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

I wait for her to give me the count, and when she doesn’t, I prompt, “Emily?”

Her back heaves and she takes a deep, shuddering breath. “Two, sir,” she gasps on the exhale.

“No, the first one doesn’t count because you were bratting. Try again.”

“One, sir,” she says, and has there ever been a more resentful count?

I pepper her calves, alternating one heavy stroke with two lighter ones. She’s shuddering by eight, squeezing her legs together. At ten, she whimpers, “Ten. Thank you, sir.”

“Oh, Emily, you’re not done. That’s just the start. Ten more. Count.”

I give her another hard blow. She shrieks again. Her arms buckle and she has to struggle back into position. I hold her across the ass, which I’ve left bare and vulnerable, in case she needs punishing there again, too.

She’s panting by the time she gets back in position, arms straight, elbows locked. “Wa-wuh-one, sir.”

“Very good.” Knowing she’ll be expecting two softer strokes, I give her another heavy hit. Her back arches and she shudders, but she forces out the count.

Eight more heavy strokes and she’s sobbing with each hit, shivering constantly, her legs locked together. Her calves are brilliant pink. There’s no more defiance, no more resentment. She gasps out each number after the stroke, without prompting, never forgetting the “sir.”

“Excellent, Emily. Ten more.”

She wails but braces herself, digging one hand into the carpet and gripping the edge of the couch with the other.

I start with a soft blow, so she doesn’t know what to expect from this set, then follow with nine, hard and heavy. Her body arches and rises with each strike. Her legs work, squeezing, the tendons standing out behind her knees, thigh muscles jumping. Her satin skin’s sheened with sweat.

After ten, she sobs, “Puh-please, sir. I need to stop.”

The tawse creates a nasty sting, particularly across her less-padded calves, and her skin is glowing, but I’ve been careful, her skin’s not broken, there aren’t any deep red spots that will bruise, and we’re nowhere close to the “heavy play” of her sign. Maybe she needs the bathroom.

“Diaper, Emily?” I ask.

“Nuh-no, da-dah-sir.” She shudders and scrabbles at the couch. “I’m really close.”

Close? Fuck, is she about to come? I lay the tawse across her calves and slide my hand between her clenched thighs. My fingers slip right in, because her thighs are slicker than a water slide. I shift aside the soaked gusset of her knickers and stroke her outer lips before pushing two fingers into her. As I work my hand in, her scent rises to me. Hot and sticky-sweet with a faint spicy musk. Like gingerbread. Delicious. I tunnel my fingers deeper into her. Her cunt clenches around my fingers and she humps against my leg. Brokenly, she gasps, “Puh-please, no. I’m going to come. Please, I don’t want to. I want to be a guh-good girl for you.”

I lean over her. “You’re going to come right here, in front of all these people.” There are only a half-dozen, but it’s their presence, not the number, that matters. “Is that right, little girl?”

“Nuh-no, Daddy, please no. I’m trying not to.”

I reach under her and bring her body up onto the couch beside me while I shift to get a better angle to finger-fuck her. She buries her face in the corner of the couch, covering her head with shaking arms.

“No hiding, little girl.” I take a grip on her hair and pull her head back. She whimpers and arches against the pressure on her scalp. I pull her body into a curve, then press her cheek to the leather seat. “Stay just like that. Let everyone see you. Now.” I begin working my fingers in her, twisting my wrist and curling my fingers inside her. “What about this orgasm?”

She shudders in my hold. “No-no-no, Daddy, please! You told me not to.”

“I did, you naughty baby. I also told you that you had to earn my forgiveness. Do you think you’ve done that?”

“Nuh-no, Daddy,” she says brokenly, beginning to cry again, tears slipping across her nose to drip onto the leather seat.

I lean fully over her, pressing my chest against her back, so I can speak right into her ear while I plunge my fingers in and out of her with the most delicious, wet, smacking sound. “You have, Emily. Daddy forgives you for lying, and for being disrespectful, and for being a wonderful, rotten little brat. You have my permission to come and then we’re going to do a final ten with the tawse and you’re going to thank me.”

“Yes, Daddy, yes.” She sobs even harder.

“Good girl.”

I remain leaning over her, pressing her into the couch, while I pull my hand back, then shove three fingers in and piston them until Emily goes wild, bucking, legs kicking out, hands flailing, shaking all over as she spasms around my fingers. She soaks my hand, fills the air with the sweet smell of gingerbread. I hold her down by her hair while she convulses, then brush the tangles off her very red face while her wails trail off into short, guttural moans. She puts her little hand over her mouth as though to cut off the final sounds of her orgasm. So cute. I slide my fingers out of her when all I can feel are faint pulses and cup my sticky hand over her mons. I really like that gesture.

“Thank you, Daddy,” she whispers.

I kiss the shell of her ear, the skin hot against my lips. “Such a good baby. Last ten. Count them for me, Emily.”

“Yes, sir,” she pants.

I wipe my hand on the inside of her skirt before taking up the tawse again and alternating strokes, one hard, two softer. She counts quietly. I can tell she’s spent. Not broken; I don’t think Emily’s brittle. She’ll bend and bend and bend some more to please her Daddy. I’m not worried about breaking her the way I have been with less resilient bottoms. But, for the