The Daddy P.I. Casefiles: The First Collection by Frost, J (i love reading txt) 📗

of us. Her hips rise and fall to the rhythm of my fingers. She’s a nicely trained submissive, but she doesn’t seem to have any sexual restraint training. Something for the future.

“Three fingers now.” I withdraw my first and middle fingers and press in all three. She moans at the stretch. I put my other hand flat on the small of her back to help hold her steady, then twist and pump my three fingers in her clenching pussy.

“Oh, oh,” she gasps.

“Does it feel good to have my fingers in you?”

“Yes, Daddy, so good.”

“Can you still feel those clamps?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“Do they still hurt?”

“Yes, Daddy. They’re rubbing as you fuck me with your fingers.”

“Mmm.” I turn my wrist back and forth, twisting my fingers inside her. She squeals at the sensation and pushes back, impaling herself on my fingers. “My good girl doesn’t use swear words. Or take the Lord’s name in vain.”

“Wha-what?”

I’ve thrown her: confusion will be warring against pleasure and need in her mind. Keeping her off-balance is part of the game, but it also feels right not to let her swear. This wasn’t something I put in the contract I sent her, because I’m still feeling my way around what works for us. I’ll add a rider with some rules after we’ve spent tonight together.

“No swear words, baby doll. No saying fuck or damn or shit. No cock or cunt or pussy, either. I want my little girl’s mouth nice and clean when I fuck it, or I’ll wash it out with soap.”

“But what am I supposed to say?” she wails.

I love her confusion. I piston my fingers inside her. “You can use the right terms if you need to: penis and vagina.”

“Daddy!”

She’s getting close, her pussy clenching on my fingers, her legs beginning to shake. But this is just a warm up, so I slow the pace of my fingers and remove one, gliding in and out with just two fingers while she whimpers and begs.

“Uh-huh. That’s my good girl.”

I slide my fingers out. Moving to the bedside table, I open the drawer with my clean hand, pull a baby wipe out of a plastic box in the drawer, and wipe her juice from my fingers. Emily watches me, confusion beetling her little face. Many Doms, maybe even her previous Doms, would make her lick their fingers clean. That doesn’t feel like “pampering,” and it’s not something I particularly enjoy anyway.

I pull a fresh baby wipe out of the box for Emily, wipe her up carefully and cup my fingers over her pussy for a moment, remembering her gesture in the expo toilet. She arches against my fingers and makes a soft little sound as she grinds her face in the bedspread.

“Up you come, sweetheart.” I release her and help her arrange her clothes. She’s a little wobbly, so I keep my arm around her while she puts on her shoes and collects her schoolgirl backpack. “Anything else you need?”

She looks around as though the room as though she’s forgotten something, then shakes her head.

I turn her to me and trace the oval of her face with one finger as I look down into her eyes. “You look gorgeous, baby.” Again, I’m not flattering her. The fingering has only heightened her color and added a sexy glaze to her eyes. “I don’t want my little girl wearing any make-up.” She doesn’t need any. It would be a crime to cover up that sweetly-freckled skin or goop up those bright eyes. “But if you want to wear something tonight since we’re going out to dinner, put it on now.”

She bites her lip and shakes her head. “I just wear lip gloss, sir, but I’ll put it on after we’ve had a drink. I don’t want to get it on your glass.”

“Sweetheart.” I kiss her forehead as a reward for her good manners. “Let’s go, my good girl.”

I lead her downstairs and into the great room. She’s right: I haven’t made many changes to my parents’ house. I certainly haven’t redecorated, despite Mir’s nagging. But I did knock through the kitchen, dining room and living room, to make one big continuous space that wraps like an L around the ground floor and looks out to the street at one end and into the back yard at the other. I don’t have my mother’s green thumb, but using the antique push-mower is exercise I enjoy, so the yard is a well-manicured carpet, emerald in the early evening light, with an old apple tree in the middle and my mother’s roses gone wild and thorny up the brick walls.

She peers out at the yard with wide eyes. “Wow, you have an apple tree.”

“No apple trees where you live?”

She gives me a little swat. Oh, a hint of brat. If she keeps that up, the scene we’re going to do will be all too real for her. “Of course, there are apple trees where I live. But I don’t live in the middle of the East Village.”

I leave her to admire the view while I move to the bar separating kitchen from dining room. “Does my girl want a Shirley Temple or a Virgin Daiquiri?”

“Could I just have a glass of water?”

I’ll have to find out what she does like to drink. “Mmm-hmm. Ice and lemon?”

“Oh, yes, please, sir.”

I fix her drink and pour myself a Jack and Coke. Taking the two glasses, I join her at the long window. “Your medical report didn’t say anything about alcohol consumption. Do you drink?”

She shrugs. “Not really. A glass of wine now and then.”

I tink my glass against hers. “I’m sure you know alcohol’s a depressant.”

She nods. “I also don’t like the taste very much.”

Maybe she just hasn’t tried the right booze. I can give her sips of mine until we find something she likes. That will be fun. “I don’t drink when I’m driving, or more than five units when I’m topping, just so you know. Control’s important to me.”

“Thank you, sir, that’s