6. “You are going to make gingerbread cookies

Chapter 6

“You are going to make gingerbread cookies

KRAMPUS

O f course, I want her.

My cock is dripping in my gods-damned pouch. Damn near ready to break free. I imagine fucking her at the sturdy oak table in the kitchen, against the nearest window, bent over the armrest of the sofa with her face buried in the dusty cushions like the skitten jente she is.

But my patience is as necessary as her obedience. My cock is far too great for her without my magic. Not to mention how this is required if I wish to gain enough power to get us the fuck out of here. A perfect exchange she agreed to with her great and beautiful human heart.

Truthfully, I fantasize about fucking her where I’d originally planned tonight. It would have begun in the swimming pool at Krampus World—and not one drop of surface water visible, thanks to the hundreds of Christmas rose and poinsettia petals I’d purchased. I’d arranged a private booking, of course, and would have thoroughly savored the sight of her swimming naked with only the butt plug and clamps on her body while I sipped some bourbon and read monster smut to her.

I’d have tormented her in the hot tub, edged her in the steam room, and kindled her in the sauna. After a buildup with the thrill of mild exhibitionism—since I fully intended on placing a new Christmas collar around her lovely throat and having her follow me into the elevator in all her naked glory—, I would have brought her back to the penthouse.

Pampering her in the bath with Christmas roses filling the massive tub, which extends to the balcony, was on my list. Then, heated oil, along with a massage, a spanking to ignite her blood, and then a fucking on the bed. And then, the grand snow globe with the artificial snow swirling around us. Last but not least, the balcony, where all would hear her screaming my name.

But now, we’re stuck here. So, I intend to make the most of it.

After she blinks, her lips parting like a creature of prey caught in my trap, Twyla sinks to her knees and lowers herself onto her hands to crawl.

I may be a kinky bastard of a demon, but I am not a sadist.

I love to claim, to dominate, and to possess min dronning with everything in my godly being. Reinforcement so she understands she is mine—blood, flesh, heart, mind, and soul.—for all eternity. After the darkness of her past, a monster demanding, needing, and owning all of her is far less than what she deserves.

She nuzzles her cheek along the fur of above my hooves. So, I will reward her for her affection. One of the things I love most is her response when I reward her in these little ways. I slip my fingers along her jawline, feel her sigh, and lean closer until I cup her chin and lift her eyes to mine.

“So lovely, min s?t stjerne.” My sweet star. “You are my dream, Twyla. No matter where we are, you will always be my dream come true.”

“Thank you, Krampus.” Ahh! Faen, those words! “I’m sorry I let you down.” Her eyes lower, her shame tainting the rawness of her naked vulnerability and desire.

“Twyla,” I growl, summoning her. “You are my wife. And I am your husband. It is your right and your allowance to let me down. It is my duty and my honor to raise you up…even if it means commanding you to crawl on your knees first,” I finish with a knowing smirk.

Her sweet, rosy flush spreads from her cheeks to her full breasts, puckering the nipples all the more. The smile she gives me, soft as lace, is priceless. And one I will treasure most from this night.

I curl a finger. And watch her the whole time, marking her eyes as she follows me to the kitchen, her heavy breasts slightly dangling like succulent Christmas fruit. Her juices and endorphins perfume the air, engulfing my nostrils, consuming my senses. I feast upon her lust, upon her arousal from my domination and her degradation. I feast upon the sight of her fine rumpa, still red and welted from my palm.

Once we arrive in the kitchen, my cock throbs all the more. As I check the pantry and cupboards, which are lamentably empty, my kjaere sits on her heels and rubs her cheek against my robes. When I glance down, lowering my hand, she nuzzles my palm and kisses the back of it.

Hel, give me strength! I say a brief prayer to my mother.

I could have Twyla suck my cock. She would agree with the most exuberance. But the resolution would come too soon. It’s barely been a handful of minutes since I stripped her and spanked her pretty ass red. Not enough time.

I pull open a drawer, discovering an apron with the image of a gingerbread man. My pulse beats harder notes from my eagerness due to a burst of inspiration.

No, I do not have the power to conjure a meal to feed her. But my veins pulse with a hint of energy, enough of a spark to spell some key ingredients. Namely, eggs, butter, and molasses since there are plenty of spices in the nearby rack.

Twyla tilts her head, her eyes glimmering with curiosity. “Krampus?” she lilts, her blood warming, her adrenaline thrilling.

Ahh…that is lovely. I sift my fingers through the curls at the top of her head before using another spark to form them into a French braid. Best not to get any strands of hair in the dough, and I wish to see the fullness of her naked form during the process. I remember the first time I wove tinsel into those lustrous strands and how much she adored my attention.

“I had a host of memorable sweets prepared for you tonight, min Twyla. And I was going to cook a grand Norwegian breakfast for you tomorrow morning.”

“Krampus…” She kisses my palm again. “You love to make me breakfast…every weekend,” she points out and takes my hand to kiss my knuckles. I smile at how dainty and small her pale hands are as she holds my large, demonic one of dark, blood red.

“Tonight, min Twyla,”—I say while lifting her to her feet—“you are going to make gingerbread cookies. And you will wear nothing but this…” I fish the apron out of the drawer and hand it to her with a smirk. It’s short enough for me to see her drippy wet cunny and thin enough for her erect nipples to poke through the fabric.

“Seriously?” She fingers the apron and knits her brows together. “I’ve never?—”

“Not to fret.” I tap her nose, then pull up a stool on the opposite side of the counter, grateful it’s reinforced metal, or I’d have broken it. I flick my tail onto the counter, wagging it with casual ease. “I will tell you what to do. Now…the apron, min lille kona. Don’t you roll your eyes at me, kjaere,” I warn her and stab a finger at the garment.

She presses her lips but follows my instruction, tying the strings behind her.

“Good girl. Now, turn around and hold those ample cheeks of your fine rumpa open.”

I grin as she leans against the counter and does what I say, wincing from how she must touch the reddened flesh.

I may have plotted most of our night for Krampus Palace, but it doesn’t mean I’ve forsaken all my kinky instruments. I chuckle to myself as I retrieve the butt plug and lube from my inner robe pockets and carefully apply both to her puckered flower of a ring. She clenches, whimpering as I slowly slide the plug inside her pretty hole. I’ve spent the past few weeks in hard-training her ass. But I’ve waited a whole year to fucking take it.

I give her cheek a pat of approval, then instruct her, “Now, find a mixing bowl and some beaters.”

Her spine stiffens, muscles tightening as she leans over to open some base cabinets, hunting for the bowl. I cock my head to one side, admiring the sight of her lovely, red rumpa and that plug jingling its tinkling bell music whenever she moves.