The Daddy P.I. Casefiles: The First Collection

by Frost, E J

  His intention to keep me on simmer all day is evident as he dresses me. Over white thigh highs with pink bows along the back seam, he puts me in a tiny, pink, pleated skirt, a bustier edged with white lace and embroidered with pink and white butterflies that pushes up my breasts enough to give me a hint of cleavage, and over the top, one of his white dress shirts. It’s out of the clothes hamper, a little creased, but it smells deliciously like him. He rolls up the sleeves and buttons the two middle buttons like a blazer but leaves the top and bottom open so he can see the cups of the bustier and my mini-skirt. I don’t feel pretty, but I feel sexy and that’s more than good enough.

  Logan sits on the edge of the bed and draws me to him so I straddle his thighs. He runs his hands up the backs of my stockings, then cups my bare bottom and massages me with his warm fingers until my wetness is smearing his fingertips and I’m gripping his shoulders to keep myself from writhing off his lap onto the floor.

  “Tell me why I shouldn’t plug you, little girl,” he growls.

  Because my butt feels like he’s been using 200-grit sandpaper as lube, but I’m fairly sure that’s not what he wants to hear.

  “You should plug me if it pleases you, Daddy,” I say, through only slightly gritted teeth. “But my bottom is really, really sore.”

  He chuckles, but it’s a very wolfy chuckle; a plug is coming my way. “Mm-hmm, is that the only reason I shouldn’t plug you?”

  “I’ve kept my mind on you since dinner like a good girl?”

  He rubs my bottom, his fingers exploring my crease, and I’m fairly sure I’m going to faint before he makes a decision about the plug.

  “You are my good girl. And I know you have a sore bottom. But it’s Daddy’s bottom, isn’t it? And Daddy wants to see a cute, pink jewel winking at him every time you bend over. Give me a kiss, then go into the armoire and open the fifth drawer down on the left and bring me the pink one.”

  Fuck, I’m getting plugged. And with a plug I haven’t seen before, it sounds like, since Logan’s never sent me to that drawer before.

  I give him a kiss, which he extends with a hand in my hair. I wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him for as long as he lets me. Lapping at his tongue, savoring the lemony-buttery taste in his mouth. When he finally lets me up, I stagger over to the armoire, dazed and a little dizzy. The drawer he’s directed me to has five, stainless-steel butt plugs in it. They’re small, not much longer than my thumb, shaped like an acorn, with a narrow neck, and a wide bottom inset with a jewel the size of a quarter. Pink, blue, red, black, and clear. I pick up the pink one and hold it out to Logan on my palm.

  “Get some lube from the nightstand, sweetie. I’m not going to make you take this dry when you’re already sore.”

  “Thank you, Daddy. Ta very much.”

  I retrieve the bottle of Swiss Navy, a silicone lube, which is safe to use with a metal toy and stays slick for a long time. It’s the lube I like best for anal sex and I have it stocked all over the house. Logan bends me over the bed beside him and works the plug in gently. There’s a little burn as my sphincter stretches around the widest part of the plug, but once it’s in, it doesn’t hurt.

  “Let it settle a moment and then stand up and let me inspect you, Emmy.”

  I follow his instructions carefully and stand in front of him with my hands at my sides and my head down.

  He has me turn and his warm hands slide under my skirt, lifting it to my waist. Good shivers run all through me at his scrutiny. “Mmm, that’s gorgeous, little girl. How does it feel?”

  “It doesn’t hurt.”

  “That’s because it’s not a training plug. It doesn’t stretch your sphincter or pull on your muscles. It’s just for show.” He pats my bottom and curves his warm hand around my hip to turn me around to face him. “I’m very pleased with you, sweetheart.”

  I catch the hem of my skirt with the tips of my fingers and dip him a curtsey. He slides his hand under my chin and looks me in the eye.

  “I’m heading over to Hendry’s in half-an-hour. I’m taking Miranda to the airport at four. Manny’s picking me up at seven to do a face-to-face out in Queens. I should be back by ten. You have a choice—”

  Oh, boy, here it comes. One of Daddy’s devil’s bargains.

  “Either you wear the plug until lunchtime, but no orgasms until midnight, and I fuck you whenever I get the urge, and it’ll be at least three times. Or you wear the plug until I get home tonight, I’ll let you re-lube twice, and I’ll give you as many orgasms as you want, any way you want them, after lunch, before dinner, and before bed.”

  Demon Daddy. He knows how aroused I am, how much I hate orgasm denial, and how hard it is for me not to come when he fucks me.

  “I’ll wear the plug all day, Daddy.”

  He rubs his thumb across my lower lip and smiles at me. “ILY, little girl.”

  I taught him the silly text-speak for “I love you” and now he uses it whenever we’re in public or when things are getting a little too intense.

  “ILY, too, Daddy. Even when you’re making me choose between the devil and the deep blue sea.”

  Logan chuckles. “You know how much I love predicament play, baby doll.” He reaches around and pats my bottom under the skirt. The warmth of his hand on my bare skin, and the jostling of the plug, send delicious shivers through me. “All day, while I’m enduring Miranda, I’ll be thinking about the little pink jewel nestled between your ass-cheeks. The jewel that I put there, that you’re wearing to please me, even though you’re already sore. All day, I’ll be thinking about how proud I am of you, and how many orgasms I’m going to give you for being my wonderful girl. That will keep me out of the throttling zone.”

  I giggle and lean in to hug him, which Logan allows no matter what we’re doing because he understands that little girls need to touch their daddies. “No throttling, Daddy. I’ll be thinking all day about this huge thing in my butt—”

  “Tiny thing in your butt,” he grunts.

  “Monstrous boulder in my butt that I’m wearing because I love my daddy even more than Karamel Sutra ice cream and want to please him and make him proud of me—”

  “And want him to give you lots of orgasms.”

  I smooch his cheek. “And that. But mostly I want to see him happy. I know today will be tough and if torturing my poor, sore bottom makes it easier, I’m good with that.”

  He pulls me onto his lap which jams up the butt plug up, ow-ow-ow, and holds me for a long kiss. When he lets me up for air, he rubs the tip of my nose with his. “Torturing your bottom pretty much makes everything better, little girl. Now, downstairs. Don’t even try to convince me that the come you swallowed has enough calories to substitute for breakfast. I want you to eat something real. After Hendry’s done putting the thumbscrews to me, I’ll take you and Miranda out to lunch so you don’t have to cook.”

  We’re going out to lunch? With me dressed like this and something sticking out of my butt?

  “Please, can we go to Konk?”

  That’s the only place I can think of in walking distance where what I’m wearing won’t stand out a mile. It’s a café in a converted greenhouse on Clinton Street, and it attracts an eclectic crowd. Mid-week there will be as many goths and grungy students as there are hipsters and yummy mummies.

  “You bet. We can eat wherever you want.”

  “Konk, please. And pretty-please with sugar on top, can I have underwear if we’re going out?”

  “Mmm.” Daddy pushes out his full lower lip as he considers this. “Underwear will obstruct my view. Not sure I like that idea. Give up your orgasms after lunch and I’ll let you have knickers just while we’re out. You’re still getting fucked, though.”

  I shudder at his deviltry. “Deal, Daddy.”

  I’ll think about body odor, cold showers, and vomiting, and somehow keep from coming while Daddy pounds away inside me.

  He pulls me into a huge hug. “You please me so much, little girl.”

  I hop
e so, given the torture I’ve committed to today. “Ta, Daddy.”

  As we head back downstairs, Logan gives me a look that’s filled with frustration and I know he wants to carry me down. I take his arm instead and let him escort me into the kitchen.

  Miranda’s made herself at home in the breakfast nook and is sipping a cup of tea while she reads what looks like a news feed on her phone. How she can drink hot tea on a day that already promises to be as steamy as only August in the City can be, I don’t know. Maybe it’s a British thing.

  I put on a playlist while I was making crepes. Linkin Park is playing now, and Daddy doesn’t like rap, so I switch it and hum along to Sia while I wash some blueberries and layer them in a highball glass with homemade granola and protein yogurt into an impromptu parfait.

  “That looks good,” Miranda says without looking up from her phone.

  I guess she’s still hungry. “Would you like one?”

  “Yes, thanks.”

  Logan clears his throat from where he’s leaning against the breakfast bar, watching me. I meet his eyes; he shakes his head.

  Am I not supposed to feed her? Surely, he doesn’t want a pregnant woman to go hungry? I don’t understand.

  “I’ll do that, little girl,” Daddy says.

  Oh, he doesn’t want me to serve her. I give him a big smile and move out of his way. He tosses a handful of granola into a bowl, glops some yogurt over it, and sprinkles a few berries on top before he sets the bowl down in front of Miranda. It looks as little like what I’m eating as Sable’s cat food looks like a roast chicken dinner.

  “Come, Emmy.” He picks up my parfait and beckons. I grab a spoon before I follow him out into the garden. He sits on the bench and draws me into his lap before he takes the spoon from me.

  “Ta, Daddy,” I say after I’ve chewed the first bite ten times. Yum, blueberries.

  “You’re welcome. Same rules with Miranda as last night. Ignore her. I’ll deal with her.”

  I chew another spoonful before I answer. “Should I not talk to her at all?”

  “You can be polite, but if she asks you for something, you let me deal with it. You don’t answer to her. You’re mine. Are we clear?”

  “Yes, Daddy.”

  “Good girl. This looks very pretty.” He lifts the parfait glass. “Does it taste as good as it looks?”

  I nod. “Yum-yum.”

  “As good as those crepes you made?”

  I feel a trap yawning at my feet. He’s not happy I gave my crepes to Miranda.

  “It seemed like the polite thing to do. Are you mad at me?”

  “Not mad. Slightly annoyed.”

  “This is really good, though.”

  He grunts and slides another spoonful of granola, yogurt, and berries into my mouth. “I want crepes again for breakfast tomorrow.”

  I finish chewing before I answer. “Of course, Daddy.”

  He kisses my forehead before feeding me the last spoonful. “That’s my girl. You martyr yourself for no one. Are we clear?”

  Well, except for him. By the end of the day, my butt is definitely going to feel martyred. “Yes, Daddy.”

  “Okay, sweetie. You’ve got free time while I go see Hendry and then it’s little-Daddy time before lunch. What do you want to do today?”

  I wiggle happily on his lap as I consider. We haven’t had scheduled little-Daddy time since we went to the park. I’d love to go to the park again, but not with Miranda. “Could we play Scrabble, or work more on a puzzle?”

  “Either of those is good by me.”

  “Should I ask Miranda what she’d like to do?”

  “No, I don’t really care what she wants to do. Little-Daddy time is your time to spend with Daddy. We do what you want to do.”

  Melting. How did I ever find a daddy this wonderful?

  “Puzzle, Daddy.”

  “Puzzle it is.” He kisses me on the forehead before he lets me slide off his lap with another rub of my bare bottom.

  I see Daddy to the door with hugs and kisses, then collect the grooming kit that came with all the cat supplies, sit down cross-legged on the floor next to my sunbathing kitty, and ply the little wire-bristle brush from the kit through his fur. For the first few strokes, Sable watches me warily, before he begins licking my knee.

  I take that as a win.

  Tons of fur comes off him. Tons. Enough to make a whole other kitty. I don’t think Sable’s been groomed in a long time, and although I’ve seen him licking himself, I think maybe he’s been too depressed over losing his eye to take care of his coat properly.

  I’ll help until he feels better.

  When his coat is smooth and gleaming in the sunshine, I take the funny-shaped clippers out of the kit and pick up one of Sable’s soft paws, press gently until his claws extend, and nip off just the end of each claw with the clippers.

  He lets me do his front paws without complaint, but when I try to clip his back claws, he kicks madly at me, catching the soft skin of my inner forearm. When I draw back in pain, Sable hisses and darts under the couch.

  “Shoot,” I say, looking at the long scratches as they fill with blood. Logan will not be happy. His mother was a nurse and he has a serious thing about wounds. No matter how heavy our play gets, he almost never breaks my skin. Holding my bleeding arm out, I rise and move over to the sink.

  I wash the scratches, first with cold water and then with dish soap, which I figure is antibacterial. The washing makes the scratches sting like hell and release a stream of red into the clear water swirling down the sink.

  “You need to get pressure on that,” Miranda says, leaning over me to peer at my arm.

  I twitch, then hold myself still. With the water running, I didn’t hear her come up behind me, and I really don’t like her being this close to me.

  “Okay.” I use the excuse of grabbing paper towels to move away from her. As I hold a pad of paper towels against my arm, they stain pink.

  “Do you have a first aid kit?” Miranda asks.

  We do, but it’s downstairs in the playroom, and I’d have to open the security doors to get it. That seems like a big bother for a couple of scratches. “It’s fine,” I tell her.

  She arches a golden-brown eyebrow at me. “I’m a doctor, Emily.”

  From what Logan’s said, she’s more of an administrator, since she hasn’t treated a patient in years. But I’m not going to argue with her.

  “I’ve washed it and I’ll keep pressure on until it stops bleeding. When—” No, I’m not going to call him “Daddy” right to her face. Not without him here. “Logan gets back, he’ll get me a band-aid.”

  Hopefully a Winnie the Poo one.

  “I cure cancer, Emily. I can put a bandage on you.”

  I really don’t want her touching me that much, but I can see this is a losing battle.

  “Um, okay, the first aid kit’s in the playroom.”

  She was Logan’s sub for five years. Presumably she knows where the playroom is and how to get into it.

  She makes her buckled-asphalt face again. “Then we will have to wait until he gets back.”

  Actually, we won’t.

  “I can open the playroom doors.”

  Her face creases even further. “You can open them.”

  “Yes.”

  I don’t tell her to follow me, but she does. Through the locked door at the top of the stairs, down through the outer playroom, and through the second locked door into the inner playroom.

  I feel like my heart’s attached to a helium balloon that keeps tugging upwards with each step. It’s clear that Logan didn’t trust Miranda with the door codes.

  But my daddy trusts me.

  She’s silent until we reach the inner playroom. Then she gravitates to the sex swing, gives it a push and says, “This was always Logan’s favorite.”

  The helium balloon pops and my heart sinks to somewhere in the region of my ankles. How will I ever look at the swing again without imagining Miranda lying back in i
t as Logan fucks her? Arg. That’s an image I do not need in my head.

  Instead of following me to the shelves in the wet play area where the first aid kit is, she moves over to the armoire and opens it. Her fingers trail over the suede floggers hanging on the back of the doors. She strokes her throat with her free hand and smiles to herself as bile fills my mouth. I can almost see what she’s remembering. I’m going to need to gouge out my mind’s eye in a second.

  She takes out the metal-tipped flogger and gives it a flick so the studs at the end of the oiled leather falls sing. She turns with the flogger still in her hand and looks at me.

  I don’t like that look.

  “Logan always reserved this one for punishment. Does he punish you with this, Emily?”

  I really hate the way she says my name.

  “Um, no.”

  Logan doesn’t use impact to punish me. He puts me in the playpen and turns my brain inside out.

  She lifts her eyebrow. “No? Too fragile, I suppose.” She swings it again and it sings its jangly song. “Have you ever been hit with it?”

  I’m kind of concerned I’m about to be hit with it now. And I’m fairly sure she won’t respect my safe word.

  “I have,” I say, trying to hold my voice steady.

  “Then you know how bad a flogging with this monster can be. He likes to do that with his new subs. Push their pain limits. He has a heavier one, you know. With rings at the end of the falls. I don’t see it in there anymore. It’s unbearable. Maybe he hid it so it wouldn’t scare you.”

  He didn’t. It’s not in the armoire at the moment because it’s in Logan’s toy bag upstairs. He used it on me during a scene last week at his club. It was the heaviest flogging I’ve ever taken and it was fucking amazing. Daddy promised me another flogging with it the next time we go to the club.

  “Um, Logan doesn’t like anyone else touching his tools.”

  Miranda cackles. That’s the only word for how evil her laugh is. “Oh, Emily, I’ve touched his tools many times. I took care of them for years. Doesn’t he have you care for them?” She runs the falls through her hands, then snaps the flogger musically again. “Or are you too infantile to be trusted with them?”