Page 23 of Letters to Satan

He leads me through the lineup, from ‘The Grinch’ to the ‘Cum Down Your Chimney,’ complete with a reservoir for fake jizz that pumps from an almost invisible slit. The table ends with the ‘Two-Turtled Dove,’a double ended dildo for when you feel like sharing the love.

I pick up a pair of clamps with tiny red bows on them we’ve been calling ‘Jack Frost Nipping.’ “I tested those,” Jujube whispers, leaning close as he absentmindedly rubs at his nipples, wincing. “That hurts, bro. You sure people actually want that?”

“First, I’m not your bro,” I say while baring my teeth at him, “and second, yes, they most certainly do.”

“What about this?” He holds up a cock cage, twirling it around in his hand.

“The ‘Chestnuts Roasting in an Open Wire?’ Yes, just trust that I wouldn’t have you making it if there wasn’t a demand. This is my area of expertise, after all.”

Our last stop is to a table full of butt plugs, bedazzled with red, green, and gold gems on the base. We’re wavering between calling them ‘Decked Halls’ and ‘Holey Pornaments.’

Choices, choices.

My eyes sweep the room at the roughly twenty elves, scurrying around as they work on crafting sex toys that are comically large in their tiny hands.

This should be funny, right?

Hilarious.

Instead of amusement, a sharp pang of guilt pierces through me, square in the chest. My hand moves to my sternum, rubbing the ridiculous feeling away before turning back to Jujube.

“Have Santa or Cadbury noticed the missing elves? Has anyone heard if they’ve started asking questions?”

Waving me off with a shrug, he shakes his head. “We’re working in shifts and covering for each other in the workshop. Honestly, those goody-two-shoes are too busy trying to meet their quotas to pay any attention to us.”

Another of those foreign pinches of guilt squeezes my insides as I shift uncomfortably. The consequences of losing a chunk of his workforce hadn’t crossed my mind, and now I’m left feeling strange. Icky and slimy and, ugh…

Ashamed.

“Quotas?” I ask, trying my best to keep this churning in my gut to myself. “Are those still being met?”

“Dunno!” he says without a worry in the world, and my lips pull into a grimace. It doesn’t matter that I’m holding up his production, right?

Right?

Why should I care?

Chest uncomfortably tight, I take one last glance at the boxes of finished products, my initial amusement at seeing them fading. “I have plans for the evening and need to be on my way. Stay on top of your other work, too, and tell the others to do thesame. Falling behind on production could raise suspicions from Santa and risk the entire operation.”

“Yeah, yeah, bro.”

Temper flaring, I whirl to him and allow a tendril of my magic to escape, the slight static shock of it electrifying the air as it surrounds the terrified elf. “I told you I am not your bro.”

Jujube’s eyes get so wide, I’m concerned for a moment that they might pop out of his stupid little head. It would serve him right, treating me so familiar.

As though we areequals.

While I’m considering the pros and cons of popping his head like a pimple—with the biggest con being cleanup, obviously—the rest of the room falls deathly silent. I turn to find every eye warily staring at me, including Xalreth, who stands near the door as if he just entered.

Without a word, I storm out, barely taking the time to make sure no one is watching before I navigate through the workshop. In a manner completely unbefitting The Lucifer, I don’t stop to cause trouble. There are no pranks or sabotage. I don’t even bother with any snide remarks as I make my way to my room.

As I close the door behind me, I fall against it and take a deep breath.

What the fuck is the matter with me?

I can’t help it.

Really, truly, I can’t.

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