The Daddy P.I. Casefiles: The First Collection

by Frost, E J

  “Ah.” He doesn’t color the way Emily would, but he shifts a little. “I’ll be more discreet with Laurel in the morning.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Emmy and I are both used to public sex. Sounded like you were having fun. That’s all the matters.”

  Jiro turns off the boiling kettle and pours water into both cups.

  “Shall we?” I gesture to the couch in front of the telly.

  Jiro joins me as I take my cup and sink down into the comfortable cushions. The floor between the couch and the telly is still strewn with pillows. I push them into a pile with my foot as I think fondly of watching the girls curled up there after dinner, chatting like they’d been best friends for years. I didn’t see a twitch of anxiety out of Emily today, despite the fact that she spent half the day with strangers, when she’s not feeling her best. She took to Laurel even faster than I did, and the way she supported Laurel through Theo’s interrogation blew me away. These are the sort of friendships I want to help her find, to replace the friends she left behind in Syracuse. It’s just too bad Jiro and Laurel live so far away.

  “Laurel’s had a really good day,” Jiro says, sipping his tea. “Thank you for that.”

  “No thanks necessary. We enjoyed it, too, and it took Emily’s mind off her punishment.”

  “I noticed she was moving gingerly. What happened?”

  “She broke two rules, for a second time, and a promise. I had her ride a wooden pony for an hour.”

  Jiro whistles softly. “Is Emily a masochist?”

  “She is.”

  “Unusual in a little.”

  “I haven’t known many littles before Emmy,” I admit. “I wasn’t really aware of it until I met her, but there’s a bias against age-players at my club. Emily’s our only little. We’ve joined a playgroup that meets every other Sunday and I’ve met some littles and their caregivers through that. But I don’t know any of them well enough yet to talk about punishments and pain tolerances.”

  “That’s more pain than I’d ask of Laurel. That’s why she’s in the crate tonight instead of in bed with me. She didn’t follow the rules about looking after herself while I was away. But I wouldn’t ask her to endure that level of pain. You mentioned on the phone that you’ve only been with Emily for a couple of months.” At my nod, Jiro asks, “Do you have a mentor? Someone you can bounce ideas off? I don’t mean to imply that you’re doing a bad job. Emily seems healthy and happy. Just if you don’t have a lot of experience topping a little, a mentor’s always helpful.”

  “I don’t,” I admit. “But I know who to ask.”

  “I got lucky with Laurel,” Jiro says. “Her sponsor in NA is in the lifestyle. He was able to give me a lot of guidance in how to use her submission to help her get clean and sober and stay that way. I’m not sure I could have managed without him.”

  Jiro doesn’t exactly come across as arrogant, but he’s very self-contained, so the admission that he needed help surprises me.

  “I didn’t realize you knew Laurel before she got clean.”

  Jiro nods. “I’ve known her for several years. I had my eye on her from the start, but my firm was one of her firm’s clients and I don’t mix my personal life with business. When I sold my firm, I was finally free to pursue her. That was two weeks after the Fire Island party. She was still in the hospital. I visited her every day. When she was released, instead of driving her to her apartment, I took her home with me and never let her leave.”

  He gives me a sly smile that makes me chuckle.

  “I’d known Emily for two weeks when I was injured,” I tell him. “She came home with me on the train because I couldn’t fly. That was two months ago.”

  “I gather you don’t intend to let her leave, either?”

  I shake my head. “I’m giving her a lock for that collar and an engagement ring for our three-month anniversary.”

  Jiro laughs outright. “And I thought I was pushing asking Laurel to marry me after a year.”

  “I don’t know how old you are—”

  “Forty-three,” he says.

  “Then you’ve probably been around the block as much as I have. It’s never felt absolutely right to me before. I’ve always had doubts. I don’t have a single one with Emily. She’s mine. I’m not letting her get away.”

  “Your friend Detective D’Andrea might consider that kidnapping.”

  Unabashed, I grin at him. “I don’t give a shit what he or anyone else thinks. Only person whose opinion matters is Emily.”

  “Very true. Does she have family? Laurel and I had some major hurdles with her family. Her brother’s still refusing to come to the wedding.”

  The thought of Lizbeth boycotting my wedding makes me flinch. Another thing I need to reward my baby girl for: winning over my sister.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” I tell Jiro. “The family problems are more on my side. My sister’s a tough sell. She’s seen too many women come and go out of my life. But Emmy won her over.”

  Jiro holds up his mug like he’s giving a toast. “Your little has a knack for that, I think.”

  “She does.”

  “You’ve won me over as well,” Jiro says. “When I agreed to come to New York, I believed you had some ulterior motive in opening your home to us. But having spent time with you and Emily, I don’t think that any longer. I’m ashamed of my suspicions now. I hope you’ll forgive me.”

  “There’s nothing to forgive. We’re strangers. I don’t blame you for questioning my motives. I also won’t make any secret of the fact that I’m hoping we can figure something out to help Rick. That’s an ulterior motive, I guess.”

  “I don’t think it counts as an ulterior motive if you admit it up front,” Jiro says with a grin. He takes his phone out of his breast pocket and sets it between us on the couch. “I mentioned I had some thoughts on how we might address Mr. Errol’s problem. You might want to take a look through them.”

  He taps on his phone and navigates to a folder with Rick’s name on it. Opening it, he angles the phone so I can read.

  * * *

  Ten minutes later, my own phone emits a soft whimper. Emily’s voice rises from it in a whisper, “Daddy?”

  I pick up my phone and open the house security app, then flick down to the bedroom monitor. Emily’s sitting up in bed with her knees pulled to her chest and her hands over her face.

  “Sorry,” I tell Jiro. “I’m going to have to cut this short. It’s been a stressful week and Emily’s having nightmares. Looks like she’s just had another one.”

  “No, my apologies for keeping you up. Please, let me take care of these while you see to your little.” He picks up our empty tea mugs. “See you in the morning.”

  “Thanks.” I push myself up off the couch, feeling the stiffness in my leg from sitting for too long. And, if I’m brutally honest, from carrying Emily up the stairs earlier. But it’s stiffness, not a spasm. I just have to keep working it. It eases as I move, and by the time I reach the bedroom, there’s not even a pull when I sink down on the bed and gather Emily into my arms.

  “It’s okay, sweetheart. Daddy’s here.”

  “Where’d you go?” she asks. Her voice is small and high, but not tearful.

  “I was having a cup of tea with Jiro. Did you have a bad dream?”

  She nods against my shoulder. “But I’m okay now.”

  “Daddy will be the judge of that,” I tell her. “First, you’re going to have a drink of water. Second, we’re going to have a big cuddle. And third, you’re going to tell Daddy all about your dream so your mind can process what scared you and you can go back to sleep.”

  “Yes, Daddy.”

  “That’s my good girl.” I grab a bottle of water off the nightstand and give it to her to drink while I strip off my shirt and turn on the air conditioner. The day was hot but pleasant; it’s gotten stickier through the evening which is probably a sign of bad things to come weather-wise tomorrow. We’ll sleep better with the air con on.


  When I have her snuggled down, I coax her nightmare of out her. No blue-eyed animals tonight. Instead, it was the screams of Draco Malfoy that woke her as he was pinned down in the marshes near the Burrow and raped by Greyback, the evil werewolf.

  I don’t need a degree in psychiatry to figure out the meaning of this dream, either, given how often she calls me her Wolfy-Daddy. She’s afraid of how much sex, particularly anal sex, is going to hurt in the wake of her punishment.

  “Just a dream, baby girl. Just a dream. Do the werewolves in your book hurt their mates when they take their bottoms?”

  I know there’s anal in her werewolf books because we had a long discussion about the merits of “writing from what you know” after I took her ass. It was the most insight I’ve had into Emily’s writing. Generally, I don’t stick my beak in, preferring to just support her, and schedule enough time for her to write every day so she can meet her publishing deadlines. But I’ll admit I find her use of our kinky play in her books intriguing.

  “No, Daddy. My werewolves are gentle with their mates.”

  “Wolfy-Daddy will be gentle with your bottom when he takes it again, don’t you worry, little girl. Besides, don’t you think Draco deserves a bit of payback, given all the times he’s been a pain in Harry Potter’s ass?”

  She giggles sleepily. “That’s harsh, Daddy.”

  “Karma’s a bitch.” I nuzzle her and then draw her face up to mine for good-night kisses. “Love you so much, my baby.”

  “Love you more than Hiccup loves Toothless, Daddy.”

  I chuckle, my lips buzzing against hers. “Pretty sure Hiccup isn’t fucking Toothless, little girl.”

  “No, because that would be bestiality, and DreamWorks doesn’t do bestiality, Daddy. But if he was, there would be butt stuff.”

  “Would there now?”

  “Definitely. Can I have Wolfy-Daddy’s penis in the morning?”

  “No promises, but I’ll take a look and see how you’re doing.”

  “Night-night, Daddy.”

  “Night-night, sweetheart.”

  She cuddles down on my shoulder, and when I’m sure she’s deeply asleep, I roll her over so I can spoon her. My brave little girl deserves to sleep cradled in her daddy’s arms.

  * * *

  Blunts takes up a full city block, the long brick frontage broken by arched windows that allow no view of the interior. No red carpet. No neon signs. There’s a single entrance with a brass plaque that says, Blunts, Founded 1864, Members Only. It looks like a very big, very dull hotel.

  We’re here at my club on this overcast Friday morning because I got out-voted over breakfast. While we were enjoying Emily’s excellent cinnamon French toast, I offered a day of sightseeing. Jiro asked if they might see Blunts instead. When I demurred, because there wasn’t likely to be much going on until tonight, Emily chimed in about the spa, gym, and pool, and the next thing I knew, the three of them had their hands in the air voting to spend the day at Blunts.

  As I usher them through the revolving front door, Jiro and Laurel look distinctly unimpressed.

  I have to laugh at their expressions. The façade is deliberately dull. What’s inside is anything but.

  Beyond the revolving door, there’s a square room that can only hold about a dozen people. The only exit is a single door behind the marble reception desk. Jerrod, one of our full-time security staff, is manning the desk. We don’t address each other by name, even though I helped hire him and we’ve known each other for over four years. He takes the security code I give him, which we change weekly, and sets a pair of tablets with the confidentiality agreement and waiver we require from guests on the top of the counter. I give Jiro and Laurel a minute to read and sign while I press my thumb to the scanner Jerrod holds out to me and then waive Emily forward to do her scan. Jerrod winks at her as the machine blinks green.

  Once Jiro and Laurel sign the waiver and press their thumbs to the scanner, Jerrod slides a folded piece of paper across the counter to me. I give it a quick read, then slide it back, put my hand in the small of Emily’s back, and usher our little group through the inner door when Jerrod buzzes us in.

  The central hallway of Blunts is a little more impressive than the entrance. Jiro and Laurel look around with interest. The hallway’s over a hundred feet long, wood paneled, smelling sweetly of cedar. Along the inner wall, in niches spaced every ten feet, there’s a pedestal. Half of the pedestals are occupied by erotic sculptures in marble and bronze. The rest of the pedestals are empty, waiting for a submissive to be mounted for display.

  I put Emily on one after I caned her during the festival last week. She was so beautiful posing, decorated with nothing but the deep red diamonds the cane left on her ass and thighs, that seeing her made me choke up.

  Although some of the club’s more extreme sadists might enjoy seeing Emily’s current crop of bruises, I know my baby girl well enough to recognize that she’d feel humiliated if I made her display them. But once she heals from her punishment, I think a repeat performance is in order.

  Across the hallway, rising like a giant redwood, there’s the huge central staircase up to the dungeons. Instead of heading up it, I steer Emily to the left, down the hall, towards the large archway that leads to the Trattoria. Before we get to the archway, I turn Emily to the right, through a wooden door with a brass sign that says, “Stables.”

  “Daddy?”

  I press my thumb to the security scanner and push open the door.

  “Javier left a message at the desk to say he’ll join us for lunch but, in the meanwhile, Sean and Moon are training in the courtyard and we might enjoy watching Moon go through her paces.”

  Emily’s face lights up. “I’d love that.”

  I thought she might.

  The Stables are full working stables for pony play, with five stalls, a breeding station, a washing station, a tack room, and a covered ring so nosy neighbors can’t watch our ponies train. Since the Stables opened two years ago, we’ve hosted dressage competitions every couple of months. Our two pony-girls, Moon and Trudy, have won several ribbons. At the meeting on Monday, we voted in a new pony-boy, Allyn.

  As we pass through the Stables, I see Allyn’s ebony curls sticking out from under a plaid blanket in one of the stalls. Looks like he’s settling in already and he’s had his morning exercise.

  The jingle of tack greets us as we emerge from the cool of the Stables into the ring. The grassy ring’s enclosed on three sides with the fourth side opening out to the courtyard. The hazy, mid-morning sun fills the ring with light through the translucent roof, making the manicured grass gleam and glitter. The bleachers we set up for the competitions are folded back against the walls at the moment, but the judge’s stand is up. On the stand, there’s a long table with several chairs that have the best view of the ring.

  Two of my club-brothers sit at the table, watching as Moon trots in place, practicing piaffe, while Sean holds a crop in front of her to indicate the height for her knees. Sean’s casual in jeans and riding boots, his chest bare, while Moon’s wearing a black, sleeveless bodysuit under her chest harness, with her arms bound behind her in a single sleeve, her ankles and feet encased in hoof boots. Moon’s grace, on those impossible-looking hooves, is almost ethereal. She looks like she’s floating as she trots.

  Beside me, Emily sighs. “She’s so pretty.”

  “She is. I bet if you’re a good girl while you watch her training, Sean will let you give her a treat and maybe even stroke her.”

  Emily looks up at me, all huge hazel eyes. “Could I give her a sugar cube? Or a carrot if sugar is too unhealthy?”

  “We’ll see what Sean says. C’mon, my baby.”

  I help her up the three steps onto the judge’s stand and greet the two Doms already seated at the table. “Karl, Johnny. You’ve met my submissive, Emily. These are my guests, Jiro and Laurel.”

  Karl’s return greeting is abbreviated by a groan, his face reddening. Karl reaches under the table, where
Pence is kneeling naked, his cock locked in the stainless-steel cage he hates so much. Karl grabs Pence’s longish hair and uses it as a handle to crush Pence’s face to his groin as the orgasmic flush spreads down Karl’s neck. After a long moment where Pence’s shoulders jerk, Karl releases Pence, who gasps against the Dom’s thigh.

  Karl taps Pence’s cheek and says, “Not too bad, boy. Keep going. Give Master Johnny his good morning.”

  Pence blinks streaming eyes up at Karl, but nods and slides on his knees under the table to stop in front of Johnny, who obligingly opens his shorts for his blow job.

  After buttoning up, Karl gives us a longer greeting, then expresses his disappointment at missing the two recent punishment scenes.

  “But Harry and I came up with something,” Karl tells me with a wink. “Pence is going to orally service every Dom who comes through the door today. For anyone he can’t manage, he’s getting a strike from the three-eighths inch cane at noon and midnight.”

  Blunts has over a hundred members. Maybe a third of the members are in the club on any given day, probably more on a Friday night. Pence is going to have a very sore throat by midnight, or a very sore ass.

  “Would your guest like to assist with the punishment?” Karl asks.

  Jiro declines with a smile.

  I raise my hand before Karl offers. “I’ve already had a good morning.”

  From my sweet little girl whose throat I fucked after our shower. Her groin looked much better this morning, but I decided to give her a few more hours to heal before I fuck either deeply bruised hole.

  I seat Jiro next to Karl, with the girls between us. I wouldn’t ever put Emily next to Karl, because I know he scares her. Even if Pence isn’t her favorite person at the moment, seeing Karl be rough with him isn’t going to raise her comfort level.

  Fortunately, Emily doesn’t even spare Pence a glance. She seems enraptured by Moon’s training, which has moved on from the piaffe to a skipping movement as Moon crosses the ring. Sean taps her haunches and back with his crop to correct her posture and as she responds to his guidance, she settles into that floating trot again. Watching them, I have to admit there’s a beauty and grace to what they’re doing that equals any impact play or shibari I’ve seen.