“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 lillekona. 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.
Chapter 7
“I’ve just been promoted from Queen to Chief Cookie Concoction Officer,
KRAMPUS
Idon’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 søt pike.”My sweet girl.
