Daddy PI: Book 1 of the Daddy PI Casefiles, Frost, J [great novels to read .txt] 📗

the exposed, reddened flesh of Emily’s back and ass. Mmm, yes. I won’t have any trouble conditioning my little girl to auditory triggers.

I loop the flogger over her right shoulder, letting it brush over her breast. She shivers. Slowly, so she feels the leather and metal sliding over every inch of her skin, I draw the flogger back over her shoulder. She whimpers as the falls tip over her shoulder and slither down her back.

“Feel what I’m about to flog you with, Princess?”

Another uncontrollable shiver, but she grits out, “Do your worst, sirrah. I’ll never yield to the likes of you.”

I snort. “Pretty sure I just had you on your knees, yielding to every inch of me, Princess. And I will again. But first, you need to pay for your insults to my honor. Twenty, count them out.”

I pull back my arm as she says, “I shall, sirrah, since we’ve already established you can’t count. Pity your knightly education lacked lessons in numeracy.”

“Twenty-one,” I growl and swing.

The flogger sings, a silvery swush, then bites with a jingle and a truly evil snap across Emily’s right cheek.

Her body bows, locking up against the pain. She takes a breath like she’s coming up from deep water, and shrieks as she lets it out. “Noooo!”

I give her until the count of five to get on top of the pain. I’m just about to open my mouth to tell her she’s earned an extra stroke for failing to count when she gasps out, “One!”

“Very good, Princess. More bite than you were expecting?”

She huffs out several breaths. “I fear neither you nor your monstrous instrument, sirrah.”

I run my hand down the hot, crimson flesh between her shoulder-blades and drink in her whimper. “You may regret those words in the coming minutes, Princess.”

“Do your worst,” she hisses, but she doesn’t call me any names.

I chuckle and drop a kiss on her shoulder before I step back and swing in the opposite direction. The flogger sings and snaps against her left cheek.

She gasps out “Two!” before I reach the count of three. As she takes another breath, I whip the flogger against her right cheek. Back and forth, sing and snap. The falls leave tracks that blanche white before rising a glowing crimson. Gorgeous. Her skin marks like a dream.

She keeps count more easily after the first two. Her breathing evens out and she finds a rhythm again, several huffing breaths out and then a deep breath in just before I hit her. She whimpers when the falls sing before they hit and again after the strike. With the heavy slap of the falls on her skin, it’s a symphony, the most beautiful music I’ve ever heard. I maintain the same weight and speed through lash after lash. Her body arches into that willing, perfect S. Our kinks mesh, her masochism to my sadism. Doubling and redoubling the connection between us. Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful.

When I reach nineteen, I pause and stroke her gorgeous, welted skin, bunching it a little in my fingers until I draw a long whimper out of her. “Last two, Princess.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Such a good girl, telling me where she is with just two words. She’s not in subspace; her speech is too clear. She’s not in littlespace; she’s not calling me Daddy. She’s feeling every sting and scrape, ache and burn, but she’s still accepting the pain, working with it and letting it soak into her, still holding herself in the perfect position so I can deliver it.

“I want you to take these last two across your breasts, Princess,” I tell her.

She huffs in and out. “It matters not where you strike me, sirrah, I’ll not yield.”

“Take these two across your breasts. Ask me for them. And I’ll give you pleasure when I make you mine in front of my men.”

“I’ll never be yours and I’ll never yield.”

Wanting to see her eyes as she struggles with the mind-fuck of having to ask for two strikes that she knows will be infinitely worse than the nineteen she’s had, I circle around the chains. Her head is slightly bent as she holds the S-shape, but lifts when I move in front of her. Her eyes are bright and clear, gleaming with defiance. I reverse the flogger so I hold the wrapped leather end. I stroke it down the side of her face, along her throat, down the pink-tinged skin of her chest, to circle each nipple.

“Ask me to flog your breasts, Princess.”

“Never, never, never,” she sings.

“Defiant girl, you test my patience. Every minute you delay is another stroke, starting now.”

“Only an honorless brute changes the rules in the midst of the game!” When I reverse my hold on the flogger with a jingle, she exclaims, “Not that I’m calling you an honorless brute!”

“It certainly sounded like you were calling me an honorless brute, and I still haven’t heard what I want to hear, Princess.” I swing the flogger once, not striking her, just letting it sing. She flinches. “Ask, Princess, and I’ll show mercy.”

She shakes her head vehemently. “Mercy is for the weak.”

“Mercy can be for the little Princess who already has a very red bottom that’s about to get pounded on the table. Ask me for two strikes across your breasts and I’ll give you only pleasure when I’m done. Further defiance and you and your ladies will know only pain.”

“Leave my ladies alone!”

“Give me what I want and I’ll show mercy. I won’t even ask that you admit defeat. Just that you take what I give you. Ask, Princess, for the sake of your ladies.”

She screws her face up like she’s biting into a lemon. “I ask you to flog my breasts.”

“Now, where are your noble manners? Ask nicely. ‘Please, good sir, flog my pretty breasts.’ ”

Her expression becomes even more contorted. Angry koala face. It’s so cute I struggle to keep a straight face.

“Please, good sir,” I prompt. “Flog my pretty breasts instead of putting my ladies to the sword.”

“Please, Blackheart,” she spits. “Flog