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

lifting me. It chews into me, biting into whichever part I rest against the rail for a few seconds. I hold each position until it’s unbearable, until I’m gasping against a scream. Then I rock to a new point of pain.

I have no idea how long it’s gone on. It could be ten minutes or ten hours. I tried to count the minutes but I lost count. That’s not what Daddy wants me to be thinking about anyway, and I try to focus on his words, but everything is occluded by the pain.

I can only feel.

And what I feel is so very, very awful.

Shame, burning like bile, bounces from my stomach to my heart and back. I’ve done everything wrong. I was supposed to support and distract Daddy while Miranda was here. I broke his rules, when he’d told me again and again how much my submission meant to him. I promised him I wouldn’t let her get to me. He asked me over and over if I was okay. I told him I was when I wasn’t. If I had been, I’d have handled her better. I’d have ignored her, like he told me to. Instead, I’ve made everything worse. I’ve made him angry. I’ve made him worried. I’ve made him scared.

The distant, hissing rumble filling my ears, the sound of waves on a pebbled shore, becomes noticeable only in its absence. Daddy’s warm palm slides up and down between my shoulders, slick with my sweat.

“Give me a number, Emmy.”

A number? There’s no way to categorize the pain I’m feeling. It keeps swallowing my mind, gagging, spitting it back up, only to convulsively swallow again. Water-boarding my brain.

“Eh-eight, Daddy. Eight-point fuh-five.”

“Good girl for being honest with me. And have you thought about why you weren’t able to walk away from the confrontation with Miranda?”

“I-I—” I shake my head helplessly. “I can’t th-think, Daddy. I’m stupid.”

“You are not stupid, Emmy.” Daddy presses his lips against my clammy brow. “It’s hard to think through intense pain. After this, the only stupid you’ll ever feel again is stupid happy. We’ll get there once this is over.”

I reach back in my mind and remember that feeling. The encompassing happiness. It’s right there, behind the shame. It fills me up. For a second, it’s all I feel. No pain. Nothing but the joy of bathing in my daddy’s love.

“That’s my girl.” His lips brush my forehead again. “Lift onto your tiptoes and get as stable as you can. Push your legs out until your ankles press against the ropes. That will help.”

He’s right. The tension against my ankle cuffs increases as I slide my feet out away from the horse. It’s much easier to stay on my tiptoes pushing against that support. My leg muscles stop shaking. “Bu-but the timer?”

“I’ve ordered you onto your tiptoes. I’m going to flog you until you drop back on your heels. I’m doing this because I want to, not because you’ve asked me to. The timer keeps going. Understand?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

I tug against my cuffs, wishing my hands weren’t bound so I could grab his hand and kiss it. I’m so very grateful to him in this moment. I know he put me here and it’s my submission to his will that’s keeping me on Satan’s own hobbyhorse, but I’m still so, so grateful.

“Count backwards from five so you know when to expect the strike.”

Anticipation makes my body tighten, but I force my muscles to relax. Daddy doesn’t like it when I tense before impact. It shows I’m resisting rather than submitting. I take a breath in and let it out as I count down, concentrating on the momentary relief in my groin, keeping my balance, and submitting to my daddy.

The sting of the rubber across the side of my breast snatches my breath and makes me wobble on my toes. I gasp, quick grabs of air in and out, trying to get on top of the pain and regain my balance. Just as I do, he hits me again, on my other breast, another explosion of smarting heat. Fireworks shower across the backs of my eyelids. Back and forth, he works from breast to breast, side to nipple to top to underside. Wetness slides under my blindfold, cold down my cheeks, cool splashes on my burning chest. When just the evil tips catch my left nipple and the pain’s so sharp, I’m sure he’s ripped my nipple off, I shriek and once I start, I can’t stop. Scream after scream pours out of me, yanking on the muscles of my belly like Daddy’s sunk hooks in my tummy and is pulling with each strike.

“That’s right, little girl,” he growls. “Give me your screams. Give me your tears. They’re mine. They belong to me.”

I give him every ounce of my pain. He stops flogging me when I drop down onto my heels, but I keep screaming from the fresh pain as the cruel wood presses into my excruciatingly tender pussy. I scream until my throat is raw and nothing comes out but harsh gasps.

Something hard and slick touches my lower lip, puncturing the haze of pain.

“Take a sip, sweetheart. Wet your throat.”

I pull the straw between my lips and drink. The water slips down my throat and I croak my thanks.

Logan’s lips press against my sweaty forehead. “Give me a number.”

The pain’s not really less. It still swamps me in waves, hot-cold-hot-cold. But it beats against the burning of my chest, and instead of redoubling, it breaks. It draws back, hissing, and gives me just a little space to catch my breath.

“Suh-seven.”

“Good girl. I’m going to put the headphones back on now. Same rules as before. You can go up on your tiptoes, but it stops the timer. You can ask me to flog you, but it stops the timer. I know you’re hurting and the longer you’re on the horse, the more it hurts, but you’re doing well and I’m very proud of you.”

For that praise, I’d endure