The Daddy P.I. Casefiles: The First Collection by Frost, J (great novels .txt) 📕

“Omi-goodness, that’s so domly,” she told me, which had my cape snapping in my ears and gave me a new word for my personal lexicon.

“You will hold the position while I give you ten strokes on your thighs. Under no circumstances will you move out of this position until I tell you we’re done. Do you understand me, Miss Martin?”

“Yethir.”

I move my hands to her hips, grip her firmly and pick her up. She finds the bench with her feet, plants them and bends her knees exactly as instructed. There’s that attention to each command that fills my soul. I take her hips in my hands and pull her backwards. Without flinch or pause, she leans back, trusting me to hold her. I bring her down until her back rests against my chest, then take a half-step forward so she’s well-supported. She relaxes, not going limp but letting me take her weight. Her trust makes my blood pound in my ears.

I take the cane from her mouth with one hand and close the other around the fabric bar between her wrists, guiding her bound hands up and over my head. Her back arches as her arms stretch. The bra settles against the back of my neck. Her weight rests more firmly against me and I wrap my right arm around her waist to keep her steady. Her head tips back against my shoulder, telling me she’s ready.

I use the cane to tap the outside of each thigh until she brings her knees together and gives me a perfect target. Switching the cane to my right hand, I warm her up with flat-palmed slaps across the tops of her legs. She presses her thighs together with each slap; this is more pleasure than pain for her, little masochist. She trembles as a I pepper her thighs with slaps and makes a keening whimper. Is she coming?

“If you come without permission, I guarantee you will not be able to sit down for the rest of the cruise, Miss Martin,” I growl in her ear.

“Yes, sir.”

“Do not test me, Miss Martin,” I say, because I like hearing her respond. It keeps communication flowing during the warmup. Once I begin caning her, we’ll get to more serious subjects.

“No, sir, I won’t.” She whimpers, a sweet little sound of submission.

Once the tops of her thighs are blushing pink, I switch the cane back to my left hand. I’m going to use a shortened version of a Cavalry Cut swing, which will bring the cane down perfectly flat across her thighs. I don’t want the cane to bend at all. A bent cane leaves stippling bruises on the far side of the target that take a bizarrely long time to heal. I prefer straight, parallel cuts, which, on her thighs, will be exquisitely painful, without leaving deep-tissue damage.

Given how reactive she was to the tawse, I can’t wait to see how Emily handles the cane.

“I’m going to use the cane now, Miss Martin. You will count each stroke and thank me afterwards.”

“Yes, sir,” she says, her voice throaty but strong. She’s enjoying herself so far.

I tap the cane across her thighs three times, letting her get used to the feeling of the wood on her skin, building the anticipation. Then I lift my arm over my head, rotating my shoulder as I bring my arm down. I let the energy flow through my wrist and slap the cane across the tops of her thighs with a whistle and pop like a gunshot.

Several of the onlookers flinch at the sound. Not Emily. She squeezes her thighs together and takes several fast, huffing breaths, working through the pain, before she says, “One, thank you, sir.”

“Good girl.” Now she’s earned it. I give her three taps, watching her thighs clench, before the next cut.

“Oof,” she huffs out at the stroke, breathing hard, her ribs heaving. “Two, thank you, sir.”

She deals with each stroke the same way, panting through the pain. Sweat beads on her skin and glimmers under the room’s lights. Her head tips forward as she pants, but she doesn’t shake her head or try to deny me. I work carefully down her thighs, laying out parallel, evenly-spaced cuts that flush deep pink, deepening to red in the minute after the strike. I catch a blood vessel on the seventh stroke and watch redness flare under her skin like a firework. Spacing the eighth stroke further down her thigh, I’m pleased when nothing blooms.

“I’m very proud of you taking your punishment, Miss Martin,” I tell her after she thanks me for the eighth stroke. “But I’m still disappointed with your propensity for lying. Why did you feel the need to lie to me?”

I know why she lied to me about her name when we first met. We’ve been over it, she accepted her punishment, and I’ve forgiven her, but this is an opportunity to reinforce the lesson. Lying will not be tolerated. I let Mir get away with lying and look where that led. Emily will be honest with me, always, about everything, no matter how uncomfortable the subject.

“I was afraid, sir,” she says in a small voice, no longer luxuriating in the pain she likes, although I can smell how much the caning is exciting her. Little masochist. Even the antiseptic smell of cleaner is drowned under her musky, gingerbread scent.

“You were afraid of the consequences if you admitted the truth,” I say as I give her three firm taps with the cane in advance of the next cut.

“Yes, sir,” she whimpers.

I bring the cane up, flick my wrist to make it swish in the air, then bring it down with a whistle and pop. Emily cries out at the cut, the pain overwhelming her for a moment. She pants through the burn.

“Nine, thank you, sir,” she whispers, the tears she hasn’t shed yet thickening her voice.

“Good girl. One more in this position,” I say, tapping her with the cane. “Do you understand now that the consequences