Release 39

She knew at once, long before he came into view at the backdoor. His team had lost again. They were on a wretched streak of bad losses. So was he. His mood had been sour and tense. He tried to mask his overall frustration, but she knew him better than that. Nonetheless it didn't give him the right to ignore her requests. She was done walking on eggshells.

Sweat trickled between her shoulder blades. The sun was forceful, and it had been this way for several days running. The heat wrecked any peace that gardening would otherwise provide. She had planned to stay clear of him at least until after he'd showered, but the midday sun made that an impossibility. Better to just confront him than roast.

She entered the bedroom expecting to hear the shower. Instead she did not see or hear him. Alone, on the bed, was a single white orchid. What had begun as mild annoyance spilled into full on anger. She was flat out mad! For days, weeks really, he'd treated her as an afterthought, as a spectator to his self absorbed brooding. And now he had the audacity to play this game.

She grabbed the flower and walked to his office. She flung the orchid in his direction. It fell at her feet. "Are you out of your fucking mind? I asked you to do one thing. Clean up the goddamn loft before it gets blazing hot up there. Did you do it? Fuck no. No doubt Charlie called, and off you went to the pub to watch that God awful team of yours. So here I am with a mess in the garden, a mess in the loft, and my father arriving tomorrow. I've fucking got a mess of a husband too. Lord knows which one my dad will lay into me about first. Now! Now you choose to play this stupid game? I've got a million things to do, actually a million and one thanks to you."

She glared at him. He didn't say a word. He'd barely even turned to face her during her rant. He was angry. He was silent. She turned, paused, and then stormed back to the bedroom. Almost immediately his footsteps were behind her. She felt a little relief. At least this time he was going to engage her. "He's going to fight with me", she thought. She stopped at the back window, and prepared herself for round two. She turned.

He smirked. He growled. "This is your fucking game. These are your goddamn rules. It's my turn, and this is my move." He scowled. He placed the wilted flower on the bed, and looked at his watch. "At with 1:14 I own you!" He strode out in the direction of the office.

She was livid. She was dumbfounded. What was next? If she defied this request, where would his mood take him? He was picking a fight with her. But it was one that she couldn't win. He was setting her up. He needed to vent, to yell, and to know that without a doubt that he was in the right. He could purge himself of every negative emotion, every fear, every outrage of the past few weeks. He'd thinly veil it as his exasperation over her unwillingness to play by her own rules, her failure to abide in the game that she forced on him.

1:14 was six minutes away. Six minutes? Obviously he was provoking her. She could fight. She had her own negative energy to let loose. They'd spend the afternoon screaming at one another. He'd run off somewhere to sulk, and she'd be left to do her work feeling a little less full of anger, but in an otherwise unchanged state. Alternatively, she could give in. He'd be unbalanced by that. It'd been a long while since they'd been together in that way. Maybe it'd help them both soften and reconnect a little. At the very least it may help ease the tension for the afternoon. Who knows? Maybe he'd even help with remaining chores. Wives had been trading sex for favors since the beginning of time.

"Fine. I'll play along, but give me 30 minutes. I've got dirt in my hair for Christ's sake." Sarah went into the bathroom and turned on the shower. At least she could enjoy a cool shower. Surely removing the dirt from her body and cooling off a bit would lighten her mood. Maybe it wouldn't be such a terrible day. She'd be nurturer. Apply salve to the wounds of her man's tortured ego, repair her garden, and repair her marriage all before Papa arrived. She removed her shirt and shorts. She got a glimpse of herself in the mirror. She was literally a hot mess. Tears of anger had streaked the dirt on her face. Her skin was tacky with dried sweat, and she smelled of earth. To her surprise, there really was dirt in her hair.

The bathroom door opened. He was completely naked. He said, "It's 1:14.", as he grabbed her by the wrist. She resisted. Her anger rapidly rebuilding. "You can't give me thirty fucking minutes. You ego centric, self absorbed, petulant little boy!" If he wanted to fight with her like this than so be it. "Oh, how horrible it is to be you. The whole damn thing was handed to you on a platter. And it was oh so easy for you right from the beginning. You made money. People respected you, respected your opinion. I was the trophy on your arm. Me, this house, and your toys outside were the envy of your friends."

He had started this. She was going to get it all out. If it's going to be like this, than she was going to put it all on the table. They'd deal with it all here and now. He was leading her by the arm. She was following. She'd have this fight in her underwear on the front lawn if she had to. "You're fucking afraid! Every impulse you have is telling you to run, but you've no where to go. Every impulse is telling you to fight, but you don't know how to. Do you? I've tried to help. Practically begged to help you. But you shut down, put up your walls and hid. You won't fix this by hiding! You can't hide from your own fucking life! Don't hide from me! Let me in!" They were headed upstairs.

"Talk with me. Hell, fight with me! Tell me how upset you are that my father's coming. You think he's going to gloat. The 'I told you so' is coming. He never approved of your business, and now he's coming at just the right time to say so. I know that's what you're thinking." Beads of sweat began to roll down her cheek. Even with the open windows and ceiling fan the heat was oppressive in the loft in the summer. The half-finished room had a slightly chemical smell to it. There was a mixture of dirt and dust in the room, a mixture of inside and out.

"Things are hard for you. I understand, but that doesn't give you the right to treat me like I'm part of the furniture. I'm right fucking here! And if you'd look up you'll see this whole thing is miserable for me too. Whether you acknowledge it or not, I'm your partner in this, in all of this. I feel your pain. I know you're hurting and you selfishly won't let me in. Instead you just take it out on me. Well fuck you. I'm not your punching bag. Your pain doesn't give you the right to ignore me."

At the end of the loft was the upstairs bath. He threw open the bathroom door. For the first time she noticed the running water. The steam flowed around her. Her body involuntarily recoiled from the increased heat. He pulled her closer, first by the arm, and then by an arm around her waist. He pivoted on his back foot causing them both to twirl 180 degrees. She was off her feet now as he carried her for two steps into the bathroom.

With his free hand he closed the door behind them. It was pitch black. The steam from the running shower enveloped them. The sweat, once dripping from her hairline was now flowing. He pressed her into the wall across from the sink. She felt it immediately go cool and then slick against her back. His right hand reached down and grabbed her ass. He squeezed hard. She pushed into him, her toes against the floor, her heels against the wall. She dug her nails into his back. The thick sweat on his back caused her left hand to slide, resulting in a harsh scratch across the right side of his back. She could feel him wince. He pulled back slightly. In a heartbeat he was back against her. His left hand now yanking at her underwear. The fabric cut into her left leg as he pulled at the right side. He was not the only one who would have battle scars from this encounter.

He greedily sucked at her neck. Lips, tongue, and teeth all gnashing at her. She turned her mouth to meet his. Kissing was a ridiculously insufficient term to describe the desperate and violent collision of their mouths. She wanted this. Fight or fuck, each was an outlet for the emotion and energy that had been building for days. The pain in her thigh peaked as his intensity grew. It was as if he intended to break the cotton across her leg. In an act of practical self-defense, she dislodged her mouth from his, and threw her weight into his chest. Her maneuver caused him to take a step back and loosen his grip on her underwear. Her hand met his along her thigh. In their most cooperative action of the past week, they jointly removed her underwear.

Simultaneously she raised up to return to a standing position as well as reach out to find him again in the darkness. He was of course right there, returning to her. She knew what was next. He entered her abruptly. She felt neither pleasure nor pain, although her body felt both. She only felt release, relief. The wall behind her had gone from slick to slimy as their sweat had combined with the steam and everything: walls, floor, surfaces, and bodies had turned to nothing more than heat and wet. His initial movements were urgent, nearly violent. Her right foot had found the lip of the sink behind him. Her left, on tip toes, finding the floor in between each thrust. They pressed into one another chaotically, their bodies seemingly finding communication no easier than their minds. The difference being that each "conflict" between their genitals inspired a desire to recoil and reconnect in effort to find common ground, common bliss.

Soon she began to feel a familiar rhythm. Regardless of the circumstances, their bodies knew each other too well. They were well acquainted friends. Combativeness in hearts and minds wasn't sufficient to undo years of knowing exactly how to please one another. Sarah wasn't ready to make up. She didn't want familiar. She wasn't ready to acquiesce. She still had anger and frustration to purge, and more importantly, she knew he did to. She slid her hands from his broad shoulders and with open hands punched him in the chest. She wasn't gentle. It was an anger fueled strike. Her message was clear, and received as if she'd shouted it at him in their 8-by-8 den of heat, steam, lust, and darkness. "I'm not that easy. You haven't won. I'm still fighting!"

She knew that she'd bruised his chest. Good. A bruised chest seemed fitting with his bruised ego. As they disengaged, she quickly turned around. She pressed her forearms into an L-shape against the wall. She spread her legs to nearly shoulder width, and bent over at the waste. Consciously or subconsciously, this position stated her intentions. "Take me! Dominate me! Fuck me! Be my Goddamn Motherfucking man! Please!"

Her punch had again sent him backward. He came back at her with anger and determination. Although he had know idea to what act he was determined. His hands reached for her where her torso had been. As his searching fingers grasped nothing but air, his midsection found her as his upturned erection slipped unexpectedly between her sweat covered ass cheeks. His searching hands immediately reacted to this discovery. She felt his left palm firmly plant on her left hip. The absence of a balancing sensation on her right side indicated that he was using his right hand to guide himself into her. In a split second she felt his index finger press a line from her ass to her vagina succeeded by his penis pushing directly into her. Her determined mindset was betrayed by the muffled but audible high-pitched gasp that she exhaled.

She braced herself for wild and uncontrolled thrusting. She was pleasantly surprised that his motion was both powerful and rhythmic. Her anticipation and pleasure grew as his hands traced up her bent body. His right hand stopped at her right shoulder, gripping at the junction between shoulder and neck. His left hand proceeded up, across her bent arms and found its place against her wrists, effectively binding them to the wall and to one another. His weight was upon her her back. A single whisper escaped her lips. This time inaudible, but nonetheless the first true word spoken since they entered the room. "Yes."

She can hear, perhaps feel, his breath and grunts as he continues to push against and in her. She's no longer angry, no longer fighting. She's enjoying. With each stroke and each push of pressure and sensation she begins to let a softy and breathy moan of pleasure. He is controlled, varying frequency, but is continually forceful. The pleasure is building in both of them.

It's building and building, growing and growing. They're both ever so slightly louder now. While not actually breathing in unison, there is something musical about their sounds. Her ecstasy is suddenly interrupted by a nagging alarm in her head. She tries to ignore it. Her mind returns to her enjoyment, briefly. But again she's disconnected by a nagging in her brain that has grown loud, and two fold. The first distraction is the pain her elbows. At each instant both joints are literally being driven into the wall. His hand still binding hers, her forearms are sliding along the wall as he moves in and out of her. Additionally, his weight against her is causing her feet to begin to slip along the floor. Her orgasm is near. Her brain wants to cum. She can't focus. She can't articulate. She's going head first into this wall and he's going to come smashing down on top of her. She needs to brace herself. She can't free her hands, his strength and weight holding them to the wall. Feelings are building and building: fear, pleasure, pain. They mix with sensations of heat and sweat, wet and rough; they mix with sounds breath and grunt, moan and contact. She needs to stop. His sweat and her sweat are flowing along the curvature of her butt, into and around her crevices. The fluids are mixing with increasing moisture flowing from her vagina. It's all dripping across and down her thigh. "St-ohh - Stop." She's inaudible. She's breathy. He pushes harder, pushes deeper. "Oh God. Stop. Oh. Stop!" He doesn't hear, or he doesn't care. Harder. She's slipping. She's sliding. She's cumming She's falling.

She screams a final "Stop". It's fear and ecstasy together. He can't stop. Her knees begin to buckle with the power of her orgasm. She has no strength left, physical or mental. She begins to slip away from him, falling down and forward. Instinctually he grabs her hips with both hands. He forcefully pulls her back. The tips of his fingers dig into the flesh around her pelvis. From either panic or ecstasy, she's limp. He draws her up and in as he slams into her driven by desire, lust, and anger. His orgasm arrives with this final thrust. He holds them both steady for a moment as aftershocks push through him. Finally drained of his strength, they collapse together, first against the door and then they slide to the floor.

They lie there, gently holding hands. Each covered in sweat and cum. Each permeated by the smells of sex and earth. They had fought. And in this way, in this state, they had found themselves.