"Phwoor, look at that lovely leotard!" declared Linda, as she and her husband, Graham, walked past a ladies’ clothes shop one Friday evening, after it had shut. "A nice, soft grey, just right for me! That’ll be great for aerobics!"

"True, you do aerobics nearly every evening, but you must have about 790 leotards. Do you really need so many?" Graham answered her wearily. "Anyway, look at the price of it! The last one you bought cost you $20, you said, and it turned out to be 3 times that amount. Why did you lie to me?"

"All women do," Linda defended herself (with some justification).

"No, you’re not buying another leotard, and that’s that," he concluded, he thought, masterfully.

Linda said nothing, but determined to slip out the next morning while he was in the garden and buy it. He would find out, of course, but the way she felt she thought the sooner the better. It was time for the confrontation they had been heading for. She was admiring herself in it in front of the long mirror, when Graham came into the room, having showered.

"You’ve bought that leotard," he told her mechanically.

"That’s right, it’s great!" she answered. "Look, I can throw a punch with ease in it!"

"Throw a punch?" Graham asked, puzzled, "Who do you intend to fight?"

"You," she answered, facing him and raising her fists. "You tell me I can’t buy this or do that too often. I’m not having it anymore. Fighting is the only way to settle it."

"Normally you talk a lot of rubbish," Graham told her. "But on this I agree with you. Let’s go outside."

"I do what I like, when I like," Linda told him once they were outside, standing a little taller than him. "I buy what I want, when I want, right?"

"Wrong," Graham answered. "It’s about time I put you in your place – ow!" Linda’s left fist uppercutting his chin interrupted him. It did more than that, in fact – it astonished him. He had never thought of his wife fighting before … ah, shit! She got him high up in the stomach with her right. God, that hurt!

She was giving him no time to defend himself, let alone counterattack, as she hooked him in the eye with her left. As Graham’s head spun away from her fist, he could feel the skin around his eye tightening. How the hell was he going to explain a black eye at the golf club? At the moment, though, that was the least of his worries. 

"Come on," Linda hissed at him. Oh well, since she was inviting him to take a shot, he swung with his left fist; but with a deft little movement, she arched her body out of its path. Where on earth had she learnt to do that?

Okay, enough of the games. If she wanted to play rough, he would give it back to her, and he fired a right at her, dead straight. His whole body jarred as she deflected it with her left arm, like a warship being rammed amidships.

"My turn, you bastard," she whispered, attacking his jaw with her right. She was fighting like the yobs you cross the road to avoid outside a pub on a Saturday night, but with more skill, timing and footwork. Was it really just aerobics she spent so much time at in the evenings?

But now wasn’t the time for such thoughts, as she nipped a nasty one in from the side on the same jaw with her left. This was desperate. His wife was beating the crap out of him. The more she seemed to score, the greedier she got for more strikes to his face and body. 

But now she was urging him to fight back, insulting him to goad him into hitting her – or to attempt to. Oh, we were getting the whole lot now, weren’t we just? His poor sexual performance, the inadequate size of his cock …

"Fucking bitch!" Graham shouted, throwing a right hook – and following it round when it missed. 

"You’ve got more chance of getting an erection than you have of hitting me!" she taunted.

"Then you shouldn’t be so frigid!" Graham shouted back, despairingly throwing his left fist past her right shoulder.

"Bastard!" she hissed again, karate chopping him upwards under the chin. Graham grimaced with the pain, but had no more time to absorb it, because she was in at him with her right, low in the stomach. He groaned. Despite himself, he folded around her fist, trying hard to come to terms with the waves of pain that her strong right arm had inflicted upon him. 

That last punch of Linda’s rendered him temporarily out of action, so she was able to help herself. She had time to choose her target and chose it well. Her left fist cracked him under the chin, and soared into the air in a spectacular follow through that deserved to have an audience of thousands. She had put her husband down!

Graham landed on his backside. It would have been comical if the moment had not been of high drama to both of them. There were no Queensberry rules about this fight, and straight away she was on him, fists flying, to take advantage of his fall. Standing over his shoulders, she struck him a glancing blow to his eye with her left fist. Then she put him in a standing head scissor and twisted his neck. 

Letting him go, she contemptuously brought him down with a kick to the small of the back. But, eager for the fight to progress, she woman handled him back up, placed him where she wanted him, then sent her right fist roaring into his chest. She was metaphorically "on fire"; but his chest felt as if it was literally on fire.

Linda’s fury seemed to intensify with every blow she struck. She sent her husband staggering with a glorious left cross to his chin. As he was on rising ground, she got him from underneath. At full stretch, she represented the epitome of perfect womanhood. Her body had the classical female profile: round, shapely breasts, narrow waist, curving hips and bottom, and long, shapely legs. She was at once beautiful, dominant and ferocious.

She sent Graham a bit further up that rising ground with a right uppercut, angled in. He almost hit the fence behind him, as if he was in danger of ending up on the ropes in a ring. 

Graham decided to use that rising ground to his advantage and swung a left hook. But, maddeningly for him, she always seemed able to anticipate what he was going to do and turn it to her advantage. Not only did he miss, but her left fist struck him in exactly the same place on his chest that her right fist had recently damaged. It was as if corrosive acid now replaced the previous fire. 

The fight had taken on a different mood. Gone were the taunts and curses. Both antagonists were panting with the effort, adrenaline coursing through their veins. Linda, knowing where to inflict the maximum harm, got Graham with a scorcher of a punch into his kidney, really digging it in deep.

There was a touch of desperation in his response. He struck out wildly with his right; she batted it away with her right arm, ducked down, and plunged her left fist lower still into his stomach. Graham let out a roar of pain, which she noted as a major advantage scored.

She had worn him down with body blows: three nasty ones in quick succession. It was time to leave her mark on his face – to give him something to remind him later on never to tell her again what she could or could not spend her money on. 

The young lady in the fetching, gentle grey leotard punched her husband on the chin. If anything betrayed the fact that she spent most evenings secretly learning to box rather than doing aerobics, it was that right cross. With her left fist held beside her face in the approved defensive stance, she let him have it with her right. Any boxer would have been pleased with the result – another cry of pain from Graham, coupled with his near-collapse. 

Taking advantage of his disorientation, she sliced her left fist under his right arm, in at his jaw.  He was failing. So Linda increased the tempo, sensing victory. She got him on the opposite jaw with her right. He blundered about, punch-drunk now.

"I’ve wanted to do this for a long time," she thought privately, before helping herself – or rather her right knee – to his balls. Graham seemed to become a weird, grotesque, one-man chorus of gasps, sighs, groans and moans, and he dropped down onto his back, writhing in pain.

Linda didn’t let up. She knelt astride her husband and set about him with her fists, first catching him on his left ear. Settling down more comfortably, now sitting on his naked cock, she watched with satisfaction as his head swung violently to the side following her punch. 

She sent it back the other way with her left. Each punch, while bad enough in itself, caused her body to vibrate – especially her bottom against his cock. Was it deliberate? Of course it was! Above him he saw the delightful globes of her breasts, swinging with every punch. He tried to prize her off; but that entailed grabbing that lovely bottom of hers, which only added to the arousal she was bringing about.

"At last! You’ve got an erection!" she declared triumphantly. "Every time I want sex, I’ll know I have to beat you up first!" she crowed. "Shall we start off with once a week?"

With her last punch, to his left eye (giving him two black eyes to explain away at the golf club), she ground her sex against his cock. It was too much. The excitement of the fight confused itself with sexual excitement, and he came.

"YES!" Linda cheered, while her husband passed out, spent in every way, underneath her.

She posed over him for her own satisfaction, then went indoors. Back in front of the long mirror again, she admired herself in her new leotard. From now on, she would call it her fighting leotard. Flexing and enjoying the profile in the mirror, she murmured a paraphrase of the old rhyme:

"Mirror, mirror on the wall, who is the biggest loser of all?"