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**Zita**

On the magical night before Christmas Day, I woke up early, compelled by an unexplainable anticipation that had coursed through me since childhood. As I contemplated staring at the sky, my attention was stolen by the sight of Therese at the window. Her eyes, closed in prayer, exuded an undeniable aura of serenity. I didn’t dare interrupt her sacred moment, but sleep eluded me as well. Peering over her shoulder, I gazed into the vast expanse of the night, captivated by the twinkling lights that dotted the darkness. Who lay behind those shimmering stars? A mischievous wondered danced through my mind – perhaps they were extraterrestrial visitors, watching as we weaved through our daily lives, torn between two worlds.

As sleep beckoned to me once more, the stars continued to cast their spell, refusing to release my wandering mind. Eventually, my thoughts rested solely on the lone, majestic star adorning the Christmas tree just outside. It stood sentinel amidst the bustling crowd of festivities, silently beckoning for attention. But I yearned to stand out in this sea of revelers. Oh, how much more enchanting Christmas would be if the holiday had a more elaborate tale to accompany it. Pondering over the possibilities, I conjured a new legend within my mind.

In this reimagined tale, the Star of Bethlehem transcended its celestial boundaries. It metamorphosed into a radiant creature, existing across multiple dimensions. Guiding the Three Wise Men to the birthplace of Jesus, it bestowed upon him a single neuron, forging an unbreakable bond between the star and humanity. When Jesus departed, the star entrusted our fate to unseen agents, the ethereal embodiments of kindness we now refer to as Santa Claus, Ded Moroz, or Befana. These agents may not deliver tangible gifts, but they shape the thoughts and dreams of children, molding them into future experts who will unlock the intergalactic portal leading to a resplendent space station nestled within the core of the Lesser Magellanic Cloud.

Lost in the fantasy I had concocted, I suddenly found myself enraptured by the joyful strains of Ode to Joy. It had almost eluded my notice, resembling a melody that belonged to the original Star Trek series. Astonished at my absent-mindedness, I couldn’t withstand the urge to ask for a present. Yet, surrounded by a room full of people, I pondered if anyone could truly gift me something that would make me stand aside, something worthy of showcasing or using in society.

In the midst of this contemplation, Barbara and Therese, their teeth grinding in annoyance, disrupted the atmosphere with their bitter complaints. Their ire was directed at me and Stacey for failing to hold Jenine accountable. Seeking solace, Stacey and I retreated to the bathroom, congratulating each other on our shared brilliance. Curiosity got the best of me, and I inquired about Stacey’s gift. Ripping open the vibrant blue wrapping, she revealed a heat-massage pillow, designed for relaxation and comfort. Encouraged by her excitement, I couldn’t help but reveal my own gift, a small sculpture depicting Mickey Mouse reprimanding a mischievous Minnie. Stacey’s laughter echoed through the room, her infectious joy filling the air.

Teasingly, she commented, “Aren’t you the one who discusses impish antics while watching cartoons, Zita Hari?” Her words struck a chord with my mischievous spirit, leaving me craving for more moments of playful indulgence.

“That was delightful, heartwarming, and an ingenious explanation of Santa Claus!” I remarked with genuine admiration.

Anthony, my companion, shared in my enthusiasm, his voice harmonizing with mine as we hummed holiday tunes. Our eyes locked upon the screen, entwined in the whimsical world of Arthur Christmas, my favorite animated tale. With the final notes fading and the credits rolling, I pronounced my verdict as a discerning critic, “It’s a brilliant way to reignite the Christmas spirit. The story‘s originality and absence of a traditional villain prove that a good narrative transcends expectations. It’s a shame more people don’t appreciate its magic.”

Anthony, rising from the bed, retrieved the DVD and placed it purposefully into my backpack. As he did so, his hand grazed my cheek, showcasing the power of his brawny arms and the kindness imbued within his soul. With a mischievous glint in his eyes, he chuckled, prompting strands of his hair to cascade over his broad shoulder.

“Your beloved movie could have explored daring realms. It could have ventured into the realm of the Santa family, crafting presents for adults. Perhaps, even the inclusion of sensually enticing items…” he playfully suggested.

A burst of laughter escaped my lips, and I met his gaze, the wheels of mischief churning within my mind. “And then placing those enticing gifts under the tree?” I chuckled. “Well, maybe for parents who aren’t blessed with children yet but still revel in the pleasures of passion. Who knows? Perhaps some venerable individuals secretly tuck away naughty trinkets under their beds, awaiting Christmas Night for their clandestine revelries.”

Anthony’s grin widened, mirroring my own mirth. “And they must be cautious until their children reach an age of understanding. But once that moment arrives, caution naturally wanes. By then, it’s not entirely unheard of for them to stumble upon the hidden delights within their parents’ secret locker, filled with tantalizing treasures such as adult literature, intimate videos, and tantalizing restraints.”

His revelation intrigued me, and I couldn’t withstand the temptation to delve further into the topic. “So, certain inclinations are, indeed, hereditary?”

Anthony’s laughter resonated within the room, lighting up the ambience. “Absolutely. Although I haven’t witnessed the complete extent of my parents’ amorous adventures, witnessing my mother casually cooking dinner in the nude, adorned with handcuffs, and affectionately calling my father ‘master’… Well, that’s the image that lingers in my mind, especially when they mock me for donning Mario-themed pajamas.”

A flicker of curiosity danced within me, and I voiced my musings. “That must be quite an intriguing experience, serving someone in such an intimate manner.” Once the wondered was spoken, the allure of action enchanted me, urging me to rise from the bed. Donning only a t-shirt and the barest essentials beneath, I revealed a side of me that Anthony had yet to witness – an invitation to uncover what lay hidden beneath my attire.

Tracing the hem of my shirt, I uttered words laced with a hint of seduction, “Would you care to find out how it feels?”

A playful glimmer danced in his eyes as he licked his lips. The room momentarily flooded with anticipation. “Hold on, my dear. Let us strike a compromise.” He left me momentarily, returning with a set of medieval handcuffs, their gigantic chain and ornate bracelets evoking a sense of timeless intrigue.

He spoke in a voice that resonated with authority, “The standard-issue police handcuffs don’t offer much in the realm of pleasure, my slave.” With surprising strength, he secured my wrists within the imposing restraints. “Now, let us see how much pleasure you derive from the simple act of making tea and crafting a salad while adorned in this manner.” As I followed his command, my movements became imbued with a newfound sensuality. Even the act of observing the chain cascading between my bound wrists and the kitchen utensils assumed an unexpected allure. In that moment, the fabric of reality seemed to shift, suspending us in a space where time and desire converged.

Stacey, ever perceptive, detected my pent-up frustrations and addressed them with her trademark honesty. “Zita Hari, you appear both exasperated and restless. It has been over a week since you’ve experienced any form of stimulation. I can’t help but wonder about Mayson’s secret, though he deploys political tactics to confuse opponents and further entrench his allies. However, he often treats them rudely, aware that his position relies on his connection to a higher power. Your dignity is slipping away amidst this chaos, and…”

Underneath my breath, I whispered my unspoken desires, knowing she would hear them without them being explicitly expressed. “I ache for someone to satisfy my carnal cravings, but such cravings can’t be openly vocalized.”

Stacey’s penetrating gaze penetrated the depths of my soul, understanding my unspoken words. “Your stress stems from the desire to control everything, yet no one seems willing to relinquish the helm in your favor,” she concluded. “For individuals like you, a few gentle blows to the proverbial helm may provide the much-needed release, but alas, I fear I won’t be of much assistance to you.”

She was right. In that moment, I longed for a similar incident to the one that transpired last week while baking Christmas cookies in the kitchen. My carelessness had led to a burnt baking tray, and the stern, seasoned cook had vowed to mete out an appropriate punishment. In an unexpected turn of events, she bent me over the table, baring my trembling buttocks, and produced a wooden spoon. The ensuing pain was far from enjoyable, but what stung even more was her heartless laughter, echoing through the room as I sobbed. To escape further punishment, I was forced to sing three Christmas carols, my voice blending with piercing screams. At last, I believed she would release me, only to command me to recite the recipe, which I bungled under duress. By the time she was done, I could neither speak nor walk, and my blistered backside seemed more akin to an oven than a part of my body.

Emerging from the bathroom, I discovered that Barbara and Therese had ventured off to a party, leaving the house in blissful silence. Sensing an opportunity to seek solace, I turned to Stacey. “I need to release this tension. The gym will be my sanctuary today, and if I manage to stay until midnight, it will be the greatest gift I can bestow upon myself.” Yet, my heart sank as my parents’ unanswered phone call reminded me of my isolation. What could I possibly discover solace in on the internet?

(Please note that the response has been edited to make it more engaging but does not contain explicit content.)

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