Negotiation: Daddy P.I. 0.5

by E J Frost

  “Sir, um, the shirt’s thin. People will be able to see my nipples.”

  “That’s a good girl to bring an issue to my attention without refusing my command. I want to display you tonight. You can keep your blazer on coming and going from my club.”

  In fact, I think I’ll make sure everyone can see those little rosebuds.

  She unhooks her bra and lets it drop down her arms before she reaches up for the shirt. She puts it on awkwardly, without straightening. I stroke her hips with my palms to reward her and when she starts to fumble with the buttons, I stop her. “Leave your clothes unbuttoned, baby doll. I’ll help you with the buttons.”

  “Yes, Daddy.”

  My cock twitches. Finally. I’ve thrown a few “daddys” out there to see if she’d respond, but she didn’t, until now. Something triggered it; maybe me offering to help her, maybe me touching her. Learning what flips her switches is going to be fun.

  “Skirt next. Leave off the blazer and tie for now.”

  She tugs the skirt off the bed and struggles into it. I can see the strain of remaining bent-over. The tendons behind her knees are standing out beneath her white socks and her thighs are trembling. She’s doing so well, trying so hard to please me. Once she has the skirt around her waist, I soothe her with my hand in the small of her back. “That was beautifully done, Emily. Stand up and turn around to face me.”

  She does, smoothing down the skirt. I button the waistband for her and zip up the short zipper before I rise from the chair, open the armoire and reach into one of the small drawers. I fish through the drawer’s contents with a fingertip, and select a pair of tiny clamps, tipped with rubber and connected with a silver chain. Then I sit back down in the chair and beckon to Emily with two fingers.

  She shuffles forward a step. I reach out and catch her waist, drawing her against the chair’s slatted back. As anticipated, her breasts are at the perfect height, just above the chair’s top slat. I dip my head and lick her left nipple, feel it pebble against my tongue, taste the sweet salt of her skin. Then I pull it into my mouth and nibble until she’s squirming against my arm. I lift my head and admire my handiwork. Her nipple is as hard and red as a pencil rubber. I blow across it, both to dry it and to watch her shiver, before carefully closing the tips of the nipple clamp around it.

  She gasps and grabs at the chair back for support.

  “Are your nipples sensitive, baby doll?” I ask, letting dark heat fill my voice.

  “Yes, Daddy. That hurts.”

  “I know, baby doll.” I lean in and kiss the purpling tip, feeling the cold metal of the clamp against my lips. “But you’re going to bear it for me, aren’t you?”

  I see her struggle for a second before accepts the pain. “Yes, Daddy.”

  “Good girl.” I bend to her right nipple, tease and nip it taut, before I close the second clamp onto it. She whimpers, a sweet little sound of pleasure and pain. I want to wring those little whimpers out of her all night.

  I kiss her captured nipples until her whimpers turn into breathy little sighs. Then I carefully button up her shirt.

  “Put on your tie now.”

  I wait while she fastens the clip-on tie to her collar, then check to make sure the tie isn’t putting too much weight on the chain connecting the nipple clamps. She’s flushed and squirming, but clear-eyed. No sign of bad thoughts.

  “Emily, look at me.” When she does, blinking at me with those big hazel eyes, I tell her, “You’re doing beautifully. I’m proud of you. I want to warm you up, but if it would be too much or if it’s too soon for me to touch you like that, just tell me.”

  “Warm me up?”

  “Um-hum. I want you to bend over the bed and pull up your skirt and pull down your panties so I can see your pussy while I dress. Then I’m going to finger-fuck you. You’re not allowed to come. Would that be too much?”

  She presses her lips together and for a second I think she’ll refuse. “No, Daddy,” she whispers. “It wouldn’t be too much.”

  “Good girl. Do as you’re told.”

  She does, following my instructions so deliberately, so specifically, I feel my chest tighten. I really am proud of her. Crazy, but there it is. All of my bottoms have been compliant, eventually, and followed my instruction as best they could, but only Emily does it as if each word is the most important thing she’s ever heard.

  It’s a beautiful thing.

  When she’s bent over the bed, I reach out and rub my fingertips up and down the seam of her pussy until her lips are sheened and flared. Once she’s displayed, I give her labia a few hard taps, to see her flush, while I pull on my own clothes: a conservative, summer-weight, dark suit that I enliven with a tweed waistcoat. I’m not a flashy dresser, and since we’re going to my club, I dress even more conservatively. There’s no dress code; we just don’t dress to attract attention. We’re Dominants, not rock stars. Or porn stars, which is probably why Rick’s application wasn’t approved.

  I pick a maroon tie to match the maroon stripe in the plaid of Emily’s schoolgirl uniform and tuck the supplies for our scene, and a few other things, into my pockets while I have the armoire and dresser open.

  After lacing up my Cambridge crew dress shoes, which look sharp enough for dinner but I can still run in if required, I return to the woman bent over my bed. I rub my fingertips up and down her labia again, testing her reactions, and smile when she arches her back and gives a needy little whimper.

  “One finger now, baby doll,” I tell her, before I press my middle finger into her. It glides in to the first knuckle. I work it in and out. When my finger’s slick, I pull it out and circle it over her labia, until she’s spread open like the petals of a flower. “Beautiful, baby doll. Two fingers now.”

  She nods and clutches at the bedspread.

  I press my first and middle fingers into her. Beyond her pubic bone, her pussy’s wonderfully tight, gripping my fingers. I take my time, working my fingers in and out, finding the places that make her breath catch. Her g-spot’s nicely accessible, closer to her cervix than her opening, which will make fucking her from behind a delight for both of us. Her hips rise and fall to the rhythm of my fingers. She’s a nicely trained submissive, but she doesn’t seem to have any sexual restraint training. Something for the future.

  “Three fingers now.” I withdraw my first and middle fingers and press in all three. She moans at the stretch. I put my other hand flat on the small of her back to help hold her steady, then twist and pump my three fingers in her clenching pussy.

  “Oh, oh,” she gasps.

  “Does it feel good to have my fingers in you?”

  “Yes, Daddy, so good.”

  “Can you still feel those clamps?”

  “Yes, Daddy.”

  “Do they still hurt?”

  “Yes, Daddy. They’re rubbing as you fuck me with your fingers.”

  “Mmm.” I turn my wrist back and forth, twisting my fingers inside her. She squeals at the sensation and pushes back, impaling herself on my fingers. “My good girl doesn’t use swear words. Or take the Lord’s name in vain.”

  “Wha-what?”

  I’ve thrown her: confusion will be warring against pleasure and need in her mind. Keeping her off-balance is part of the game, but it also feels right not to let her swear. This wasn’t something I put in the contract I sent her, because I’m still feeling my way around what works for us. I’ll add a rider with some rules after we’ve spent tonight together.

  “No swear words, baby doll. No saying fuck or damn or shit. No cock or cunt or pussy, either. I want my little girl’s mouth nice and clean when I fuck it, or I’ll wash it out with soap.”

  “But what am I supposed to say?” she wails.

  I love her confusion. I piston my fingers inside her. “You can use the right terms if you need to: penis and vagina.”

  “Daddy!”

  She’s getting close, her pussy clenching on my fingers, her legs beginning to shake. But this is just a warm up, s
o I slow the pace of my fingers and remove one, gliding in and out with just two fingers while she whimpers and begs.

  “Uh-huh. That’s my good girl.”

  I slide my fingers out. Moving to the bedside table, I open the drawer with my clean hand, pull a baby wipe out of a plastic box in the drawer, and wipe her juice from my fingers. Emily watches me, confusion beetling her little face. Many Doms, maybe even her previous Doms, would make her lick their fingers clean. That doesn’t feel like “pampering,” and it’s not something I particularly enjoy anyway.

  I pull a fresh baby wipe out of the box for Emily, wipe her up carefully and cup my fingers over her pussy for a moment, remembering her gesture in the expo toilet. She arches against my fingers and makes a soft little sound as she grinds her face in the bedspread.

  “Up you come, sweetheart.” I release her and help her arrange her clothes. She’s a little wobbly, so I keep my arm around her while she puts on her shoes and collects her schoolgirl backpack. “Anything else you need?”

  She looks around as though the room as though she’s forgotten something, then shakes her head.

  I turn her to me and trace the oval of her face with one finger as I look down into her eyes. “You look gorgeous, baby.” Again, I’m not flattering her. The fingering has only heightened her color and added a sexy glaze to her eyes. “I don’t want my little girl wearing any make-up.” She doesn’t need any. It would be a crime to cover up that sweetly-freckled skin or goop up those bright eyes. “But if you want to wear something tonight since we’re going out to dinner, put it on now.”

  She bites her lip and shakes her head. “I just wear lip gloss, sir, but I’ll put it on after we’ve had a drink. I don’t want to get it on your glass.”

  “Sweetheart.” I kiss her forehead as a reward for her good manners. “Let’s go, my good girl.”

  I lead her downstairs and into the great room. She’s right: I haven’t made many changes to my parents’ house. I certainly haven’t redecorated, despite Mir’s nagging. But I did knock through the kitchen, dining room and living room, to make one big continuous space that wraps like an L around the ground floor and looks out to the street at one end and into the back yard at the other. I don’t have my mother’s green thumb, but using the antique push-mower is exercise I enjoy, so the yard is a well-manicured carpet, emerald in the early evening light, with an old apple tree in the middle and my mother’s roses gone wild and thorny up the brick walls.

  She peers out at the yard with wide eyes. “Wow, you have an apple tree.”

  “No apple trees where you live?”

  She gives me a little swat. Oh, a hint of brat. If she keeps that up, the scene we’re going to do will be all too real for her. “Of course, there are apple trees where I live. But I don’t live in the middle of the East Village.”

  I leave her to admire the view while I move to the bar separating kitchen from dining room. “Does my girl want a Shirley Temple or a Virgin Daiquiri?”

  “Could I just have a glass of water?”

  I’ll have to find out what she does like to drink. “Mmm-hmm. Ice and lemon?”

  “Oh, yes, please, sir.”

  I fix her drink and pour myself a Jack and Coke. Taking the two glasses, I join her at the long window. “Your medical report didn’t say anything about alcohol consumption. Do you drink?”

  She shrugs. “Not really. A glass of wine now and then.”

  I tink my glass against hers. “I’m sure you know alcohol’s a depressant.”

  She nods. “I also don’t like the taste very much.”

  Maybe she just hasn’t tried the right booze. I can give her sips of mine until we find something she likes. That will be fun. “I don’t drink when I’m driving, or more than five units when I’m topping, just so you know. Control’s important to me.”

  “Thank you, sir, that’s reassuring.”

  “What do you drink when there’s more than water on offer?”

  “Tea.” She gives me a swift grin, reminding me of the tea we shared after our mutual masturbation at the expo. “Cranberry juice. Milk.”

  “I’m guessing not together,” I say and smile at her giggle. “No soda?”

  “Carbonation.” She shakes her head.

  “Mmm-hmm. What’s your favorite food?”

  “The thing that’s hardest to get in upper New York state: authentic Mexican. And sushi. I adore sushi.”

  “I like sushi, too,” I say, and feel a moment’s regret that we’re not going to my favorite sushi place, which is just a short walk from my club. But sushi isn’t to everyone’s taste, so I didn’t book it and we’ll never get in without a reservation on a Sunday night. Besides, eating at the club’s Italian restaurant works around Rick’s intrusion into my night. There’ll be other opportunities for sushi. “There’s plenty of authentic Mexican where we’re going.”

  She grins, showing even, pearly teeth. “I saw that on the itinerary you sent me. Cabo San Lucas, Mazatlán, Puerto Vallarta and Zihuantanejo. Wow.”

  “Wow?”

  “Wow. I’ve never been anywhere south of Oklahoma, but I’ve always wanted to go to Mexico.” She bites her lip and hides her grin in a sip of water.

  “Where have you travelled?”

  “Europe.” She shrugs. “Research. I’ve run out of new places to go in Scotland. I wrote a book set in Germany and another in Northern Italy, so a couple of trips to each. I stayed for a month in Greece and almost didn’t come home, it was so beautiful. And all over France, visiting my mother’s family.”

  “No trips west?” I ask. West is my preferred destination. Sun, sand and spanking.

  “I’ve been to the West Coast, but not as far south as L.A. I went to visit friends in San Francisco and Seattle.”

  “Friends? Not Doms?”

  She shakes her head and I watch the swing of her shining hair with fascination. Since I can now touch it whenever I want, I lace my fingers through it and enjoy the silky slide against my skin.

  She looks up at me with a smile. “I never tried long-distance topping. All my Doms have been here in the city or in Syracuse.”

  “Yeah? How many have there been?”

  She takes a sip of water. Stalling.

  “There’s no right or wrong answer, sweetheart,” I say, to reassure her.

  “Five. Physical ones, you know, like you.”

  “Including the one that didn’t have sex with you?”

  She nods. “Please don’t think badly of Matthew. He’s a nice man.”

  “Not so nice you’re still with him.”

  She hangs her head. I catch one of the locks of hair that falls against her cheek between two fingers and give it a tug. “I’m not being critical, baby doll. I know submission’s sexual for you, so you couldn’t have gotten everything you needed out of it.”

  “Not everything I needed, no. But it was really good for me.”

  “How was it good for you?”

  “It got me out of myself, sir.”

  “A distraction from bad thoughts?”

  She nods without looking up at me. “I get too involved in my own head.” She waves her hand vaguely at the offending appendage. “What I do makes it worse. I can go for days without getting out of my pajamas or leaving the house. Being with Matthew made me realize how important human contact is for me.”

  I twist a curl around my fingers and tickle her nose with the fluffy end. “Is that why you were advertizing for a new top?”

  She gives me another little nod. “I was doing it again. Going days without seeing anyone. It’s been four months since . . . well, since I’ve been with someone. I thought it was time.”

  “Here’s to good timing.” I clink our glasses again.

  “Sir,” she says softly, looking up at me. “Can I ask . . . how long have you been split up from your sub? The lady who wrote the letter?”

  “Miranda. I stopped topping her six months ago.” I take a long swallow of my drink, letting it burn down my throat and
incinerate the lingering bitterness of her walking out on me. “Just so you know, we’re still in touch. I don’t cut people out of my life.”

  “Oh.” She sips her own drink and I give her a minute to consider. “It hasn’t been that way for me,” she says. “When it’s ended, it’s really ended. Sometimes not very nicely. I don’t stay in touch.”

  “No permanent attachments,” I say, remembering her sign.

  “No.”

  “Have you always been the one to break it off?” I ask.

  “No, sometimes it’s just ended. I stopped calling or he stopped calling. With one, we agreed we didn’t really have anything in common other than our kinks. And there was the guy who found someone else and showed up with her at the dungeon party I thought we were going to together.”

  “That’s very immature.” I tickle her chin with the captured curl until she smiles. “I like communication. I’m very open with my bottoms and I expect openness in return.”

  She nods. “No lying.”

  “No lying, no secrets. If you’re not happy, say so. If I’m not giving you what you need, tell me. Part of what I enjoy about topping is figuring out what really pushes my bottom’s buttons, but I don’t get it right every single time. If I’m missing the mark, let me know.”

  “Not so far.” She gives me a smile that’s very different from the sweet little girl smiles she’s been giving me. This is secret and sly and sexy.

  It pulls an answering grin out of me. “I should probably tell you that I haven’t been a daddy before,” I admit. “It’s working for me so far, and I can see there are things about it that I’ll really get off on. I did some research last night, so I think I understand the basics.” I did a lot of research last night, when I should have been researching the cruise job. The more I read, the more things clicked together in my head. “But if there’s something I’m not doing that you expect your daddy to do, let me know.”