The Daddy P.I. Casefiles: The First Collection by Frost, J (great novels .txt) π
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I wait for her to give me the count, and when she doesnβt, I prompt, βEmily?β
Her back heaves and she takes a deep, shuddering breath. βTwo, sir,β she gasps on the exhale.
βNo, the first one doesnβt count because you were bratting. Try again.β
βOne, sir,β she says, and has there ever been a more resentful count?
I pepper her calves, alternating one heavy stroke with two lighter ones. Sheβs shuddering by eight, squeezing her legs together. At ten, she whimpers, βTen. Thank you, sir.β
βOh, Emily, youβre not done. Thatβs just the start. Ten more. Count.β
I give her another hard blow. She shrieks again. Her arms buckle and she has to struggle back into position. I hold her across the ass, which Iβve left bare and vulnerable, in case she needs punishing there again, too.
Sheβs panting by the time she gets back in position, arms straight, elbows locked. βWa-wuh-one, sir.β
βVery good.β Knowing sheβll be expecting two softer strokes, I give her another heavy hit. Her back arches and she shudders, but she forces out the count.
Eight more heavy strokes and sheβs sobbing with each hit, shivering constantly, her legs locked together. Her calves are brilliant pink. Thereβs no more defiance, no more resentment. She gasps out each number after the stroke, without prompting, never forgetting the βsir.β
βExcellent, Emily. Ten more.β
She wails but braces herself, digging one hand into the carpet and gripping the edge of the couch with the other.
I start with a soft blow, so she doesnβt know what to expect from this set, then follow with nine, hard and heavy. Her body arches and rises with each strike. Her legs work, squeezing, the tendons standing out behind her knees, thigh muscles jumping. Her satin skinβs sheened with sweat.
After ten, she sobs, βPuh-please, sir. I need to stop.β
The tawse creates a nasty sting, particularly across her less-padded calves, and her skin is glowing, but Iβve been careful, her skinβs not broken, there arenβt any deep red spots that will bruise, and weβre nowhere close to the βheavy playβ of her sign. Maybe she needs the bathroom.
βDiaper, Emily?β I ask.
βNuh-no, da-dah-sir.β She shudders and scrabbles at the couch. βIβm really close.β
Close? Fuck, is she about to come? I lay the tawse across her calves and slide my hand between her clenched thighs. My fingers slip right in, because her thighs are slicker than a water slide. I shift aside the soaked gusset of her knickers and stroke her outer lips before pushing two fingers into her. As I work my hand in, her scent rises to me. Hot and sticky-sweet with a faint spicy musk. Like gingerbread. Delicious. I tunnel my fingers deeper into her. Her cunt clenches around my fingers and she humps against my leg. Brokenly, she gasps, βPuh-please, no. Iβm going to come. Please, I donβt want to. I want to be a guh-good girl for you.β
I lean over her. βYouβre going to come right here, in front of all these people.β There are only a half-dozen, but itβs their presence, not the number, that matters. βIs that right, little girl?β
βNuh-no, Daddy, please no. Iβm trying not to.β
I reach under her and bring her body up onto the couch beside me while I shift to get a better angle to finger-fuck her. She buries her face in the corner of the couch, covering her head with shaking arms.
βNo hiding, little girl.β I take a grip on her hair and pull her head back. She whimpers and arches against the pressure on her scalp. I pull her body into a curve, then press her cheek to the leather seat. βStay just like that. Let everyone see you. Now.β I begin working my fingers in her, twisting my wrist and curling my fingers inside her. βWhat about this orgasm?β
She shudders in my hold. βNo-no-no, Daddy, please! You told me not to.β
βI did, you naughty baby. I also told you that you had to earn my forgiveness. Do you think youβve done that?β
βNuh-no, Daddy,β she says brokenly, beginning to cry again, tears slipping across her nose to drip onto the leather seat.
I lean fully over her, pressing my chest against her back, so I can speak right into her ear while I plunge my fingers in and out of her with the most delicious, wet, smacking sound. βYou have, Emily. Daddy forgives you for lying, and for being disrespectful, and for being a wonderful, rotten little brat. You have my permission to come and then weβre going to do a final ten with the tawse and youβre going to thank me.β
βYes, Daddy, yes.β She sobs even harder.
βGood girl.β
I remain leaning over her, pressing her into the couch, while I pull my hand back, then shove three fingers in and piston them until Emily goes wild, bucking, legs kicking out, hands flailing, shaking all over as she spasms around my fingers. She soaks my hand, fills the air with the sweet smell of gingerbread. I hold her down by her hair while she convulses, then brush the tangles off her very red face while her wails trail off into short, guttural moans. She puts her little hand over her mouth as though to cut off the final sounds of her orgasm. So cute. I slide my fingers out of her when all I can feel are faint pulses and cup my sticky hand over her mons. I really like that gesture.
βThank you, Daddy,β she whispers.
I kiss the shell of her ear, the skin hot against my lips. βSuch a good baby. Last ten. Count them for me, Emily.β
βYes, sir,β she pants.
I wipe my hand on the inside of her skirt before taking up the tawse again and alternating strokes, one hard, two softer. She counts quietly. I can tell sheβs spent. Not broken; I donβt think Emilyβs brittle. Sheβll bend and bend and bend some more to please her Daddy. Iβm not worried about breaking her the way I have been with less resilient bottoms. But, for the
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