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

what High Protocol means. You may elaborate until I tell you to stop.”

“Clothes off. I’m below you, wherever you are. If you’re standing or sitting, I’m kneeling; if you’re on the floor, I’m prone, face down. I’m not allowed on any furniture until you give me permission. I don’t rise or leave your presence until given permission. I don’t speak unless you ask me a direct question. I answer questions yes or no, with an honorific, unless you tell me to elaborate, Daddy.”

“Very good, Emmy. Are you remembering that from our contract or is that how Matthew trained you?”

It was actually Lew who introduced me to High Protocol. Everyone has their own version, though, so I was quoting from his contract as much as I could remember. I hope I haven’t forgotten anything. “The contract, Daddy.”

“Good girl. Remember to keep your eyes down. Don’t look at me or anyone else unless I tell you to.”

I want to apologize, but he hasn’t asked me a question.

“As it happens, I’m going to release you from that restriction for now. I’d prefer eye contact for this scene. In general, when we’re in High Protocol, eyes down.”

I nod, rubbing my nose across the carpet, so he knows I’m listening.

“Good, very good, Emmy. Have you done protocol play before?”

“Lew and Matthew did it with me but no one since. It’s been a few years. I might be a little rusty, Daddy.”

He chuckles and smooths his hand over my head. “You’ll do fine, sweetie. But if it’s going to make you anxious, just for today, we’ll do three strikes before I give you a physical correction. I’ll give you a verbal warning the first and second time, so you know to watch yourself. This is still a reward day for you, so I don’t want you to obsess about breaking protocol, okay?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“Good girl. Last thing. If you need to get my attention for some reason, you can either raise your hand with three fingers up and your thumb and pinkie down, or you can tap me three times wherever you can reach. I don’t intend to restrain you for this scene but I may for the later one and, if I do, you can speak in order to say yellow or red without permission. Clear, baby doll?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“Such a good girl. When I let go, I want you to rise, climb up on the bed, kneel on the towel, and get into the same position you’re in now, with your bottom facing me and your body on the towel. If you do the Gorean slave thing, it’s the submit position. Do you know the slave positions? You may elaborate.”

“No, Daddy. I’ve read the early Gor books. I think I remember a couple of positions, like this one and the present or inspection position, but I’ve never learned them properly.”

Logan chuckles. “Why does it not surprise me that you’ve read the books? You don’t need to answer that. I haven’t read any of them, but I’ll add them to my list for when we get back home. We can read a couple of the books together and we’ll act out a few of the scenes while you learn the slave positions. Rise now, little girl. You have permission to get up on the bed.”

I wait until he takes his hand away, immediately missing his warmth in the chilly room. I make eye contact with him—his eyes are dark and hot already—so he knows I paid attention to that part of his instruction, before I climb as gracefully as I can onto the bed. I’m careful to center myself on the towel as I kneel, bend over to press my chest to the bed, and stretch my arms in front of me. I remember something about the Gorean slave girl crossing her wrists. I think that touch might please Logan, and I want more than anything to please him.

He runs his palm up my spine and I shiver with pleasure. “Excellent, sweet baby. You’re so wet I can see it on your thighs. What’s exciting you? You can elaborate.”

“Everything, Daddy. The way you walked me up from the restaurant holding my lip. Being naked while you’re still dressed. This position. It’s making me tingly everywhere.”

“Good answer, little girl.” He sits next to me on the bed, keeping one hand on the small of my back. I hear him picking things up, a scrape of metal, the swish of something wet. “Turn your head and look at what I’m holding.”

I turn my head, peering over the curve of my arm. He’s sitting on the bed, cross-legged, facing me, his right hand resting on my bottom, his left hand holding a big clump of ginger root and a peeling knife.

I glance up and meet his wolfy eyes and give a tiny nod so he knows I’ve seen the ginger.

“Do you know what figging is?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“What is it? You may elaborate.”

I swallow hard, because I’ve never done figging. I’ve read about it, though, and the idea of a piece of ginger up my butt sounds not at all rewarding. I remind myself to keep an open mind.

“It’s a Victorian thing. They put a piece of peeled ginger in your bottom before a caning. It burns, more and more as you clench your bottom against the bite of the cane.”

He grins at me. “I should have known you’d know the history.”

He takes his hand off my backside and holds the clump of ginger in his right hand while he carves one of the bigger fingers off the root, taking a big chunk of the main root with it. Dimly, I register that he’s left-handed, which I’m not sure I’d realized before, since I’ve seen him use a fork and chopsticks with either hand. But most of my attention is focused on the ginger he’s now peeling. Did I really just want more than anything to please him for the next forty-five minutes? Now the thing that seems the most important is