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

“Emmy, relax, baby. You’re doing well. Just let yourself feel.”

I am feeling! I’m feeling the burn in all those places he spanked and plugged and fucked yesterday that were swollen and sore before we even started and I thought this “reward” was supposed to help me heal quickly? I’m not feeling healed. Not. At. All.

He places his warm palm on my belly, which he still hasn’t let me wash, and the sweat filming my skin is making his come sticky again. Gross. The pressure makes me cramp and the orgasm I fought off before is back, tightening my insides, but even the pain-pleasure is horrible and cold and hateful. I focus fiercely on yellow chunks and it disappears, leaving behind a sour sense of frustration and simmering anger.

“Sweetie, what are you thinking about right now?”

Killing him. And yellow chunks.

“The video I told you about on our first date. The one where the woman was throwing up big yellow chunks while her Dom deep-throated her.”

He chuckles and kisses my mons. “Okay, that’s effective. Since you all but dry up when you think about that, we want something a little less nasty for you to focus on.”

Toenail fungus. Rancid-goat body odor. Cold showers.

“Like cold showers?”

“Uh-huh, like cold showers. If you’re really close, why don’t you think about cold showers for a minute? But only a minute. Mostly I want you to just feel and not think about anything. This is a reward. It’s supposed to get you out of your head.”

I’m going out of my head, all right. Out of my head wanting to kill my Dom. And there’s nothing rewarding about this. It’s just torment. Which should appeal to me as a masochist, but really doesn’t.

“Let’s try something a little different.” He shifts up so he’s no longer pinning my left leg and reaches for his toy bag, which he’s put on the bed next to his phone. His phone is counting down my thirty minutes of hell. The bag blocks my view so I can’t see the timer, and he’s put a pillow over the clock next to the bed. He says he doesn’t want me focused on the time but knowing how much longer I had would really help me endure this. He’s such a sadist.

Logan brings my attention back to him by wiping my clit off with a baby wipe he’s pulled from his bag. He snaps on a latex glove and squirts some lube on his gloved fingers.

“Head back, Emmy. Just relax and feel. Close your eyes for now. I’ll tell you when you can open them again.”

I tip my head back over the wedge of pillows he’s made under me and close my eyes. Without my sight, the sensations intensify. The bonfire in my vagina and ass. The lingering sting in my clit. It’s a lot better now that he’s wiped most of the toothpaste off, but any enjoyment is overshadowed by the fact I can’t come.

The warm swipe of his tongue is a shock. My eyes fly open, but there’s only the ceiling to look at, so I close them again. Only for them to fly open again when his lubed finger circles my sphincter before gently pushing inside. For the first few thrusts, his finger spreads the toothpaste and the burning-cold intensifies to an ice pick in my ass. I can’t hold still and fight to keep my legs spread while my ass tries to wiggle away across the bed.

He nips my labia. “Emmy, stay still.”

Try staying still when someone’s sticking an ice pick in your ass! But his command helps me center myself and I pin my butt to the pillows. His finger slides in and out, in and out, and slowly the ice pick sensation eases, helped by the soft, warm lap of his tongue over my clit.

He lifts his head and blows over my clit, hot then cool. “That’s it, little girl. Relax and enjoy your reward.”

This is not a reward! There’s nothing rewarding about being tormented and not allowed to come.

I blow out a long breath as I try to center myself again and focus on the good sensations: the warm, slick pressure in my ass, the sweep of his tongue over the firming bundle of nerves at the top of my slit. My opening’s still burning, but that sensation merges into the other stimulation and adds an edge that suddenly has my thighs and belly shaking. “Yellow, yellow!”

“Cold showers, Emmy,” Logan says, lifting his head. “Back off a little.”

I imagine that first, skin-shriveling shock of the cold water hitting my skin. My breath seizing in my chest. Raw and tight.

“That’s it, little girl,” Logan rumbles approvingly, thrusting his finger a little faster in my ass. “Ride it and back off when you need to—"

A beeping interrupts him.

“Thank G-goodness!”

It’s over. It has to be over. And the bathroom is only a few steps away. Scrub brush, here I come.

Logan chuckles. “What if I told you that was a five-minute warning?”

No, it can’t be. This has been going on for eons. It can’t only have been twenty-five minutes. “Puh-please, Sir, is it?”

“No.” He kisses my mons and slowly withdraws his finger. I hear the snap of the latex as he removes his glove. “Let me clean you up, little girl.”

I wrestle with myself for a second, wanting nothing more than to bolt for the bathroom. But he wants to clean me up, so I hold myself still and let him. Soft, cool swipes remove the last traces of toothpaste from my clit and sphincter. He leaves my still-burning opening for last, but finally, finally he wipes me there, too. Sweet relief.

“Sir, may I go to the bathroom and wash up now?”

He pauses in the middle of pulling the Velcro cuff off my left wrist. “Emmy, why aren’t you calling me ‘daddy’?”

Because he’s been pure Dom since breakfast. Actually, pure sadist. I don’t identify that part of him as Daddy. “‘Sir’ feels right just now. Please, may I