Page 45 of Daddy P.I. 3.0

“I don’t,” she promises, her hands fluttering to my shoulders. “I won’t.”

“Good girl.” I draw her forward with my hands cupping her sweet, soft cheeks, and lift her as I stand, smiling at my ability to carry her again. I climb up on the bed and lie down on my back with Emily plastered to my front. She wraps her arms around my neck and rubs her cheek against my collar, settling onto me with a happy sigh. I usually like to see my target, and the effects of my spanking but tonight I want to feel my baby doll over every inch of me.

I ruck up her nightdress, tugging the fabric so the ruffle tickles the backs of her legs. To her magical giggle, I bare her bottom and rub my palms over her warm skin.

“How’s this little bottom?” I ask. When I dressed her this morning, she had a few fading bruises that I treated with arnica cream but sustained impact play like we engage in can leave deeper bruising, so I always check.

“Happy to have your hands on it,” she purrs, nuzzling and cuddling.

“Really? Did your bottom tell you that?”

“It did,” she says. I can hear the huge grin in her voice. “Do you know what else my bottom tells me?”

“Bottom-wisdom? I have to hear this.”

“My bottom tells me it would like wolfy loving even though we’re sharing all the feels tonight.”

A laugh ripples up through me. My adorable little love. “I see. Bottom dictates, hmm?”

“Yep.”

“Well, let me see what I can do about that,” I say, before I give my baby girl everything she’s asked for.

fourteen

EMILY

I takea deep breath in and let it out slowly. “Ten!” I shout.

I pull off the blindfold—a makeshift one instead of the pink satin one Daddy uses when we play—and look around the circle in the corn field. A cold breeze rustles across the tassels of the towering corn surrounding me. I’m glad Daddy bundled me up in a knee-length coat, wooly scarf, beret, and mittens for our outing.

A giggle drifts through the corn stalks from my left. There are three entrances to the corn maze from where I’m standing. Daddy showed me an aerial picture of the maze before we set off this morning so I wouldn’t feel lost. There are lots of twists and turns in the maze, which make a cool sunflower and bee pattern from the air but all paths lead to a single exit on the far side of the maze with no dead ends, so as long as I keep walking forward, I can always get out.

Sneakily, tip-toeing in my soft boots, I creep toward the entrance to my left. Another giggle and a voice that’s clearly Sammi’s saying “shhh.”

I love my little friends but they’re not very good at hiding.

I run down the path and turn a sharp right with the maze. Practically on the other side of the corner, Yummy and Sammi are standing a foot back in the corn with their arms around each other. Yummy’s batting at a fat, sleepy bumblebee circling the horns of her green dragon onesie.

“Tag,” I say.

Sammi pushes Yummy, not very hard, and she steps out of the corn.

“I told you she could hear you,” Sammi says. “You’re it.”

“You’re both it,” I tell them, taking Yummy’s hand. She swings mine as we skip through the maze, finding littles around practically every corner.

Notvery good at hiding.

When we’ve found all eighteen littles and submissives who came with us to this farm in Yorktown Heights, we troop to the exit to find our caregivers. Daddy’s standing with Max near a long, trestle table where a lot of the caregivers are sitting, eating cheese and apples that the farm sells and drinking the homemade cider. Livvy’s strapped to Daddy’s chest in her carrier, kicking her bootied feet and gumming Daddy’s little finger.

As soon as we emerge from among the corn rows, Faolan, the new daddy that Master Javier introduced, comes toward us. I’m holding his copper-haired little’s hand. Matty’s a geoarcheologist and the discoverer of a huge horde of Nazi gold, which is the coolest thing I’ve ever heard. She also came to playgroup wearing kitty ears and a huge, floppy, blue bow, which made us twinsies. She’s only just back from a trip to Russia; she’s looking for her father who disappeared while looking for the Nazi loot she found. She missed Halloween, so we’re planning a costume party for her birthday in December. I’ve been telling her about Laurel and being dragon friends.

“We’re going to be a flight!” Matty announces, rushing to her daddy and hugging him. He’s a tall, rawboned man with thick, wavy brown hair and a full beard dusted with gray. He reminds me of a hungry bear except that his eyes are pale, pale blue and they follow Matty wherever she goes.

“A flight? Like a tasting flight?” He catches her up against his barrel chest and twirls her around. Matty’s corkscrew curls catch the sunlight in a blaze of red as she spins. “Beer? Vodka? Either sounds good to me.”

“Like a flight ofdragons,” Matty says.

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