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You fuck me until I cry.  You tell me you like it when I'm scared; tell me that you like the tears.
My lamp is too far away, I think, to reach and bash you across the head.  Even if it was closer, you're keeping my arms pinned behind me. 
And yet, I'm afraid of hurting you.  You're driving yourself deeper into me, grunting with each thrust; I wince and I'm equally scared that if I fight back you'll snap me by accident or I'll scratch you and draw blood.
I love you.  This is a mantra, repeated countlessly as I tense my body away from yours.  I love you.  I love you.  I love you.
You tell me I like this, tell me I'm a whore.  Maybe later I will agree, but right now I am broken and you are keeping my wings clipped.
Tomorrow I will apologize for sending you into this rage.  I will grovel, trying to work out what I did that was wrong enough to make you treat me this way.
Then, I will put on heels and a sundress and affix myself to your arm.  To the outside world I am just what I seem; simpering southern lady, lovely senators wife.
Tonight it's grunting and slapping and pulling my hair.  Tonight is terror and sweat and salty tears.
Someday soon, you will pull my neck until it snaps.  A part of me can't wait.