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“Please what, Noelle?”
“Please fuck all of me. Please fuck me hard.”
With slow precision, Xanther began moving both the dildo and himself in unison, filling me completely in a way I had never experienced before. The combination of the coolness from the dildo and the heat of Xanther’s body sent shivers down my spine.
“Gods, Noelle, this is... incredible,” he murmured, his breath ragged.
“Xanther, don’t stop! I’m so... close...” I pleaded, my body teetering on the edge of ecstasy.
Our cries filled the room as we moved together, the intensity of our pleasure growing with each passing moment. With one final thrust, we reached our climax together, our bodies trembling in unison.
“Xanther!” I screamed, overwhelmed by the waves of pleasure crashing through me.
“Ah, Noelle!” he groaned, his grip on my hips tightening as he found his own release.
As our passion subsided, we collapsed into each other’s arms, both breathless and spent. The warmth of Xanther’s body enveloped me, and I felt a sense of contentment I had never known before.
Chapter Eleven
Noelle
Upon being reinstated into the primary workshop, I threw myself into the art of toymaking with an intensity that bordered on obsession. The first rays of dawn would often find me already at my workstation, meticulously practicing the intricate techniques that had once eluded me. And as the rest of Yule settled into the quiet of night, the soft glow from my station would still be visible, casting long shadows as I continued my relentless pursuit of perfection.
It was during these solitary hours, when the workshop was bathed in an eerie silence, punctuated only by the occasional clinking of tools, that Holly would make her presence known. She would saunter in, feigning a casual air as she pretended to tidy up the surrounding stations. But her true intent was always clear, especially when she would deliberately raise her voice, ensuring her biting critiques reached my ears.
“Such basic craftsmanship,” she would comment with a derisive sniff. “Hardly fit for an apprentice.”
At other times, she would deliberately linger near my station, casting a critical eye over my work before remarking, “I suppose even the smallest progress is commendable, given your...limitations.”
Her constant presence, always hovering just within my peripheral vision, coupled with her thinly veiled insults, made it increasingly difficult to maintain my composure. My fingers would often shake with suppressed rage, the urge to retaliate growing stronger with each barbed comment. I fantasized about hurling my less-than-perfect creations right at her smirking face.
But deep down, I knew that was exactly the reaction she was hoping to provoke. So, summoning every ounce of self-control, I would take a deep breath, mentally reciting calming affirmations until my focus realigned with the task at hand.
Holly’s clear objective was to see me leave, defeated. But her antagonism only fueled my resolve. I was determined not just to remain, but to thrive and excel. Every painstaking hour I spent refining my skills brought me one step closer to my ultimate goal.
I was willing to sacrifice countless hours of sleep, for I held onto the vision of a day when all of Yule would marvel at the toys I crafted. On that day, even Holly would have no choice but to acknowledge my prowess.
With each passing day, I channeled my mounting frustration into unwavering determination. And as the days turned into weeks, something began to shift. The work, once so challenging, started to transform...
Every attempt Holly made to belittle and discourage me only served to fan the flames of my determination. As the days turned into nights, I found myself still at my workstation, tirelessly honing my skills and experimenting with the unfamiliar materials of Yule.
In the beginning, my efforts were far from perfect. The toys I crafted were often misshapen, easily breaking, or simply not functioning as intended. But as time wore on, a transformation began to take place. My fingers, once clumsy and unsure, started to move with a newfound confidence, intuitively understanding the unique characteristics of the materials I was working with.
Rather than trying to force the materials to bend to my will, I began to work in harmony with them. The once jagged edges of my creations began to flow into soft, elegant lines. The colors I used became more vibrant, seamlessly merging together. And the intricate mechanisms I designed started to fit together flawlessly, each piece a testament to the hours of dedication I had poured into mastering my craft.
As my skills improved, the Yulians who once passed by my station with barely a glance began to take notice. Gone were the days when they would look at my work with barely concealed pity or disdain. Instead, they would stop, genuinely interested in what I had created. Their expressions of skepticism were replaced with smiles of admiration and words of genuine praise.
Peppermint, a respected elder artisan with decades of experience, took a particular interest in my progress. “You possess a natural talent, young Noelle,” he remarked one day, his voice filled with warmth and encouragement. His sentiments were echoed by many others, who marveled at the fresh perspective I brought to traditional Yulian toy designs.
Their words filled me with pride, but I never allowed myself to become complacent. I knew there was still so much more to learn, so many more techniques to master. And so, long after the other artisans had left for the night, I would remain at my station, immersing myself in my work, pushing the boundaries of what was possible.
Even Holly, with all her disdain and jealousy, could find no fault with the toys I produced. Though she never voiced her approval, the way her eyes would narrow with begrudging respect whenever someone praised my work spoke volumes. I paid her no mind, choosing instead to focus on my craft. Because, against all odds, my work had begun to evolve, and I was determined to see just how far I could take it.
I was alone late one night, still frowning at a puzzle box prototype that refused to properly align. A polite throat clearing startled me from my hyperfocus.
I turned to see Xanther’s broad frame silhouetted in the workshop entrance, holding two steaming mugs.
“You’ve been working yourself relentlessly,” he chided gently, setting a hot cocoa beside me. “Even toymakers need rest.”
