"Oh, you are absolutely lovely for me, little one," he replies readily, his eyes practically glued to Monty, his head tilted as he listens for the sounds of all their decorations shaking together, those tiny, musical chimes, amplifying the slightest of movements as they settle into his desire for them, into the display he'd chosen to make of them, a sculptor as demanding and exacting with flesh as any with stone.

But they would be far louder than that, before the night was up.

"Look at your pretty little cunt," he practically coos, and then slides the tip of the crop along Monty's inner thigh, pressing it against the chain held taut on the right side, before tracing over the already damp, pink skin. "I can't wait to really put you through your paces. Are you sure you're ready for me, Monty?"