After You Fuck Her Ass, Make the Fucking Bed!

Husband came home late from work yesterday, after having an awful, stressful day. It was clear he needed an outlet for his stress, and while I don't own a t-shirt that says OUTLET FOR HUSBAND'S STRESS, such a shirt would be quite unnecessary anyway, because we both know my role
(hole)
in these situations.

The ass was grabbed; the lube was not.
I got a complimentary spit were it might have done some good. A small benefaction, I suppose, to show me he cares.
Yes, it hurt. Love hurts sometimes. C'est la vie.

The anal sex sans lube was not what got me pissed off. No, what got me pissed off was that he didn't help me make the bed after.
Because here's the thing: there is a time and place for laying down the "Dom Law." When we're wrestling on the bed and it becomes painfully
(OH SO PAINFULLY)
obvious things are about to be done to my person I will not enjoy, that's…well I won't say that's okay with me, because it's irrelevant at that point whether it's okay with me or not. But it's okay that's it's irrelevant whether it's okay with me or not—and if that statement confuses you, let it sit for a while, it might make more sense later.
(If you're a submissive/slave, you'll get it.) (If you're a Dom/Master, you'll get it, too; and if you're a Dom/Master who's also a Sadist, you'll totally get it, and you'll probably be smiling at the thought.)

He's a high-handed, overbearing, overweighing, insufferable
(and oh GOD DO I SUFFER)
jerk sometimes, and I take it, I take it all, because that is our dynamic and that is how we work together.
But once the scene is over
(yet I can hear Husband's voice in my head now, THE SCENE IS NEVER OVER, WIFE, THAT IS WHERE YOU FOOL YOURSELF)
I want some…chivalry? No, that's not the right word. Courtesy? Yes, I want some courtesy, some understanding that he realizes I am a submissive but not a weak person, and he is my Master but not an asshole.

Our bed is his bed too. He has his side, I have mine. We do not share blankets; he has his, and I have mine. It was his blanket that got slid off the bed into a heap on the floor. It would have taken him two seconds—literally, two seconds—to grab up his blanket and drape it back across his side of the bed.

But did he do it? NO.
"Just put the blanket on the bed!" He said when I told him his blanket was still on the floor. "It will take you two seconds!"
Yes, it would take me two seconds, the same two seconds it would take him. But that's not the point. The point is, I just got fucked in the ass with no lube, I got reamed, my asshole was in pain, and now I had to put his blanket on his side of the bed, too?

I did it, of course. I put his blanket back up on his side of the bed. He gave me an order, and I did it.
Then, this morning, when I made our bed, I made his side look extra nice and neat. I smoothed out his blanket just so. 
Then I sewed his blanket duvet to the bottom sheet. I might go back now and sew his pillow to the blanket, too.
TRY MESSING UP YOUR BLANKET NOW, HUSBAND. JUST TRY IT.