They always come back.
It’s not something new to me.
I stare at you, with love or with hate in my eyes,
As you beg for me.
You beg like a child in need of their mother
And it admiring,
Almost arousing for me.
I love when they return and beg for me back.
It make me feel like a king on their throne,
Overlooking all the peasants below them.
I pull your sorrowful face that is soaked with tears and snot
Up towards mine.
You look so disgustingly pitiful this way and I love it.
“What are you sorry for, sweetie?”
You tried to lower your head in shame, but I grab your chin hard and pull it back up.
“What are you sorry for?” I spit out at him.
“I’m sorry for,” you begin as tear continue to fall down your face.
“I’m sorry for hurting you. I’m really sorry.”
I drop your chin from my hands as I continue to look at you with disgust.
They always come back to apologize, to beg for a second chance.
They always do
And it feels so godly.
The Paramour 