All relationships are about power (PG-13)

A story inspired by the great session wrestler Robin "Suzie" Johnson...



All Relationships Are About Power

“All relationships are about power,” she said. I
gritted my teeth, silently willing Dr. Johnson to shut
her pretty lips, but she continued. “In any
relationship, one person will control the other,
whether by force of will or physical force. Now
Kristie, in your story here, which character is going
to come out on top, Tori or Frank?”

I felt sorry for Kristie. A fellow student in this
graduate creative writing class, Kristie was having to
undergo the agony of having Dr. Johnson dissect her
latest short story in front of the entire room. Like
most of the students in this night class, Kristie was
a twenty-two year-old grad student, and she didn’t
seem equipped to take the scrutiny. I was the oddball,
an established teacher at a local high school who was
taking the course simply to improve my own writing.
Unfortunately, though, instead of developing my
writing I was only developing a hatred of the young
blonde professor, Dr. Johnson.

Kristie hesitated, unwilling to change either of her
characters, but Dr. Johnson didn’t let up her
onslaught. “Really, Kristie, do you think anyone wants
to read a story about two people who actually love
each other, share everything, and have no conflicts?
That’s pretty unrealistic, don’t you think?”

“I’d like to read about that,” I said, causing all
eyes to shoot in my direction. “I think we need more
stories with couples who share instead of fight.” I
could sense the other students tensing up,
anticipating a verbal battle. Kristie breathed deeply,
glad that I would now be the target instead of her.

Dr. Johnson’s eyes narrowed and her red lips pursed as
she examined me in the way that she might consider a
cockroach on the floor. I hated her. Despite her
beauty (her creamy smooth skin was accentuated by full
lips and silky, blonde hair) and youth (at 28, she was
the youngest tenured faculty member in the English
department), she had a reputation for being more
brutal on her students than the most traditional
balding middle-aged male professor. Half her students
didn’t even pass, and very few received A’s. A petite
woman, she wore clothes that showed off her trim,
athletic body; tonight she was wearing a flower-print
sundress that revealed her perky breasts and sinewy
thighs and calves. But nothing could reveal to a
casual observer her vicious streak, nothing except
being on the receiving end of one of her tirades. And
now she was about to unload on me.

“Oh, I see, Matt. Because you teach high school
English you know everything there is to know about
character development, right?” She didn’t wait for me
to answer. Instead she stood up and padded over to my
desk. The slap of her sandals on the hard floor
reverberated in the silent room. I drew back in my
chair involuntarily as she put her hands down, her red
nails on my notepad, and leaned over, showing me
cleavage if I had had the guts to look. “Do you think
you know more about writing than I do?”

“I know more about the world than you do,” I
responded, but not nearly as forcefully as I would
have liked. I felt my face burning, my pulse beating,
my palms sweating. I tried to meet her paralyzing
gaze. Within seconds I was staring down at her slender
hands.

When my head dropped, Dr. Johnson threw her head back
and laughed, truly finding something funny.
Straightening up, she tousled my hair and walked back
to the middle of the room. The faces around the circle
were confused. A few laughed with her, uncertainly.

“Come on, people, lighten up. Who was drawn into that
little drama? Who was on the edge of their seats,
wondering what would happen in that conflict? Would
Matt come out on top? Or would I crush him? I was just
acting to make a point. Conflict and power struggles
are the way of the world, and in a piece of writing
they generate interest.”

Everyone but me breathed more freely, and several of
the students wrote notes furiously. She had made her
point, and made it well. But she made it at my
expense, and I was still furious. I still hated her. I
wished I had never signed up to take this course.
After all, I didn’t need it. I’d been teaching for
years, and I didn’t need some arrogant woman ten years
my junior to tell me how to write or to manipulate me
like that. She actually tousled my hair, the way you
would a child’s. I didn’t need that.

When the class ended I strode toward the door
resolving never to return. I’d never have to see that
little bitch again. Needless to say, I was surprised
and angry when she met me at the doorway, blocking my
path.

“Oh, don’t give me that look,” she said, seeing the
contempt on my face. “I was just acting to make a
point. Don’t take everything so seriously.” She
smiled, a warm, rich smile that bespoke genuine
friendship, and I softened my stance in spite of
myself. “Look,” she said, suddenly playful and
completely unlike her normal rigid persona, “why don’t
I cook you dinner tonight to make up for it?”

I was stunned. Seconds ago I had rejoiced in my
decision never to see Dr. Johnson again, and now she
was offering to make me dinner. She giggled at my
confusion. “Please, let me make you some pasta. I owe
it to you.” Her dimples outweighed my better judgment,
and in ten minutes we were in her car, heading to my
apartment.

If her class was hell, then conversation with her now
was heaven. No longer was she Dr. Johnson, but Robin.
She was charming, curious, respectful. She was also a
good cook. But underneath it all, there was still and
undercurrent, one which rose to the surface as we
washed the dishes together.

“I can tell you’re still annoyed about my comments in
class,” she said.

At first I thought to deny it, but decided to go ahead
and let my feelings out. “Yeah, I am. Mainly I just
don’t think that one person has to be in control of
another. I think people can be partners.”

“Oh, don’t be naïve. One person is always in control.”

“All right. Take us. We don’t have a relationship, any
attachment, so neither one of us is in control,” I
said. “That’s where you’re wrong,” she said, smiling.
“I’m in control.”

“Come on,” I argued. “Maybe you guide the
conversation, and you give grades in class, but right
now we are just two people talking.”

“Do I need to prove it?” she asked.

“How on earth would you prove it?”

“I’ll make you say it,” she said.

“You might be smart, a super-professor, but you can’t
outwit me into saying that.”

She giggled. “Ok, I won’t outwit you. I’ll overpower
you, if that’s what it takes.”

I stepped to meet her toe to toe and looked down at
her. We both laughed. I was six inches taller, at
least fifty pounds heavier. She knew that I ran every
day, swam three times a week, competed in triathlons
and other endurance events. But even though we were
laughing, she wasn’t backing down.

“All right,” I said finally. “Let’s go to the living
room where we have some space.” As she skipped ahead
of me, I wondered what was going on. Was she making
some kind of play for me? Was this her way of making a
pass?

When we got into the living room she pushed my coffee
table to the side and turned to face me. She extended
her hands, fingers spread, inviting me to a game of
“Mercy.” I shook my head in disbelief at this
challenge, and she shrugged sheepishly.

We locked fingers and began to test one another. Her
hands were warm and firm, and her thin fingers
stronger than I would have ever imagined. Even so, I
was stronger, and my size gave me an edge in leverage;
soon I was bending her wrists backward. Abruptly she
reversed our hands, spinning hers upside down, and in
doing so she was able to bend my wrists back and force
them upward. I yelped and rose to my toes to try to
escape the pain. But I ignored her taunts and slowly
managed to regain the edge, forcing her wrists back.
Her thin fingers bit into mine, her red nails dug into
the backs of my hands, but my strength was prevailing.
Our hands were sweating. Robin was no longer smiling;
now her teeth were clenched and the small, feminine
muscles in her bare arms were popping out. But I
continued to push her back.

Without warning, she slipped her right hand out of my
grasp and darted behind me, still maintaining her grip
on the fingers of my right hand. With a jerk she
wrapped my right arm across my neck and pushed me
forward from behind.

“That’s not fair,” I gagged.

“We don’t have any rules,” she hissed in my ear as she
forced me into a kneeling position. I found myself on
my knees, my head and shoulder on the cushions of my
sofa. Robin was straddling my lower back, forcing my
face into the cushions with one hand and pulling my
right arm tightly around my neck with her other hand.
She straddled my lower back, preventing me from
backing up or bucking her off. I squirmed and grunted
but couldn’t dislodge her.

“Who is in control?” she asked sweetly, her moist
breath tickling my ear. I refused to answer, bucking
instead in vain. She jerked my arm again and began to
cut off both my air and blood flow–humiliatingly–with
my own arm.

Using my left arm I tried to push away from the sofa.
Robin anticipated this move and released my head and
grabbed my left wrist. With a quick twist she had me
in a hammerlock. Now I completely immobile. I squealed
in spite of myself, whimpering in pain. “Big strong
man, big athlete…who is in control?” she asked in the
tone of voice a kindergarten teacher asks whether a
child would like to use the restroom.

After a minute, when it was far past obvious that I
couldn’t escape, Robin released me and stepped away. I
slowly turned and rose to my feet, massaging my arm
where she had twisted it behind my back.

“Who is in control?” she asked.

“You’ll never make me say it,” I spat.

“Oh, a little grumpy, aren’t we?” she said, her voice
wet with condescension. I was furious… and aroused.
She smiled, clearly aroused also. She began to step
out of her dress, showing a skimpy cotton bra and
panties underneath, and I stripped off my shirt. Her
smile remained but it was tempered with determination.
She knew that I wasn’t going to be a pushover. We
circled each other warily, and without talking we
understood each other: neither one of us was going to
roll over and be submissive. The winner would prevail
only through force, not by acquiescence.

She moved toward me and I tackled her, hard. Robin
grunted and tried to slide away but I quickly
straddled her hard stomach and secured both her
wrists. I wasn’t taking anything for granted this
time. My male size and strength were too much, and I
stretched her arms out to her sides, pulling them as
far as I could. She kicked her legs fruitlessly and
grimaced. I had her pinned beneath me. Her hair spread
out from her face like the corona of the sun. Despite
her anger, she was beautiful as she struggled
underneath me. “Who is in control?” I asked.

“OK,” she said at last as I looked straight down at
her. “You’ve got me pinned. But I can stay here all
night. You can’t make me give up.” A smug smile
crossed her lips. So I rose up a foot off her and then
smashed my butt down onto her stomach. She grunted as
the air shot out of her. I bounced again and again.
She was near tears, seemingly helpless.

“Who is in control?” I asked, feeling good, knowing
that I was in control. She didn’t answer, so I rose up
to splash her again.

In the split second I lifted off her, Robin managed to
pull her knees to her chest, blocking my splash.
Suddenly I was no longer straddling her. Now we were
rolling around the carpet, each struggling for
control. I managed to force her arms to the floor but
couldn’t control her legs, and she flipped me off.
Again and again the same scenario: as soon as I seemed
to pin her, she struggled and bucked and somehow
bucked me off. Minutes went by, then ten minutes. We
knocked the coffee table over. Books and magazines
were strewn across the floor. A lamp fell.

Eventually I found myself behind her, holding her in a
full nelson flat on the floor. I was exhausted,
holding on with the last of my strength while she
struggled beneath me. Our wrestling match had drained
me of everything. Sweat ran off my body onto hers. Her
hair, wet with perspiration, stuck to my face. She
tried to reverse head butt me but I kept my nose and
mouth out of harm’s way. My crotch drove down on her
rear end, and I could tell this infuriated her. “Who
is in control?” I asked her, my voice pleading her to
give up.

“I am,” she replied. As she spoke she reached behind
her head and clawed at my hands which were locked
together, securing the full nelson. She managed to
seize the fingers of my right hand and slowly but
surely pull it away. I fought gamely but couldn’t
match her strength or determination. Then she did the
same with my left. Suddenly she was out of my hold and
on her feet.

I had barely risen to my knees before she circled
behind me and shoved me to the floor. My reactions
were in slow motion. She grabbed my wrists and pulled,
while planting her foot in between my shoulder blades.
I heard her laugh as she yanked, two, three times.
When she release my arms they fell limply to the
floor.

Robin rolled me over and I could barely struggle as
she pinned me easily, crossing my wrists and holding
them to the floor above my head, then squeezing my
arms tightly to the side of my head with her milky
white thighs. She grinned like a schoolgirl as she
reached down with her slim fingers and pinched my nose
and covered my mouth. I could barely hear her asking
me a question as I kicked my legs feebly: “Who is in
control?”

I wanted to tell her she was in control. I wanted to
give up. But the tunnel vision had begun, with
everything around the edge of my sight becoming black.
My last memory was of her red, glistening lips
taunting me.

It must have been only a few minutes later when I
awoke. She was dragging me by the feet down my own
hallway, making horrible rug burns on my back. I tried
to grab at a doorway to stop her, but found that my
hands were bound with my own belt. She had stripped me
completely, and gagged me with my own underwear. I was
completely at her mercy…it was like a cavewoman
dragging a caveman back to her lair after conquering
him in battle.

Robin dragged me into my own bedroom and stood over
me. I tried to roll over, tried to get away. Her small
foot, petite, with perfectly polished red toenails,
was inches from my face. She used it to roll me to my
back again and then planted her foot on my throat. My
efforts to get away were was mild as a newborn
kitten’s efforts to escape a bear…nevermind the fact
that she resembled the kitten and I the bear.

“Who is in control?” she asked. I couldn’t answer
because her foot on my throat cut off my speech. She
giggled, then released me. Reaching down, she pulled
me to my feet by my hair and marched me in front of my
mirror. She yanked my head back and forced me to
stare. I saw bruises and abrasions all over my face
and body. Her face, still beautiful, glowed with sweat
and victory. She dug her red nails into my neck and I
winced and whimpered.

“Who is in control?” she asked.

“You are! Robin is!” I cried.

“God, I love teaching,” she said. When she let me go I
dropped to the floor at her sexy feet. I was broken,
and in love.