eighties for a month’s worth of babysitting money. That was when Chris Claremont was writing. Some of those have become valuable. I loved my comics so I took good care of them. I made myself sick a while back looking up their values. One of the X-Men I had sold for four hundred dollars. I figured she threw away over five thousand in comics.”
“Fuck, baby doll.”
She shrugs and, when I hold my arm out for her again, tucks herself against my side. “She didn’t know.”
If she was in her right mind, she knew she was destroying part of her daughter’s childhood, whether or not she knew the material value attached to it.
“Was this when she got sick?” I ask gently.
“No, it was before that, when I split up from my ex. I, uh, I didn’t have anywhere to go so I asked if I could move back in with her. Just for a couple of weeks until I found my own place. She told me I needed to grow up, go back to my husband, and make the best of my marriage. She threw out everything I’d left at home. All my clothes, my books, my comics, to make her point.”
I control my reaction tightly and stroke her hair. “Did you?”
“Go back to the man who gave me a sexually transmitted disease? No, I did not. My college roommate and her husband let me crash on their couch until I found an apartment.”
Oh, fuck. “That’s why you left your husband?”
She nods against my shoulder. “I’d been bleeding on and off for weeks. I thought I had cancer. When the doctor told me it was chlamydia, I almost wished it had been.”
“No, sweetheart.” I stroke her hair.
“No, I don’t mean that. It’s just that cancer, you know, it would have been something wrong with me, instead of something wrong with my marriage. I could have dealt with it. Chlamydia, I couldn’t deal with.”
“So, he cheated on you?”
What am I doing with the stupid questions tonight? I know how to interview people without sticking my foot in my mouth. I’m still rattled.
She doesn’t seem phased by my stupidity. “He said it was only the one time, but I knew when it started, and it was years before. Our sex life was never very good. Ash was the first man I was with, and I guess I just accepted that sex was a non-event for me.”
A non-event? For the woman who just had two howling orgasms on the rug we’re now sitting on? Could her husband not be bothered to figure out what aroused her?
“After a couple of years,” she continues, “he really lost interest. We’d have sex once a week for like ten minutes. He didn’t even try to involve me. I finally understood all that Victorian crap about conjugal duty. And I knew he was getting it elsewhere. I knew, even though I couldn’t admit it to myself. At the time, it was a relief that he’d stopped demanding sex more often. But when it slapped me in the face in that doctor’s office, it wasn’t a relief.” She takes a deep breath. “It hurt so much.”
I kiss her temple. “I’m sorry, baby doll.”
“I don’t love him anymore.” She turns those big, hazel eyes up to me. “I was telling the truth when you asked me those questions. But I still feel betrayed.”
“I can understand that.” I heard it in her voice during the spanking. The careless bastard had her love and let it die, as much as from neglect as from infidelity. “Thank you for trusting me with that, Emmy. I know it wasn’t during my finest hour.”
“How did you know? I mean, I realize it started as part of the scene, but then you asked about Ash.”
“You said his name a couple of times when you were crying. I’m sorry about that, too, sweetheart. If I’d known it was a trigger for you, I wouldn’t have asked those questions.”
“Oh, no, it’s fine.” She puts down her chopsticks and wraps her arms around my chest. “Seriously, it was totally fine. That part was fine.”
“What about the other part?” I prod gently.
“The first sex was really bad,” she says in a tiny voice. “I know it was meant to be. I mean, you said it wasn’t about pleasure. I just didn’t know what you were doing. It felt like you might be trying to humiliate me or hurt me emotionally. I wasn’t sure, but it was awful.”
“Emmy.” I tip her chin up and give her a gentle kiss, flavored with soy sauce and regret. “I am so fucking sorry. I wasn’t trying to humiliate you. I wanted to hate the act. I wanted it to feel bad, because it shouldn’t feel good when I’m thinking about my sister. But I didn’t think you’d pick up on it. You’re very sensitive, aren’t you, sweetie?”
She shrugs.
“I really am sorry, baby girl. I swear to you it will never happen again.”
“No,” she says, her voice quiet but firm. “Don’t promise that. If you have those feelings again, I want you to share them with me. Even if they’re horrible. Now that I know that you’re not trying to humiliate me, I’ll deal with it better. It helped, right? You said it helped.”
“It did. I’ve been carrying this around for a long time,” I admit. “Today’s made me realize just how long. I’ve taken it out on my bottoms before. I’ve been an utter bastard to them after interviewing widows. There’s just something about being helpless to take away their pain that triggers me. But I’ve never told anyone why. Only you. And I know that must be a small fucking consolation after what I put you through, but it’s true. I want you to know that.”
Her hand steals up from my chest and cups my jaw. “Thank you. That’s not a little thing. It makes a big difference.”
“Sweetheart.” I capture her hand, draw it to my chest, and hold it over my heart. “I went about it all backwards today, taking it out on you but not telling you what it was about. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I won’t do that to you again. That breaks trust. We’re building trust here.”
She turns her face into my neck and kisses that spot under my jaw that sends a hot shudder down my spine. “Ta very much, Daddy.”
Those words and her sweet gesture fill the hole that Reggie Black tore in my gut. “You’re welcome.” I hold her for a minute, then say, “This is way too deep for our second date.”
She gives a soft giggle. “It could almost be our third date, if you count the phone sex.”
“Date two point five. You know what I usually do with my bottoms on the second date?”
“Tie them up?”
She sounds hopeful and I chuck her under the chin.
“Good guess. Second date is usually dinner and some light bondage but nothing as intense as spanking. I don’t want to scare off a new bottom. We’ve jumped straight into the deep end, haven’t we?”
She shrugs. “I don’t mind the deep end.
Just as long as I know what’s going on.”
“I won’t keep you in the dark again.”
“Ta very much. After dinner, could we have your usual second date?”
I shake my head at her. “I was planning on a bath and bed, my girl. You’ve had a long day.”
“I’d love a bath, but I’d love being tied up even more. I’m not tired. I slept really well in your bed last night and I napped on the flight for an hour, just like your schedule said.”
“You did, huh?”
She nods and turns her big eyes on me again. They’re deadly for my good intentions.
“How’s this? A little bondage, maybe a toy, absolutely no spanking, before a bath, more cream, and bed. I’ve set up interviews with Bill Black’s assistants before the taxi comes to take us to the port tomorrow. If my lazy baby doesn’t sleep away the whole morning again, we’ll have time for a little play before breakfast and a longer play when we get on the ship. Deal?”
“Deal.” She slides her hand out from under mine and offers me her pinkie, which I hook and shake.
“Have you had enough sushi?”
“Please, can I have the rest of the hamachi?”
Fuck, those eyes.
“Yes,” I groan.
* * *
An hour later, I’m groaning again and back inside her. She’s spread on the bed, her wrists bound over her head with the soft cuffs. Unlike the cruise, the hotel’s not targeted at the kinky crowd. It shows in the bedframe, which has no rails, slats, or posts for anchor points. Fortunately, I brought enough coil to run around the headboard. Emily’s not as securely restrained as I’d like, but it’ll do for a low-key play session.
And low-key is all we’re doing until both of us heal. Her ass looks better after another application of T-Relief, but it’ll be a few days before the bruises fade.
Neither of us can see the bruises on me, they’re inside, but I can feel them all the same. They need some time to mend, too.
Emily’s pleasure acts like T-Relief for my soul. She’s writhing under me as I thrust deeply, then pull back, teasing her G spot, before sliding all the way home again. The butterfly clit stimulator I’ve strapped to her buzzes between us. Her ass rubs across the towel I’ve put beneath her, which is all the pain I’m allowing her for the foreseeable future, no matter how much she begs. With her wrists restrained and her arms over her head, her motion’s limited, but that’s not stopping her from wriggling. Her belly undulates against mine: warm, damp kisses of skin. Her legs draw up, knees clamping my sides, before she rolls her hips and her knees go wide, little toes digging into the backs of my calves. I love how much she moves, how her body arches to meet each thrust, her head thrown back, whipping from side to side in the frame of her arms. She’s so involved in our fucking. When her eyes meet mine, they’re glazed, pupils blown. I thrust deeply enough to bump her cervix, and her eyes roll back to white. That’s what I want to see: her out of her mind with pleasure. She whimpers, moaning, begging me to let her come. That’s what I want to hear: her need that only I can fulfil. Those sights, those sounds soothe the pummeling I’ve given my soul.
“Hold on to it, Emmy,” I tell her, leaning over her and bracing myself on my forearms. She likes my weight, my Kevlar baby doll, so I give it to her, but not so much I’m crushing the breath out of her.
My weight, and the pressure on the butterfly, send her bucking up off the bed. “Please, Daddy. Please!”
“A little more,” I encourage her, gritting my teeth against my own release. If we can both hold out, when we finally let go, it’ll be that much more intense. Fuck, is it hard, though. She’s bucking under me, driving me right to the edge. Her hot little cunt tightens, squeezes, clamps on my cock. I spread my elbows to give her more of my weight, and my knees so I can pound into her.
She bucks like a bronco, squealing, yanking on the cuffs so hard she’s going to have another set of bruises. “Daddy, now! Daddy, please! Please!”
I can’t hold back any longer, either. “Come for me, baby,” I grunt, and follow it with a long groan as my own pleasure spikes.
She wails like a fire-engine as she comes, rocking from side to side. If I didn’t outweigh her by so much, she’d throw me off. She locks her legs around my hips, shoving back against each of my thrusts. It’s that motion, the tattoo of her hips against mine, which explodes my climax, eruption after eruption, a dozen trips to Heaven and back, until I collapse on her, completely spent.
“Baby,” I groan. “Oh, baby doll.”
She hums happily, vibrating her belly against mine, locking me inside her. The motion should hurt when I’m going soft but feels so, so good. I’ve found my perfect little sheath, and I never want to leave it.
She’s quiet when I finally withdraw, when I uncuff her, when I carry her to the bath. Quiet but happy, smiling and snuggling. Her eyes, more green than brown in the bathroom’s halogens, linger on my face. When I smile back at her, her eyes light up.
I kiss her on the forehead as I lower her into the hot water. “Good second date, baby doll?”
“Oh.” She goes limp in my hands. I pick up a washcloth to clean her, then decide I might as well get clean with her. I scoot her forward so I can slide into the tub behind her. As soon as I spread my legs around her, she wiggles back into my lap. “Great second date. What’s third base, I mean, date?”
“Dinner and spanking.” I rub the washcloth up and down her arm. “We leapfrogged, didn’t we?”
“I’m good with that.” She sighs. “This feels great.”
It does. The wet heat works deep into my muscles, almost as good as the orgasm I just had. My fourth orgasm today, even if the second one was more of a paingasm. Still, I’m going to have to start pacing myself, and drinking more water, if I’m going to keep up with my needy baby girl. I stroke her soft head back onto my shoulder and rub the washcloth over her lazily, less concerned about getting her clean than about letting her feel warm, safe, and cared for. Cared for by her daddy.
“Emmy, you know what? I really like it when you call me Daddy. How about you do that all the time when we’re alone? Save Sir for when we’re around other people.”
“Like at the mall?”
I chuckle at the memory of telling her to flash a couple of women who gave her the stink-eye when she called me Sir on the phone while she was shopping.
“Uh-huh.”
“Yes, Daddy. I’d like that.”
“Good girl.” I kiss her temple. “We could fall asleep here, except you’d get all pruney.”
She takes my free hand, resting on the lip of the bath, and brings it to her lips. She sucks one of my fingertips into her mouth. “Don’t you get pruney?” she asks around it.
“Superman doesn’t prune.”
A soft giggle. “But Superman’s a dork. Wouldn’t you rather be Wolverine?”
“Wolverine’s a prick, with a huge chip on his shoulder. He couldn’t see past his own ego long enough to top. He’d make a lousy daddy.”
“True,” she says. She sounds sleepy. And happy. “Some people say that the Joker’s a daddy, but he’s too much of a nutcase. He hurts his baby for real. Not many daddies in films, either. Except Bruce Willis in RED. He’s such a daddy.”
“He is, huh? I don’t think I’ve seen that one.”
“I have it with me on my laptop, if you want to watch it.”
It shouldn’t surprise me that she carries the one Daddy-Dom movie around with her. I bet she watches it a lot.
“Is it PG? My little girl’s not allowed to watch R-rated movies.”
She giggles. “Yes, it is. Can I keep Deadpool, though? I mean, I’ve already watched it.”
“No.” She was wearing a Deadpool shirt when she arrived. That will have to go, too. But when I think about it, it was baby Deadpool, riding a unicorn. Too cute. She can keep that.
She sighs and turns so she can cuddle to my chest. “I’ll delete it, Daddy.”
“Good girl. We’ll watch the movie tonight be
fore bed.”
We do. Or, at least, I do, because Emily falls asleep on my shoulder in less than five minutes. I watch it to the end for pointers, although other than being incredibly indulgent with his manic baby girl, I can’t see that good ole Bruce does anything I wouldn’t do. But after Emily nods off, I pull my black book of ideas out of my bag and add several spy-themed scenes to my list of games to play with Emily.
Once the movie’s finished, I turn off all the lights, tuck Emily against my side, and watch the glow of the Los Angeles skyline play over the soft curves of her face as she sleeps. When I close my eyes, it’s that image that I carry into my dreams, and not any of the others that have twisted behind my eyes today.
* * *
My first interview of the morning, with Jay MacDonald, establishes two things: one, he’s not in the lifestyle, and two, if this were a murder investigation, he’d be the prime suspect. The receptionist, who patches me through to him when I tell her who I am, answers his phone: “Vice President Jay MacDonald’s office.”
That’s not the title Reggie Black gave me; looks like MacDonald got a promotion out of Black’s death.
But I don’t mention it. This isn’t a murder investigation. Black died from complications from taking an illegal drug, and my focus is on how he got the drugs that killed him, not why anyone would want him dead. Although I suppose it’s remotely possible his assistant gave him the drug to off him, it seems a big stretch, given the four other victims.
“So, you weren’t ever on the ship,” I say, after MacDonald tells me he flew to Puerto Vallarta to meet Black, stayed overnight to help pitch one of the Mexican telecom prospects, and flew back.
“No,” MacDonald confirms. “After the pitch, Bill and I had a late lunch to go over some things that had come up while he was on vacation. He was going to do a little shopping before he went back to the ship, so I took a taxi to Guadalajara.”
“What time did you return to Los Angeles?”
“My flight got in at ten. Lousy flight. I went straight to bed and was back at the office the next morning. I was working on a big presentation for a client in Texas and taking two days off to fill in for Chris really fucked things up. But we got it done. Our group secretary, Beck, was here with me over the weekend. She can corroborate all of this. Plenty of my coworkers were in over the weekend, too.”