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

kind of love all those things about her. Now that I know she makes Daddy uncomfortable, though, I’ll just do things with her one-on-one.

“With Manny and Jen, Rick and Max, that’s a nice group.”

It is, but I wish Maude or Javier could have come. For weeks after Daddy was injured, I saw them every day. Now, I barely see them. “You said you’d planned to go to Blunts on Sunday night. Could we have dinner with Mistress Maude and Master Javier before we do our scene?”

Daddy lifts an eyebrow. “Sure. Why?”

“I miss them.” I shrug. “I haven’t seen them in a while.”

“Sorry, little girl. I didn’t realize. You got close to them on the way back from San Diego, didn’t you?” At my nod, he says, “They’ll be delighted. I’ll text them after we eat to make sure they’re free.”

“You could invite Briar, too. To keep Master Javier company,” I say.

Daddy chuckles. “Mischief. Pretty sure blow jobs in the restaurant are against the health code.”

* * *

I check on Sable again before we leave for Daddy’s physical therapy appointment. He’s still under the couch, but he’s curled up in a ball with his tail over his nose. I think he’s asleep. I’m hoping he’ll come out once he feels more at home, and I have a thought about how to lure him out, but it will have to wait until after dinner. Daddy needs my attention first.

Logan told me weeks ago that I didn’t need to come to his physical therapy appointments. But I’ve weaseled my way into as many as I can. I really like his P.T., Hendry. Unlike Logan’s primary care doctor, who I think still uses leeches, Hendry’s been super-supportive of a holistic approach to Daddy’s recovery.

But more than talking about the benefits of foot rubs and flax seeds with Hendry, the reason I go to the appointments is that Daddy tends to minimize his injury. He doesn’t tell Hendry about the things that still hurt him, like bending over to set the table. He also “forgets” to tell me what Hendry says he should and shouldn’t do. Like when he started doing the laundry again, carrying the hamper up and down the basement stairs, and I found out at the next appointment that Hendry had told him not to carry loads up and down stairs yet because he was still at risk of falling.

I know weakness is tremendously hard for Logan, both to experience and to admit. Beyond being a big, strong man, he’s a Dom, and any loss of control works his last nerve. I try to be understanding, and supportive, while still making sure Hendry knows what’s really going on with him, and that I hear what is and isn’t okay. That means going to appointments.

Today, it means another walk in the hot sun. I don’t mind, since I’m wearing such cool, pretty clothes, although the nipple clamps are pinchy, particularly after we’ve been walking for a few minutes and my skin swells with the heat. Still, I like walking. In Syracuse, I drove pretty much everywhere. I like being able to walk, and I really like walking in the City, where there always seems to be something new to see. On East Third Street, we come across a street fair, with striped kiosks selling food and jazz music drifting on the air. I like walking hand in hand with Daddy, particularly when he stops to buy me sugar-free gummy bears. We share the sweets out of a paper bag as we walk to Hendry’s.

Hendry has a tiny office above a dry cleaner’s in a newer brick building. Daddy has more exercise equipment in his basement gym than Hendry has, and she often comes to the house for appointments, but his Friday appointment is always at her office because she uses the electrical stimulation machines on him. Neither of us has mentioned that Daddy has a variety of electrical stimulation machines in his basement as well, although we’ve shared some quiet jokes about showing Hendry our “Red Room.” She doesn’t seem at all kinky, though. We cover the playpen and the spanking bench in the outer playroom when she comes to the house. I suspect the inner playroom will always remain our secret.

Hendry greets us at the door of her office, wearing her standard uniform of black tank and black yoga pants, with her graying, red-brown hair pulled back into a braid that almost touches her butt. She’s even skinnier than I am, and the lack of insulation must be keeping her cool, because there’s no air-conditioning in her office, although she has fans going in the windows. I don’t know how she’s not melting.

I curl up in a chair in front of a fan and eat the last of the gummy bears while Hendry asks Daddy about his pain levels and flexibility. Then they move to the small mat area so she can direct him through a series of stretches. Daddy calls it “putting him through his paces,” and it’s his least favorite part of the physical therapy. I can see how tightly he controls his expression, particularly when she has him bend over and hold his arms out straight. He’s not going to be cleared for squats today, I can tell; I sigh to myself and take out my tablet.

Hendry has Daddy do a lot of stretches and then some odd exercises where he flexes his toes while she covers each eye. She says that’s about retraining his brain to work around the damage. I’ll admit I don’t understand everything Hendry does, but I can’t argue with her effectiveness. Before we left San Diego, Logan’s neurosurgeon warned me not to expect too much, and to prepare myself for the possibility that Daddy might never be able to walk unassisted again. Six weeks into physical therapy with Hendry, he’s barely using a cane anymore.

After exercises where Daddy has to walk in a straight line with his eyes open, then closed, then