It is a small example of it, but perhaps the most perfect. The most easy to understand, for those who have found themselves in battle with a rival, or even those who have not.
You hate her. Everything about her. Her face. Her smile. Her glimmering eyes, and her perfect little body.
And in that moment, after you have hissed and hurt — lunged and tangled, she is beneath you.
Trapped and pinned.
Yes, by your hands. Yes, by your thighs and calves. But most importantly — most acutely, your mound affixed snugly with hers.
Her every effort to shift, to squirm, to buck, or to escape, making it necessary for her intimate hill and sacred valley to try and overcome your own. It is your womanhood, clothed though it may be — askew though it may be, that keeps her down and finally in your control.
A fact that makes what might otherwise be just a moment in struggle — just a segment of strain, intoxicating.
Your core and hers at war. Your will subverting hers. Your months or years of refusing to give way to the others wants and desires suddenly ended, as by force you bend her to your desire.
Making her stop. Making her listen. Making her look in your eyes with a glare, as she fights to break free. And as she does — as she desperately tries to throw you off, so that she can climb atop you, you feel it.
A friction that tantalizes. Grinding that entices. And a window into the truth of your rivalry with her. A revelation of why you and she cannot just let the other be.