18. Twyla is the very definition of Solstice joy

Chapter 18

Twyla is the very definition of Solstice joy

KRAMPUS

W hile stroking my cock, slicking it with the pre-cum drops she loves to taste, I snap my fingers to trigger the mechanism that powers the snow globe.

Thanks to a little feature I had installed, I can hear her enthusiastic gasps when the twinkle lights flare to life, and the snow globe glass glimmers all around her, casting a rosy, warm glow along her skin—so well-oiled, she could pass for a shiny star. My shiny star. She’ll shine soon enough.

But first…I smile and trigger the music to play for her. One of her favorite Christmas songs. Her eyes turn to mine, glistening beyond the glass, tears forming.

“Where Are You, Christmas?” Right here, min Twyla. You are my Christmas…forever.

Now and then, my heart burns for min lille stjerne. The girl who grew up in cult darkness when there should have been light for Christmas. The light she always longed for. The glowing star she kept inside her heart. The girl who would have made the top of Santa’s naughty list. The girl who spent her life searching for the Christmas spirit…and finally found it in the realm of monsters and demons.

When she begins to sway that little body, moving those round hips and ample, lavish thighs to the tune, my pulse burns my veins with heat and hunger. I hear the faint jingle of the clamps above the music from her pert tits softly jiggling as she dances. I grip my cock, channeling my magic into it so I don’t lose control before it’s time to bury myself in my Queen’s well-drenched heat.

Halfway through the song, she pauses to admire the icicles gilding the evergreens. And then, the ornaments at the base. I snort, convinced she’s only doing so to give me an uninhibited and blessed view of her bountiful bottom with the candy cane rod her round cheeks still clench.

I won’t last much longer, faen!

I trigger the snowfall.

She gasps, her eyes lighting up.

At first, it’s a soft snowfall. Smithereens of sugar crystals purling from the ceiling to fall upon her golden curls and glistening skin. Twyla rises with an expression befitting an angel. Wonder and awe. As Hel is my witness, I will never stop coming up with ways to light up those amber eyes with that sense of childlike wonder.

And if anyone ever snuffs out that light, for any reason, will meet the wrath of the pagan god of punishment and the son of the Goddess of Death.

Fuck, never a good thing when my thoughts stray to violence. My cock is too hard, my blood boiling worse than a Christmas kettle left on the stove too long. I need inside her. Soon.

Zoning in on the splendor in her green eyes and the emotions flooding through me from our bond, I force myself to breathe deeper, steadier, controlling myself. Sure, I am a monster, but it doesn’t mean I’ll fuck my sweet girl’s ass like a raging beast. Not at first, at least, I smirk, knowing she will beg me to fuck her hard and savage before the night is out. I’m not the only one who desires more intense emotions.

By the end of the first song, the sugar crystals swirl in soft flurries to frost Twyla’s skin while she twirls and spins with her arms outstretched. Fingers curling like Christmas ribbon. Save me, Hel! She sticks out her graceful tongue to catch the crystals. More fall upon her long, feathery eyelashes.

Stroking my cock a little longer, I play the last song and enjoy my frosted fruit coming to life. Twyla snaps her eyes to mine, then rolls them, shaking her head with a soft giggle. A comical but affectionate gesture of an inside joke we share—not one worthy of punishment.

The Sugar Plum Fairy song.

My cock throbs, dripping more pre-cum as she touches one toe to the sugar-dusted floor and dances into a spin. The bluster of crystals adorns every inch of her. They follow her as if drawn to her grace and loveliness.

Between the lights twinkling, the oil glimmering on her skin like liquid gold, and the sugar crystals frosting her skin like tiny ballerinas, Twyla is the very definition of Solstice joy, the reason for the season. Her dance is magical, meant for the stuff of sugar plum dreams and fantasies.

Compared to her, I am a poor symbol of dark but festive punishment, a flag bearer of naughtiness. To my world, she is their Christmas Queen, their angel.

She will always be my naughty girl. And now…my sugar plum.

When she rubs those pretty thighs together and approaches the glass again, fluttering her hand with those come-hither eyes, I sweep into a stand.

Her eyes flick down to my cock. She swallows hard. I grin. She beams.

Time to show my pretty pear what a sweet tooth her Krampus has.