Negotiation: Daddy P.I. 0.5 by E Frost (e ink ebook reader .txt) 📗

ass, she’d be skipping. “Do they hunt every night, sir?” she asks.

She’s peppered me with questions about the hunt. Far more than she asked after that ugly moment with Rachel.

“No. Once or twice a week. But any time you want a ride, baby doll, you can have one. I’m sure I can draft one of the house subs.”

She bounces up on her toes and kisses my cheek. “Yes, please, sir! That was so much fun.”

Her enthusiasm is infectious and I grin back at her. “Even with the plug? I thought that might be a little rough for you.”

She bites her lower lip and flushes a sweet pink. “It was fine.”

More than fine, I’d say. “I’m glad, because I missed checking in while you were spurring that poor bastard like a bronco.” I stop her at the library door and rub my hand down over her soft, curved behind. Her ass is delightful. As I touch her, her flush deepens. “How’s it feeling?”

She nods. “Full, but okay.”

“Good.” I show her the timer running on my watch, which is at eleven minutes, thirteen seconds. “I’d like to do the scene with the plug in, but if it becomes too much, or you feel like you’re going to lose control of your bowels, I want you to say ‘diaper,’ and we’ll stop and take it out.”

“But, sir, won’t that disrupt the scene?”

“Just for a few minutes. It’s not a problem, sweetheart. Something you’ll learn about me? I always finish a scene, even if it takes a couple of replays. Unless you safe word, I finish what I start. That’s why I’ve given you a different word for the plug. It’s just a pause button, not a full stop.”

She nods happily.

“Ready?” I ask, putting my hand on the library door’s knob.

At another happy nod, I turn the handle and open the door.

I know Emily will be impressed by the library. It’s a real library, as well as a playroom. The walls are floor-to-ceiling books, broken only by the windows, with rolling ladders to reach the highest shelves. There are thousands of titles, from leather bound classics, all the way to yellow-spined paperbacks, like the well-thumbed Gor series. Anything we don’t have, the librarian can get from the public library. There are e-readers in several flavors on reading tables throughout the library, and deep leather seats to read in, most with a pillow or two on the floor beside them.

It’s to one of these leather couches that I lead Emily after giving her a few minutes to wander around, wide-eyed as a kid in a candy store. The library’s mostly empty at this time of night, but a few of the chairs around the scene area—indicated by a round Persian rug on the floor—are occupied. It’s to those occupants that I say, “Gentlemen, Emily has been a naughty girl and needs to be punished.”

One grumpy bastard who is reading the Financial Times, takes his paper and moves, presumably seeking a quieter place to digest the stock report. The others set aside their reading materials. Master Javier, one of the club’s silverbacks and a top almost as fearsome as Maude, taps the head of the woman in an elaborate red evening gown kneeling in front of his chair. She lifts her head from his crotch with a rattling gasp, so he must have been down her throat. “Put me away, Celina. Watch and learn.”

The woman fumbles with his tux, then turns and sits between his feet, surreptitiously wiping tears and saliva from her face with the back of a diamond-ringed hand.

“Master Logan,” Javier acknowledges me.

“Master Javier, good to see you.”

“And you. What has this bad girl done?”

“Tell Master Javier, Emily,” I instruct, while I sit down on the couch.

Emily puts her head down and twists her hands together in front of her. “I didn’t hand in my homework,” she says.

I blink at her, surprised. Not by her words. I told her the broad brush of the scene and she’s just elaborating. What surprises me is how completely she goes into role. Her whole body-language changes. She looks smaller. Younger. Her voice changes, not a childish lisp, but higher-pitched. The voice of a young teen, who has done wrong and is more resentful than contrite at being caught.

“When was your homework due, Emily?” Javier asks sternly.

“Today.”

No “master,” no “sir.” Javier notices just as I do. He sits forward in his chair and wraps his hand around his slave’s throat. She gasps and slumps against his thigh, submitting instantly to his hold.

“Did you do the homework?” His voice drops to a growl.

Emily shakes her head, looking at her feet. She starts digging a hole in the carpet with the toe of one Mary Jane.

“Stop fidgeting, Emily,” I tell her. “Answer Master Javier.”

“I didn’t do my homework,” she admits.

Javier’s mouth thins to a white line. “Do you understand the importance of doing well in school, girl? Do you understand that it’s disrespectful to your teachers and your master when you don’t give everything your best effort?”

Emily nods without looking up at either of us. The hands she’s twisting in front of her have gone white-knuckled and I wonder if this is becoming too real for her. I have no idea how she did in school. Maybe the truth of why she became a writer is that her grades weren’t good enough to get a job in journalism. Now’s not the time to find out if this is a trigger for her.

“Emily, come lie across my knees,” I say gruffly. “Time for you to face the consequences of not doing what you’re told.” That’s suitably vague.

Javier shoots me a look that tells me he wasn’t done interrogating her. I nod at him. While I enjoy it when my brothers participate in scenes, he has no idea how little I know about Emily. Or how very vulnerable she is. Seeing her perhaps all-too-real response to criticism just reinforces my conviction that Emily isn’t to be shared, not in any sense.

Emily follows