A very Freudian fuck

“Stop it.” he said. “You are acting like a child.”

I’d decided, mid-fuck, to pick an argument. To rehash an old and pointless sore spot in the interest of adrenaline. With the intent of submission.

I bit my lip and wiped my tears. I turned my head and pouted my retort. 

“Fine.”

Our love was true but wild, and his tone in these moments was disturbingly paternal. It was why I bated him into arguments. 

Our greatest taboo.