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

He takes us on a tour of the bedrooms first. There’s a different scene set up in each room: a cupping scene in Rick’s bedroom, a pegging scene in the guest bedroom, and an interrogation scene in the third bedroom that Rick uses as an office. After Daddy appropriates a straight chair and a small “reserved” sign from the threesome doing the interrogation scene and drags the chair to the back of the room, he introduces Jiro and Laurel to the trio. The Domme greets Logan like they’re old friends. As they talk, I gather she was once a house sub at Blunts.

I’ve met tops who started as bottoms before, and they always have interesting stories. I wish I could ask the Domme for her story, but I don’t want to break character. Daddy hasn’t taken away my words except when I’m getting puppy-loving, but I’m enjoying being his puppy and it feels right not to talk. I tuck away my questions and hope I get to talk to the Domme after the party’s over.

Daddy doesn’t introduce me to the Domme, although she asks to pet me and when Daddy gives her permission, she pats me on the head. “What a good little puppy you have here, Logan.”

Daddy closes his hand on my nape and pulls my head back so he can smile down into my eyes. “The best little ninja puppy in the world.”

I grin up at him.

“You’re allowed to talk, baby doll.”

I give a little yip of acknowledgment and he moves his hand around to cup my chin. “Like that, is it? Good girl.”

I rub my cheek against his fingers happily.

Once Daddy finishes talking with the Domme, we head downstairs. Jiro and Laurel are still deep in conversation with the sub of the trio; we leave them chatting after Daddy tells Jiro where we’re going.

Crawling downstairs is unexpectedly hard. I must have crawled downstairs as a toddler, but my body’s forgotten those muscle-memories. I feel unbalanced, top-heavy, and before we’ve gone down two risers, I’m whining and turning sideways to avoid tumbling headfirst down the stairs.

Daddy catches my collar with his fingers and brings my head up. “Slow. One step at a time. Paw, paw, knee, knee. Okay?”

I nod and follow his directions and make it down the flight of stairs without falling and splitting my head.

Daddy leads me down the carpeted hallway to the kitchen. The caterers have cleared out, but there are still people buzzing around. Resplendent in a peacock caftan, Rick’s manager, Glory, pours bright orange liquid out of a gallon bottle into a huge punch bowl. Whether it’s the punch or something else, there’s a heavy, sweet smell in the air, like night-blooming flowers. It makes my head spin.

Rick’s leaning against the kitchen island, not helping with any of the preparations—surprise, surprise—slurping down a glass of punch. He’s in pimp-wear again: black, leather pants and a white, short-sleeved, silk shirt. He was wearing pretty much the same thing the night I first met him. He ended that evening covered with regurgitated spaghetti after he choked out some poor groupie who was giving him a blow job.

It’s probably not being the bigger person to hope for a repeat of history tonight.

“Logan,” Rick booms when he sees us. “C’mon. Have a drink of Glory’s famous punch.”

Daddy stops a few feet away and draws me up beside him, looping my leash over his wrist. He puts out his hand and gives me the sign for Tower Slave, which is the same as Nadu but with my knees together.

As I settle onto position, I lean forward and lick his knuckles to show my gratitude. It’s a little thing, not having to spread my knees and expose my privates to Rick. But it’s so important to me in this moment. And Daddy, who knows me terrifyingly well, intuits it.

Logan greets Glory and Rick but declines a glass of punch on the grounds that he’s working. When Rick offers a bowl of punch for “the puppy,” Daddy strokes my head and says that I’m on water for the night.

In our contract, I have a two-drink maximum without permission, but Logan’s never restricted my drinking before, and I wonder if he wants me sober for a reason. He’s been to lots of Rick’s parties, while I haven’t been to any, and it makes me wonder what’s to come other than the scheduled scenes.

I don’t have all that long to wonder.

Within a half-hour, Rick’s apartment is absolutely packed with people. When the kitchen gets too busy, Daddy relocates us to the living room and commandeers a couch. Daisy sits next to Daddy, resplendent in the silver lace dress she bought when we went shopping. Daisy always looks good, but tonight in the shimmery dress, with her hair in a huge cascade of blonde and blue ringlets, and makeup that David Bowie would envy, she looks every inch the movie star.

I’m bracketed between their legs as I kneel at Daddy’s feet. It’s a good place to be, safe between two Doms. I smile at Jiro, who sits down on the opposite couch, with Laurel at his feet.

The position doesn’t insulate me from the noise, though: wolf-whistles and shouts of encouragement that rise over the din of voices. When a full-throated scream splits the air, Daddy pushes up off the couch. He gives me a hand-signal to stay while he moves towards the open archway into the living room. He watches whatever is going on in the hallway, or maybe across the hall in the dining room, before shaking his head and returning to the couch.

“Gang bang on the dining room table,” he tells us.

“Anyone I know?” Daisy asks.

“I don’t recognize her, but she’s wearing a red collar and Rick’s in there.” Daddy shrugs. “It’s his party.”

Daddy explained when he was introducing us to the performers doing the three scenes that Rick had hired a number of pro-tops and pro-bottoms for the party. The