When I got home Tom’s car was in the driveway and very few lights were on. Tom was sitting in the living room with a beer in hand. The coffee table held a greasy pizza box and a half dozen empty beer bottles were strewn carelessly on the table.
“Where the fuck you been all day?” he slurred at me.
“I don’t have to tell you anything, Tom. You’re drunk.” I countered.
Struggling to stand up, he lunged across the room, grabbing my hair and making me face him. “Listen up. It’s time for you to be a wife again and we’re gonna start right now.”
“Stop, Tom! You’re hurting me,” I screamed as he dragged me, half on my knees down the hall to the bedroom, bouncing me off the walls.
He pushed me into the bedroom, and I landed on my hands and knees. Before I could stand up, he pounced on me and yanked my skirt up. Then ripped my lace panties so they hung by a thread off my ass, leaving me exposed. I felt, rather than heard, his belt being unbuckled, and his zipper being pulled.
Before I knew it, he grabbed a fistful of my hair in one hand as his other hand tried to work his member into my bottom. Frustrated at not getting inside he spat a gob of spit on me and jammed himself inside viciously, tearing my opening and pumping into me. He pushed me over with his foot and spit on my face as a punctuation mark, telling me he was done.