Foot of The Cross

She exuded lust and yet he was not drawn to her because it was not primal configuration, non, she was absorbed in her own Hellenistic sins. Her sanctifying lust, and he watched, watched as she curved away, giving her only the answer of the lack of desire to follow. He would not chase, but be chased, and turn in on the capture. Holy self-worship was what crafted the both of them, but hers was purely arrogance, hers was that of which she needed to be uplifted, she uplifted herself, where he uplifted power, where he stood on a pedestal above the rest of the world, "Do you deserve to dine with a king?" his firm lined lips would life into a mild simper, reminiscent and ready.

Retribution. He thirsted for it.

"I won't chase you, ma b?lle," he cooed in an attempt to irritate her, he wanted to make her skin crawl, to make her lash out in anger, in rage, and in the purest fury he could get from her. Burn, baby, burn. The mantra was constant in his head, thrumming and incessant as it drove him to figuratively press her buttons. Crawl, sweet golden goddess, let me see you squirm. Find yourself swearing fealty. He did not want her, but wanted her fellowship, her reverence, her eagerness to treat him like the self-accomplished lord he was.