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

myself over his shoulder, and let him do what he wants to me. But that’s not what Mrs. Black would do. She’d rage. I pummel his back and spit invectives at him, careful not to swear. We may be role-playing, but that doesn’t mean I can break his rules.

He carries me to the couch, bouncing me a little on his shoulder, knocking the breath out of me. I expect him to sit down, toss me over his knee, and start the spanking. Instead, he sets me on my feet.

“Take off your robe,” he growls, looming over me.

I want to. I want to obey so desperately. But Mrs. Black wouldn’t.

“Get bent,” I snarl back. “Oh, right, you already are.”

Logan twitches like I’ve slapped him. His mouth hardens. “Take off your clothes. Do it now, last chance.”

“No!”

He picks me up again, grabbing me around the waist, and holding me off the ground with my ass in the air. With his free hand, he pulls up the robe and gives me two hard swats. I react the way I imagine she’d react, kicking, twisting, howling. He holds me as though I weigh nothing and hits me twice more. He’s not holding back. My ass burns and this is just the start.

He sets me back on my feet. “Take off your clothes.”

I glare up at him, and do something I’d never, ever do.

I slap him across the face.

Logan doesn’t flinch. He snorts, like a pissed-off bull, and narrows his eyes. I’m shaking out my hand, because his jaw is like freaking granite, when he grabs me around the waist again, lifts me off my feet and carries me to the other side of the couch. He sits, drawing me across his lap. With one leg, he pins mine. With a hard hand, he pushes my cheek against the couch. He pulls up my robe with the other.

“I’m going to spank you until you thank me. Do you understand?”

“Let me go! Have you lost your mind?”

“I’m going to start with ten on your left side.” He fists one hand in my hair and rubs his other hand over my left ass cheek. “I’ll count these. You’ll count the next ten.”

I thrash wordlessly. He tightens his hand and leg before he brings his palm down on the top of my cheek.

“Oof.” The strike’s not overly painful, particularly through my panties, but being held over his knee like this, the impact forces the air out of me.

“One,” Logan says evenly. He immediately hits me again, just a half-inch down. In some part of my brain, I know what he’s doing. He’s maximizing the number of strokes he can give me without hitting the same spot over and over. He’s minimizing the bruising. He’s caring for me even while he hurts me. That knowledge seeps deep into me, warms that part of me that went cold during that horrible sex. The rest of my brain’s overtaken by the sensation of the next hit, and the next.

He gives me ten rapidly, leaving my ass warm and tingling, but not hurting, not yet.

For the next ten, he pulls down my panties and makes me count. These are rapid, harder, on the same cheek, eye-watering.

“Ten more,” he tells me. “Count.”

I protest, but he’s already hitting me, and the rhythm and sting suck down my brain. I’ve fallen into this vortex before, mostly with Lew when it was all new to me and the simplest things could turn me inside out. It’s not subspace. I still feel every sting, burn, and ache. But I don’t mind as long as my hateful internal monologue is silent and the pain keeps tripping that crossed wire in my brain that turns it into the need that’s blossoming in my belly.

He finishes the set and pauses. He doesn’t rub my flaming ass and I clench my hands as I fight my instinct to reach back and rub. I know from years of being spanked how big a mistake that is.

“Did you love your husband?”

“Yes,” I say, with a little snuffle. I didn’t feel the tears building until he stopped, and the stinging really started.

“Do you feel betrayed?” he asks, stroking my unspanked cheek.

“Yes.”

“Good. Ten more. Count.”

I expect him to hit the cheek he’s stroking, to start evening me out, but he goes back to my left cheek and hits me right on the round apple. This is a hard thud with his flat palm, and I yelp, “One!”

By ten, I’m not just sniffling, I’m crying. My left cheek is on fire, all the more so because of the contrast with my untouched right cheek. I hate being unbalanced, and Logan must intuit it. I’ve stopped spitting bile at him and started begging him to stop.

After another fast, hard ten, he presses his palm against my ass, which both soothes and intensifies the sensation. “Tell me again, did you love your husband?”

“Yuh-yes,” I whimper.

“Good. Do you feel betrayed?”

“Yes, I feel betrayed.”

“Good. Ten more. Count.”

He returns to the left cheek with a hard smack. I wail and thrash in protest. “Not that one!”

“That’s not for you to decide, Mrs. Black. Count.”

Thank goodness we’re in role-play, or telling him what to do, denying him the right to use me the way he wants, would probably earn me a real punishment. But we’re in role-play, and Mrs. Black would not sit still for any of this. “No!”

“Yes. Every time you tell me no, it’s an additional thank you I’ll need to hear. Count.”

I howl and argue the way I think Mrs. Black would, but that just makes him start over with the two questions. After starting over five times, I give up and count the ten, hoping that after this, he’ll switch cheeks.

At the end of the set, he rearranges his hold on me, shifting me so my ass is higher in the air, over both of his knees, my feet off the floor. He asks me the two questions again and this time I shout at him, “I’ve told