This afternoon I find myself in a jagged mood for no reason. Some sort of hormonal anger where I feel like throwing things (do throw things, my hairbrush, my sandal, go bouncing off the couch). I send Michael a message that I won’t be there when he gets home from work, I’m headed to get a drink at the bar round the corner as I’m in no mood to be submissive tonight. I add that the only way he’d get me to submit would be to wrestle me into it. I write it like a joke, but I am actually issuing a challenge. I’m craving the peace of submission to calm my feeling of aggression and secretly hoping he will wrestle me into it.
But he gets home before I can get out the door, and he can see the challenge in my face. My husband rises to the occasion, and says, “Discipline must be maintained, on your knees.”
I feel a flare of “You jerk, I just told you I’m having a hard day.” But then I get on my knees and suck his cock, with pleasure, but also with a toothy roughness.
His makes a noise of alarm and I look up at him and smile. “Am I scaring you?”
He laughs uncomfortably. “You’re scaring the hell out of me. That’s enough.”
I admit, I’m satisfied he didn’t let me slip out of submitting to him, which I tell him later at the bar. We drink and eat and laugh, and by the end of dinner, my jagged mood has subsided. But still, the idea of him wrestling me into submission has taken hold of me. And when we get home and he says he’s going to tie a breast harness onto me, I say, “Make me.”
And so begins a wrestling match, me pushing him away and letting my momentary rebellion free. It is delightful. And quick. He subdues me oh so easily, holds me down with a grip like granite, any attempt to move is impossible. He is stronger than I imagined and it is thrilling to me, I am dazzled by his strength. 
I somehow thought that if ever a man was determined to have his way with me, I’d be able to fight like hell and be able to free myself. But now I know this is an illusion. Until this moment, I honestly did not realize men intrinsically had such raw power over me. For the first time I understand how consciously gentle most men are with their women, which is touching and thrilling on a whole other level.
Now I am feeling wonderfully subdued and ready to submit as he ties me in a breast harness. He tells me he is going to spank me, and me, half-drunk from our time at the bar, I say, “And then what will you do to me?”
He says, “Nothing. We’re taking a sex break because yesterday you said you’re getting too sore.”
My excitement deflates. “Who cares what I said yesterday? You’re just going to spank me and get me all hot and bothered and then nothing?”
“That’s right,” he says.
My jagged anger rushes back with a vengeance, and I’m maybe more than half drunk because I start ripping the clawing at the harness, trying to get it off. “Well, then you can’t spank me.”
“Don’t take that off,” he says firmly.
I yank my arm away. “How dare you tell me I’m too sore! I’m the only one who knows if I’m too sore! You can’t tell me how I feel!”
Then he starts yelling, too. “Don’t take that off! I’m the Daddy!”
One might think this is where we’d laugh at how absurd this moment. But no. I just keep yelling. “Not even my Daddy can tell me how I feel!”
I am unwinding the rope now. He sits down and tells me I am topping from the bottom. I snort, “Oh horrible me, just wanting you to fuck me.”
“Well,” he says, “I’m not about to get aroused now.”
“Oh thanks, now I’m an erection killer.” Then I storm off to the bedroom.
I throw myself on our bed. And that’s when the absurdity hits me. I am a silly person. I am also a terrible submissive. He comes in and I apologize, and we finally laugh at ourselves then, at our drunken brawl.
Feeling a little better, we lie there on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. “Are we going to just go to bed now?” I ask.
He says no. He sits up against the headboard, tells me to lie across his lap. I start to crawl over to him, talking as I lay myself across his lap, “Yeah, but are you doing this because you think I want you to? Is this me topping from the bottom?”
He doesn’t say anything, just roughly drags my panties down. His hand came down on my ass with a resounding smack, shockingly hard, blistering hot. My questioning mind shuts off. He delivers ten spanks that leave me gasping and squirming in pain. 
I barely have to time to catch my breath before he flips me over and holds my face down against the mattress. He kneels over me and shoves his cock into my mouth. He fucks my mouth hard, cock filling my throat until I can barely breathe. I cannot move, cannot do anything but lie there, relaxed, an empty accepting sexual receptacle.
I am vaguely aware that if anyone else ever treated me like this, it would be appalling, traumatic. But because it is him, because I have surrendered, and am making my surrender literal. My mouth yields, my mind smooths out, calm, while my body fills with blood and heat. Being fucked rough and rude by my husband is a primal thrill that satisfies like nothing else, like scratching a deep itch I didn’t even know I had. And oh I get off, I get off …
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