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A walk on holiday

He noticed the corner of her expensive coat had fallen onto the damp ground beside his foot. He could have stamped on it. But instead, he pointed it out to her. She tweaked the coat hems across her knees in a petulant gesture; but she mumbled, “Thanks, Tom.” If he was trying to make her feel helpless and in need of care, she’d play along, because he owed her. Didn’t he? There was a strained silence as they both pondered what was happening. “This won’t do,” she eventually began. “Let’s have a drink here and then go back to bed.” It was the offer of a truce.

            “It’s too early. The pub’s not open yet,” he advised quickly, even commandingly.

            “Fuck off,” she was angry, and felt rejected, as if he was taking advantage by correcting her. “We’ll just go back to the house. And get into bed,” she said equally commandingly. And added, as if a question, “If you’d want that?” and she was deliberately trivialising his ardour. She talked as if he was a demanding schoolboy. “Come on,” she said in a school-mistressy way. “Let’s go back. She began to stand up, and took hold of his arm. He acquiesced and as they walked back down the road, she held his arm close to her and pressed her body against his. She knew all the physical triggers.

            He felt himself respond into her body and excited by her closeness. He knew she was playing on his physical needs to control him. He stopped and held her by the shoulders, “I don’t know what I want. I might want to knock your head off, or I might want to kiss you.”

            She was irritated again that he was pursuing the tension. “OK. Big boy,” she started off. “let me know when you’ve decided.” And with a more playful challenge, “Either way, I’ll duck.” She pulled herself away from him and walked a few steps down the road, turned and looked back at him. She stood still and felt herself trying to hypnotise him with the show of her body; willing him to undress her with his eyes. But she saw his pleasant honest face, blotched with hurt and anger at her belittling sarcasm. “Listen. We’d better not say anymore. When we get back, I’ll leave if you want, or I’ll stay if you want. Then she put both her arms around his arm and snuggled up again.




After they had made love, he teasingly said, “Do you always have a row before making love?”

            “You should know. We’ve been at it for five years.”

            “And getting better at it.” He was deliberately ambiguous if he meant the rowing or the love-making. “And anyway, “he added, smiling, “It’s only four and-a-half.” But his attempt at a teasing humour to put the row aside, failed. She was being contradicted. Again.

            Horribly, she began to feel herself boiling up to getting furious again. She sat up in bed and pulled away from him. But it felt better to take charge of the intimacy and closeness. “Damn you,” she said quietly, “Fuck me. Hard. Do it again.” And she pushed herself onto him. Her teeth bit him deep and satisfyingly on his chest. He protested and pushed her onto her back. With his extra weight he pressed her wrists to the bed. She fought to go on biting him, but could not reach. She lay back. As her struggles died away, he caressed her face very gently with his hand and she calmed down and let him. She resigned in total passivity. He moved his hand slowly down her neck, her shoulder, and cupped her precious breast in his palm. She began silently to shed some tears. “Damn you, Tom. I think I could still be in love with you. Tell me lovely things.”

            He paused to try to capture his thoughts. His lips moved to the protruding nipple. His tongue circled it. “Maggsie, my mystery. My adorable mystery. I’d go anywhere for you, my gorgeous mystery. My gorgeous Maggsie.” He gazed into her moist eyes. “I love your dear beautiful face. Your body makes me powerful. It controls me. I serve you, do anything for you. You make my body work; it loves you,” he said, his words fading as his body began to move into her.

            “Caress me,” she said gently moving his thighs away  and letting him gain a forceful thrust into her. “Caress me. I want to feel it, your penis, all over me. I want your tongue all over me.

            They proceeded very slowly and successfully. And afterwards they caressed each other in sleep.

            When he woke, Maggsie was looking at the marks of her biting. “I didn’t do that to you,” she said seriously, “nope.”

            He looked down, “Must have been an insect.”

She looked at him and laughed “I think you’ll heal.” She sighed. She felt back in command; he was completely in her thrall. “Marked for ever,” she mused, teasingly.

“I’ll be proud,” he said gallantly. He turned to her to gaze at his beautiful woman.

“Yes. Feel proud and accept which of us is in control” and she half-smiled as if not quite meaning it.  But he did know she meant it. She rolled away onto her back again.,“I’m proud too,” she said generously, trying to match his willing sentiment.

But he said, “Proud of the control, or proud of me?” There was a hint of a renewed quarrel, of bitterness. She ignored his pointed question.

It was late in the day. and she decided to get up. She wanted him to put her clothes back on her body. He agreed, and she allowed him to do it, garment by garment. It was loving, sensuous, without a demanding sexiness. Just a love for her.

He was still not sure if this was control or love.

            In the end she had kept her secret. Could the answer to his question ever be revealed.

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