The Daddy P.I. Casefiles: The First Collection

by Frost, E J

  “Private security.” He looks down at me with a wry smile. “And I can’t get away from my clients no matter how hard I try. I turned down every call this week so I could get ready for the trip, but then a client, a really good client, called in a favor. You know who Rick Errol is?”

  I shake my head.

  “Porn star. I’ve known Rick for years. He was one of my first clients. He wants to bring a friend to my club, but it’s members only. I need to escort them in and out. That’s all. The rest of the night is yours. Sorry, baby doll.”

  “No, it’s fine, sir. I don’t mind.” I certainly don’t mind that he has to work a little during our date. I’m not sure how I feel about hanging out with a porn star. But I’ve never met a porn star before, so what do I know? “Is he really a porn star? I’ve never met a porn star.”

  He chuckles. “No? You haven’t lived, little girl.”

  I guess not. I thought going to the occasional dungeon party was walking on the wild side.

  As I’m about to ask Logan how he met his porn star friend, the cab stops in front of a brownstone. Logan pays cash, then he unbuckles my seatbelt and helps me out of the taxi.

  * * *

  His place is not what I expect. It’s a brownstone with three floors and original leaded windows. The entrance hallway smells like a cedar grove and is half-panelled with brown and beige patterned wall-paper above the wood wainscoting. With all the wood, it could be original, too. Logan steers me up a central staircase that wouldn’t look out of place in Tara. The staircase turns at the first floor, with four doors opening off a carpeted landing. There’s a dark oil painting on the landing wall. As we pass it, and Logan opens a door to show me a blue and cream-tiled bathroom, I see it’s a portrait of a woman in Victorian dress with a spaniel in her lap.

  I can’t quite reconcile the dusty portrait with Logan’s black T-shirts, biker boots, and porn star clients.

  After showing me where the bathroom is, Logan leads me down the hall and shows me into a bedroom with a huge, four-poster bed. He sets my overnight bag on a settee at the foot of the bed and leans against the bedpost, letting me look around.

  “This is really nice,” I offer. “It doesn’t seem like you, though.”

  “The house? I inherited it.”

  That’s right; he said his parents had died. “You haven’t redecorated?”

  Logan looks around as though seeing the room for the first time. He chuckles, the warm, deep sound making my toes curl inside my ballet flats. “Why, are the curtains too last season for you? I don’t do soft furnishings.”

  The curtains are dark net, filtering the early evening light. I think my grandmother had the same ones. I laugh with him.

  “So, baby doll,” he says, after our shared laughter dies down. “Anything you need before we get started?”

  I shake my head.

  He pats my overnight bag. “I’m putting this in here in the hopes that you earn your spot there.” He tips his chin at the bed. “You ready to pay for lying to me?”

  My throat gets tight, but my belly does, too. “Yes, sir.”

  He smiles. It’s not his funny, crooked grin. This smile is wolfish. “I like what you’re wearing, sweetheart. If I forgot to tell you, your dress is very pretty. I don’t want to ruin it, so you can either pull it up, or take it off.”

  I’m totally taking it off; I want his hot eyes all over me again. “Now, sir?”

  “Yes, now. Good girl for asking.”

  Hearing him call me a good girl again, after not hearing it since the beginning of the cab ride, lights me up inside. I reach down and find the hem of my dress with my fingertips and work it up my body. I get stuck at my breasts and have to change my grip. As I do, Logan makes a low noise. When I look at him, he’s watching me, smiling that hot, wolfish smile.

  “You’re wearing white panties again, baby doll. Nice.”

  “Thank you, sir.” I finish struggling out of my dress. Why didn’t I wear something less fitted?

  “You have any red ones?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I don’t want to see you in red panties. Or black. Only white and pink for my little girl.”

  I have to grab the bedpost as my knees give out. Yesterday, I thought he was fumbling with the daddy-thing. Either I got it wrong, or heck, he learns fast.

  He reaches out and takes my dress, folds it neatly and lays it across my bag. Then he takes my hand off the bedpost and leads me around the end of the bed.

  “Bend over.”

  I do, laying my cheek on the dark blue bedspread and placing my arms by my sides. His bed is high and I have to scoot back a little to get my feet flat on the floor. Once I’m balanced, I wait. I’ve been in this position many times. I know what’s coming. I can’t remember ever wanting it quite as much as I do right now, though.

  “Panties down.”

  I find the band with my fingertips and ease it over my butt.

  His warm palm cups the skin I’ve just bared. “Mmm, just as soft as I thought it would be. You have such a sweet ass.” He rubs. The pressure’s gentle, but the friction on the stripes he left on me yesterday makes me whimper. “So tender. Did you take a bath last night like I told you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Did these hurt last night when you were trying to sleep? Is that why you look tired, baby doll?”

  Do I look tired? Oh, no. I couldn’t sleep last night, but I did nap on the train. “No, sir. I was just . . . I was so excited I had trouble sleeping.”

  “Excited about tonight?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Mmm.” He scratches one of the stripes and even though his fingernails are trimmed short, the pain is sharp. Each scratch draws a little moan out of me. “I’m going to mark you again, baby doll. Ten stripes. I want you to feel it every time you move, but you need to be able to sit down. Will you be able to sit with ten more stripes?”

  Depends on how hard he hits me, and if it’s anything like the expo bathroom, he hits pretty hard, but I’ll sit on a bed of nails if it gets him to belt me again. “Yes, sir.”

  “Good girl.” He keeps one hand on me, smoothing and scratching, while he unbuckles and removes his belt with the other. He draws the leather across my ass and chuckles when I shiver.

  “Please, sir,” I whisper.

  “Please what?” He takes the belt between both hands and rubs it back and forth across my butt-cheeks, igniting the old abrasions. His belt has a raw edge, which my ass remembers really well. I wonder if he bought it like that, or if he’s filed it to make it sting more.

  “Please, I’m so sorry I lied to you. I want to sleep in your bed tonight.”

  “You do, huh?” He chuckles. “You have to earn forgiveness, Emily.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Absolutely no coming while I’m strapping you, baby.”

  “No, sir.” I couldn’t anyway. Yesterday was a fluke.

  His hand slides to the small of my back, and then the leather cracks across my ass. I yelp and clutch at the bedspread. The rough edge leaves the same blistering kiss across my skin as yesterday. I have a moment’s grace, in which I begin to relax into the mattress, and then the leather whips across my skin again.

  “Two,” Logan says. “Eight more, little girl.”

  “Yes, sir,” I whimper. My eyes are already beading with tears and my ass is striped with fire, but I wouldn’t ever ask him to stop. Not while I’m earning his forgiveness. Not while the voice in my head is mercifully silent.

  He counts down the strokes. He hits a different spot each time, until my backside is a solid, burning globe. I writhe, clutch at the bedspread, unable to keep still, even though I know I have to work with the pain, accept it. It’s not taking me into subspace; I’m fully alert, completely focused on him, just the way I was yesterday. I’m not sure why I’m not glazing, sinking into that sweet, silent, peaceful place, but I’m not. The voice is still silent, but I’m feeling the pain—the full, burning pain—of being punished
for lying to him. And the pain does what it always does. It hits that weird, crossed wire in my brain and turns into something other than hurt. It doesn’t transmute into pleasure. What he’s doing still hurts a-fucking-lot. But it also becomes something insanely hot and wanting. Something that makes my belly tight and my thighs wet.

  His hand in the small of my back holds me in place for each fresh stroke and I thank him tearfully.

  “Ten,” he says. “Such a good girl.”

  I sob with the relief of it being over, although my ass is hurting so much, I’m not sure I’ll be able to stand, much less sit. He wasn’t holding back and his belt has a serious bite with that rough edge.

  “Stay there, baby doll.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I hear him move away; his boots a whisper across the carpet. I turn my head so I can watch him. Oh, Lordy, I haven’t seen his ass. Wow. Wowwowwow. I thought the view was good from the front, but it’s even better from the rear. No man’s ass should be that firm. He turns the corner and I sniffle with loss. I release the crumpled bedspread and wipe my face with my palms.

  Logan’s back a moment later, carrying a silver tube. He stops beside me, squeezes a blob of clear gel onto his fingers and then rubs it into my skin where my thigh meets my ass.

  “I’m only going to put it here, sweetheart, so you can sit down. The rest, you need to bear for me.”

  “Yes, sir.” I take deep, slow breaths, the way I’ve been taught, to calm myself down and work through the pain. Whatever he’s rubbed on my ass—I assume it’s an analgesic—has created a nice, cool patch on the bottom of my right cheek. He creates a second patch on my left side and I sigh with relief. “Thank you, sir. Thank you so much.”

  “You’re welcome, little angel. Daddy takes care of his girl. Can you stand up?”

  I have no idea, but right now, I’d do anything he asked, including jump off the Brooklyn Bridge. “Yes, sir.”

  “Easy.” He moves behind me, pulls up my underwear, takes my hands in his and draws me up against his body. When I wobble, he pulls my back to his chest and curls our linked arms across my chest. He feels so warm, so solid, against my back. He releases one of my hands and rubs his palm down to rest on my stomach. “Settle for a minute.”

  I close my eyes and melt into him. He holds me for a long time. He doesn’t grumble or seem impatient. Just holds me and occasionally circles his hand around my navel.

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t do your aftercare yesterday,” he murmurs to me. “I didn’t like that, leaving you to drive home alone. I’ll try to make sure that doesn’t happen again.”

  “It’s okay. Thank you for calling me.” Which he did, just as promised. We only talked for a few minutes, and not about anything important, but it left me warm and happy. And much too excited to sleep. “I really appreciated it.”

  “Any time. I mean that, baby doll. I know we don’t know each other very well yet, but I want you to know that if there’s anything you need, I’m here.”

  Well, as long as I pass tonight’s audition. And maybe after that only for two weeks. But that’s okay. Ashley taught me nothing’s forever and I’ll take a few weeks with Logan over being alone any day.

  He presses his lips against my temple. “When I let you go, you’re going to walk down to the bathroom and wash your face. Brush this pretty hair. Use the toilet if you need to.” He reaches up and runs his hand through my hair. I’ve left it down and loose, although pigtails would probably fit better with my outfit, but Logan seems to like touching my hair, and I don’t want anything to deter him. “When you’re done, come back to me. I’ll help you get dressed and then we’ll have a drink before we pick up Rick.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Anything else you need, baby doll?”

  “Could I have a kiss, sir?”

  “Of course.” He turns me around in his arms, then he lifts me with one hand under my ass, the pressure from his palm reigniting the inferno he’s lit there, the other across my shoulders. He holds me against his chest, and I’m just getting my head around him holding me off the ground like I weigh nothing, when he kisses me. It’s not a sweet kiss like yesterday, that soft but lingering goodbye. This feels like he’s eating me, sucking my lower lip into his mouth and scraping his teeth over it. He doesn’t stick his tongue down my throat. Thank the Lord. Instead, he devours me, occasionally flicking the tip of his tongue against my teeth or the corners of my mouth, before returning to sucking and biting my lips.

  When he finally lifts his head, my lips are burning, and almost as swollen as my ass. My head’s spinning. His fingertips, pressed along the gusset of my panties, are damp. If he pushed me up against the wall now, he could shove anything inside me without resistance, even that mouth-wateringly thick dick of his. Instead, he kisses the tip of my nose and gently sets me back on my feet.

  “Uh-uh-uh.” Is all I can manage.

  He smiles down at me. Taps the tip of my nose with his forefinger. “If you’d been a good girl, I’d be inside you right now and we’d see how many orgasms I could bang out of you before Manny gets here. Instead, you’re going to have to wait until I decide you’ve learned your lesson. Remember that the next time you’re tempted to lie to me. Go do what I told you.”

  Omigod, is this Logan in Dom-mode? My brain implodes.

  “Yuh-yuh- yes, sir.”

  I flee, the smooth soles of my flats slipping a little on the carpet, one hand dashing tears from my cheeks and the other clutching my burning ass. He doesn’t follow me, and for some silly, stupid reason, that makes me cry even harder.

  Splashing cool water on face, and between my legs, finally calms me down. I clean myself up and borrow the thick horsehair brush in his bathroom cabinet—much nicer than my plastic one—which leaves my hair gleaming and silky with fat curls at the ends that I couldn’t achieve with an hour and a curling iron.

  The first chance I get, I’m buying a horsehair brush.

  Émilee, don’t you dare waste money on such a frivolous thing, you stupid, wasteful girl.

  I grip the hairbrush between my hands while the voice hisses in my ears. Then I turn, open the bathroom door and walk down the hall back into the bedroom.

  Chapter Three

  Logan

  Something’s wrong.

  She was fine when she left. I’ve been watching her closely for any sign the belting was too much, but everything was fine when she left. Now, all the color’s drained out of her face and her eyes are red, but not from those sweet little tears of frustration she was shedding as she ran out.

  She comes straight to me and hands me a hairbrush.

  “Please, sir, could you punish me again?”

  I take the hairbrush from her. “Take your shoes off. Lie down on the bed. On your stomach.”

  She does it without meeting my eyes. Something’s really wrong.

  I sit down on the bed beside her, pick up her left foot and hold her ankle. I massage the delicate bones with my thumb and forefinger while I rub the back of the brush over the arch of her foot. She curls her toes at the sensation.

  “Did you do something naughty in the bathroom, baby doll?” I ask. I followed her down the hall after a minute and listened at the door to make sure she wasn’t too upset. I didn’t hear anything that sounded like a problem, but she might have bitten a towel or something to silence her cries.

  “No, sir.”

  “Then why do you need to be disciplined again?”

  “For lying to you.” She crosses her forearms under her head.

  I don’t think that’s why. “For lying to me about your name, or for lying to me right now.”

  She turns her head sharply to look at me. “I’m not lying to you right now.”

  “No? Then tell me why you really need to be disciplined again.”

  “I need the pain to distract me, sir.”

  “Distract you from what?” I ask, shifting so I can rub the horsehair over the purple-pink stripes on her upper ass-cheeks. I don’t hav
e any intention of abusing her feet with the brush. If she’s lied to me again, she’s going to get another ass-whipping. Right on top of the welts that must be stinging like a nest of bees already. If not, I’ll figure something else out that doesn’t involve bruising the soles of the feet she needs to walk around on all night.

  “Bad . . . thoughts,” she whispers.

  I almost ask her what the bad thoughts are, but remembering her history of depression and self-harm, I can probably guess.

  “Were you having bad thoughts in the bathroom?” I ask instead.

  She nods, her hair rustling over her shoulders and back. Now that I’m free to play with her hair, I pick up a curl and hold it to my lips, enjoying the texture and faint, sweet scent.

  “Are you having bad thoughts now?” I ask.

  “No, sir.”

  “Okay.” I bring the brush down on her ass, above where she’d sit, but across several stripes. Caught by surprise, she jolts and yelps.

  “Any bad thoughts now?” I ask. I don’t wait for her answer before I bring the brush down again on her other cheek, harder, since she’ll be expecting the second blow.

  “No, sir. No, sir,” she pants.

  “Good. Stand up.”

  She does, scrambling backwards across the bed. I observe her as I slide more slowly out of the bed. The color’s back in her cheeks, and her eyes are bright and clear. No bad thoughts in there.

  “Give me your bag,” I say, and when she gives me a little black backpack, I slide the hairbrush into it. “If you have any bad thoughts for the rest of the night, you bring me the brush, and I’ll take care of them.”

  She nods, trembling.

  “Good girl. Now show me your uniform.”

  She opens her suitcase and draws out a blazer, classic white cotton shirt, pleated skirt, clip-on tie, knee socks and black Mary Janes. I smile at the memories of my junior school back in Morecambe. Good things the girls there didn’t look anything like Emily or I’d have failed all my classes.