It was a word that tasted odd on his tongue, and he disliked the foreign strangeness. He liked having a good girl to curl around at night, to protect from other nightmares like himself. The sweet, clean smell, the delectable taste . . . he was ready to go back. The thought of returning to Santa’s Workshop was untenable now, and the previous years he’d spent retreating back to that ancient forest, to hibernate in his tree left him cold. He was ready to find the Dara girl and see if her door would still be open to him. Not that it would stop him in the event it was not . . . but still. He hoped it would be, and that too was a foreign emotion.
* * *
The following morning was another perfect day: the sky an endless azure and the waves below a crystal-clear expanse, dotted with people. Krampus sucked in a slow lungful of the plumeria-sweetened air, too aware of the menthol cigarette smoke that laced it from the service corridor, shrugging the disruption to his perfect vision away. Perhaps he’d indulge in another massage that day, and that evening, find himself a couple to bend to his will. There would be no one like the workshop staff here, nothing as pleasurable as burying himself in the tight cunt of whoever the current Mrs Claus happened to be, with the thick, cervid spear of one of the reindeer shifters balls-deep in him. There would be nothing quite like that, but he was sure he could make do.
His contemplation of finding a couple to play with, the cheerful thought of his cock in a tight cunt and a cock in his tight ass broken when a small hand gripped his wrist.
“You could take me back, maybe?” The creampuff gazed up with her wide blue eyes, blinking her transparent lashes at him. Behind her, smelling equally fresh and kind, was the baker. “You could . . . do that again? With the tree? And my husband could watch?”
Naughty List,he thought furiously, yanking his hand back with a scowl.Naughty List, Naughty List, Naughty List! Naughty List for them both!His perfect afternoon disappeared in the face of her guileless eyes, his delicious evening contemplations . . . Krampus paused, cocking his head. Well, he considered, this would save a bit of time searching. No need to comb through the bars looking for a receptive couple when one had presented themselves so willingly. His balls contracted in agreement and he smiled, giving the couple a flash of his fangs. They were good to the core, both of them, that was clear . . . but perhaps this addition to his Naughty List would not be so terrible after all.
Overhead, a seagull squalled and the waves crashed, and Krampus laughed, gripping the wrists of the baker and his wife. He loved the sun and the warmth here, and perhaps he would return next year with Dara . . . but there was no time for thoughts of that, not time to put his feet up. Lord Krampus had work to do, and he did so love his job.
6
A Good Girl’s Triumph, or: To All A Good Night
There’d been a man in his chair.
The snow had been falling softly, illuminated in the halo of the streetlamp against the black sky. From where he stood in the street, Krampus had been able to see a body stretched out in the leather recliner, head tipped back in sleep, the white-blue light of the television reflecting on his pasty skin. Humans were fickle and capricious and were always searching for the next thing in which to cling . . . but their lives were so short, so fragile. The world was large and cold, and they, with their limited sight and small minds, could only perceive a tiny sliver of it. He could not fault the girl for seeking out a partner with whom she might weather an uncaring world.
. . . But it washischair.Hissoft, sweet-smelling human,hisoff-season diversion to recapture. He did not see the girl from his vantage point — she was not curled like a cat in the corner of the loveseat, crochet needles clacking softly, nor was her silhouette visible in the kitchen. It was late, he realized, too late for her to still be awake, for she rose early each morning to go to her job.
He’d grown soft. It was a bitter pill to swallow, but one he was forced to choke down all the same. Too many months of creature comforts in her home; too many nights spent with her tucked beneath his arm, her small face pressed to his chest as she slept, the red shape of his handprint all over her ass. Black anger welled within him at the thought of her in bed alone, curled into a tiny ball in the vast sea of cold sheets, with no one there to keep her warm, no protective arm to keep her safe. If this human could not even do the bare minimum in that regard, Krampus certainly could not trust that he was satisfying the girl in the way he knew she craved; the things she felt shame over, shame and guilt, absolutely preposterous, but that she craved all the same. A craving onlyhecould satisfy.
He watched the man in his chair until the sky had lightened, the late winter dawn a raspberry smear at the horizon. It was time to leave, but he would be back, he decided, would monitor the citation carefully.
She’d cut her hair. It had been another early dawn morning, another morning spent watching. Her long spill of sable hair had been chopped short, barely swinging past her jaw as she padded around her kitchen, far earlier than she needed to be up. She stood at the counter beside the sink, and he tried to imagine the flaky croissant she might be slathering in jam, or the poffertjes of which he’d become inordinately fond, which she purchased from the Dutch bakery near her work. She turned to the stove before he learned the contents of her breakfast, lifting a small saucepan instead of the tea kettle he’d been expecting. Krampus watched as she poured the amber contents of the pan into her mug, squeaking as she fished a cinnamon stick from the hot pan. That too was a sound he knew well — her little yips and yelps, the way she would gasp and moan when he was buried within her and her cries of pain when he spanked her; the tiny, kitten sighs she made when she slept and her shuddering sniffles as he’d packed his basket before leaving her alone. He watched as the mystery of what she’d been preparing was revealed: a tangerine slice that she floated on her mug, lifting it with both hands to hold under her nose, her dark lashes fanned on her pale skin as her eyes closed.
He’d seen enough. The situation was intolerable and needed immediate correction. He was an arbiter of justice, restored the balance, and gave all entries on his Naughty List a chance to redeem themselves after his punishment . . . but Dara was a good girl, even if she herself might argue that fact. It was not one’s bedroom preferences that determined such things after all, but the contents of one’s heart, their generosity and unselfishness. Meddling in the affairs of the righteous was not his job . . . but he knew someone who might be able to adjust the situation in his favor. He was loath to go to the big man for help with anything, but if nothing else, Krampus reminded himself, hitching his basket a bit higher as he snapped away from the scene of the girl inhaling the smell of her spiced cider and oranges, he knew Claus, as well as he knew himself. Santa was a gangster, a thug, always had been, and always would be, and Krampus knew where all of Santa’s bodies were buried. They were born of the same black forest, the same old magic, and he would remind his holiday twin of their equal status, if necessary.
It had been easy to arrange. The big man valued the bottom line, how a situation might benefit him, what perks he could finagle and what additional boons he might skim from the top. When Krampus arrived in the office several days later, with the explanation that there had simply been no cellular reception in the south pacific and that he’d come in as soon as he retrieved the missed messages, butmy,didn’t he have some interesting news to relay, the big man sat back with his feet up on the desk, listening intently.
There had been a boastful human on his flight back, one with an eye on starting his own holiday gift fulfillment business. He’d already acquired A-round funding for an app that would put Christmastown out of business for good, would be taking his brilliant idea to the biggest Silicon Valley venture capitalists next, and Krampus hoped his good friend Santa Claus was prepared to have his candy cane sucked by backstage workshop elves as he shimmied for giggling suburbanites at theWorkshop, along with him and all of the underemployed elves. The big man’s ruddy complexion had darkened as Krampus spoke, turning as red as the suit his dupes all over the world donned, golden crowns glinting as he grit his teeth.
He’d clapped Krampus on the back as they rose. A good friend, a loyal employee, a true Christmastown professional. It was so good of him to have paid attention to the human’s words, to have had the foresight to follow him and take note of his address. Santa would take care of things from here, he always did, there was no reason to worry. “Just make sure you’re giving the planning team advance notice of when you’ll be back,” he admonished from the door, shaking his finger as if he addressed a naughty child.
Krampus did his best to look contrite, filching a peppermint stick from the desk on his way out the door, giving the receptionist a wink.That, he thought, staring out at the grey slush of the parking lot as the door swung shut behind him,was the easy part.
* * *
It had been a shit year. Dara sighed, slouching at her desk as a voice on the conference call droned, reminding herself that it was only a few days into February, and calling the whole year now, with only a few weeks checked off the calendar was laughably premature.Still not wrong though.
She’d spent the holidays with her parents, a staid affair now that her cousins and sibling were scattered across the country, replaced with friends of her parents she’d never met, whose own families were suffering from the same far-flung condition. Although, she’d considered on Christmas Eve, the anniversary of everything, as she’d sat in the corner of the sofa, listening to her parents’ chatter and laugh with strangers in the dining room, that she wouldn’t have been good company regardless of the guestlist.
She’d not expected it to hurt so much when he’d left. She knew it was a temporary situation, knew that the creature she’d allowed into her home and her bed didn’t actually possess any feelings for her; knew that he’d be fulfilling his role as a Christmastime boogeyman when the holidays rolled around once more, knewallthose things . . . but it hadn’t kept her from crying, hadn’t kept her from feeling utterly bereft in the weeks that followed.
Her friends had rallied once Christmas was over, dragging her out of the house and she’d inevitably met someone. He’d reminded her of the ex-boyfriend, the one who’d left just before Christmas the previous year. This one would leave as well, Dara had no doubt, once he learned what a deviant she was, once he learned the terrible things she craved. As a consequence, Dara tried her best to shield her heart, bracing for the inevitable. She hadn’t expected it to happen so quickly. They’d had dinner plans and she’d sat there at the edge of the sofa, waiting for the lights of his car to turn into the driveway . . . and waited, and waited, slumping back into cushions and tucking her feet up, flicking on the television as she drummed her fingers on the pillow. The holiday romance movie that was just starting when she’d turned the television on ended more than an hour later, and still she sat there alone. He’d not picked up when she called, her first message nervous that something had happened, and then when she realized she’d been ghosted several days later with no response, an expletive-filled tirade telling him exactly where he could go.Another one bites the dust.And she’d not even needed to tell this one she wanted to be spanked before the inevitable end, she chuckled darkly to herself.How ironic.
When the end of the workday finally arrived, she’d trudged home, not entirely sure what she was rushing home for. It wasn’t as if anything waited for her, other than the laundry she’d been letting pile up and the mail she hadn’t opened in nearly a month. A trip to the Cantonese takeout place next door to work, because mercy she knew she was tired of wasting the effort expended on cooking for one. She struggled with her bags, fishing for her keys and stumbling through the doorway, heaving her bags onto the counter.
She smelled him immediately. It was a smell she had been chasing for several months, trying to recreate it with mulling spices and candles and citrus clove room sprays, but nothing quite matched the bright, juicy orange peel and warm cinnamon smell of him, tempered with cold, icy air and the breath of faraway pine. Nothing had come close, but she inhaled it now, the genuine article permeating her kitchen. In the doorway, silhouetted by the grey light coming from the living room, was the Krampus.
“You left.” Dara was unable to keep the waver out of her voice and dug the crescents of her nails into the meat of her palm as she balled her fist, trying to put a bit of steel into her spine. He filled the doorway between the kitchen and living room, a solid black outline with glowing red eyes, and her heart thumped pitifully.
“I had a job to do, liebchen. My Naughty List was quite long this year.”
“Then why didn’t you visit me?” she shot back. “Why wasn’t I on your Naughty List? I should have been there, and you should have come to punish me, why didn’t I rate with everyone else?”
