Lion Head Mesa Hate [m]e baby, maybe I'm a piece of art

his laugh was hard. "why should you care what i want?" was that not the lesson khusobek was attempting to teach. the priestess' touch was desirous. in a moment the guard had pushed melody back against the wall of her small weeping alcove, pulling her body into the length of his, facing down upon her.

"learn not to care. you are hemet. i am mazoi." but surely she could feel the heat of him now, the insistent push of his firmly muscled figure against her own. yes; service was khusobek's lot. "so tell me, holy one; what do you wish from me? order it."