Better Advice, Better Marriage Ch. 01

Author's Note: Chapter 1 has a little sex and a lot of dialog about what people are thinking and feeling. It is about a marriage in trouble because they have stupidly decided to listen to bad advice rather than talking to each other, even though they do love each other. Perhaps they can find a way to overcome their mistakes and forgive each other.

Comments to let me know if you liked it or not are always welcome and coveted.

All characters engaged in sex acts are over the age of 18. All rights reserved.

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"I put some of the leftovers into plastic containers so you can take one for a lunch if you want," Jon says, bopping the refrigerator closed with a hip. Sue is working at her laptop as she has been since they finished dinner, while Jon has been cleaning up.

Her therapist, Mandy, had warned her about such evenings -- moments when her husband would just expect sex, expect her body to be available to him for his selfish pleasure. Men are so predictable, guided by the "little head" between their legs rather than the one atop their shoulders. His transparent attempt to be extra considerate of her needs at lunch tomorrow is an indication he is hoping for a little extra something from her tonight. She knows she can shut down that notion in a hurry.

"That funny noise is back in the front tire on the van," she responds, still looking intently at her laptop, a remote session into one of the servers at work lighting her face in the partially darkened dining room.

In truth, Sue is actually looking forward to a lengthy session of tender, attentive lovemaking. It is convenient that the kids are spending the night "camping out" in their neighbor Lynne's backyard, giving them a rare weekday night without the prying eyes and ears of two pre-teens. The opportunity for more "intimate time" than they would normally get is not to be missed.

But his testosterone-driven gambit it is just too obvious. Of course he'll demand sex and women worked too long and too hard to achieve independence and control over their own bodies to fall back into the script of sex on demand when it is convenient for the male.

"That just happened today?" Jon asks, annoyed. Life, or more accurately, their sex life, has become increasingly frustrating in the last couple of years. Somehow, sexual favors from his wife have to be "earned." It is becoming apparent that there is a reward system -- certain "good husband" actions earn certain pleasurable rewards. This all started years ago when she started seeing Mandy, the "marriage counselor. " They had some trouble getting back into a rhythm after Jordan was born -- when is the right time to start sex after a C-section? Jon had attended a few of these sessions early on but stopped going when it became obvious that Mandy didn't like men in general and everything (and I mean ev-ry-thing) was the guy's fault. The more Sue saw of Mandy, the more militant and demanding she had become in their relationship.

"I know that you've been really good this week, keeping up with your half of the laundry and dishes, but the problem with the van isn't completely solved, even though you mistakenly thought it was. I'm not sure what we're going to do about this." Sue recognizes this really is a bit unfair; she is bringing up things he really has no control over but she is planning for a little bit of an upper hand tonight. When he is feeling a little guilty, he tends to be extra attentive. Some extra-long oral from him would feel really good.

"We'll call the shop again tomorrow. Maybe this time, they'll be able to hear it, too," he says pointedly. It is obvious where this is going and he admits it is getting him pretty pissed off, although he tries his best not to show it.

Good, she thinks. He is a little edgy and off balance. He doesn't know whether he's going to get any tonight or not. That's what Mandy says. Sex is a powerful tool in a relationship. A man will do anything to get it; you just need to know how to leverage that to get what you want from them. Women have all the control.

The truth is that Jon is horny. It has been more than a week since they had sex. If it wasn't something about his chores, it was the kids staying up late or she was tired and stressed from work. Damn it! What does a man have to do around here to get laid!

The real problem for the poor chap is that through it all, he loves her. He loves her independence. He loves her quirky smile and the way she handles their social calendar. He loves the way she brings her woman's intuition to the decisions they make and yet can still thoughtfully consider, discuss and understand a reasoned, logical argument. He loves the way she can sense the mood changes in the kids and knows when they are about to start a fight even before they know what it is they are going to argue about.

But even more importantly, he likes that she brings out the best in him. Without her, he would have died a hermit in his dorm room at college. She brings out his good qualities in social settings and has always been by his side in his career choices. Together they weathered the storms of their early marriage, when both of their grandparents were suddenly losing their respective battles with cancer, Alzheimer's and chronic heart disease. Amidst it all, the kids were being born and they were trying to establish themselves as a family. The emotional rollercoaster had been hellacious.

And in many ways, their life now is idyllic: they both have successful careers they are happy in; the kids, despite being seven and nine, with all the mind-numbing craziness that entails, are healthy, happy and seemingly well-adjusted; for most of their marriage, they genuinely like each other and spend more time doing things with each other than they do with anybody else. Yes, in many ways, Jon is still truly, deeply in love with his bride.

But then there is this issue of sex. How did they get to this place where sex is a battleground? A power struggle over who is more indebted to the other? Who has more sexual need? Who has the upper hand and therefore the more "right" to their pleasure?

"That's fine for next steps to solving the problem with the funny noise in the van but what are we going to do about you not really getting this task done. We agreed maintaining the cars is your responsibility," she continues to press her advantage.

"Sue, cut the bullshit. What are you saying?" Generally, Jon avoids conflict -- arguments specifically -- but he is just horny enough, just angry enough, just edgy enough (as Mandy might say), to not give a damn about starting a fight, even if it means risking getting sex tonight.

"I'm just saying that there are ramifications to failing to meet your end of the bargain." She can sense the seething in him, the ominous undercurrent in his voice. It is something she isn't very familiar with. There is a darkness there that is powerful, passionate, hypnotic.

"Ramifications. Such as?" He is willing to ignore the fact that there was never any "bargain," just a demand she enforced, about him taking care of the cars (how reverse sexist is that?) and the fact that this task he supposedly failed at, was to fix a car that only she heard a "funny" noise in. If you can't demonstrate it to the mechanic, he can't fix it. No, he'll let those things go for the moment in order to get her to say explicitly what their relationship has come to.

"Oh, I think you know," she brings out the coy smile, so manipulative. "Maybe there is a thing or two you could do for me tonight to make up for it." She gives him a seductive wink to seal the deal.

"So, this is what we've come to? I owe you certain sexual favors because nobody but you hears some phantom noise in your car?" His frustration is making him rash -- bold, assertive, risky.

There it is again; the dark dangerous side of him. She is getting to him, breaking through the nice, composed exterior and glimpsing the molten passion within. She knows she is playing with fire but like a moth drawn to the flame, she cannot help herself baiting him.

"If you're going to take an attitude like that, maybe I don't feel like sex with you."

"Maybe I don't care what you feel like and I'll just chase you down and take what I want."

This is even more unfamiliar in her enlightened spouse. Chase her down? Take what he wants? How very typical brutish male. Can she get him to see how stereotypical Neanderthal testosterone led he is being? But at the same time she is shamed that the power in him, the dangerous passion lurking in his eyes, the very male-ness of his seething frustration is shamefully arousing to her. Would he really chase her down? Will he really unleash the beast and physically overpower her?

Can she provoke him to the point of releasing the beast within? Can she handle the fire without getting burned?

"If you can catch me, you can have whatever you want," she provokes him.

Anticipating his charge around the countertop that separates the open concept kitchen from the adjoining dining room, she abandons her laptop and slips nimbly from her chair toward the stairs in the front foyer. He anticipated the move, however, and instead of directly charging toward her, he is already in motion back through the kitchen to cut off her escape upstairs where she could lock herself behind any number of doors.

Heart racing, she skids to a stop and backtracks, circling back around the table as he charges back into the dining room from the foyer. She now has a clear path to the stairs by going through the kitchen with him behind her but it is a longer path. And he is faster. Damn male hunting instincts, she fumes.

Even as she races through the kitchen doorway into the foyer, she knows he is too fast for her and has run her down. She screams as he catches her around the waist at the base of the stairs and they tumble together against the front door, panting and laughing and screaming.

She has not felt this passion from him in years, the carefully scripted formula for caring, tender, considerate lovemaking has robbed them of the raw sexual energy of the chase, the capture, the victor and the vanquished. A piece of her internally mourns the loss.

"Okay, okay, you've got me. You've got me," she pants in the crumpled heap the two of them make leaned against the front door.

"I caught you. What does that mean? Say it," he demands of her.

"You get whatever you want. I am yours. You caught me fair and square," she acquiesces, watching the passion in his eyes, feeling it in his ragged breathing. The pure adrenaline of the chase makes him strong and powerful in her eyes. She could fall in love with a man such as this. Did, years ago.

"Let me up for a moment," she gasps after a second. "I need to close out that remote session at work and shut my laptop down. It'll only take a second."

"Okay. But be quick about it. I have plans for you tonight," he grins at her. This is the playful Sue that he married, that he pledged his faithfulness to, for better or for worse. This is the woman he loves, not the cold, calculating, militant feminist who manipulates their intimacy to get her way.

He climbs off her awkwardly and then offers her a hand to help her up, ever the gentleman. She gives him a shy kiss, a reward of affection for the victor from the vanquished and then steps gingerly back to the dining room towards the still glowing, still connected laptop.

"Did I shut the garage when we came home?" he asks stepping back through the kitchen the other way. He enters the mud room, opens the door into the garage to discover he had not and presses the button to activate the overhead door.

"Damn!" he growls, hearing the snap of her laptop lid and her running steps back toward the stairs. Even as he bolts back through the kitchen, he knows her head start is too great. She'll beat him to a locking door this time.

It doesn't deter him from trying however, bellowing his frustration as he goes, taking the steps two at a time to close the substantial gap between them.

Panic engulfs her as she scrambles down the short hall to the sanctuary of the guest bedroom, hearing his mad sprint through the house after her. There is something primal, instinctive and hot-blooded about the chase and sheer emotion washes over her. She glimpses his enraged, rushing form closing in on her through the rapidly slimming gap of the slamming door.

Shit, that was close; he very nearly caught you even as far behind as he was, she pants. Fuck he is fast; that was so close.

A heady mixture of triumph, relief and disappointment overwhelms her as she sinks to the floor, leaned against the locked door. Triumph at having tricked him; relief at having escaped and an unexpected twinge of disappointment at not having been caught and taught a lesson that at some point she wishes she would learn. What? Where did that come from?

Panting, sweaty and completely overrun with conflicting feelings, she simply leans against the door trembling, trying to sort through her thoughts, feelings and emotions.

"You admitted it! I caught you fair and square," he growls at the closed door.

She is disappointed and a little angry to hear the whining in his voice. A piece of her did want to get caught but she wanted to be caught by the amazingly fast, charging hunter, not this pouty little boy. She needs a minute; she has got to sort through these thoughts and feelings before facing him. "I'm not very caught right now, am I?" she taunts him.

"What a cheater! I didn't figure you for welching out."

"Aw, don't be a sore loser. Maybe I'll be down in a bit and we can work something out."

"Yeah, right," he scoffs, then the sound of him moving off.

He's beaten, she gloats. I win. But it is a hollow victory. It leaves her empty inside and wanting more. She has come through this little tiff, still with the upper hand. She is still in control and he is hornier, edgier -- than ever. He is right where I want him, right? This is where Mandy said he would be -- a little man, controlled by his libido.

It takes minutes for her heart to slow down. She finds herself pacing the small bedroom, neatly made up and homey, ready to accept an out-of-town, unexpected guest. A welcoming quilt neatly folded at the base of the immaculate bedspread, fluffed pillows ready to welcome. Her pent-up emotions from the chase are still raw on her. Her body is achy and tense and she feels like the slightest touch could launch her out of her skin. And to top it off, she is aroused. She can feel the slippery wetness of her arousal between her folds as she paces. And empty. Empty in the pit of her stomach, in the core of her being.

A vision of that bed unmade, tossed about by a torrid, passionate coupling -- pillows flung around, mattress askew -- assails her imagination. That is the way this could have ended, she laments. But just as quickly, she scolds herself, What is wrong with me? I am a woman of the 21^st century. I am not chased down by a Neanderthal, looking to thrust into any available prize he can capture.

She needs to sort this out. She needs to understand what she feels. She needs to talk to Mandy. Or Lynne! Yeah, Lynne will understand. Lynne's tumultuous relationship and divorce from Chuck surely gave her the opportunity to consider such conundrums! If Sue had her phone, she'd text her right now.

She abruptly quits her pacing and presses her ear to the door, listening for any signs of life on the other side. She hears something. A voice? But far away. She recognizes it -- the TV down below her in the family room. Sounds like a baseball game. Good God, how can he suffer through that drivel? And on this night! After very nearly catching her and having his way with her, he settles for that? I've got to go get my phone and talk with Lynne, she thinks.

Silently, she opens the door and peers out into the hall. The coast is clear. No sign of her pursuer. The announcer's voice on the remote TV is slightly louder. She is thrilled to be safe. And let-down that he gave up the chase so easily. Certainly she is worth pursuing. But she did leave him with nothing to pursue but a blank, locked door.

Silently, she takes a step into the hall. The adrenaline rush is back. She is out of her locked sanctuary -- again vulnerable, again at risk. Even though he isn't chasing her, even though he has abandoned the hunt for the mind numbing dullness of flickering images on a screen, the ages-old act of sneaking out of her safety zone into the unknown night brings the tension back. She is again alive, sexual, on edge.

Four more silent steps bring her to the top of the stairs, the rest of the house is darkened and she can see the flickering blue reflection of the television even from up here. It is remarkable how far light carries in the otherwise dark house. She can't make out actual words from the announcer at this distance but from his tone, it is obviously a boring game in a sport of boring games. No cheering from the crowd, no thrill of excitement or tension in outcome of the next play. He even sounds bored of himself.

She snickers at her mental image of her powerful hunter, who moments ago had run her down at the base of these very stairs, slinking back to his lair to nurse his wounds, the excitement of the chase giving way to the boredom of a tedious ballgame. That snicker is her undoing, a quiet sound in an otherwise silent upstairs. It reveals her position in the dark.

Even before her mind registers the sound of a predator, her instincts launch her into a retreat to the sanctuary of her safe zone. And directly into the path of her pursuer, who has circled behind into one of the kid's rooms and now closes the distance on her with alarming quickness. She is rooted to her spot in frozen terror as he bears down on her. Her mind is completely blinded in panic. And then she is once again completely his.

The once quiet house is full of screams of terror and shouts of victory as he scopes her up into his arms and throws her over a shoulder. It has been years since she has been fireman carried. Several strides later he is into the guest bedroom with his prize, kicking the door shut behind him to delay any further flight of his captured prey. He dumps her on the bed, his hands catching at the waist of her slacks, which he yanks painfully at her hips.

Throughout this she has been too overcome, too chagrined at being so easily drawn from her safe haven and captured, too stunned by the powerful, physical exhibition her normally intellectual, considerate husband is showing. She yelps as the tight fabric fails to clear her hips and she starts to rise, only to be roughly pushed back onto the bright, welcoming, cheery bedspread. She is off balance for a moment but it is enough for him to pop the button on her slacks and wrench the fabric, causing the zipper to yield.

"Jon!" she gasps, again surprised at his aggression, his physical presence.

Another yank on the pants and they clear her hips, dragging her panties askew in the process. She reaches to catch the slacks at mid-thigh but he corrals her wrists and pushes her hands back up. The weight of his body is on her, holding her down, her hands above her head. They are face to face -- flushed, panting, hot -- both flush with their exertions and their need.

It is the first time they are actually staring into each other's eyes since they got upstairs and they pause.

"Did I catch you?" It is a quiet question, even though the passion of the fight still burns within him. She can still sense the anger in him, the frustration, the adrenaline of the chase and the testosterone of the victory -- it is all there underneath the surface, a roiling, passionate, brooding darkness that is fueled by his lust. But she knows him, knows her man. This is a true question and she understands that if she says the word, he will stand down. He won't force himself on her if she truly tells him "no."