Updated 22/07/2018 as I published the penultimate draft (Entirely my fault and not my proof reader, Sorry.). Originally I put in under 'Loving Wife' but many claimed it should be elsewhere, so this time it is going into 'Erotic Coupling'.
This one contains a variety of subjects including submission, domination, lesbianism and a threesome.
*
It started from an argument, and I never would have thought it could change my life so dramatically.
It was only a few months before my wedding and as far as I could see my fiancé had done nothing towards the arrangements. Added to that we had just gone through a Christmas where she'd not lifted a finger. I'd done all the shopping and cooking, even buying the gifts for her family. Normally, I go out of my way to avoid arguments, but this was too much. I'd come home from work on a Friday night to find her with her feet up, engrossed in her tablet and with last night dishes untouched lying all around. So, I let rip and once I'd started I kept going. Venting what felt like years of accumulated petty frustrations.
Donna looked stunned. Amazingly all of this had completely passed her by. She'd never even thought about any of it. She blustered and prevaricated, even going as far as to threaten to go and stay with her mother. The pair doesn't get on, so I called her bluff. As she huffily threw some clothes into a bag, I tossed in the nuclear option. At this stage, I no longer cared. Why would I think we should go through with our marriage if she behaves like that now? She looked stunned, but I just stormed off.
I went to the pub to get drunk, getting even more booze on the way home. The house was empty and I took the opportunity to watch whatever I wanted on the TV. Naturally this includes movies with lots of explosions and naked women. I especially enjoy spreading out across the whole the bed, instead of being trapped to about a third because of all her damn pillows. The enjoyment lasted only until the hangover kicked in next morning. I lay in bed pondering that despite how infuriating she can be; I still love her.
She calls me mid-morning, saying how she's been talking to her mother and she admits we both need to try harder in our relationship. This gets my back up, it's like she was only conceding to being part of the problem and not its root cause. I'm determined I'm not going to back down. When Donna suggested we go to see a couple's councillor, I shock her by not automatically agreeing, for once.
"Why would I want to go to see one of those? Have a stranger prying into our non-existent sex life? 'Oh David, you must give up looking at internet porn.'" I finish in a mock woman's voice. "Why would I want to give up virtually the only release I get?" I can tell my reply surprises Donna. We rarely talk about our limited sex life and it seems to scupper her planned conciliatory speech. Pausing for a moment, she suggests something else.
"How about Monica? She used to be a therapist in California..." The image of Monica came to mind. Brash and larger than life, a friend from the time Donna lived in the states. She'd run some sort of hippy therapy retreat, probably with crystals and chanting, but had run up debts and left the country in a hurry. There is something about her I don't like. Not that I have anything against lesbians, but there was always something about how she looked at Donna that made me think there was more interest in my fiancé than simple friendship. I might just be a little over sensitive about it. Or it could simply be that Donna was the last old friend she kept in touch with.
"Why do you think I'd be any happier being looked down upon by your oldest friend as she lists my inadequacies?" I hung up. Childish I know, but also satisfying.
I decided to make the most of the time by myself and get out of the house, so dig out my fishing gear. A couple of hours fishing off the breakwater would be a welcome change.
Walking along the harbour, a voice called out to me from a small boat below. It was Monica.
"Hey David! How you doing? Belated Merry Christmas! How's Donna?" I just shrugged and wondered if this is a setup, until she adds. "I've not talked to her in months. I really must make an effort and call her. Do you fancy coming out on the boat?" She looks away as she starts the engine. "It's my father's boat and he expects me to turn the engine over and take her out to check she's seaworthy every so often. You stand a better chance catching something further out, than off the breakwater. It can only be for an hour or so as I need to get back before the tide goes all the way out."
Without waiting for a response, she manoeuvres the boat below the next ladder. She has more skills with the boat than I'd expect. Somehow I find myself climbing down the ladder and sitting on the side of the boat as we putter from the harbour mouth. Monica looks over her shoulder at me.
"You and Donna had an argument?"
"Yes, but I don't want to talk about it." I glance back at the harbour entrance only about 30 foot away and wonder if I should just throw myself overboard and swim back, rather than suffer an hour of unwanted therapy.
"OK. Not my business." That was the last thing I expect her to say. "Can you take the helm a moment?" There is a little swell, so she cannot release the wheel until I have a firm grip. She squeezes past, and I try to ignore the press of her yoga toned backside and it brushes against my thigh. She may be ten years older than Donna, but years of yoga and healthy eating left her slim and fit. If I saw her on the street, and didn't know her, I could find her attractive. Sexy even. That thought worries me. Is it a sign I've already given up on Donna and I'm subconsciously moving on?
Monica opens a locker and pulled out a bottle of whisky and two shot glasses. Noticing it is my favourite malt, again I start to think this is a setup until I notice how weathered the label is. It must have been on this boat for months.
"It's a habit I got from my father. Even when I was small every time he took me out on a boat we'd have a tot to keep out the cold. Care to join me?" Without waiting she puts the bottle under an arm and uses the hem of her shirt to wipe out the glasses. It's hard not to notice the flash of the smooth flesh of her abdomen. Pouring out the whisky she hands one over and snaps her glass back in one. A blasphemous way to treat such a fine liqueur. I sip mine to savour it.
We sail about a mile from the coast before she kills the engine.
"I've some fishing gear here somewhere, if you'll share your bait?" She pays for it by refilling my glass and downing another herself.
