Page 17 of Wicked Christmas Eve

9

Iracked my brain trying to think of something to say. All I had to go on was quasi experience, what I’d read in books, a few stolen college nights and what little I’d seen since my arrival.

“I don’t think I’d like that whip.” I pointed at the woman still bound to the whipping post with her ass now covered in an elaborate design of bright red stripes and welts.

Cyrus smiled. “No worries. The whip is not my implement of choice. I prefer something a little more up close and personal.” He winked. “Anything else?”

“I’m not sure. I can probably take whatever.” I hadn’t meant to make that sound like the issue of a challenge, but that’s exactly how it came out.

“Those are dangerous words for a man like me. You might regret them.”

I shook my head. “I won’t.” And I knew deep down I meant that. One night or not, I had every intention of making the most of this.

He nodded. “All right. Let’s stick with a safe word, then. If I do something you don’t like or can’t handle, you can say your word and we’ll stop and discuss what’s going on or do something else. Does that work?”

“Yes,” I whispered.

He reached forward and pinched my nipples between his fingers. “You, pet, should have said yes, Sir.”

The sharp pressure at my sensitive tips increased ten-fold. Pain sizzled from my breasts to my clit.

“For tonight your safe word is Santa.”

I bit my lips to not laugh. No way in hell did I want to yell out ”Santa” when Cyrus was fucking me. “Okay—I mean, yes, Sir.”

“Good girl. Let’s go.” He grabbed my hand and led the way inside the backroom. Even with Cyrus’ big body blocking part of the view, it was hard not to stare at the woman on the post who moaned and begged for more each time the man struck her.

Her legs were shaking, but her ass was pushed out in an obvious desire for more.

When I tore my gaze away from the first scene and glanced around the room, my mouth dropped open. Every inch of the room had been festively decorated for Christmas amid all of the elaborate dungeon gear. There was a pretty little submissive tied to a St. Andrew's Cross, at least I was pretty sure that’s what it was called, with colorful Christmas lights wrapped around it. Not far from there was a male sub on his hands and knees wearing reindeer ears in a cage shaped like an animal, and a mistress in the naughtiest toy soldier costume I’d ever seen.

“You’re staring.” Cyrus had shifted, placing his mouth right at my ear.

“I-I’m sorry. It’s just so—”

“I call it festive,” he finished for me.

Over the top. Maybe even crazy. That’s what went through my head, but I kept those thoughts to myself. I didn’t want to verbally acknowledge the fact my body burned hotter the more I saw.

Fortunately for me, he led me to a small booth with three walls and no door. Not full on privacy, but enough to create an illusion. Inside was a leather padded bench he placed me in front of. “On your knees, little elf.”

Curious as to what he was up to, I complied and dropped to the floor in front of him. At this angle I found myself face-to-face with his leather-covered crotch. With an unmistakable and huge bulge straining against the fabric, my mouth watered, and I found myself dying to touch him.

I wanted nothing more than to tear open his pants and free him just to get a look. Although based on the size of the bulge and our long ago encounter, I already knew that he was packing an impressive package.

That only made me want to touch him more. I could already imagine my hand stretched around hard steel. Which lead to… the most important thought of all, what would Cyrus Jackson taste like?

That I had never discovered.

I smothered a grin threatening to break free. I had a feeling I would know before the night ended.

As my mind ran rampant through a field of dirty thoughts, each one dirtier than the next, he began to remove his sleek black shirt. With one button at a time he revealed a muscular chest and tight abs that threatened to unravel me in their pure, powerful beauty. I didn’t even care if people think a man like him can’t be called beautiful. A chiseled piece of work such as what I saw right then could be described as nothing else.

This was NOT the body of the boy I gave my virginity to.

This man. Sweet Jesus.

I might be in over my head.

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