Daddy PI: Book 1 of the Daddy PI Casefiles by Frost, J (reading eggs books TXT) 📗

He takes his hand off my backside and holds the clump of ginger in his right hand while he carves one of the bigger fingers off the root, taking a big chunk of the main root with it. Dimly, I register that he’s left-handed, which I’m not sure I’d realized before, since I’ve seen him use a fork and chopsticks with either hand. But most of my attention is focused on the ginger he’s now peeling. Did I really just want more than anything to please him for the next forty-five minutes? Now the thing that seems the most important is surviving the next forty-five minutes with a big chunk of ginger up my butt.

“Mmm, such an anxious face, little girl. Are you nervous or scared? You may elaborate.”

“I think more nervous, Daddy, but maybe a little bit scared.”

“Tell me why.”

“I haven’t done anything with ginger before but, just from cooking with it, it seems like it’s going to burn the ever-loving, uh, heck out of my poor bottom.”

He chuckles. “It’s certainly going to tingle. I promise you that ginger doesn’t cause any lasting harm. You’ll feel the worst of the burn for twenty to thirty minutes. Afterwards you can tell me on a scale of one to ten which was hotter, the toothpaste or the ginger.”

I nod tremulously, my eyes still glued to the long, sure strokes of the knife as he removes the brown peel, exposing the yellowy meat. The ginger’s hot, fresh scent fills the room.

“Smell that, baby?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“That smell’s what made me think of this for the second part of your reward. Sleeping with you after we’ve had sex is like sleeping in the world’s best bakery, my gingerbread baby.”

I smile, even as I wonder what my butt will smell like after I’ve had a stick of ginger up it for forty-five minutes. I’m guessing it won’t smell like baked goods.

“I can see all sorts of thoughts moving through your eyes, little love. Are any of them what I want you thinking about?”

What does he want me thinking about? Oh, right, the journey. “No, Daddy.”

“Why have I put you on speech restriction, Emmy? You know I find what you have to say interesting. I’m depriving myself of that so you can focus on your reward. Can you do that for me?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

I breathe out slowly. Concentrating, I shut out the hundreds of distractions swirling around in my brain like a hurricane. I focus on my position, how wonderfully controlled it makes me feel. I take a deep lungful of the ginger-scented air, let the smell fill me, and think of being his gingerbread baby. A warm rush of pleasure and gratitude heats my chest.

“That’s much better. Your whole body relaxed. More comfortable now?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

I am. I was beginning to feel the strain of the position in my knees, hips, and shoulders. As soon as I shut out doubts and distractions, my aches subside. I feel the little pleasures of the position: the stretch in my arms, the slight scratch of the towel against my skin, the cool air around my exposed bottom.

Daddy sets the piece of ginger he’s carved on the towel next to me. It’s the rough size and shape of Morris, the butt plug he started my training with. I understand now why he wanted a finger of the ginger, so that there’s a thicker part that stays in me, a narrower neck my sphincter will close around, and another wide part that will sit on the outside. The care with which Logan’s planned this sends another flood of warmth from my head to my toes. I want to thank him, but I’m on speech restriction, so I file it away for later.

I figure he’s going to put the fig in my bottom now, but he doesn’t. He picks up the big hunk of ginger and carves off a much smaller piece. He peels it for a moment before he asks, “Any idea what this is for, baby doll?”

“No, Daddy.”

“This is a piece for your clit. Those naughty Victorians realized ginger is an aphrodisiac as well. Perfect for masochistic little girls who like pain with their pleasure and pleasure with their pain.”

His words make me shiver deliciously, even while the idea of a piece of ginger on my clit makes every muscle clench in trepidation.

He finishes removing the thin skin, cuts the piece in half, and sets the two slivers next to the much bigger fig.

“This time, we’ll just put a piece on the hood of your clit. Maybe next time we’ll tuck a piece inside the hood. Really up the sensation. But this is enough for your first time.” He puts the big piece of ginger back in a bowl of water on the nightstand, cleans off the knife with a baby wipe, then cleans his hands. “I’ll be careful not to touch your face until I’ve given my hands a good scrub. Ginger in the eyes or nose is not a burn you want.”

I nod and smile to show that I understand and I appreciate him being careful with me.

He picks up a nitrile glove and pulls it on before holding his fingers to my mouth. “Lick, little girl. Get them nice and wet. I’m going to open your bottom before I put the fig in. Lube keeps the ginger oil from interacting with your tissues, so lube is out, but I don’t want to push the fig into you dry.”

That’s an incentive. I work up a mouthful of saliva and lick and press as much of it into his gloved fingers as I can. They drip when he slides his fingers out of my mouth. I hope that’s enough.

He holds my eyes as he reaches around to part my cheeks and rub his wet fingertips around my sphincter. I fall into the heat and power of those dark eyes. As my muscles relax, my body flattens naturally onto the bed, my bottom tipping up. I see approval light his eyes