The Daddy P.I. Casefiles: The First Collection

by Frost, E J

  If I’d had a crystal ball, I’d have saved every penny. But I thought I was invincible back then, free from the Navy, fresh from my training in Thailand, full of enthusiasm for starting my own business, elated by the new world of BDSM that my time at Jasmine House opened to me. A sparkly, yellow brick road unrolling into the future.

  But I should have remembered the Oz books my sister devoured when we were kids. Emerald City isn’t all it’s cracked up to be and what was waiting for me behind the curtain was a depressed skull fracture, a two-hour medivac flight from Mexico, major surgery, a four-day hospital stay, and months of physical therapy.

  Now I’m stuck with forty-eight thousand in medical bills, a house with too little equity left in it to remortgage, and a family bathroom.

  But at least I have the little girl in my bed.

  I focus on that as I step into the shower. The important thing is Emily. I’ll miss the house. I’ll miss the City. I’ll miss my club. None of it matters, so long as I have Emily. I can’t let the debt undermine our relationship, and after last night’s Knee Time, I know it’s worrying her.

  Time to bite the bullet and call some realtors.

  When I hear a noise out of synch with the drumming of the water, I stick my head out of the spray to listen. Hyper-alertness, my physical therapist calls it. I’ve been injured before, seen men die, and survived firefights, but nothing like the intimate violence Jason-the-Murderous-Bastard visited upon me. It’s left a mark. Hendry says my perception of danger will tone down after a few months, but in the meanwhile, I have a hair-trigger.

  Emily’s pattering footsteps are easy to recognize. She’s going to use the downstairs toilet. I stick my head back under the spray and smile as I scrub my back with a loofah. Despite the fact I’ve had a lot of me inside much of her, she’s still very shy about her bodily functions. I haven’t worked on breaking down those inhibitions yet because they can be useful. Making a submissive release her bladder or bowels in front of you, at your command, is incredibly powerful. Beyond establishing dominance and control, it creates a bond between Dom and sub that’s hard to break.

  I know exactly how hard it is to break that bond. Because, despite the baby girl who has become my whole world, I still have that bond with someone else. Frayed down to a few strands by her lies, but it’s still there.

  I tilt my head back and let the hot water sluice over me. I’m going to have to return Miranda’s calls today. I don’t want to. I wish those last few strands would snap and she’d disappear from my life. But that’s not the commitment I made to her as her Dom. And it’s not the commitment I made to her as a man. I chose to have sex with her without a condom; the consequences are my responsibility. Miranda lying about when her IUD was removed doesn’t negate my responsibility.

  No matter how much I wish it did.

  A soft tap on the bathroom door brings my head out of the drumming water again.

  “Daddy? Can I brush my teeth?”

  I left the bathroom door ajar so she knew she could come in, but she always asks permission. Good girl. “Sure, baby doll.”

  The door creaks open and Emily slips in, her hair a wild mess of curls, her small body drowned in my bathrobe. She smiles and does the cute curtsey thing she does to acknowledge me, before she moves to the sink to brush her teeth. Once she’s gobbed toothpaste on the brush, she shifts to one side, so she doesn’t have her back to me. Respectful girl. I give her a nod and a smile so she knows I’ve noticed.

  I finish and step out, wrapping a towel around my waist. Emily immediately sets down her toothbrush on the counter, wipes her mouth, and kneels next to the sink. She goes into the Nadu position without me having to give her the command, but keeps her head up and parts her lips, offering her mouth. I cross the bathmat to her and cup her chin in my palm, holding her eyes with mine.

  “Good girl. I’m proud of you for remembering the rules. I’d rather have your pussy than your mouth this morning. Are you too sore?”

  The robe shifts as her thighs squeeze together, and her pupils dilate. “No, Daddy.”

  “That’s my girl. Stand, take off the robe, and kneel on the toilet seat.”

  “Yes, Daddy.”

  The speed with which she jumps up and sheds the robe tells me that no matter how sore she is, and she must be at least a little sore, she wants a fucking anyway.

  I give it to her, growling with pleasure at her little hisses when I enter her with barely any foreplay and delighting in her whimpers as I accelerate into a hard, fast rhythm, slamming into her from behind as she braces herself against the wall. Before she can adjust to my pace, I squeeze some toothpaste onto my forefinger, push my hand between her thighs, and rub it over the hood of her clit. Emily squeals and shudders, trying to escape the burn, which is a little too much for her. I want her overwhelmed. Burning and aching. I want the sensations to pile on top of her, drown her, sweep her away.

  Within minutes, they do. She begs for permission to climax, but I refuse, forcing her to hold out against the breaking wave of sensation while I work in the toothpaste with my fingertip and pound her tender cunt. She’s screaming, tearing at the arm I’ve wrapped around her, before I growl permission and feel her convulse, slamming back against me as her body spasms out of her control. Before she even finishes coming, I drag her off the toilet, grab her hair, and bend her all the way over. Her hands slap the floor tiles as she braces herself. I give her one second to adjust before I’m slamming into her again, jerking her hips against mine. With a strangled scream, she comes again and I give in to the crazed boiling in my balls, adding my own roar to the echoes of her orgasm.

  Once I can breathe, and think, again, I withdraw from her and catch her as she collapses. I sink onto the bathmat, careful not to rely on my left leg for balance, and pull her into my lap. She’s limp against me, and I check her face to make sure she hasn’t passed out. Her eyes are rolled nearly to white, but she blinks every few seconds. And her smile is one of pure bliss. I cuddle her and stroke her back, before pulling my robe around both of us so she doesn’t get cold.

  When she begins to stir against me, I kiss her forehead. “Back with me, baby girl?”

  She nods and works her mouth for a moment before she finds her words. “Tuh-ta, Daddy. Thank you for my orgasms.”

  She’s okay. That was rough and intense, but we both glory in rough and intense. Even though Emily looks so delicate a strong wind could blow her away, she can take the roughest I can dish out. And grin at me afterwards.

  “You’re very welcome, sweet girl. Into the shower now. Daddy will help you wash.”

  She obeys like a robot. Lobotomized by pleasure. That thought makes me grin during my second shower of the day as I remove the plug and wash my dazed little girl. I clean her labia carefully, making sure I’ve gotten off all the toothpaste. Emily’s a little sensitive to it and I don’t want her to get a rash. She washed her hair yesterday and she doesn’t wash it every day, so I just wet it and then wring it out before I wrap her in a towel. She hasn’t cut her hair while we’ve been together. It was past her shoulders when we met, and now it’s brushing where her bra-strap would be if she were dressed. Perfect to run my fingers through; perfect to wrap around my fist.

  She still looks glazed, and well-fucked, as she dries off. I get out the lotion, which also has sunblock in it because Emily burns easily, and, starting at her little toes, rub lotion into every inch of her. This is a ritual, as much as her offering her mouth to me first thing in the morning. Her eyes glaze again as I rub in the lotion, and she gives me another of those beatific smiles when I finish.

  After I brush out her damp hair and leave it to curl naturally, I lead her into the bedroom. Most days, I let her pick out her own clothes, but I always select something, even if it’s just her panties, so she knows all day that she’s wearing something Daddy gave her. Today’s going to be a roaster, hot and sticky as only August in the City can be, ten degrees hotter than yesterday, and we’re going to be outside for some of
it. When I tell her the forecast, she picks a blue, pin-striped, sailor dress with a wide, white collar and pairs it with white bike shorts so she doesn’t flash the world every time she bends over. Since she’s wearing shorts, I take her panties away and hand her a lace bra with demi-cups, a pair of tiny, daisy nipple clamps, and white ankle socks.

  She looks up at me, all huge eyes and rosebud mouth. I’ve never made her wear nipple clamps outside a scene, but I like the idea of them today. It will keep her mind off the heat.

  When she doesn’t make any move to dress, I reach out and tug on her nipples until they’re little red pegs, take the wire daisies from her, and fit them around each nipple. Emily blinks in shock as the wire contracts and pinches.

  “We’ll take them off every few hours to give your nips a rest, but you’ll wear them for me today until dinner time.”

  “Yes, Daddy,” she breathes.

  I kiss the top of her head. I like keeping her on her toes. Emily’s a very sweet submissive. She doesn’t make me work for her submission the way many of my former bottoms have. It would be easy to take her for granted. Small surprises, little twists, remind us both of how precious the gift of her submission truly is.

  After staring at the nipple clamps like she’s never seen herself clamped before, and wriggling in helpless delight, she dresses. I help her with her socks, to keep her feeling little. When I finish, she’s glowing, pink suffusing her cheeks, eyes alight. Happy girl.

  I pull on a black tee and board shorts, loose enough that I’ll be able to do physical therapy in them. Emily watches me, a glint in her eyes despite the two orgasms she just had in the bathroom. When it’s not nearly a hundred outside, I feed Emily’s schoolgirl fetish by dressing in “headmaster casual:” waistcoats and white Oxfords. Emily drools watching me roll up my sleeves. But today’s heat will make button-downs and waistcoats unbearable, so, on hot days, I’ve taken to wearing muscle-shirts and not shaving so I have matching scruff.

  Turns out, the “bad-boy” look works for her, too.

  I tap my adoring little girl on the tip of her nose before I take her hand and lead her downstairs.

  Egg-white omelets with fresh dill from the garden are on the menu for breakfast. I leave our daily menu to Emily and only veto her choices when she tries to feed me tofu burgers and grilled portabella mushrooms more than two days in a row. I appreciate her efforts to help me eat healthy, but there’s only so much meat substitute I can take.

  While Emily separates the eggs, I head into the garden to cut the dill. It’s still early, but the sun’s already fierce and has burned off the morning dew. There’s a breeze that will keep the day from becoming unbearable, if it sticks around. The climbing roses and the blue flowers Emily’s planted that look like pom-poms wave gently, stirred by the air current that dips over the twelve-foot brick walls surrounding our little patch of green. Mum loved her garden, and Dad built the walls to keep her safe in it. Neither of my parents had any illusions about the reality of living in the City. Mum came from Hattersley, after all.

  Maybe whoever buys the house will appreciate both the garden and the walls.

  I wash the dill and set it by the cutting board for Emily to chop. I can cook. Mum didn’t believe in gender roles when it came to the kitchen, or any household chores, actually. I can iron and degrease an oven, too. But I’m a firm believer in letting the most skilled person handle the job. That means I take my shirts down the street to the old Italian cleaner who launders them a blinding white and presses them perfectly, and I let Emily work her magic in the kitchen, while I do the jobs that don’t require any skill, like taking out the trash and setting the table.

  But my little girl is sneaky as well as skilled, and when I go to set the table, I discover Emily’s already done it. I shoot her a glance over the island, where she’s now chopping the dill, and see her mouth quirk before she becomes very intent on her task.

  I move to the far edge of the island and lean my hip against it. “There’s going to come a time, little girl, when Daddy’s all better and you’re going to have to let him pull his weight around the house again.”

  “Or?” she asks, not raising her eyes.

  She’s challenging me? After her discipline yesterday, spanking last night, and getting fucked practically unconscious this morning?

  “Brave, or reckless, Emmy, which is it?”

  She softens immediately and gives me meltingly big eyes. “Neither, Daddy.”

  “Mmm. Do you need a reminder of the rules and who makes them?”

  “No, Daddy.”

  “I think maybe you do, cheeky monkey. I’d planned to go to Blunts Sunday night anyway. Might be time to show everyone how well you’re doing with breath training.”

  Emily shivers, which I could take for fear if she wasn’t grinning like a little maniac. “Yes, Daddy.”

  While she cooks the omelets, I pour us each a glass of juice. It’s already too hot for tea or coffee, which I almost never say. As I’m putting the juice bottle back in the fridge, I notice a jug of black liquid next to the milk. Iced coffee. My little girl, who thinks of everything. I pour a mug, since it’s just wrong to drink coffee out of a glass, no matter what Starbucks says, and meet Emily at the table.

  I lift the mug to her. “Thank you, sweetie.”

  “You’re welcome.” She grins. “Am I forgiven for doing Daddy’s jobs?”

  “No.”

  Her grin gets wider and I know my stone face has failed.

  Over the savory omelet and focaccia toast, I resurrect a subject I know will lose me Emily’s smile, but I want to have an answer for Lucy before she arrives tomorrow for the party.

  “You’ve had a night to think it over, little love. Tell me what you think of me topping Lucy outside of the club.”

  She takes a bite of the dry, whole-wheat toast she’s having instead of the buttery focaccia I’m enjoying and chews ten times before she answers me. She’s following the rules, but she’s also stalling for time. “Can I ask some questions?”

  “Mm-hmm.” That she’s cautious makes me cautious. I recognize that topping someone else could hurt my little girl in ways it would be hard for me to heal. That’s why we negotiated it carefully in our contract. But our power exchange aside, I just don’t want to do anything that would shake Emily’s faith in me.

  She chews her lip for a moment before she says, “I know you wouldn’t have sex with her again—”

  I lift my hand. I don’t usually interrupt Emily but I want to kill that particular weed before it takes root. “I’ve never had sex with Lucy.”

  She tips her head and peers at me out of one eye. It makes her look like an inquisitive owl and I have to work hard on my stone face. When I feel it slipping, I hide my grin in my coffee cup.

  “I thought you topped all the Blunts house subs.”

  It’s not really a question, but I give her a very complete answer, so there’s no room for doubt. “I’ve topped all the current Blunts house subs except Anabelle, Zuki, Mackie, and Briar. Anabelle and Zuki joined after I stepped back from the club. I’m not a fan of gang bangs, which is Mackie’s kink. And my bank balance isn’t big enough for Briar. I’ve had sex with all the house subs except for those four, plus Lucy, Justine, Pence, and DirtyGurl. I like Lucy and Justine, but I’m not attracted to either of them. Pence annoys me, and DirtyGurl scares the fuck out of me.”

  Emily giggles, even as her eyes get wider and wider as she processes what I’ve said.

  “You’ve had sex with the other male subs? Austin and Cappa, and, um, what about Hunter?”

  “Yes,” I say simply. I haven’t made any secret about having male sex partners. I had sex with Hunter both before and after his transition. I’ll admit that part of the reason was curiosity. But I also just like the man. In his own way, he’s as sweet and eager-to-please as Emily.

  “Lucy and Justine are beautiful,” Emily says.

  I lift one shoulder. I’m not going to argue aesthetics. Lucy’s a bouncy, blue-eyed
blonde, and except for the bouncy part, because Miranda was never that, I already had one of those in my bed when Lucy joined Blunts. Justine’s as exotic as an orchid with her liquid black eyes, café au lait skin, and gray-white hair. Objectively, I can appreciate her looks. There just wasn’t any spark with either of them.

  “Getting back to the subject, what do you think of me topping Lucy?”

  “Oh.” Emily shrugs. “I’m good with it.”

  I raise an eyebrow at her. That was a quicker about-face than Napoleon’s retreat from Russia. “You’re good with it now that you know I’ve never had sex with her?”

  She nods. “Gateway topping, Daddy.”

  “Gateway topping?”

  That’s a new one. Even Niall, who loves technical terms for kink and, I swear, invents his own whenever he has a chance, hasn’t come up with that one.

  “It starts with a couple of scenes and then maybe you meet up for coffee to talk about a scene, and then a scene gets really intense, and before you know it, boom, I’m on a train back to Syracuse and you’re with Lucy. But if you’re not attracted to her, then it’s okay.”

  I reach across the table and take her hand. Her palm’s damp, which could just be the rising temperature, but I suspect it’s more her insecurities nipping at her. “First of all, I would never let things escalate like that, not after I’ve made a commitment to you. Second, you are not getting on a train back to Syracuse.” Of course, she might be if I sell the house. “At least, not without me.”

  She squeezes my fingers. “Ta, Daddy. I know you’ve had opportunities to date the house subs. I just figured the timing was off with you and Lucy because you were already dating Rachel when Lucy joined Blunts. But if you’re not attracted to Lucy, then that explains it. Lucy . . . I’ve seen the way she looks at you. She doesn’t feel the same.”