I squeezed his hand hard.
"You're crushing my fingers," he said.
"I want your physical attention," I whispered.
I turned toward him in bed, clawing at him, affronting him. He immediately sat up, roughly turned me over, tore down my underwear, and spanked my bottom hard for several minutes. I struggled, I yelped, I teared up, I tried crawling away. He held me tight, completely silent, unrelenting in his hard smacks.
It was desperate, harsh, aggressive, and I craved more of it.
My bottom was becoming increasingly hotter.
"Get off my lap," he said; "I'm going to f*** you now."
He moved on top of me and aggressively entered me, reasserting over and over again his dominance.
"You're mine," he growled. I cried out repeatedly. It was intense--right on that blissful line between pain and pleasure.
This is how he turns my resentment into admiration, my distance into intimacy, and my complaining into gratitude.
"The squeaky wheel gets the grease," he said to me afterward, referring to my string of complaints and resentments that led to this whole episode.
"I'm your only wheel," I smiled. "I better get all the attention!"
