I know how this will play out again, but I do not even try to stop it.
You’re mad about something I did or did not do, and will air your grievances……
I’m done being polite. You’re nagging, woman. You’re shouting at me, harassing me. You’re determined to get a response, and if that fails, some form of reaction. It is exactly why I’m ignoring you right now darling. You hate that, just as much as you enjoy provoking me. There’s this sick thrill you seem to get as you see my eyes turn red, as my temper breaks.
You live for this, don’t you? You seem to hate peace, and harbour this insatiable hunger for drama. That urge to…stir things up… It’s the easiest outlet for you to vent your frustrations through. It never fails, as I react, despite myself. You know me well enough to say the things that will get under my skin, and I end up screaming at you. Walking away won’t help, as you will call me a coward and go as far as to vandalise everything I own to get my attention. By that point, I have thought up at least two different ways to kill you. One of them has to do with my hands around your throat.
Naturally, like a falcon, you can see that breaking point approaching where I will say, ‘fuck it, and fuck you.” Like a hawk, you will swoop in with another accusation to completely throw me off. You will insist that I have no right to be angry. I hate that. Why do you get to vent and then keep me tightly sealed? Even worse, why do I allow you to hit me, insult me and do absolutely nothing as you do so? Worst of all, why do I find you so beautiful in those moments? The way your eyes widen, pupils dilating, your fair skin turning red from your exertion and your pink lips contorting fluidly as you talk at high speed. It is attractive…..irresistibly erotic…. I want, and will have you in moments like this, when you provoke me to anger, and then turn that anger into mad desire. You want me too; isn’t that why you created an imaginary problem in the first place?
I cut you off mid-sentence by wrapping my fingers around your neck. No need for words. I silence whatever protests you’re choking out with a rough kiss. It’s no surprise that you, who will refuse to back down, bite my lower lip till it bleeds, summoning my inner haemophiliac. I respond by pulling your hair, eliciting a growl from you. I will make you submit; you will admit that you like it. I push you against the wall and see you wince from the impact, but I don’t care: I want to hurt and pleasure you. You do not hesitate to claw at my face and neck, leaving me no choice but to pin your arms above your head. I bite your neck, hard, and you finally moan…..
The rest is child’s play.
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