Sometimes I say "no" and he does it anyway.

In the first couple of years of our marriage, he didn't know he was supposed to do that, and neither did I.

Then one day, we were laying in bed. I was exhausted after a four-day business trip followed by a two-hour plane ride. He was restless, having been home alone all week.

Using the evenings alone to catch up on grading papers helped, but that only went so far. It was ten o'clock on Friday night and he was not ready for sleep; not even close.

His lips came to me, kissing and touching me. I groaned in a way that could not possibly be mistaken for excitement. Turning toward him, I tried to get him onto his back so I could stroke him off and put an end to this before it started.

Instead, he rolled me back, ending up on top of me. I pushed against his chest and said "no". He let out a breath - sounding like a truck releasing its air brakes - and rolled over onto his back.

"Damn you," he said, "why can't you be in the mood when I am?"

Turning back toward him, I tried again to stroke him. This time, he let me touch him, at first. Still, he didn't seem to realize how frustrated I was. In fact, I was only vaguely aware of it myself. If he had kept going with his kisses, if he had stayed on top of me, I would have surrendered to him, but he didn't understand that.

I wasn't in the mood to make love, but I was in the mood... or at least part of me was.

We keep a small bottle of massage oil on the headboard, within easy reach. I sleep on his left, but I'm right-handed, so a little clumsily with my left hand, I retrieved the bottle, flipped the top and poured a healthy amount onto his head and shaft. Setting the bottle back, I used my left hand to spread the oil and slowly stroke him, simulating a tight pussy as best I could.

In those early years, I hadn't quite gotten used to stroking him left-handed. It wasn't as good as his own stroking and certainly not as good as the fucking he really wanted, but it was enough to help him along.

Already hard, he quickly got bigger and harder, but after a moment he reached down, took hold of my wrist - grabbing it harder and jerking it away more abruptly than necessary. A clumsy hand-job wasn't what he wanted.

His face, easily visible in the moonlight, scowled at the ceiling, his lips moving but no words coming out. Meanwhile, his shaft throbbed and grew ever larger under it's own power.

He still didn't understand. Then again, I didn't understand my own feelings, the wanting and not wanting, both at the same time.

"What do you want me to do?" I asked.

"Lay back and let me fuck you!" he growled.

"So, be a man. Rape me." I blurted it out, just like that, not knowing where the thought came from.

He turned his head back to me, his face now a concerned question-mark. He probably thought he misheard me.

I was in some kind of over-honest state - probably brought on by complete brain drain. I made it easy for him.

"I'm not going to stop loving you if you force yourself on me every once in a while." If I had thought about what I was saying, I would have run screaming from the room to stick my head under a cold shower, but the judgement centers in my brain were completely out to lunch.

He was angry enough - frustrated enough - aroused enough - to not need any further encouragement. He turned toward me. His right hand shoved my left breast, knocking me back. At the same time, he rolled over-top of me, this time moving to his knees, ending up straddling my hips.

He grabbed my wrists. I fought back, trying to shove him off of me. This time, I didn't just push him away. I squirmed, turned, tried to kick, flailed my hands, all in an attempt to free myself - I let loose.

I really didn't want to be fucked - or maybe I just didn't want a wimpy fuck. If I was going to get laid, I wanted it the right way. I wanted to feel a man on top of me.

It quickly turned into a wrestling match, then a fight. My resistance fed his anger and his attempts to restrain me fed my strength. Both of us felt free - free from the restraints of loving-kindness that normally govern our relationship.

We were free to do what we really wanted to do - to do it the right way - the normal way - to fuck like husbands and wives are supposed to fuck, not some feminist-bullshit, equal-rights, candy-ass, mother-may-I "lovemaking". We were finally having real sex like couple of wild animals.

There was never any doubt as to who was going to prevail in our fight. He's bigger, stronger, more forceful; more motivated to fuck than I was to resist. He had all his energy available to him - and he was on top.

Eventually he got so mad at my resistance that he pulled his right arm away from my left hand - the hand that was still covered with massage oil... and slapped me... hard... palm to cheek... knocking my face all the way over to the side.