The Daddy P.I. Casefiles: The First Collection Frost, J (good beach reads .TXT) 📖

She shakes her head as she rises to her feet. “Please, no, sir. Please don’t make me. I’m very sorry. It won’t happen again.”

“I don’t believe you, young lady. I think if I let you walk out of here now, you won’t have learned anything at all. Take off your clothes.”

Still begging, she pulls off her tee and bike shorts, toes off her running shoes, and stands in her white socks, sports bra, and plain white knickers. She’s rolled her socks up over her knees, which is both adorably sexy and frames the “target” of her thighs nicely. No lingerie, no fetish-wear, just her plain undies and socks and she has me ragingly hard.

She crosses her arms over herself and hangs her head, eyes shooting left and right, glancing at the crowd in her peripheral vision.

“Eyes. On. Me.”

Her head snaps up and her eyes lock on mine.

“Look away again and I will double the number of strokes. In fact, Miss Martin, I think we’d better cover those eyes if you can’t look where you’re told.”

I reach into my toy bag and pull out the blindfold I bought for her. It’s shaped like a sleeping mask, in rose-pink satin, with sequins around the edges and a rim of soft pink feathers. The sequins spell out Sweet Dreams, Sweet Girl, across the fabric.

Emily’s eyes widen when she sees it and her mouth drops into an O. She lifts her eyes to mine again and mouths, “Ta very much, Daddy.”

“You’re welcome,” I mouth back, then growl, “Close your eyes.”

She does, immediately. I fit the mask over her eyes and tie it snugly around the back of her head. I run a finger under the strap to make sure it’s not too tight before saying, “Take off your bra and knickers and hand them to me, Miss Martin. You can leave your socks on.”

“But I can’t see,” she protests.

I give her a sharp smack on the hip, which has her yelping and rubbing the sore spot. “Bra and knickers.”

“Yes, sir.” She pulls them off awkwardly, unbalancing as she pulls her knickers off. I catch her elbows to hold her steady. When she’s balanced again, she holds out her underwear to me.

“Give me your wrists.”

She does, holding them out correctly to be bound. I really do need to send her old top a bottle of wine or something to say thank you for training her so well. I loop her sports bra around one wrist, twist it to create a soft bar between her wrists, and tie off the straps around her other wrist. I test her circulation, then let her hands drop in front of her.

I walk around her, circling the bench, evaluating her. Despite her jitters, she’s doing great. Her breathing’s steady, color high in her cheeks. Her nipples are firm points. This morning’s play left her with a couple of red spots on her ribs and thighs where the paddle wrapped, and her bottom’s still bruised from the hotel spanking. Otherwise, her skin glows cream and pink under the changing room’s halogens. She’s such a gorgeous girl when she’s naked.

I know she can hear me moving by the way her head follows me. She does better keeping her “eyes” on me blindfolded than she did with her eyes uncovered.

I pause behind her and run my fingertips across the bruises that decorate her ass, then pinch one purple mark until she squeaks.

“It looks like someone has already had a few licks to her bottom, Miss Martin. Is that right?”

She brings her bound hands up and buries her face in them, trying to hide her embarrassment.

I give her a flat-palmed swat on top of the bruise. She yelps. “Sorry, sir!”

“I expect answers to my questions, Miss Martin. Did someone’s ass already get a few licks because she was a naughty little girl?”

“Yes, sir,” she admits with a sniffle.

We talked about this part beforehand and she showed no sign of embarrassment or remorse. But put her in the scene and she’s flushing pink and snuffling. I have no doubt that if I lifted the blindfold, there would be real tears standing in her eyes. Little sweetheart.

“And here we are having to work on truthfulness again,” I say. “I think that’s earned you ten strokes for each lie. That’s twenty strokes, Miss Martin.”

“Yes, sir.” Another sniffle.

“That’s a large number of strokes for a little girl, isn’t it?”

While I’m speaking, I move to my toy bag and take out two canes. They’re the same: junior, rattan, straight canes, oiled and flexible. Canes break; it’s just a fact of using canes, so I put the spare under the bench and hold the cane I intend to use in my hands.

Emily rubs her bound hands under her nose, sniffling. “Yes, sir. Twenty is a lot.”

“Then you’ll want to do your very best not to earn more strokes, won’t you, Miss Martin? Open your mouth. You’re going to hold the cane for me while I put you in position.”

She whimpers but opens her mouth obediently, keeping her tongue flat behind her teeth. So very well trained.

I balance the cane on her bottom teeth and then push it back as though I’m inserting a bit. “Bite down gently. Do not damage my cane, Miss Martin.”

“Yethir,” she says around the cane.

“Very good.” I don’t call her a good girl, yet. She needs to earn that. I make another circuit around her, enjoying watching her turn her head to follow me with the cane clamped between her teeth.

I stop behind her, put my hands on her shoulders and turn her so she’s facing the bench. “I’m going to lift you up, Miss Martin. You’re going to plant your feet and bend your knees. When I pull you backwards, you’re going to sit back against me like you’re sitting in a chair. Do you understand me, Miss Martin?”

“Yethir,” she says.

Her ready agreement is no surprise; she nearly swooned when I explained “chair position” while we were discussing the scene.