Page 209 of The Daddy P.I. Casefiles: The Second Collection

MAC

Her fantasies aresuch a fucking turn on. I like to go into a scene cold, but my blood’s raging and my balls are pounding like death metal drums as I follow Logan down into the basement. I can’t get rid of the images her fantasies have built in my head. Brenna on her knees in a cage, blindfolded, bound, a Jennings gag holding her mouth open for my use, tears making shining tracks down her cheeks and dripping on her small, proud breasts, an echo of the wetness pooling on the cage floor between her legs?—

I try to cool down, regulating my breathing, clenching and releasing my muscles in groups. I can get hot during the scene, but to start, when I’m ensuring my bottom’s safety, I need to be detached, not thinking with my dick.

The basement’s cool air on my face helps. Focusing on small details helps. My own breathing. The breathing of the two other people in the room. The symmetrical stability of the rope web that Logan and I have rigged in the middle of the inner playroom. The orderliness of items set out on the rolling table I’ve pulled near the web. Each small thing helps me calm down,at least until I think about making Brenna into a fuck table—goddamn, not helping.

I focus again on the room. It looks like the set of one of those serial-killer shows Naomi’s got me watching: industrial tile on the floor and walls, strategically placed mirrors. Logan’s assured me that the playrooms are soundproof, and I’ve never heard anything going on in them outside or upstairs, so I’m not worried about Bren making noise. I figure she’s a screamer, which makes me smile as I adjust the lighting. Call me an old softie, but I like romantic lighting for scenes. Anyone other than a masochist might not see what we’re about to do as romantic, but I hope Brenna will.

The dim lighting helps me calm, as does the music I put on, plugging my phone into a speaker dock that Logan has set up on industrial shelving on the wet play side of the room. Although she teased me about Black Sabbath, I have a feeling Bren actually likes heavier rock, so I’ve thrown a few Black Sabbath and Led Zeppelin classics into a playlist that mixes her beloved Staind with Linkin Park and Bad Wolves. Songs that will give me a strong beat for the flogging. I hope she likes what I’ve picked, and that it helps her fly.

After listening to “Somewhere I Belong” for a minute, and letting my heartbeat synchronize with the song, I check in with Logan. He’s propped himself on a settee near the door where he can see the entire room. Emily’s curled across him with her head on his chest. Logan’s wrapped a blue blanket around her and is rubbing her back. Her eyes are open and she blinks occasionally, but otherwise she’s unresponsive.

“How’s your little girl?” I ask.

“Still deep. I’m going to leave her down through your scene, then I’ll bring her back up before I give her a bath and put her to bed.”

Logan’s been experimenting with erotic hypnosis as a way to relieve Emily’s anxiety. Although she’s friendly and outgoing with people she knows, Emily’s easily overwhelmed by strangers or larger groups. The hypnosis is helping her relax in social situations, but Logan’s also implanted some triggers that send her into a deep trance on command. He told me before Brenna arrived that he was going to put her under so no matter how my handling of Brenna goes, it won’t upset Emily. I don’t intend to push Brenna so hard she needs to safe word, but it’s always a possibility, and I appreciate that Logan doesn’t want to divide his focus between monitoring the scene and taking care of his little girl.

When Brenna enters the room, I take a moment to just drink her in. I thought she was a stunner that day in her shop, but the more I see her, the more her beauty knocks me sideways. It’s not a classic beauty like my ex-wife’s. Bren’s features are sharp; her body is boyishly lean and muscular. She doesn’t have the curves that the Kardashians have made popular. But, fuck, she takes my breath away. Those brown eyes that can project such challenge but melt into such sweetness. That perpetually cocky half-grin that she’s wearing even now, approaching a man she knows is going to hurt her. The glowing, luminous ink on her skin—she’s made her whole body a visual feast. She’s brash, bold, and that makes her recent melancholy all the more painful to witness. I like to think I’m on top of my feelings about this girl, but hearing her doubt, seeing that moment at lunch where she broke a little, cracks open a black well of anger at the club Doms who let her hurt this way.

I won’t leave this girl hurting like that. Not on my watch.

I beckon her to me with two fingers. She stops a foot away and begins to fold down onto her knees like a good little submissive, but that’s not what I want from her right now. I want that boldness.

“Inspection position, Brenna,” I say, as I unbutton and strip off my shirt. I want us skin to skin for a few minutes before I string her up.

She moves into the inspection position without hesitation, widening her stance until her feet are shoulder-width apart, putting her hands behind her head and interlacing her fingers. I watch her move, taking in her flexibility, the strength in her shoulders, arms, and thighs. I love that there’s weight and thickness to her body. Amy was so slender, even before she descended into surgical addiction, that I was afraid of snapping something if I touched her wrong.

I pick up my crop and slip the tongue under Brenna’s chin, tipping her head up so she meets my eyes while I stroke one hand down her silky throat to cup her breast. I massage, pinching her nipple between fingers and thumb, while I continue to hold her eyes and watch hers flare and melt in turns. It’s like watching the ocean burn, there’s such depth to this girl’s gaze.

“You have a decent amount of muscle in your upper body,” I say as I tuck the crop’s strap into my belt and run my hands up to feel the firmness of her biceps. She doesn’t have a weightlifter’s muscle; she’s not defined like an athlete. But she definitely does something beyond sitting in her shop all day. “How do you keep in shape?”

“I kickbox a couple of times a week, sir. And holding a vibrating needle for eight to ten hours a day isn’t for wimps.”

What is it about her attitude that strikes exactly the right note with me? I can’t stand brats, and usually give smart-assed masochists a wide berth. Amy was a sweet sub like Emily and I always thought that was what I wanted. But something in me rises to every spark in this girl’s eyes, every quip on her lips. I want to dominate the fuck out of her, but I also want to hear that husky, uninhibited laugh burst from her throat. I want to wipeevery trace of sadness out of her eyes with pleasure, but I also want to see the mascara tracks down her cheeks as she takes the pain for me. Not every submissive—not even every masochist—can engage my dominant side. Brenna would be surprised as hell if she knew how few people I’ve topped. But this girl, this sad, bold, beautiful girl, she slips in and engages my dominance like a key into my lock.

She gives a tiny whimper and I realize I’ve been drowning in her eyes for several minutes while I’ve twisted and turned and pinched her nipples until they’re cherry red. I slap her breasts just to see her pupils expand, her muscles contract, before leaning in and kissing the tip of her nose. I release her abused tits and run my hands over her smooth stomach and hip as I walk around her.

I haven’t had a chance to make a close inspection of her back. The ink is no surprise. Her sleeves meet across her upper back. There’s a stylized mandala with a bleeding, gray rose at the nape of her neck. The center of her back is bare. Her lower ribs are circled by a dragon and below that her eye-grabbing hip piece begins.

What is a surprise is the scars cross-crossing the bare skin in the middle of her back, with a few trailing onto the backs of her arms. They mark her skin like a roadmap, lines straight and jagged, thick and thin, most old and white but there are a few that are a lumpy pink. Keloid scar tissue, I think it’s called. I thumb one lump while cupping and squeezing her ass-cheek in my other hand.

“Any problem with impact on these scars?” I ask, careful to keep any hint of pity out of my tone. Whatever these scars are from, it’s not heavy play.

“No, sir.”

“Do you have any loss of sensation?”

A tiny snort. “No, sir. I feel everything just fine.”

I pinch her ass-cheek. “You definitely will tonight. How long can you keep your arms over your head before you begin having problems?”

“Thirty to forty minutes, sir.”

Plenty long enough. I slide my arms around her, step in so our bodies are flush to one another, and let her feel my erection. I drop my head and whisper into her ear. “You are beautiful to me, Brenna. Every bit of you.”

She stiffens, then relaxes her muscles with an act of will. Not used to compliments? Or is it that she just doesn’t believe that she’s beautiful? That’s something to explore later.