The Daddy P.I. Casefiles: The First Collection by Frost, J (great novels .txt) π
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Bel-phe-gor, he will not let her go. Let her go!
Bel-phe-gor, he will not let her go. Let her go!
Will not let her go. Let her go! Never, never, never let her go.
Let her go!β
This is my little girl at her best. Zany. Carefree. Utterly adorable.
βOh no, no, no, no, no, no, no!
Oh Daddy de-ar, Daddy de-ar, Daddy de-ar, let her go!
James Ma-di-son has a paddle set aside for me.
For me. For me!β
I canβt stifle it anymore. Emily breaks off when she hears me laughing. I move into my office before I call her. βEmily, come here.β
Her feet patter across the hardwood floor. I sit in my desk chair and spread my knees. When she appears in the doorway, I point to the carpet between my feet with my index and middle fingers.
She rushes over and drops to her knees, immediately arranging herself in Nadu. Sheβs wearing the little red and white apron she wears when she cooks. Underneath the apron, she has on white fishnet thigh-highs, but nothing else. When the fuck did she get those? That does it. Sheβs getting fucked. I donβt care how behind schedule and grumpy I am. My little girl deserves a fucking over the desk for being so unbearably cute.
βWhat was that?β I ask, keeping my face composed and my voice stern.
βQueen, Daddy.β
βI donβt remember Freddy Mercuryβs version involving Daddyβs paddle, little girl.β
She peeks up at me, probably gauging whether or not Iβm actually irritated, then puts her head back down with a little smile. βIt should have, though.β
βUh-huh. Should it, now? And what was that about a spanking?β
She grins.
βCrazy little girl. Up over the desk. Spread your legs.β
She wriggles from head to toe before she rises and nearly throws herself face down over my desk.
* * *
An hour later, I rub my hand over the warm spot on my desk Emilyβs left after a long spanking and even longer fucking. Sheβs back in the kitchen, singing, although sheβs no longer perverting the lyrics, which is kind of disappointing. Sounds like sheβs singing to the cat, who is meowing back. Better than that bloody row in the night. I hope weβre not going to have a repeat of that every night. I like the cat, but heβs not sleeping with us, and I donβt care how many hours crying outside the bedroom door it takes for him to accept that hard fact.
Emily sounds happy. Sheβs certainly not complaining about the rough fucking over my desk, or her now glowing bottom, or the butt plug Iβve put in and told her sheβs wearing through the party so she doesnβt forget for a moment who she belongs to.
Her ebullience fills me up, wiping away my grouchiness. When she bounces in a minute later, singing βFat Bottomed Girls,β and alights next to my desk for a minute to deliver a cup of juiced green shit, I draw her to me and give her a long, deep kiss, before I let her bounce away to finish breakfast.
While sheβs cooking, and, mmm, smells like weβre having bacon this morning, which makes the kale or whatever Iβm drinking bearable, I check emails and the two voicemail messages that came in last night after I turned off my phone. I havenβt made it a rule, but both Emily and I turn off our phones before scenes. I donβt care if the worldβs burning down. It can wait until we finish.
Max has emailed me back a truly frightening amount of information about Tiger Tail Tech. He got all this from a single website address? Fuck me. I donβt have a website, my business is all referral, and Iβm very glad of that at the moment, but I have a couple of social media accounts. I make a note to ask Max to sanitize them. I do not want anyone getting my home address, cell number, date of birth, and annual income just from what I have online.
I note down Damon Tigerβs cell number and address, but as I discover when I listen to my voicemails, I donβt need to. Heβs called me.
Tiger answers on the first ring. βTiger Tail Tech, Damon Tiger speaking.β
Nice and professional. He doesnβt sound at all like a guy who would choke a stranger with a belt while he and Rick were βspit-roastingβ her.
βThanks for calling me back, Mr. Tiger. This is James Logan. Iβm an investigator working for Rick Errol. Do you remember him?β
βOh.β Thereβs a long silence. βI thought it was about a job. No, sorry, I donβt know, uh, Dick Errol.β
I rub the bridge of my nose. So much for professionalism. βRick. I think you may have met him at a party last summer on Fire Island. At the Castilloβs house. Do you remember the party?β
βUm, Iβm not sure. Whatβs this about?β
βRick is trying to reconnect with a woman he met at the party named Laura. Do you know Laura?β
Heβs silent. βLaurel,β he says finally.
Bingo. βLaurel? Do you know her last name?β
βWhy do you want it?β
He could just be naturally suspicious, although Iβd think a naturally suspicious person wouldnβt hop into a drunken threesome. Or he could be part of EvonneBringsTheTruthβs revenge.
βRick wants to find her,β I say, which is certainly the truth, although certainly not all the truth.
βBeen a year plus since that party.β
βLaurel made a big impression on Rick.β
βYeah? Well, no accounting for taste. Heβll find out soon enough.β
That doesnβt sound good.
βSorry, Iβm not sure what you mean?β
βMeans Laurelβs too good for us mere mortals. I donβt know her last name. I met her through Dovie. Devota Donegan, thatβs Dovieβs real name, but everyone calls her Dovie. Weβve gotten together a couple of times when Laurel came up to visit Dovie. After that party, I tried to be nice. Treat her like a lady. But she wouldnβt give me the time of day.β
I scratch hurried notes onto my pad. βDevota Donegan, does she live here in New York?β
βQueens, but, yeah.β
βDo you have her address?β
βSure.β He rattles it
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