The Daddy P.I. Casefiles: The First Collection by Frost, J (great novels .txt) π
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βWorse than I thought it would. You didnβt bruise anything like this from my belt or the paddle. Iβm going to rub this before I put the cream on it. Remind me to do it again before we go to bed.β
βYes, Sir.β Iβm sure Iβll remember, because itβs going to be really sore by then.
βI also want you to take some painkillers. There wasnβt anything in your medical history about allergies to aspirin. Are you allergic?β
βNo, but it does a number on my stomach. I have Advil and Aleve with me. Could I have one of those instead?β
βUh-huh, I have Advil, too. Letβs get the cream on and get you wrapped up, then Iβll get you a bottle of water and the pills.β
βThank you, Sir.β
I rest my cheek on my wrists as he begins rubbing. At first, the pressure on my very sore skin makes me wince, but as he works deeper into the muscle, the burn fades and a soothing heat works up into the muscles of my back and down into my legs.
βIβm glad weβre getting sushi. Some Omega-Three wonβt do you any harm, either.β He squirts the cream on and smooths it in with his palms.
Ah. I close my eyes and enjoy the numbness.
βEmmy, whatβs on your binkie?β he asks as he rubs.
βWhatβs a binkie, Sir?β
βYour blanket.β
Binkie. Cute. Very British. He told me he was born and lived in England until he was ten; British words still pepper his speech. I wonder if thatβs ever a problem for him, although I suppose with his British sub it wouldnβt have been. Heβs asked me not to think about her anymore, though. Which is good, because I already kind of hate her and hating her is a buzz-kill.
βItβs the Ravenclaw house badge, Sir.β
Logan chuckles. βAre you a Ravenclaw?β
βYes. Which house are you, Sir?β
I donβt have any doubt that he has a house, or that heβs watched the Harry Potter movies, or maybe even read the books, not since he sent me that text about ElfQuest while I was checking in at the airport.
βSlytherin,β he says, reaching up to stroke my head.
No, heβs not. Heβs Gryffindor through and through. βSure, Sir.β
I nod under his warm hand. With the relief from the burning in my ass, and the orgasms, Iβm getting very sleepy.
Logan notices. He notices everything, which is both wonderful and a little scary, because Iβm never going to be able to get anything by him. βYou want a nap? Food wonβt be here for another forty minutes.β
βWould you nap with me, please?β
βSure, that sounds good. Come on, burrito baby.β He flips both sides of the fuzzy over my back, then rolls me up into his arms. He carries me to the bed and sets me on top of the covers. βWeβll do the painkillers after the nap, with some food, unless you need them now?β
I shake my head, blinking up at him sleepily. βIβm good, Sir.β
He smiles down at me, and itβs a real smile. Affectionate and heartfelt. None of the strain he was carrying earlier. None of the weirdness or soul-scourging. My own heart leaps. I worm my arms out from inside the Ravenclaw roll heβs made of me and hold them out to him. He slides onto the bed and stretches against me, giving me more of his weight than he did the night we slept together in New York. I couldnβt sleep all night like this, but for a nap, itβs perfect. I sigh happily and snuggle into him.
Chapter Three Logan
What kind of fucking nutter tells the woman theyβve been dating for less than a week they were consumed by lust for their own sister for most of their adolescence? I wouldnβt blame Emily if she slapped me across the face for real and walked out. What the fuck must she think of me?
I watch her for some sign of rejection, of disgust, anything, while she falls asleep in my arms, and after she wakes, while we eat the sushi boat and sashimi platter Iβve had smuggled into the hotel. Any sign. A side-eye. An unconscious lip-curl. A flinch when I brush against her.
Thereβs nothing. She seems wholly relaxed, and, fuck me, happy. How can she be happy after I wounded her, using her like she was less than a Fleshlight? No, thatβs not right. She wasnβt at all happy during the act. She got more and more tense under me, to the point where I was sure she was about to use her safe word. If I hadnβt been a second away from coming, Iβd have stopped even without it. It was more awful doing it than I expected. But it should have been, since I was imagining Lizbeth under me the whole damn time. Maybe thatβll purge me of that ghost. I fucking hope so, because I donβt think Emily can endure anything like that again.
Even if she could, I donβt think I can do it to her again. That wasnβt domination. It wasnβt sadism. It was abuse.
Iβve abused my submissive.
And she accepted it. Somehow, to help me heal. Maybe sheβs freaking out inside, but I donβt think so. Emilyβs a little reserved, a little shy and introverted, but she doesnβt have much of a poker face. I can pretty much tell what sheβs feeling minute-by-minute just by watching her expressions and body language. I watch her as she gobbles down what must be her tenth piece of salmon sashimi; the calorie-counting she was doing during our first dinner together evidently doesnβt extend to sushi. I canβt see even a twitch of tension. Sheβs sitting on the floor by my side, with her back against the couch, one leg drawn up and her right elbow propped on her knee. Sheβs wearing my black tee and those red-and-white-striped thigh-highs that make me want to eat her like a peppermint, and nothing else. Her nipples poking against the cloth are almost as tempting as the sushi. She uses chopsticks like she was born
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