The Dance Room Brawl Ch. 02

Tom hadn't always been like this. Sam remembered when they first met. He had been a gentleman; sweet, kind, considerate. When they were dating, he had made her feel like she was the center of the universe, the only person he cared about.

There was a flicker of something behind his eyes; something dark, haunting him, something from his past maybe. But every time she thought she saw a glimpse of it, his eyes were soft again, like the shadow had never been there, and he was showering her with affection.

Since they had been married, though, the darkness had grown. Slowly his warmth cooled, and his eyes went from soft to hard. He wasn't abusive, but he was blunt, firm. She didn't like to admit it to herself, but deep down she new it was true; he was dominating her. It was subtle, and not exactly forceful, but he had stopped asking questions and started making statements. He made decisions for the both of them without asking her first. Discussions with him were short, beginning and ending when he decided, and in bed he was always on top, always running the show.

Though she had long grown accustomed to it, it was stressful, and beginning to wear her thin. She was having more trouble denying to herself that it was a problem.

The only time she ever really saw traces of his old softness was once a month, when, after a long week at work (he worked for an accounting firm, she was a graphic designer) the two dressed up and went out to the local theatre to see the ballet. It was he who had initiated the tradition, of course, but Sam didn't mind; she was relaxed at the ballet. Part of it was the graceful dancers, moving effortlessly through space, and part of it was the sensitivity it seemed to bring back out of Tom; she'd steal glances at him while he watched the dancers. His eyes were large, starry. His shoulders relaxed.

During one such outing, at an intermission in the show, Tom stood in the lobby while Sam used the bathroom. He ordered a glass of champagne from the bar and turned, sipping, when he saw something that froze him in his tracks.

There, standing not five yards away from him, in a black cocktail dress that showed off her toned, tan shoulders, long brown hair tied in a ponytail, was Rachel Marsh.

Before he knew what was happening, he was making eye contact with her. She grinned and approached him. Tom glanced around, looking for anywhere to go, but there she was, standing right in front of him.

"Hey there Tom." She looked at him, sipping her own glass of champagne.

His eyes ran down the stem of her glass and continued down her arm. Flashbacks of those arms came pouring in; squeezing the life out of him, holding him defenseless, controlling him.

Rachel smiled and raised an eyebrow. "Cat got your tongue?"

Tom felt sweat condensing on his forehead. "Rachel."

Just then, Sam appeared at his side, taking his arm.

"Who's this, Honey?"

Tom blinked, looking at his wife, who looked back at him expectantly.

Rachel extended a hand to Sam. "Rachel Marsh. Tom and I went to college together."

Sam took the hand. "Is that right? We've never seen you around!"

Rachel looked at Tom. "My husband and I have just moved into the area and are learning the ropes. I'm a dancer myself, so I had to check out the local ballet."

Sam beamed. "Oh, that's wonderful! We love the ballet, they're fantastic."

Tom was staring at Rachel's feet, cradled in sleek black heels. From her feet rose her legs, a slim bit of calf exposed before disappearing under her dress.

Legs like vice grips; they had bruised him, beaten him, trapped him.

The crowd in the lobby began to roam back into the theatre.

Rachel looked over her shoulder, "I'd better find my seat."

Sam nodded. "I guess we'd better, too. We need to catch up sometime!"

Rachel smiled at her. "That'd be wonderful! It was a pleasure to meet you, Sam." She looked at Tom. "Tom, I'll see you soon."

Her eyes cut right through him. And she knew it. He knew she knew it. This woman had owned him; defeated him, broken him.

She turned and headed back into the theatre. Tom stood staring after her. Sam tugged at his arm a little. "Should we go back in?"

Tom turned to look at her, eyes glazed. "Let's go" he said, and turned for the exit.

"What?" said Sam, swerving to keep up with him. "Is everything okay?"

He kept his stride forward, not looking at her. "I'm fine. Let's go."

In the car on the way back, Tom kept his eyes glued on the road. Sam leaned her head against the window, glancing at him occasionally. She wanted to ask him what was up, but it seemed like a closed topic of conversation.

Later that week, Sam was at the gym, using the arm station. She wore a teal sports bra, her black hair tied back in a ponytail, and her body glistened with sweat. She breathed hard, pushing herself through a set of reps, staring intensely at the empty leg machine across from her.

Finally, completing her reps, she exhaled deeply, letting her arms relax. An arm reached down with a towel and wiped off the leg machine. Looking up, Sam recognized Rachel, in a purple spandex tank top and yoga pants.

"Rachel! Hey!"

Rachel looked up. "Oh, hey! Sam, right?"

"Yeah! You gonna be using this gym?"

"I think so! Membership suits me."

They shot the breeze for a bit, then Sam brought up something that was still on her mind.

"Hey, when we saw you at the ballet, did Tom seem to be acting... strange? To you?"

"Oh yeah. Definitely."

Sam raised her eyebrows. "Why do you think that is?"

Rachel swung her legs over the machine and began her workout. "We got in a fight once in college. I kicked his ass."

Sam blinked. "Really?"

Rachel smirked. "Yep. He was begging by the time we were done."

Sam looked at the floor, considering this. "Maybe that's why he's so... domineering."

Rachel stopped her reps. "What? Domineering?"

Sam didn't respond.

"Don't put up with that. Not from him."

Sam looked at her. "That's just kind of... our relationship."

"And you're okay with it?"

"I... don't know."

"Then take control."

"How?"

"Look. There are weak people, and there are strong people. I don't mean that to be degrading... it's just like there are short people and there are tall people. Weak people don't wear the pants well. Your husband is weak."

Sam bit her lip.

"And weak people don't fall; they crumble. When Tom disrespected me, I took what I wanted from him and taught him his place."

She looked at Sam. "You look like a tough gal. If he's trying to call the shots, challenge him for supremacy."

Sam looked at the woman in front of her. She had a hard body. Sam pictured this woman handling her husband, forcing him into submission.

She felt something inside of her buzz, tingle.

She looked at her own body. She noticed that, aside from her skin being much more pale, it was very similar to Rachel's. She was no bodybuilder but she was toned, strong. She could see the outline of abs on her stomach. She had worked long and hard keeping herself in shape.

On the way home from the gym, Sam turned over her interaction with Rachel in her head. Challenging Tom was an absurd idea. But the more she let herself think about it, the more excited she got. She imagined her husband beneath her, looking desperately up into her eyes.

At home, Sam washed up and put in a few more hours of design work.

She heard Tom come in through the front door.

"Hey Honey!" she called.

He appeared at the doorway to her office.

"Hey" he said.

"How was your day?" she asked.

"It was fine. What's for dinner?"

"Oh, I hadn't thought about it."

"You mean you haven't started it?"

She looked up at him. "No. I got caught up in this work, I guess. There are some leftovers. Or I could start some pot roast in a few minutes."

He sighed heavily. "It's fine. I'll order a pizza."

He turned away.

Sam watched him leave, irked at his attitude; Why was she responsible for dinner anyway? She worked just as many hours as he did, and brought in more money, to boot.

She took notice of his figure as he walked down the hall, his back to her. She had always thought of him as an unmovable object, a rock solid house. But looking at him now, she realized a lot of that must have been his steely aggression; he was an average man, even a little on the thin side.

Sam imagined Rachel holding him against a wall, twisting his arm behind his back.

Sam quietly slipped her hand between her legs. She made a decision right then and there.

On the way back from the gym the next day, Sam went shopping for supplies.

That night in the bathroom, she slipped on a red sports bra and stared herself in the eyes at the mirror. "Go get 'em tiger" she said, then walked into the bedroom.

Tom was already in bed, in briefs and a t-shirt, tapping on his phone.

Sam let her eyes trickle over his body. There was a time when he had been more muscular.

She took a deep breath. "Babe."

"Huh?" He looked up to see her standing there in her athletic gear. He smirked. "Going back to the gym at this hour?" he asked.

"I have an idea for something that could be fun" she said, taking a step towards the bed.

"Oh? And what's that."

"Let's wrestle. You and me. And to make it interesting... whoever wins gets to be in charge in the bedroom. From now on."

Tom didn't think. Maybe it was the suppressed rage and humiliation he still felt after all those years, but the words came out of his mouth like a pre-recorded message; "you're on."

He got to his feet and stepped towards her. She held her ground.

"So how are we doing this?" he asked.

"The first to achieve a ten second pin wins. Best two of three. No punching, kicking, foul play."

She turned and began shifting furniture.

He smirked.

"Alright, sweetheart. But don't blame me if it turns out I like pinning you, and get addicted.'

She looked him in the eye.

"What did you just say to me?"

He raised his eyebrows innocently.

"Just banter. Although... If I'm in charge in the bedroom..."

She rolled her eyes, lowered herself to one knee, and held her hands up, at the ready.

Her face was serious, full of challenge. God, she looked cute. And in great shape. He was going to enjoy handling her body in a whole new way.

He lowered to his knee as well, ready to go.

She saw the twinkle of eager amusement in is eyes. She felt herself heating up; she had to wipe that look off his face. And she would.

She took a deep breath.

In a flash, he dove at her, slipping behind her and snaking his arm around her neck in a headlock. He dropped to his back, bringing her with him, and chuckled. She grunted and tugged at his arm.

He felt her struggling against him, that tight ass over his groin. He breathed heavily and put his mouth by her ear; "are you ready for anal every night?"

She gritted her teeth, reached over his arm, and slipped her hand under his wrist. She grabbed it and twisted with all her might. He let out a little yelp.

He clenched his jaw and struggled to hold his ground. A bead of sweat formed on his forehead. But her leverage was too good; he felt like his joint would pop at any second. Slowly, she peeled his arm off of her neck.

Free of the headlock, and holding tight to his wrist, she rolled off of him, flipped him onto his stomach, and twisted his arm behind his back. She exhaled through pursed lips.

"Agh, what are you doing?!" he yelled.

She slipped her arm around his neck and rolled him back over; a complete reversal of his headlock.

He grabbed her arm and tried to twist it off of him like she had, but it didn't move an inch.

"Anal every night, hm?" she bit her lip, mulling it over. "Well, if you think you can take it."

He pulled at her arm with every ounce of his strength, but he might as well have been trying to bend steel. White, glistening steel.

Gasping for breath, he started kicking, but she wrapped her legs around his and locked them down.

He was completely immobilized, and desperate for oxygen.

Finally, he tapped out, slapping her arm.

"That's sweet, dear, but we're doing pinfall, remember?"

She tightened her hold.

He was seeing stars. He slapped on her arm as fast as he could.

Finally, after a few more seconds, she released him and pushed him off of her.

He gulped air. She sat on his lap, straddling him, and reached behind her head, re-tying her ponytail.

In a moment or two, he had almost caught his breath. He started to sit up, but she put a hand on his chest and pushed him back down onto his back. She took his arms and pinned them over his head.

She looked at him.

"One... Two... Three... Four..."

He tried to lift his arms, but he was exhausted. She held them down easily.

"Five... Six... Seven..."

Avoiding her eyes, he looked down at her core. Toned and sweaty, it no longer only looked like sex to him; it looked powerful.

"Eight... Nine... Ten."

She held his arms down a moment more and took in what she had done. His face was red, wet, full of shame.

"First round's mine, Babe." She kissed him on the cheek and stood.

"Rest up. Round two in three minutes."

She went into the bathroom and ran the sink, filling a glass with water.

He raised himself onto his elbow and continued to catch his breath.

There had been a mistake. It wasn't fair and square. He hadn't expected her to be so aggressive. His own wife. She couldn't think she had actually overpowered him.

She walked back out of the bathroom sipping from the glass of water.

He could see it in the way she walked. A smugness. She thought she had beaten him. It was in her hips.

He couldn't let her keep this delusion.

"That wasn't fair."

She looked at him.

"Excuse me?"

"That wasn't fair. I wasn't really trying. You went way too hard."

She raised her eyebrows.

"Oh, is that right?"

He got to his feet.

"Yes. It is."

"Okay Baby. Do you want me to go easier this time?"

"There's no need."

He walked up to her and stared down into her eyes.

"This time, I'll be serious."

She took a sip of her water.

"Good. There's a lot at stake."

He could feel his face heating up. She didn't believe him. She wasn't even taking him seriously; she thought she was superior to him all of a sudden.

He walked to the corner of the room and started stretching.

She had leaned on him as a rock for years. He was the man. He wasn't going to let her forget that. Two more rounds; he was going to put her back in her place.

She watched his back as he stretched.

She couldn't believe it; her husband, the man who she had always seen as her protector, who had grunted his whims at her for years, was afraid of her.

Whether he'd admit it to himself or not.

There was a definite shift in energy in the room, and it made her tingle.

She watched her man prepare, flustered, for the next round of contest, and imagined all the things she could do to him, all the ways she could handle him, if she won control.

And that was starting to seem very possible.

She called out to his corner. "Hey, big guy."

She tossed her hands up. "Ready to go?"

He stared at her for a moment, then stalked over.

Without a word, they squared up, then circled; two glistening bodies in the lamplight.

Last round he had started on the offensive, and it had worked for him. He was in control at the beginning; his mistake had been taking it easy on her and letting her take the edge.

Sure, she was full of tricks (their marriage was certainly evidence of that), but he was a force of nature when he wanted to be. She couldn't stop him if he didn't let her.

He charged at her full force, and they slammed into the wall.

He grinned with satisfaction. Ever since they had applied that coat of paint, she had always nagged him about it.

Any time he rested a hand on a wall or got near with a toothbrush or glass, she would jump down his throat. And now he was pressing her sweaty back into it.

He placed his mouth by her ear, "Sorry about the wall Honey." He wrapped his arms around her, pinning hers to her sides. "Try not to whine too much."

With that, he squeezed, pouring force into a powerful bear hug.

But again he was reminded how toned she'd become; her rock hard body stayed firm in his arms.

He knew he wasn't squeezing at full power. He applied more pressure. But it crashed around her like water on a stone.

He knew he had unlimited force. He could bump it up as much as necessary. She would feel his power.

So he squeezed harder, harder, harder, until finally his strength gave way, and his grip slackened.

She placed her feet against the wall and pushed off, knocking him onto his back.

She rolled out of his grip.

He rolled to his stomach and scrambled to push himself up, but, like lightning, she was on him.

She forced his abdomen back to the floor and ground it into the carpet with her bottom as she draped his arms over her knees.

She locked her hands under his chin and pulled his head up to her chest in a camel clutch.

"It's okay Honey, I don't need to whine. I know you're sorry about the wall."

She felt his legs behind her kicking at the carpet, searching for traction. A wave of satisfaction washed over her.

"You can whine if you want to. You can scream for me."

Her mocking tone was too much for him. He kicked and bucked as hard as he could, but she had him locked tight in place; his stomach pinned to the ground beneath her tight ass, his arms clenched by her hard thighs, his head held in her elegant but firm hands.

He suddenly felt panic. He was trapped, in her control.

She slowly applied pressure to his chin, pulling up on his neck and bringing his chest with it. Pain shot through his muscles, his bones felt like they might crack, and it was getting worse by the second.

She smiled to herself, a small, closed-lip smile, and leaned in. She put her mouth to his ear.

"Scream."

Hey obeyed, releasing a shrill, hoarse cry of pain and fear that he had only barely been containing. It filled the space, their private bedroom, and rung in both of their ears.

She grinned and released him from the hold, letting him drop to the floor.

His harshly tested body felt fragile, his muscles limp, but he knew he only had a split second to react. It might be his last chance to take control, and with all the shame that was now coursing through him, he had to show her his power.

As quickly as he could, her rolled to his side. But as if by magic, her legs were already wrapped around him. She flipped him onto his back and crossed her ankles, stretching out her legs and squeezing his stomach between her thighs.

She propped herself up on her elbow and watched him struggle against her legs, waiting for the moment when he would realize he was finished.

As a searing, throbbing ache spread over his body, and he felt his oxygen supply begin to deplete, he pulled at her thighs with all his remaining might. He had to break loose, to turn this around somehow. He wouldn't... couldn't allow himself to be conquered by this woman. But again, her body proved to be an immovable object. Deeper and deeper he tried to wedge his fingers between her leg and his stomach, groping for traction, only for his hands to slip away, useless. How could this be?

She felt every ounce of his strength and energy resisting her, struggling for freedom. Suddenly she felt an undeniable urge; she had to see, to own the moment that he finally gave in to her. She reached out a hand, took his chin, and turned his red, sweating face towards hers.

"Look at me." She said, and stared deep into his eyes.

Images began rocketing through Tom's mind, Rachel's tan, sinewy body subduing his own in that mirrored dance room so many years ago, his bride, Sam, standing in front of him at the outdoor altar on their wedding day, pale and dainty in that beautiful white dress, looking up at him with total love and admiration.