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

“Yes, sir, I understand that. I won’t ever lie to you again.”

“That’s right, you won’t.” I bring the cane down for the final cut, same strength as the others. I don’t want to break another blood vessel with this last stroke.

“Ah-ah-ah,” she cries. Dropping her chin to her chest, sagging against me, she pants, “Ten, thu-thu-thank you, sir. Thank you so much.”

“Well done, Miss Martin. I’m very proud of you. I want you to relax for a minute and then we’re going to move so you’re kneeling on the bench.”

“Yes, sir.”

When her breathing has slowed, I lift her off my chest and help her kneel on the bench, then guide her down until she’s on all fours.

“Brace yourself, Miss Martin. I’m not going to restrain you, but I expect you to hold the position no matter what I do. I’ll be very disappointed if you move.”

She nods. “Yes, sir.”

I let her arrange herself on the bench, going down onto her forearms, with her bound hands in front of her, arching her back, hardening her leg muscles. I tap her thighs with the cane until she gives me the flat target I want, then begin warming up her skin with flat-palmed slaps.

“Let’s return to the topic of lying, Miss Martin. Other than the fearful consequences, why is it important that you be honest with me?”

She lets her head hang. “Lying’s bad, sir.”

“True, but not a particularly thoughtful answer, Miss Martin.” I tap her with the cane to prepare her for the cut. “I’ll let you think about that a bit more. Remember to count and thank me.”

“Yes, sir.” Her muscles tighten in anticipation of the blow. I build her anticipation by whipping the cane through the air so it sings, before I slap it against the backs of her thighs.

“Ah-ah!” Emily cries out, then pants. Her legs shake, but she holds her position gamely.

I reward her by running my free hand up and down her back, over her hips, while I watch the pink stripe darken to deep red. No fireworks and no purple hotspots. A good cut. Her skin hums under my hand, and I’m not sure if the sizzle is coming from her, or me, or the connection between us.

“Miss Martin?” I prompt, when she doesn’t count or thank me. I’ll add to her tally for that.

“One, thank you, sir,” she breathes.

I lean over to check her. I can’t see her eyes because of the blindfold, but her cheeks have cooled from their earlier fiery red to a rose-pink and the muscles of her face are slack. She’s soaring into subspace. Beautiful.

Her rise boosts me, too. I hear the heavy thud of my heartbeat in my ears. Feel the electric fission run over my skin. Every movement of hers, the slide of her ribs under her skin as she breathes, the brush of her ponytail against the bench, is amplified as I rise into topspace. I block out the small sounds of our audience to focus entirely on my bottom, her pain and her pleasure. I wouldn’t need that cape to fly right now, but I can hear it snapping.

I give her three taps with the cane to let her know the next strike is coming. “Have you thought of a better answer than ‘lying is bad’?”

“Lying makes you not trust me, sir,” she says softly.

“Yes.” I pause after the stroke, wait while she pants and counts and thanks me. “Are we a team, Miss Martin?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That’s right. Can team-mates trust each other if they lie?”

“No, sir.” Her voice has risen to that girlish pitch. Interesting, her little comes out when she’s in subspace.

“Each team member needs to rely on the other, Miss Martin. Can they rely on each other if one of them is lying?” I give her the three warm-up taps.

“No, sir.”

I slap the cane against the backs of her thighs and hear the wood crack above the pop of the impact.

She grunts and pants, but holds her position, shaking all over, fresh sweat sheening her skin, her toes curling against the bench.

I rub her ass and hip while I reach under the bench to change canes.

“Three, thank you, sir.”

I test the cane, slicing it through the air a few times, then give her the three warning taps before another hard blow.

She lets out a gasp and her body shakes, but she doesn’t scream, which tells me she’s fully in subspace.

“Breathe, Miss Martin.”

She does, panting softly. “Four, thank you, sir.”

“Three strokes fast now, Miss Martin, to make sure you understand the point about lying.”

“Yes, sir,” she whispers.

I give her three taps, then a blow and as soon as she thanks me, the next blow and then the next, so the pain doesn’t fade between strokes. She screams on the last stroke of the set, but it’s a very happy sound of release rather than agony. I nearly come myself at the sound.

“Seven, thank you, sir. Thank you so much,” she pants.

“Good girl, Miss Martin. Three more fast and then you’ll take two additional strokes for me for not thanking me until I reminded you, understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

I’m pretty sure she’d agree to anything at this point, which is the danger of subspace. Without any conscious control, with none of her usual emotional defenses, she’s vulnerable to both interrogation and suggestion in subspace. Just as she would be in a full trance. If we’re working through an issue, that can be useful, but otherwise I think it’s unethical to use the vulnerability of deep subspace against a submissive, and I try my damndest to be an ethical top. I’ll give Emily the two additional cuts she’s earned, but nothing more, and I won’t ask any questions now, when she could spill much more than she wants anyone to know.

I give her the next three quickly, still tapping between each hard blow to pace out the strokes and give her a chance to recover. I’m careful to space the cuts down