Krampus Kruk

“I’m not a hooker.” I punch his arm, and he chuckles, motioning to a black SUV as we exit the bar. It started snowing, but he seems unfazed, walking hand-in-hand with me in just a t-shirt, not even a shiver. He opens the car door for me, and call me surprised. The coat, the hand hold, the door …

“Old school,” I sass, sliding in—although, when men treat me like this, it makes me weak. As I watch him walk around the hood, my heart races as I shiver in my seat. This is a terrible idea. Well, terrible for feminism. But this man will fuck the shit out of me, that’s clear. We’ll have fun, then …

“Hey, you’re going to drive me back here after, yeah?” I ask. I want to confirm before buckling myself in.

“Who says I’m returning you?”