I pushed the door open, stepping into a space that perfectly matched its owner, imposing, elegantly masculine, and radiating dark power. Bookshelves lined with tomes stretched toward a ceiling higher than seemed architecturally possible. A massive fireplace dominated one wall, flames crackling hungrily within its stone embrace. The floor was covered with thick rugs in deep crimsons and blacks that muffled my footsteps.
And there he sat behind a desk carved from a single massive piece of ebony, its surface gleaming in the firelight. Krampus watched me enter, his eyes tracking my movements like a predator assessing prey. He'd removed his vest, wearing only the blood-red shirt with sleeves rolled up to expose powerfulforearms. His horns caught the firelight, shadows dancing along their curved surface.
"Close the door," he instructed, his voice deceptively casual.
I obeyed, the latch clicking with soft finality behind me. Trapped. Or freed. I wasn't sure which.
"Come here." He gestured to the space directly in front of his desk. "Stand with your legs apart."
Heat bloomed across my skin at the command, embarrassment warring with arousal. My feet carried me forward stopping where he'd indicated. I hesitated only briefly before shifting my stance, legs parting slightly.
"Wider."
I swallowed hard but complied, spreading my feet further apart.
He stood then, moving around the desk slowly. In his hands appeared what looked like a polished metal bar with cuffs at either end. I stared at it, confusion momentarily overriding desire.
"This," he explained, his voice a dark caress, "is a spreader bar. It will keep your legs open at the exact width I desire." His eyes met mine, searching. "It's a form of restraint, but one you can easily step out of if you choose. You are always free to leave, Simone. I need you to understand that."
The consideration behind his words, ensuring I knew I had an escape, made something warm unfurl in my chest.
"Do you consent to this?" he asked, his tone serious despite the hungry look in his eyes.
The question hung between us. Did I? Did I want to be restrained, controlled, at the mercy of this powerful creature? The answer rose from somewhere deep inside me, surprising in its clarity.
"Yes."
His smile was slow and predatory. "Good girl."
He knelt before me, the sight of this powerful being at my feet sending another rush of heat through me. He secured the bar between my ankles, the cuffs lined with soft material that wouldn't chafe. When he stood again, I tested my range of motion, I could move forward or back, but couldn't close my legs.
The vulnerability of the position made my breath catch.
"Now," he said, circling me slowly, "for your punishment."
"Punishment?" I echoed, voice embarrassingly high. "For what?"
He stopped behind me, his heat radiating against my back. "For neglecting yourself. For putting everyone else first. For denying your own wants and needs until you're hollow inside." His claw traced the curve of my spine through my dress. "For making me wait to taste you."
Before I could process his words, I felt the whisper-light touch of his claws at my hips, slipping beneath the fabric of my dress. Slowly, he gathered the material, lifting it to expose my thighs, my panties, the curve of my ass.
"Hold this," he commanded, placing the bunched fabric in my hands at my waist.
Cool air kissed my exposed skin, making me acutely aware of my vulnerability, legs spread, bottom bared, dress bunched indecently around my waist. I should have felt humiliated. Instead, I felt powerful in my surrender, desired in my exposure.
His claws hooked into the sides of my panties, and I gasped as I felt the delicate fabric give way with a soft ripping sound. The remains fluttered to the floor, leaving me exposed completely to his gaze.
"You're soaked," he observed, a note of dark satisfaction in his voice. His claw traced the sensitive skin of my inner thigh, gathering moisture that had escaped. "Dripping for me already."
I bit my lip, mortified yet aroused by his blunt observation. He guided me forward, bending me at the waist until my upper body lay flat against the cool surface of his desk, my exposed ass tilted upward, presented to him.
"Ten strikes," he announced, his voice rough with desire. "Count them."
I barely had time to process the command before the first blow landed, not his hand or claw but something firm and padded that had materialized in his grip. A paddle. The crack of it against my flesh echoed in the office, followed immediately by the sting.
"One," I gasped, shock quickly transforming into something unexpected, pleasure blooming beneath the pain, spreading like wildfire across my skin.
Another strike, slightly harder. "Two!"
