by Frost, E J
Despite her irritation, Dr. Lacey makes the examination quick before signing off my discharge. She’s already given me pages of instruction on everything from changing the dressing on my incision to what to do if I have a seizure. Emily’s read each page earnestly and tucked them into a huge, leather-bound book. I’m now intensely curious about this book because I’m fairly sure it’s a journal. Not that I would ever invade her privacy by reading her journal, but if she’s going to journal anyway, she might as well keep a submission journal for me. Something to add to our contract when we get home.
And home is where we’re going. I can’t fly. Injured brain, intercranial pressure, etcetera. So, instead, we’re taking a train. I didn’t even know there were sleeper trains anymore, but it turns out there are. With real beds, even. One train will take us to Chicago, where we change for another train that will take us to New York.
The whole trip will take eight days. Seven nights. And I’ll be able to sleep with my baby doll in my arms for every single one.
Dedication
For Posypony, who taught me what it means to be little. I hope you like your cameo.
And for the ladies of Wickedly Sweet and Synful Book Blog, who made me laugh every day, even while I was writing the scenes that made me cry.
Chapter One
Emily
In an unconverted brownstone in the East Village, there’s a finished basement.
In the corner of the basement, there’s a cage. Three feet by three feet, bolted into the floor. The man sitting on a bar stool nearby started calling it a playpen, after he wrapped the metal bars in pink rubber and put a padded mat on the floor to cushion the bottom.
But it’s still a cage.
In the cage is a girl. A woman, actually, since she’s thirty-two, but at five feet four and on the skinny side, with her dark curls caught up in pigtails, she looks much younger. She’s lying curled on her side, because the cage is too small for her to stretch out, sucking her thumb, making her appear all the more childlike. Her eyes are open but glazed. She’s not taking in anything of the basement room, or the man sitting nearby, reading a newspaper, or the clock ticking on the wall behind the bar, which would show she’s been in the cage for forty-two minutes.
The girl in the cage could be me, would be me, if I wasn’t floating somewhere near the wood-beamed ceiling.
I’m so deep in subspace I don’t register any of it. Not the cool air of the basement on my naked skin, not the ache of my legs from being drawn up to my chest for so long, not the comforting presence of my thumb in my mouth, or the equally comforting presence of my daddy in the room.
I float and drift.
Occasionally, a thought intrudes.
This is the way astronauts must feel.
Our first dance was to “Major Tom.”
I was born on the day of the Challenger disaster.
My thoughts slip sideways into white fuzz again, and I let them.
I’m supposed to be thinking while I’m in the cage. And I did for the first twenty minutes. I thought long and hard about what I’d said to Daddy’s former submissive, Rachel, and how it must have hurt her feelings, even though it was totally warranted and the fifty or so things she said to me that led up to it were much worse. But Logan wants me to be the bigger person. I mustn’t gloat that I’m with him now. I mustn’t rub Rachel’s nose in the mistake of choosing her current master over Daddy. He says I have to see her mistake as a lesson in why topping from below always ends badly and be sympathetic.
Love does not boast.
It is not proud.
It does not dishonor others.
Logan has the saying in a frame in his office. His mother cross-stitched it when she and his father were newlyweds, and he kept it after they died as a reminder. Those are words Logan wants us to live by. They’re good words. But, sometimes, it’s hard not to flaunt how happy Daddy is with me.
Considering how Rachel must have felt this week—a festival week at Daddy’s club, where Rachel works, and where we’ve done several scenes each day, hunting and flogging and fucking and giving me so many orgasms I passed out in the sex swing yesterday—I might have even felt a little remorseful.
A very little, admittedly.
Logan’s an excellent daddy, the best Dom I’ve ever had. He explained the purpose of my punishment before he put me in the cage. Once I felt that drop of remorse, I’d done what I needed to do and slid down into subspace.
Logan turns a page in his newspaper, a whispery crinkle that penetrates my haze for a moment before I drift again. He’s going to want me to apologize to him once he lets me out of the cage. I have no trouble doing so. I embarrassed him by sniping at Rachel-the-bitch, and I am sorry. My daddy’s happiness is what matters most to me, and I hate that I’ve tarnished that happiness.
He’s also going to want me to apologize to Rachel. I’ll have more trouble doing that, but I will because he wants me to, and because I am a tiny bit remorseful, and because I really do want to be the bigger person.
Logan clears his throat twice, which is our signal. He used to count backward from ten, but, in the weeks we’ve been together, I’ve gotten so attuned to him that all I need to bring me back up is for him to clear his throat purposefully.
I blink. My eyes are dry. I focus on him.
“Emmy, tell Daddy what you’re thinking.”
I take my thumb, which is very wrinkled, out of my mouth and answer him, “I’m thinking that I love my daddy.”
Which is the truth. That’s what I was thinking when he asked. And I’m scrupulously honest with Logan.
“Daddy loves you, too, sweet baby. Have you had any thoughts about what we discussed before you went into the playpen?”
“Yes, Daddy. I understand why you don’t want me saying mean things to Rachel. I’m sorry for what I said because it hurt her feelings and embarrassed you. I want to apologize.”
Logan nods and rises from his stool. He twists the catch on the lower cage door and swings it open. The cage isn’t locked. It never is. I stay in the cage because that’s where Logan has put me and more than anything else, I want to please my daddy. I can’t crawl out on my own after lying curled up for so long, and he knows that. He reaches in and draws my legs through the open cage door. I shift onto my back and stretch, with a hiss as pins and needles race up my thighs. Logan’s warm hands close on my knee. He massages down my calf to my ankle, then up again, helping the blood flow back to where it belongs. He switches and massages my right leg, until my toes are tingling. I look up at him through the cage’s top bars, through tears of genuine gratitude.
“Ta very much, Daddy,” I say, using the British phrase Logan’s taught me. He was born and spent his first decade in England. British words and sayings still pepper his speech. I think they’re cute but I wouldn’t tell him that, because Doms aren’t supposed to be cute.
“You’re welcome, baby doll. Ready to come out?”
I nod. Logan puts his big hands on my hips and helps me slide through the lower door until I’m all the way out. He offers me his hands and helps me rise. I shiver a little; the basement’s temperature raises goose bumps on my skin now that I’m no longer in subspace. Logan takes a folded blue blanket, one of my Ravenclaw fuzzies, off the bar and wraps it around me before he draws me over to one of the couches near the flat-screen TV mounted on the wall. He sits, pulling me into his lap.
Before he was injured, Daddy probably would have picked me up and carried me to the couch, but his leg’s still too unsteady. Still, he’s much, much better than he was right after the evil massage man hurt him, when he couldn’t even bear to hold me in his lap. Grateful that he can now, I curl against his chest and tuck my face into his neck, inhaling the woodsy, smoky scent of his aftershave.
He cradles me in one strong arm, and, after taking out my scrunchies, strokes my hair. He kisses the top of my head and murmurs, “Daddy’s proud of you, baby girl.”
His words warm me even more than my fuzzy. I know
why he’s proud of me. I’ve struggled with non-impact punishments from the beginning. He can paddle me black and blue and it just turns me on. But non-impact punishments twist my brain inside out. I panic. My brain vomits up every fear I’ve ever felt and swamps me with terror. The first time Logan put me in the cage, I screamed for five solid minutes and begged him to take me out for the next thirty. He didn’t. Logan’s fair but very firm. After an hour, I finally accepted his discipline and drifted into subspace. There were a few tears today, but no screaming, no panic, and I hit subspace in record time. He’s proud of my submission, and I’m proud of it, too.
I hug him super-tight. “Love you, Daddy.”
“I love you, too, baby doll.” He always says it back, always reassures me that my feelings are fully reciprocated. “Would you like to apologize now?”
I nod into his neck.
“Good girl. Let me see your eyes.”
I lift my head and look up into his dark eyes. They’re burning a little because Logan’s a sadist and disciplining me arouses him, but, after a week of doing at least a scene a day, we’re both pretty sated. Still, he might want to play, or just fuck, after I apologize. He often does after he disciplines me, although he doesn’t always allow me an orgasm, depending on how badly I’ve screwed up. I really hope he lets me have an orgasm this time, because just that hot, domly glare makes me tingle in all the best places.
“I apologize for being petty and mean to Rachel and for embarrassing you,” I say. “I’ll ignore her in the future and not let the things she says get under my skin. I want to be the bigger person, even though I’m very little.”
Logan grins before he hides it by kissing the tip of my nose. “Even a very little person can be bighearted. I know you are that person, Emmy. I believe in you.”
I love that he believes in me, even though it’s sometimes hard for me to believe in myself. I throw my arms around his neck. “Ta very much, Daddy.”
“You owe me another apology, though, baby girl.”
“What? What did I do?” I can’t think of a single thing I’ve done that’s even made him frown. We’ve had a really good week together.
Logan purses his lips. “I hoped you might have thought about this while you were in the playpen.”
His disappointment makes my eyes fill again. “I’m sorry, Daddy.”
“Did you think I didn’t notice how Rachel’s been with you? That I didn’t hear the things she’s said? I know she’s been digging at you since we’ve been back. Daddy’s not blind or deaf, little girl.”
“I know,” I wail. I immediately realize where this is going. Logan’s one of the most observant people I’ve ever met. Of course, he knew. I just didn’t think he’d do anything about it. But his disappointment tells me he has, or is going to, and by not leaving it to him to deal with, I’ve let him down. “I’m sorry, Daddy. I should have trusted you to take care of it.”
“Yes, you should have. Daddy always has his girl’s back. Always. I’ve already set the wheels in motion and by this time next month, Rachel will be gone. But until that happens, there will be no more confrontations, no snide remarks, and definitely no catfights, no matter what she says to you. Are we clear?”
He’s getting rid of Rachel? Like getting her fired? I know my daddy has a lot of clout at his club. He used to be Master of Training, which meant he trained all the new subbies. He’s still on the management committee. But I didn’t think that he could—or would—get her fired. I want to ask questions, but I don’t think that’s a good idea. Instead, I hug him hard.
“Clear, Daddy. I’m so sorry.”
He kisses my forehead again. “I forgive you, little love. I know you’re still getting used to having a daddy full time, and I’m still learning to be your daddy. But this is something that you should have come to me with and let me resolve. I’ve been waiting for you to, and it hurt that you didn’t.”
He’s hurt? He’s never said I’ve hurt him before. Ever. What have I done?
I push up until I can press my forehead against his. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. It won’t happen again, I promise. I love you and I never want to hurt your feelings—”
“Sh-sh-sh,” Logan cuts across my babble. He draws me back down into his arms and cuddles me close. “Daddy will survive. But I’m telling you how I feel because I want you to tell me how you feel. We communicate, right? We share our feelings. That’s how this works.”
“Yes, Daddy.”
“Good girl. Now, seeing you in the playpen’s made Daddy horny, so option one is that you get on your knees, and option two is that Daddy fucks you over the back of the couch. Either way, you’re not getting an orgasm.”
Damn.
I blink up at him a few times. Although his mouth twitches, his expression doesn’t soften. Sometimes the puppy eyes work, but they seem to have lost their super-powers today. He’s really annoyed—okay, hurt—that I didn’t come to him about Rachel.
“Option one.”
Sucking him off will make me horny, but I can endure that. Having him fuck me and not being allowed to come is more than an endurance test. It’s torture. It scrambles my brains, and he knows it, which is why he’s given me the choice. I thank him for it.
“Ta very much, Daddy.”
“On your knees, then, my baby.”
He takes a throw cushion off the couch and tosses it to floor between his feet before helping me down onto it.
Chapter Two
Logan
Discipline is not the way I like to start the day, even followed by one of Emily’s ball-exploding blow jobs. But we got home from my club too late last night to do anything but go to bed. Emily’s bedtime is midnight, no matter what else is going on. Come the Zombie Apocalypse, I’ll still be putting my little girl to bed at midnight. She operates on a very limited energy reserve, so a full seven hours of sleep is essential, or I get a hot mess of a little girl. And a hot mess of a little girl does not make for a happy daddy.
The situation with Rachel is not making for a happy daddy, either. Rachel may think she’s being subtle with her digs at Emily, but I’ve kept track of each and every one. I’ve already spoken to all the members of the management committee about moving Rachel to Sacrum, our sister club in New Jersey, and most are in agreement. I’m just waiting for the committee meeting next week to take a formal vote and then I’ll break the bad news to my former bottom and her new master. Neither of them will be happy. But I’ve given Rachel a month to get over herself, and Sante a month to get her under control. Since neither has, I’m resolving the problem my way.
I wish I could resolve all my problems so neatly.
With a sigh, I look over my little girl’s shoulder, through the open, French doors at her back, out into the garden behind my townhouse. Mum’s oasis. She loved her garden, so rare in the crowded city. While she was alive, the garden was full of the plants I remember from England. Nodding roses and tall spires of foxgloves and climbing honeysuckle the bees like. Since Mum passed, I haven’t done the best job of keeping up her garden; all I have to do is look at a plant for it to die. I kept the grass mowed with the old push mower because I like the exercise and cut back the roses every winter because I remember Mum doing that but, otherwise, I’ve left the garden alone.
Since moving in with me, Emily’s sprinkled whatever green magic women have over the garden and now it’s full of flowers again. They’re not the same flowers Mum grew. I don’t know their names. But they’re pretty and fragrant and bring the soft sounds of bees into the breakfast nook where we’re sitting.
I’m glad Emily’s started putting her stamp on the house. I want her to feel at home here.
I smile at her, and feed her another bite of the dry, whole-wheat toast she likes for breakfast, although I’m not sure how anyone can like dry, whole-wheat toast. She tried feeding it to me when we first arrived home from San Diego. I nuked that immediately. She can juice all the kale, carrots, wheat grass and other green crap she wants to stuff “
micronutrients” down me. The physical therapist says it’s helping me recover, and, since I’m weeks ahead of where the PT expected me to be, I’m not going to argue, even if I have to hold my nose to choke down some of Emily’s concoctions.
But I draw the line at dry, whole-wheat toast. At least put some bloody marmalade on it.
Emily chews ten times before she smiles at me. Such a good girl. She’s not holding a grudge over the discipline, or the orgasm denial afterwards. She never does. Which makes Rachel’s continued antagonism all the more aggravating. If Rachel had just once extended the olive branch, Emily would have taken it. They might never have been friends, but I wouldn’t need to exile Rachel and her master to bloody Jersey.
The drone of bees draws my attention back outside. Just like when Mum was alive. I love that Emily’s brought the bees back. I love this place. Full of memories, good and bad, but mostly good. And, with Emily here, we’re layering good memory on top of good memory.
It’s going to fuck me up if I have to sell this place to pay off the vultures. But I don’t see any other way.
My phone, face down on the table next to Emily’s, rings. Remembering the call from the bastard debt collector yesterday, I check the caller ID first.
Rick Errol.
I wipe crumbs off my fingers and accept the call. “Hey, mate.”
“Hey. How’s it going?”
“Better every day. Barely using the cane anymore. How’s things at your end?”
“All good. You sound strong, man,” he says.
“Yeah, I’m feeling good. What’s up?”
“If you’re feeling that much better, how ’bout we meet up at the gym today?”
Rick’s more of a poser than a lifter, but I don’t mind a low-key workout after yesterday’s physical therapy session. And it’ll get me thinking about something other than losing my parents’ house. “Sure, yours or mine?”
