7. “I’ve just been promoted from Queen to Chief Cookie Concoction Officer,

Chapter 7

“I’ve just been promoted from Queen to Chief Cookie Concoction Officer,

KRAMPUS

I don’t know why she puts up such a fuss, considering how often I wear an apron when I cook for her.

Perhaps it’s the symbol since Twyla was a sexually, liberated woman when I first met her, and she defies normal housewife stereotypes.

Not that ambling around the kitchen in naught but an apron and a shiny plug for her adorable ass is “normal”.

Once she finds the mixing bowl and firmly puts it on the counter, I look her right in the eye and reach over to touch her sensual lips. “I loosen your tongue, min kona. You are free to speak whatever you wish without repercussions as your words will only serve to amuse me at present.” And arouse, but she already knows that.

She wrinkles her dainty nose. “Your idea of foreplay tonight. Flour, eggs, and a rolling pin.”

“Ahh, I forgot the rolling pin. Go on then and find it, min s?t pike.” My sweet girl.

“Says the Cookie Commander of the Kitchen Brigade,” she mutters as she turns, searching through drawers until she finds it.

Amusement ripples through me in warm currents as I admire her frazzled state and reap those oh, so hot-and-bothered emotions. She’s gifting me a venerable feast of emotions tonight. A wide range of emotions tonight. I also adore her witty phrases, including all those adorable holiday-themed ones. She knows how much, and she practices them for me. More than submitting to me, she loves to please me. More than pleasing me, she loves to make me proud. She will always make me proud.

Outside, the wind whistles on, the storm lashing snow and ice against the windows, confirming we will be here for quite some time.

“Found your damn rolling pin.” She drops it on the counter.

And she loves to brat to me with that crafty, little tongue. A tongue that is quite skilled when applying itself to my cock.

“Slem. Now, gather the necessary spices. You will want cinnamon, nutmeg, ginger, cloves, and allspice. And don’t forget the salt,” I remind her as she turns around.

“Want any frankincense with that, your Malevolent Majesty?” she asks through gritted teeth.

Faen, I’m so fucked for this slem jente. - bad girl - I reach down to adjust my cock through the pouch, shifting it so it throbs a little less. Not much can help it when that ample fanny jiggles as she finds the required spices. Love her ripe flesh. My little pear-shaped girl. A juicy Christmas pear with pretty plump breasts.

Instead of setting them on the counter one by one, Twyla shoves the spices onto the surface in a clattering, chaotic pile.

I lean back, wagging my tail to say, “Cream the butter, brown sugar, and molasses in the mixing bowl until they are smooth and creamy. Like my eggnog, min engel.” My angel.

Blowing a stray curl out of her face, Twyla sets to work, muttering to herself, taking advantage of my speech allowance. “Big bad Lord of Yuletide thinks his queen is auditioning for ‘The Great Baking Housewife Off.’”

She beats the ingredients harsher than is necessary, and I savor her stubbornness and delicious gratitude, feeling the energy stirring in my veins, pulsing power back into them.

I take advantage of my newfound energy to tease her with a simple trick. I send a surge of lust-induced adrenaline into her blood, observing as she hisses through her teeth and her hand strays to her pretty, wet pussy. Between my little trick and the butt plug in her ass, they send cream through her slit.

I growl a warning, and she clenches her hand into a fist before giving me her dirtiest, angel glare. I return it with an obliging nod.

“A domestic diva is my new superpower,” she remarks. Fucking adorable. Never more adorable than she is right now.

After she finishes with the wet ingredients, cringing from the bit of egg she gets on her hands, it’s time for the flour. I love how some smears on her cheek as she beats the mixture into dough.

“I’m guessing it needs to chill?” She gestures to the fridge, and I notice her shoulders lifting at the thought of a break.

I crook one side of my mouth into a cunning smirk. “No need.” I snap my fingers until it grows cold in her hands.

A groan escapes from her mouth, but she obeys my next direction of scattering flour across the counter and spreading the dough with the rolling pin. “I’ve just been promoted from Queen to Chief Cookie Concoction Officer,” she drawls sarcastically.

“I believe I saw some cookie cutters in the drawer to the left of the sink, Captain Twyla.”

I’d swear she’s wriggling her ass on purpose as she grabs a handful of cookie cutters. “My apron should come with a warning label: ‘May Induce Feminist Fury.’” She chucks them onto the counter.

“The star, if you please, min dame.” My Lady. I resist the urge to chuckle from her nipples prodding through the fabric. Seems she is not immune to that simple word with all its evocative imagery of our shared past.

Her entire body softens as she presses the cookie cutter into the dough to form the shape before placing it on the prepared baking sheet. A soft, little smile turns up the corners of her lovely mouth. More than “my Lady”, she loves the star. The mere image of the star seems to melt her stubbornness. She even sighs, her shoulders lowering in something more than submission.

Later, I will ask her about this curious change. I will never tire of learning more about my Lady.

I smooth my tail across the counter absentmindedly, admiring the warmth of her expressions like melting butter. Now that she can see the cookies of her labor, so to speak, Twyla is leaning into her normal effervescence that I love so much.

While the last round of cookies are baking, I will have her sit on my lap and tell Daddy Krampus all about her frustration.

Until then, I’ll have a bit of fun with her.