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

it. If you need to safe word and can’t speak, slap whatever part of me you can reach three times. Same if you need to vomit. If you can’t reach me for any reason, lift your hand and hold up three fingers.”

If I need to vomit? Is that a possibility? A probability? What’s he going to do to me that’s so bad I’d need to vomit? Why didn’t I make vomiting a hard limit? I think again of that poor, whipped sub with pee running down her legs. Is Master Niall going to whip me so hard I vomit? Is that a thing? I’ve never seen it, but I haven’t watched all that many whippings.

Logan moves behind me. He rests one hand on my shoulder, the way he did when I was in the corner. There, it was a comfort. Now, it feels like he’s pinning me against the sink cabinet. I meet his eyes in the mirror. Mine are wide, white showing all around the irises. His are a Siberian lake in winter: black depths that suck down every emotion and freeze them so solid not even the Mexican sun can warm them.

He reaches around me to the hand-soap dispenser set into the sink backsplash and pumps a few drops onto his fingers.

He’s going to wash out my mouth with soap? I’ve never had my mouth washed out with soap. Not even when I was a kid. I thought it was one of those fictional Victorian child-tortures.

I suck my tongue back into my mouth. “Oh, no.”

“No?” He lifts an eyebrow. “I told you the penalty for swearing.”

There’s a moment where I nearly refuse, where I almost push away from him and bolt. A seasick moment of insane defiance. This is so unfair. I said one swear word. He swears all the time. This is a stupid rule, and a stupider punishment. Is it even safe? I don’t think it’s safe. Isn’t hand soap poisonous?

“Last time, Emily. Tongue. Out.”

I shake. In the mirror, my reflection shimmies. Logan’s hand tightens on my shoulder. He steadies me, holds me still, while I grope for that dim hope I had earlier: if I can just do one thing right, I can turn this day around.

I squeeze my eyes closed, tears running cold down my cheeks, and stick out my tongue.

I wait, shaking.

Logan’s warm breath tickles my ear. “Open your eyes, Emily. Look at me when I discipline you.”

I force my eyes open.

Logan slides two fingers onto my tongue. The bitter taste makes my eyes water harder. I’ve accidentally gotten shampoo in my mouth before, it didn’t taste this bad. Damn antibacterial hand wash.

Logan’s fingers rub around and around, spreading the nasty taste. Bubbles foam on my tongue. Saliva pools in my mouth. I don’t want to swallow. I don’t want soap in my stomach. Is this what he thinks will make me vomit? I really don’t want to vomit. I know I’m being punished, but he wouldn’t force me to vomit just to break me, would he?

Of course, he would, you stupid girl. He doesn’t care about you. He’s going to hurt you to salve his pride and be done with you. You might as well go home.

Logan’s fingers work further back. I gag, which only produces more saliva. It oozes out of the sides of my mouth and down my chin to drip into the sink. I hate this. I hate drooling. I work my cheeks and tongue, trying to stop the flow, but Logan’s fingers push my tongue flat.

Squeezing my eyes closed, hot tears running down to join the drip, drip, drip of saliva off my chin, I try to swallow. Logan’s fingers block the motion. I shudder against him. He slides his hand down my back and around my waist to hold me still.

I gag again, harder, making a wet noise that echoes in the tiled room. I want to beg Logan to stop. I don’t deserve this. I know I’m a bad sub. I embarrassed him and broke his “no swearing” rule, but he should just reject me instead of torturing me like this before he kicks me to the curb. I try to swallow again, but nothing goes down. The back of my throat is full of mucus and fingers and tongue. I try to spit it all out. Nothing works. My eyes stretch wide as I try to take a breath. I can’t see anything over the hair hanging in my face. I can’t see Logan. All I can feel is his marauding fingers, working further and further back in my mouth, even though I’m retching now, my whole body shaking. His arm around me has become an iron bar holding me over the sink. I buck against his hold. My lungs are screaming and I still can’t take a breath over everything in my throat and the memories pour back: being held down, pinned by six hands while the water churned around my head and up my nose and I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t breathe.

Logan pulls his fingers out and slides his hand from my waist, back to my shoulder. “Emily, spit.”

I shake my head frantically. I can’t spit. I can’t swallow. Can’t breathe.

“Emily, is your throat obstructed? Hold up three fingers if yes.”

I don’t know if my throat’s obstructed. All I know is that I can’t breathe and I can’t see anything through the tears in my eyes and the hair in my face.

Logan releases me suddenly. I stagger back from the sink and collide with his unyielding chest. He takes the back of my neck with one hand and sits me down hard on the floor. I can’t even choke out a yowl of pain through the tightness of my throat. I grab my throat, trying to force air in some direction.

Warm fabric brushes my arm and leg as Logan slides down next to me. He takes my hands away from my throat, puts his hand under my chin, and forces my head