Page 26 of Gemini Christmas
Vasili
Darling, what can I say? I never could resist a dare. Besides, this braided horsehair flogger was literally born to fit my hand.
And all too clearly, I was born to wield it.
So wield it I do, with my signature panache, despite the undeniable fact that my physical balance tonight feels… off.
Or, at the very least, different.
My bare feet, planted in the thick bearskin rug, feel somehow… weightier… more solid. My diabolical head feels heavier on my neck. My giant shadow, flaring high on the cottage wall, seems distinctly to be crowned with the twin horns of a monster.
Or a Krampus.
Still, because I’mme, I make a graceful Krampus.
Even a pretty one.
I can see that much in the pale oval of my reflection, black-lipped and sharp and cruel, wavering on the face of the grandfather clock that leans against the wall nearby. The clock’s wheezing innards tick through the seconds in perfect rhythm with my measured blows.
If only that pointy-eared Dark Fae tyrant I’m flogging would give way and cry out, I’d be merciful.
No, really. I would.
But he simplywon’t.
That much has been perfectly obvious to me from the first blow I struck, long tails hissing through the air to slap the luscious taut globes of Zephyr’s bitable bare buttocks with a satisfyingsnap!
By now, it’s obvious to all of us.
His la-dee-dah Radiance, the Moon-Dazzled Dark Fae King, is stubbornly determined not to make a single blessed sound.
Well.
We’ll just see about that.
Every lash of my whip unfurls through the air to kiss his royal skin, gradually reddening his ass and the backs of his sinewy thighs from olive to pink to a deep brick red. With every blow, Zephyr’s shoulders clench and his hands grip the mantle like he’s throttling it. Every knuckle gleams white with strain. His labored breath is clearly audible, even over the playful strains of “Santa Baby” rising from the antique gramophone.
When I angle my next blow to lick the tender skin between his thighs—hoping to startle a yelp out of him that way—he snatches in a sharp breath. But he doesn’t utter a single syllable.
Dear fuck.
“Take it easy with him, love,” Ronin murmurs to me, low and heavy, near my feet.
Ronin is sprawled full length on his belly on the rug beside me, naked skin glowing golden against the black bearskin, hair spread over his shoulders in a banner of raven silk. This position lets him keep a wary eye on the proceedings—namely the sight of me wielding my whip—while Ronin simultaneously nuzzles and suckles and worships Zara’s gloriously ripe and tender breasts.
“What he said, Goblin King,” Zara breathes. Oh, she’s delightfully breathy and lethargic from everything Ronin and Max (crouched between her lifted knees with his face buried between her thighs) are doing.
Our little queen too lies on the rug, propped against a pile of cushions, both to support her back and to give her a VIP seat for my star performance. Her face is flushed and heavy-lidded with pleasure under her wild teal mane. But her turquoise eyes are glowing with voltage. If I overplay my hand with our silently suffering Dark Fae lover by a single card, Zara Gemini is eminently capable of hurling me through the wall—Krampus or no—with a bolt of her purple lightning.
She’d rather die than hurt me.
Ever.
I know this beyond question to be true.
True, too, that she’d act without flinching to protect any of us. Even from each other.
She’s the ironclad safe word Zephyr will never need to utter.
