The Daddy P.I. Casefiles: The First Collection, Frost, J [famous ebook reader TXT] 📗

“Emily, come lie across my knees,” I say gruffly. “Time for you to face the consequences of not doing what you’re told.” That’s suitably vague.

Javier shoots me a look that tells me he wasn’t done interrogating her. I nod at him. While I enjoy it when my brothers participate in scenes, he has no idea how little I know about Emily. Or how very vulnerable she is. Seeing her perhaps all-too-real response to criticism just reinforces my conviction that Emily isn’t to be shared, not in any sense.

Emily follows my command, but it’s a slow, grudging compliance. She literally drags her feet. The motions of a resentful schoolgirl. Nothing like the immediate, precise way she usually follows direction. Again, her immersion in the role surprises me. Even the way she holds herself is different. Her shoulders are slumped, hips canted forward. Emily’s posture is usually as straight as a ruler: shoulders back, spine straight, hips aligned, like a dancer.

Either Emily missed her calling and should have been on Broadway, or this is something else. Something I haven’t seen in all the years I’ve role-played with my bottoms.

This is a little.

She kneels beside the couch, then awkwardly crawls across my lap, as though she’d never assumed a spanking position before. She hangs over my thighs like a sack of grain, her ass slightly elevated.

“Put your hands on the floor, your arms straight and walk forward until I tell you to stop.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” she grumbles.

I grab her hair, wrap it around my fist and give it a firm tug. She gasps.

“Hands on the floor.” She arches forward until she can touch the floor with her fingertips. “Palms down.” She does, inching forward over my right thigh. “Arms straight.” She pushes up, locking her elbows. “Walk forward on your hands.”

She pulls herself forward, her belly and thighs moving across my lap. When her entire torso is off me and just her legs are supported by the platform of my thighs, I stop her. “You’ll hold yourself up until I tell you that you’re done, and then you will thank me for your punishment.”

She mutters something.

“What was that?”

“Okay,” she says more clearly.

“That’s not what you said. What did you say?”

“Nothing.”

Bullshit. I flip up her skirt, yank down her panties and slap her full strength across her striped left cheek.

She yelps and scrambles backwards, yanking against my hold on her hair. She stops with a whimper, probably when the pain in her scalp becomes unbearable, grinding her face into her shoulder.

I bend over her and speak close to her ear. “You do not lie to me. Not under any circumstances. Ever. That was a lie. What did you say?”

“I’m sorry, sir!” I can hear the tears in her voice. “I said, ‘fat chance.’ I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry!”

I bet she is. Her ass will really be smarting. But I’m not playing now. She doesn’t lie to me. Not while we’re doing a scene. Not while we’re arguing. Not while I’m fucking her brains out. Not ever.

“That’s better. We’ll try this again. Walk forward on your hands.”

She trembles, but she does it, much less reluctantly than a minute ago. When she’s back in position, I release her hair, pull up her panties and smooth down her skirt. I told her the scene would be above her panties and it will be. I didn’t intend to punish her ass tonight. I have something else in mind.

I hook my finger under the edge of her left knee sock, and draw it down her leg. Then the right one. When her socks are draped around her ankles, I take out the leather, two-tongued tawse I’ve been carrying in my pocket and lay it across her calves.

“Have you ever been punished with a tawse before?” I ask her.

She shakes her head, dark hair hanging so I can’t see her face. That’s no good. I gather up her hair, twist it into a long coil, and tuck the coil down the back of her shirt, so her face is visible to both me and our small audience. “Try that again, using your words.”

She swallows. “No,” she says.

That gets her skirt back up, panties down and my hand hard across her ass again. She doesn’t get to be disrespectful just because she’s in bratty teen headspace.

“No, what?” I growl at her.

She sniffles and squirms and takes such a long time to answer that I raise my hand to spank her again.

“No, sir,” she says finally.

“That’s right. I can follow this lesson in doing what you’re told with a lesson in politeness. Is that what you want?”

“No, sir,” she says, her tone wholly petulant. She has her face angled away from me, but I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s pouting.

“Do you get to decide how many lessons you get tonight?” I ask, running my palm up and down her calf, warming her skin.

“No, sir.”

So fucking petulant.

“Who decides that, Emily?”

“You do.” Her words are right, but her tone is so very wrong, and she’s left off my title again.

I tap her on the calf with my palm. “Who decides?”

“You do, sir.”

“It doesn’t sound like you believe that.” I pick up the tawse and slap it down without much force across her calves. The two leather strips make a spectacular pop against her firm skin.

Although the impact couldn’t have hurt anything like either the belting back at my house, or the spanks I just gave her, she jolts. A shiver runs all the way through her and she squeezes her thighs together. “I do, sir.”

“Do you? We’ll see. Start with ten. Count, Emily.”

“One,” she says, resentfully, before I even bring down the tawse again.

Little brat.

I pull my arm back, snap my wrist and bring the tawse whipping down across her calves hard enough to leave a mark.

She shrieks.

I hit her again, not as hard, but with an incredibly satisfying pop. Her pale skin marks immediately: a lighter pink stripe rising next to the