Page 206 of The Daddy P.I. Casefiles: The Second Collection

He slaps my pussy. Not hard enough to really hurt, but damn, he has a hard hand. “Fuck, sir!”

He leans down and kisses what must be a nice red mark. Then he slides one arm under my shoulders and another under my knees and lifts me right off the table. I’m used to Doms moving me around during scenes, but not picking me up. I’m not a featherweight like Emily. Mac doesn’t look like a weightlifter. He’s leaner than Logan. But he must be packing some serious muscle under his tailored clothes because he lifts me without any obvious strain. He carries me to the other end of the table and helps me sink down onto one of the big cushions that Emily has all over the house. Held close to him, I catch a whiff of his scent: bergamot, like the tea Emily tries to force on me. Tobacco, although I’m pretty sure he doesn’t smoke. And leather. Fuck me, he smells good.

Despite my jelly legs, I settle into a basic kneeling position, with my ass on my heels and my knees comfortably spread. This position must be the first thing every sub learns. It’s certainly the first thing that was drilled into me when I started at Blunts. Some of the Doms who have played with me for more than a scene have given me variations they prefer. Ten always wants my hands behind my back, wrists crossed. Since Mac hasn’t given me any specific commands, I rest my palms on my thighs and keep my head up but my eyes down.

A crop’s wide, black tongue appears in my peripheral vision before sliding under my chin. I shiver as Mac lifts my head with gentle pressure from the crop. He doesn’t say anything, just walks around me and adjusts my position with soft taps of the crop. Shoulders back, so my breasts stick out. Stomach in. Knees wider. Hands on my thighs but palms up. Once I’m in the position he wants, he runs the crop between my breasts in a slow caress.

“This is how I like it, girl. Got it?”

“Yes, sir,” I say. There’s no mockery in my tone now. My voice has dropped as subspace fuzzes my rough edges. And all Mac’s done is put me on my knees and corrected my position.

“If you get uncomfortable, tell me. We’re not observing any kind of protocol for this dinner. But I’d like you to stay in this position until I give you permission to move. Can you do that for me?”

Fuck, he slays me with just a few words. I don’t know if Logan’s told him how to best manage me, or if he intuits it, or if this is just his brand of dominance, but his soft-sell control is irresistible. My friend Austin calls this style “toasted marshmallow sadism.” Crusty and hard on the outside; squidgy in the middle. Austin’s Domme is a toasted marshmallow sadist, and I can totally see the appeal.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good girl. I’d like you to close your eyes while I feed you, so you can focus on the flavors. If I make a mess, it’s for me to clean up. You don’t need to worry about it. Anything you’d like to drink?”

He’s going to fix my drink? I twitch in discomfort. I should be doing this for him. It feels strange to have the roles reversed, but it also feels right to wait for him on my knees. This is where he wants me, so this is where I’ll be.

“Just water, sir.”

He strokes my throat with the tongue of the crop. “I’m not going to drink anything before our scene, either. I like to keep a clear head. We’ll have a drink together afterwards if that suits you, bold girl.”

“That would be great, sir.”

“Alright.” He strokes the crop over my throat, following it with his eyes. My skin heats under that blue, blue gaze. “Hold position for me now.”

I harden my muscles, and keep my eyes on his, flinching when the crop snaps against my right nipple and then my left. Shivering, I continue to hold his eyes, watching as his pupils expand as he drinks in my tiny movements. He circles the crop around each nipple in a slow caress.

“Good girl,” he says finally, before he moves away. He strolls into the kitchen, pours two glasses of water, and brings them back to the table. He sets the crop and the glasses on the table next to a couple of plates that are gently steaming.

Logan walks around the table carrying Emily. He took her out of the room while Mac was positioning me and I don’t know what he did to her, but she looks utterly glazed. There’s a pillow on the floor next to the chair he sits on, but Logan settles her on his lap instead, straddling him. Mac sits across from him, with me on the floor to his left.

“Em okay?” Mac asks.

“Uh-huh,” Logan says. “Just not quite with us. Too many orgasms, too little oxygen. She’ll have time to come back to us while we eat.”

Too many orgasms and too little oxygen? That’s a problem any masochist would want to have.

Mac grins at the pair of them before he tears up something on one of the plates and turns to me. “Eyes closed now.”

I obey, lifting my chin and opening my mouth. He holds that wonderful smell under my nose before something slides between my lips.

I chew. It’s not a food I’ve eaten before, but I like it immediately. A soft, unleavened bread stuffed with meat and spices. It’s sweet with cinnamon and sugar but also savory with beef and pepper. Surprisingly good. I eat mouthful after mouthful as Mac feeds me. When he takes a break to offer me water, I ask, “What is this, sir?”

“A Turkish stuffed flatbread,” Logan answers me. “Emmy’s been playing around with recipes for a couple of weeks.”

“It’s excellent.”

“My baby girl can cook.”

I nod. I don’t open my eyes, but I can hear Logan murmuring to Emily, and then chewing, so I assume she’s getting fed, too.

Mac stops feeding me while he eats, and I drift pleasantly, my stomach warm, my blood humming. There’s a second course, a pumpkin stew that has a kick of curry, smoothed by paneer cheese. Mac lets warm drops fall on my breasts while he feeds me. He licks them off, squeezing and tugging at my nipples, before he eats his own entree.

After some more water, Mac tells me, “There’s dessert, but I think we should save that until after the scene. You okay with that?”