FreeCatFights
General Category => Catfight , Boxing & Wrestling Stories => Catfighting => Topic started by: sinclairfan on October 29, 2017, 10:18:40 AM
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9TH GRADE ORIENTATION
Hello, ladies and gents. My name is Barbara, but except on legal documents, I almost never use the full name. I've always just gone by Barb, so that's the name I'll be using in this story. I have straight blonde hair, am fit and thin, and tall. As in over six feet tall. Six foot three, to be exact. I definitely stand out in a crowd.
When I was a teenager, it was horribly awkward. I played basketball, and do you want to know why? Just to avoid having to answer the question, "Why don't you play basketball?" five times a day. Ok, that's a bit of an exaggeration. But not much. I learned to rebound and block shots pretty well, but never did develop a jump shot which was at all effective. So, my biggest fear, standing out and not fitting in, haunted me even in the one place where other tall girls often find refuge--in athletics. I was also born about a decade too early. Nowadays, the 6-foot-plus girls excel in volleyball, which I love. But in my high school, in Massachusetts, in my generation, class of 1994, girls Volleyball wasn't offered as a sport. So I sucked it up, played 4 years of mediocre high school basketball, and got as far away from my hometown as I could. I went to the University of Nebraska, to study accounting.
I went to college running away from my teenage awkwardness, but I had accidentally stumbled into the best situation for me, for two reasons. The first reason was college football. Tom Osborne was at the peak of his coaching career, and won National Champioships my freshman year in 1994 and my senior year in 1997. I'll never forget making the trip to Miami for New Year's 1995 to watch us win in the Orange Bowl. I have so many memories from those falls in Lincoln, wearing red, and cheering for the Huskers. Part of the joy was genuine, but part was a manifestation of my awkwardness. I enjoyed those football Saturdays, partly, because I could lose myself in a crowd. Even though my head was above most people in the crowd, I stood out, but not too much. And even if someone did a double take and stared, it wasn't in an awkward way. I blended in, sort of, and that was good enough.
The second unintentional reason college turned out to be a good fit was that I had found one of the places in the country where people genuinely go to college to meet a spouse. Especially in 1997-1998, you could see the anxiety setting in with coeds who hadn't found a serious boyfriend yet. Proposals started happening fast and furious the winter and spring leading up to graduation, and a sizable chunk of the girls getting diplomas on a sunny May afternoon in 1998 had engagement rings on. I know, because I was one of them.
Even though I loved Ron, my fiance and later my husband, I got married for the wrong reason. I got married out of fear. Fear of going into the real world and dating. Because of my height. I had an exaggerated fear that men only want to date a woman shorter than them, which meant less than 3% of men would even flirt with me. My 41 year old self, today, can recognize that rule to be partially true, but only partially. When you're 22, you can't properly weigh risks and opportunities when it comes to dating, so you make the wrong choices. Marrying Ron, a 5'10" guy willing to pair up with a woman 5 inches taller than himself, was a sub-optimal choice.
Don't get me wrong--the first 5 years of my marriage with Ron was amazing. At the time, Nicole Kidman was married to Tom Cruise, and there were pictures all over magazines and TV of her towering over him, both of them smiling and clearly in love. Those images let me finally shed my awkwardness, outside of the bedroom and in, and Ron loved every inch of the new me. We got married, moved to Chicago, had a great support network of Nebraska alums to get us grounded, and I got a great job (I thought--more on that later) at Arthur Andersen. I decided to become a CFA instead of a CPA, and began passing exams. We were a bit surprised, but not in a bad way, when a baby, a son, came in 1999. But since I was making way more money than Ron, I went back to work right away, and Ron took care of our infant son.
I said my preganancy was just "a bit" surprising because even though Ron and I were using condoms, we were having a lot of sex. I'm talking, three times a day, 21 times a week. We were obsessed. And so it was just a matter of time till one of the condoms didn't work. I got smart after that and got on the pill. But Ron's and my sex life was highly satisfying--we were very compatible in that area. Very. It felt too good to be true, that it must end soon--and it did.
In 2002, Arthur Andersen blew up. We were the auditors for Enron, one of the biggest financial frauds in history. They went down, and took us with them. 99% of Andersen's employees were fired. I was young enough to land on my feet in another job at a bank, but the whole experience was unsettling. Our son headed to preschool, and suddenly Ron being at home felt like he was freeloading off of me, instead of doing me a favor. Our three-a-day sex pace proved unsustainable, and even though at one a day we were doing better than our other married friends, there was a "the thrill is gone" stench in our downtown apartment.
Ah, downtown. Those of you that have lived in Chicagoland know that downtown is all well and good when you don't have kids--the shows, the food, the bars. But as kindegarten approaches, you buy a house in the suburbs. It's just part of the cycle of life. In the spring of 2004, Ron and I found a place in Woodstock, the deep, deep, Northwest suburbs. Still on the Metra line, which I would take into the city everyday, while Ron supervised the kindegarten career of our son. The farmy surroundings also reminded Ron of his Nebraska roots. Things got a little bit better, until they got worse.
The long commute, 105 minutes both ways everyday, was very difficult on me. I was missing out on the childhood of our son, who was asleep when I left for work in the morning and by the time I got home at night. We were together as a family on weekends, but rarely ate a meal as a family all week. I was lonely. But my salary kept growing, and we needed the money. So we kept doing what we were doing.
While in the office in the city, I reconnected with some Nebraska alumni--we'd have coffee together at Starbucks or lunch at Chipotle. One day in spring 2009, when our son was in 4th grade, they introduced me to the world of Facebook. They showed me how to connect with friends. And then how to "spy" on people. They asked me if I wanted to spy on Ron. "But he's not on Facebook," I chirped. Boy, did I look like an ass. "Yes, he is. Look," I was told.
That bastard. An entire Facebook profile. With 55 "friends". 45 of them women. It was the "being on Facebook" which infuriated me. It was the "not telling me" part.
Hell ya, show me how you spy on someone.
Those of you who have found a spouse secretly on Facebook already know how this ends. I just need to fill in the details. One of his "friends" was an old Nebraska high school classmate of his named Colleen. I had tucked Colleen away in a little drawer in my brain for two reasons. The first was that in Ron's high school yearbook, Colleen had written a simple message--"3/14/92", which clearly implied they had done something memorably intimate on that day. The second was that Colleen was one of the very few of his high school classmates not to attend our wedding or at least send us a bridal, then baby, gift. I had a funny feeling Colleen would come up somehow someday, and now in 2009 she had.
My friends taught me how to snoop on Facebook. It took some work--Colleen had hidden herself pretty well--but I cracked the case of where Colleen was now living.
Shit.
In Woodstock, Illinois.
And she's divorced.
I did what any jealous wife would do. The next morning, instead of driving to the train station, I drove to Colleen's address. I waited until it looked like there was activity in the house. I walked up to the front door and knocked.
"Do you know who I am? And why I'm here?"
<<<<Guilty, 'oh shit' look on Colleen's face. Colleen is taller than she looked in the yearbook, and on Facebook--5'10" maybe 5'11". I'm glad--what I'm about to do isn't picking on someone too much smaller than me.>>>
"Yes. Hello, Barb. Come in--we should talk."
I go in. We shut the door. "I didn't come here to talk." I've never done anything like this, and yet it feels totally natural.
"I see. Does Ron know you're here?"
"Nope. Nobody does. Why?" <<<<<Shit, I shouldn't have told her that. What if she has a gun?
"Just curious. So, how do you want to do this?"
"You tell me. Didn't you think I'd find out? Didn't you know it would come to this?" <<<<I can feel my heart pounding.>>>
"I should warn you. I love him. I'm not afraid to do this."
"Neither. Am. I."
To be continued......
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BARB VS COLLEEN
As I stared down Colleen, I already knew my marriage was over. This wasn't a one-time impulsive slip-up by Ron--it was actually moving a high school flame 700 miles to be with her. Having been with Ron during multiple-times-per-day fucking binges, I knew that he and Colleen were having lots and lots of sex while I was on the train and in the big city. As a CFA and the breadwinner in a family with a child, I also knew I had the right to impose post-divorce obligations on Ron. But I needed Colleen out of the picture. If our son was destined to have a stepmom, I was determined that it wouldn't be Colleen. I needed to thrash her so thoroughly that she ran back to Nebraska with her tail between her legs. That's what this fight was about.
I sized up my adversary. Tall. Fit. Wearing a brown sweater and jeans. Brown, medium length hair with some curls. 36c tits clearly formed against her sweater, tight as filling her jeans. I sensed the sexuality which drew Ron to her. Why hadn't she married yet? Or had she, it hadn't worked out, and that's when she came after Ron. I really didn't care. I just wanted to send her packing.
The house had a just-here-temporarily feel to it. Mismatched, incomplete furniture sets. Lots of empty space.
"Do you and Ron fuck here? Or in my place?"
"Wherever the mood strikes us, honey. We've done it in your bed. Not a lot. But enough."
We gingerly inch our way to an open space in an empty foyer, sensing the clash about to begin. Although we've never met until three minutes ago, I feel an intimate physical connection with this woman, with whom I've been sharing a man, if the "1992" comment in Ron's yearbook is correct, for 17 years. Over half my life.
"I know I can take you. I knew it as soon as I saw your picture on Facebook."
"You're. Nothing."
Colleen and I come together in the center of the foyer, burying our hands in each others' thick hair. We're jerking each others' heads from side to side, struggling to bend each others' waists forward. My reach is slightly but significantly longer than my rival's, and Colleen notices and adjusts by continuing to hairpull with one hand, but now scratching my face with the other.
"I'll scratch your fucking eyeballs out, Barb," she hisses.
"I'll make you beg, and ignore you, slut."
"Ya, right, Barb. By pulling my hair??"
"That. And this."
I extend my arms, and push Colleen by her hair across the room. I gather myself, and her shoulders into the wall. The collision causes a noticable vibration in the 60+ year old house. Colleen grunts in surprise as she braces against the slam and then regathers herself. She attempts to retaliate by grabbing my hair and spinning and slamming me into the same spot on the wall, but I anticipate, spread my feet, and hold her off with my hands deeply secure in her scalp.
Our faces come together. I can smell the oils in her hair, the sweat on her skin, the breath coming out of her mouth. All three are familiar. I've smelled them on my pillow before. For years. The bitch wasn't lying. She's been in my bed, with Ron.
Colleen breasts pressed against her sweater are an irresistable target. With my stong right hand, I realease my grip from her scalp, and attack her left tit, punching it, sqeezing it, and mauling it. Colleen again retaliates in almost an identical manner, but since my top is a loise work blouse, it tears, and her gashing is onto direct flesh. She bares her nails, inflicting painful grasps to my sensitive breasts. We are unable to muffle anguished cries of pain and strain. In between, to compensate, ee insult each other.
Bitch.
You think you're hurting me? I'm loving this.
I've wanted this for years.
Then where were you?
Fucking your husband is where.
You'll never fuck him again.
Says who? You? Don't make me laugh.
You don't seem like you're laughing now.
Having my blouse torn off doesn't make me feel vulnerable, but rather, uninhibited. All my life I've hsd a "gentle giant" meekness during even the most minor confrontations. Not with this chick. I will make her remember me.
I push Colleen against the wall again, slam my knee into her midsection, and when she bends down, I yank her sweater over her head. We are now both completely topless. The fight slows down for the first time, as we compare breasts. No wonder our gouging attacks were so painful--we are both fully aroused. Is it the excitement of the fight? Knowing that we are fighting for a partner we've both loved for years, and only one of us can have.
Now that our breasts are fully exposed, they become irresistable targets to our hands. They reach out and simultaneously sink in as deeply as they did previously into our scalps. The pain is excruciating, but we stubbornly continue. The comparison to scalps is apt, as that's about how hard our breasts are now in our mutual states of full arousal. Our faces press together, our noses touching. The familiar smells of Colleen. Does she recognize mine as well?
I think of the amount of work ahead of me with my divorce. Changing my name. Telling everyone at work, at our son's school. Finding my own place. Ron and I divvying up our stuff. And our investments. I want to get started on "all that". I just want this fight over, I decide. Enough of Colleen.
I remember how effective my knee to her midsection was. I repeat the move. And block the predictable retaliation. I pull her face down into my knee. Several times. The fight goes out of Colleen, but I continue. She must sense cries for mercy will go unanswered, because she doesn't offer any.
I was wrong about one thing. I never did get her to beg. Stubborn bitch.
But I won the fight. And not just 10-9. 10-8 at the least, and arguably 10-5.
I put on my top, and drive straight to a divorce attorney's office. Seeing my dishevelled scratched appearance, they ask, "Did your husband to that to you?". "No, the other woman did. But you should see her." The most beautiful woman in the office extends her hand and approaches me, "Hello, my name is Jessica. It would be a pleasure to take your case."
Jessica and I get on swimmingly, sharing stories about my fight with Colleen for hours at a time.
Ron meekly accepts Jessica's demands. We divide our assets. We move from Woodstock to Arlington Heights. Better schools for my son, a shorter commute for me.
I check up on Colleen on Facebook. Safely back in Nebraska.
She knows who won our fight.
On weekends I don't have our son, I learn about a convenient new App called Tinder. It matches you with guys ehose picture you like, and who liked yours. And you call each other and hook up.
I get hooked. When they ask what the scratches on my breast are from, I tell them about Colleen. Most guys think I'm lying about the story. But they enjoy it anyways.
Five years go by.
Ron and I decide to send our son to a private high school. The Arlington Heights public high school is too big. I tell Ron he should have thought of thst before hd bsnged Colleen.
At the parent orientation, I meet another six-footer mom. Don't see many of those. Gorgeous long black hair, firm body. She introduces herself as Joan. Neither of us has a wedding ring. She sees the scratch scars on my left breast. "You and I will match up nicely, I see," she drawls.
What the hell does that mean?
To be continued.....
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Great story, look forward to the next part.. Nice angle on the story telling..
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You weave an exciting story with the very best of them. Please continue. We're hooked.
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FEAST OF ST JOHN
The fall semester of my son's freshman year at the new private high school was a transformative experience for both of us. From 6am each morning to 10pm each evening, my son was immersed in non-stop organized athletics and academics, with an emphasis in liberal arts and STEM (Science, Technology, Engineering, Mathletics) courses intended to prepare him for some of the finest technology institutions in the world--CalTech, MIT, Worcester Polytech. His social life was also fully organized, with opportunities for networking with other boys in the school and dances with the school's girls.
Ah yes, the dances. Trust me, you've never seen a high school dance like the ones at this school. The live bands, the appetizers and punch, the decorations. How did the school pull this off, weekend after weekend? The answer is that they didn't--the parents did. The life and blood of my son's school was the PTO, the Parent Teacher Organization. The moms and dads in the PTO comitted the 3 T's, their time, talent, and treasure, to ensure that the students at the school had a memorable, productive 4 years.
Ah, yes, the dads. Now, for the students with happily married parents, the dads really did contribute. They might be travelling for work during the week, but I gotta hand it to them--they were "present" at those weekend dances, setting up and breaking down tables, getting up on ladders and setting up and taking down streamers, moving heavy speakers and whatnot. They were putting in their "service hours" any way they could. Which was awkward for the handful of us divorced moms. Even if we could get our loafing ex's off their couches, did we really want them around as a reminder to ourselves and to our fellow parents that we had blown it in the most important adult decision wd had ever made?
Of course we didn't.
So, the school still needs our service. Things need to get done. We had to give of ourselves in some manner. So, if I tell you the every divorced mom at the school was strikingly attractive, are you able to connect the dots and see what us divorced moms gave? That it was our bodies?
Ok, I'll stop torturing you. Mind you, I was tortured for the entire fall semester, figuring out the traditions and secret societies which had evolved since the school's founding in 1902. The mom of my son's roomate had a daughter who was a junior in the school, so she was steeped in the lore and legends, and gradually initiated me into what was in store for me. Including why that tall divorced raven haired stunner named Joan was dropping comments to me constantly.
I was forced to learn all this slowly, indirectly. I'll just spell it out for you directly.
On December 27, the Feast of St John, the PTO's moms, and the school's women faculty and women adminstrators, and VIP alums home for the holidays, held a women's only Fight Club. Here's how it worked. Like the movie Fight Club, the first rule was that you didn't talk about it. (And if absolutely necessary to make oblique reference to it, only under the code name "Feast of St John".) The second rule was that, it was the highest grossing fundraiser of the entire year--all proceeds from admission went into the Parent Fund for the school. And the third rule was, all upperclass divorced moms had to pick a divorced freshman mom who she thought would be a good topless-boxing-to-a-knockout-finish matchup with. All ticket purchasing attendees voted on what matchups they wanted to see, and the top three vote-getting bouts were held the evening of December 27. The three winning moms were forgiven from their service hours for the remainder of the school year, and their child was promised first choice in the summer camp lottery. Both of these "prizes" were more valuable than cash or even gold itself, believe me, so the upperclass moms choosing an opponent were motivated to pick a compelling, vote drawing matchup. And the 6 chosen boxers were highly motivated to win their fight.
Joan had, of course, chosen me as her proposed Fight Club oppenent.
Over drinks one night, my son's roomate's mom, an attractive blonde named Miriam, had explained to me how the St John's fundraiser had been co-opted from a 1920s-era hazing ritual where upperclass girls would challenge incoming freshman girls to fights. One year, one of the freshman girl's moms found out about a fight after her daughter had received a thrashing, and challenged the upperclass girl's mom to a mom-on-mom fight at Christmas Break pickup. How much of this origin legend was true hardly mattered--it made a great tale, and it helped stoke interest in the event.
Miriam asked me how I felt that women alums around the country were currently sizing up images and data that they had been provided on Joan and me, deciding if they wanted to invest good money in watching us go toe to toe until one of us had had enough. I confessed the thought made me horny. Horny as fuck.
I told Miriam about my fight with Colleen, 5 years ago. Miriam told me about high school fights she had over boys. When are the vote results for the three bouts announced, I asked Miriam. Saturday after Thanksgiving, she informed me.
I sure hope I get chosen.
I sure hope I get to fight Joan.
To be continued.....
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Another great chapter. Now you have to tell us how Miriam was initiated into the Feast of St.John activities!
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SKYPING WITH JOAN
The Friday after Thanksgiving, I'm asked if I'll accept a Skype from Joan. Hmmmm, I wonder, does this have to do with tomorrow's announcement of the three Feast of St John fights this year?
At 7pm that night, my Skype rings. I answer.
Me: Hello?
J: Hey, Barb. Thanks for taking my call. Did you have a good Thanksgiving?
Me: Oh, better than most years. My son and I had dinner with my neighbors. Not at my neighbors--we went out. And actually I didn't even order turkey--I got the veal piccata. Is that bad? Is Thanksgiving a downer for you since.....you know....your divorce?
J: Pretty much. We just try to survive it.....my daughter and I. She had turkey twice yesterday. My ex is an ass about it and makes her eat it with him.
Me: Well, it's over. On to Christmas.
J: Well, yes, about that. That's why I'm calling, Barb. About two days after Christmas. <<<<<My pulse quickens.>>>>> Tomorrow it's going to be announced that I challenged you to a Feast of St John's fight. And our matchup was one of the top 3 votegetters. We're going to be the middle fight that night.
Me: Wow, I'm.....I'm honored to gdt picked. Thank you for....umm....challenging me. Anything I need to do to formally accept?
J: Well, no.....I guess it's sort of a given that you accept....I suppose unless you have some injury....no, the reason they havd me call you is,....ummm....I'm supposed to ask you if the PTO needs to keep us separated between now and then.....as in....like, if you see me at the Christmas dance, like, neither of us will try and start shit with each other, right? Like, you're not pissed off that I challenged you to a fight, right?
M: No, no. Not at all. I guess some thin-skinned bitches must gdt bent out of shape at getting challenged, huh?
J: Yeah, something like that. <<<<I thrill to the thought of giving Joan 'tude on this call, and having her watch her back for the entire month of December. Too late now.>>>>
M: No, no, I'm not like that. I mean you challenged me because I'm tall, right?
J: That, and......
M: And....don't hold out on me, Joan.
J: Barb.....can I see thd scratch scars on your breasts? I mean....those are fucking amazing. And, actually....before you answer.....can I show you....ummmm....between my legs? You won't get offended, right? Is that ok?
M: I show you mine and you show me yours, huh? Ok, I'm game. Go, you first.
J: <<<<<Joan directs her Skype camera to her crotch and removes her sweats, revealing the thickest, furriest raven-haired bush I've ever seen. And over 35 claw scars. Both amaze and shock me. But I only comment on the scars.>>>>>>
M: Holy shit, Joan. Were you mauled by a fucking bear?
J: I think you know better, Miss Scratched Tits.
M: Yes, actually I do. There must be a helluva story behind that? Is it related to your divorce?
J: Yep. Happy ending, believe it or not. Four years ago. Stupid bitch from my ex's company leaves a voice mail on his cell that she's in town for the week. As in, they're not already dating, but they're already sexting, and now she wants to turn it into dating, sex, whatever. Gives the downtown address she's at. I was checking his cell messages in case our daughter was calling him. So I pretend to be him, and text back that I'll be there at 7 the next night.
M: Holy shit, Joan. Your intention was to fight her? To beat her up?
J: I guess just to scare her.....or not even that, just to get her all worked up that she was getting some cock, and then get disappointed, you know? And, it worked--when she opened the door, she was naked.....and shocked to see me. But then she could tell I was enjoying it, that I had punked her. And she invited me in, and shut the door behind us. And she dared me to get naked and "face" her. And, well, we just started scratching down there, like, shredding each other.
M: <<<<I make a cringing face.>>>> Sooo,....who won?
J: Well, she begged for mercy first. And cried first.
M: Must have been a long flight home for her. So you told you told your ex he was busted for sexting with her?
J: Yeah.........Her and 7 or 8 others. It's never just one girl, I tell my daughter. Once they start, guys, they're all in....... So how about yours? What under that shirt?
M: <<<<<Opening my shirt and removing my bra.>>>> I'm afraid these aren't nearly as....dramatic....as yours. <<<I lean my scarred breasts into the Skype camera. Joan squints, inspecting them.>>>>
J: Actually, don't sell yourself short there, hun. Look at that. Right over and through the nipple. You and her....she knew your husband?
M: For 17 fucking years. Since high school. And, actually, I think she was the only one. Tell your daughter to wstch out for that scenario, too. The one that got away. The missed connection.
J: So is your ex together with her now?
M: Believe it or not....no. I fucked her up to send her back to Nebraska.
J: Shit. That's amazing. You must have totally fucked her up. Bad ass.
M: Thanks. So I guess the lesson is.....good thing our fight isn't a catfight.
J: Yes, good thing. Boxing gloves.
M: Phew.
To be continued.....
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Now we need to hear about the pussy clawing catfight as a flashback perhaps. And gods I hope the gloves come off during the fight.
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SUNDAY NIGHT VISIT FROM MIRIAM
The Sunday after Thanskgiving, the day after I've learned that I'll be topless boxing with Joan in the second bout of the evening in this year's Feast of St John, Miriam texts me and asks if she can come over. She wants to show me on Facebook the other 4 fighters, since texting or emailing--anything which generates an actual or virtual paper trail-- about the evening is strictly forbidden. She also wants to ask me how my conversation with Joan went.
Miriam comes to my door. We hug, and take a seat on my couch.
Miriam: Exciting, exciting!! You're in the big time now, Barb!! This is huge! All the mom's in the school will know who you are! And the big donor alums!
Barb: Oh, stop it. If you're so jealous, you'd get divorced so you could be eligible for a bout.
M: Hey, hey! I can't afford a divorce. But if I could, I'd be the first one trying to get myself out there. Speaking of which: tell me how the phone call with Joan went.
B: Well, slow down, slow down--who are the other 4 fighters? Whose the first and third bout.
M: Oh, yes, almost forgot. Here, I have all 4 bookmarked. So, here's the first bout. Meet Rebecca. And meet Kim.
B: Wow, two petite blondes. I've seen Kim around--she's the one with the freshman, right? A girl, I think? I don't think I've seen Rebecca around.
M: The grapevine says they have a real-life grudge--that Rebecca's daughter ratted on Kim's daughter for cheating on homework.
B: Wow. How many of the St John's fights are real life grudges.
M: Oh, a few. It happens. Who do you think sill win?
B: Oh, I'd lean to Kim. She had a bit of an edge the couple times I saw her. A little bit of bitchiness, ya know?
M: Oh, yes I do. So, the last bout of the evening are 2 redheads, Theresa and Fiona.
B: Interesting. Wow, they both look bad ass.
M: Their fight got the most votes. But enough aboug them--I've always wanted to know: what was it like talking to a woman who called you out? A lot of those calls don't go well, I've heard.
B: It was.....ummm...interesting. Miriam, you've noticed these scars on my tits, right?
M: <<<<blushing>>>> well, umm, yes. But, don't tell me--she has scars on her tits, too? From a fight?
B: Not on her tits, Miriam. On her pussy.
M: Get!!! Out!!! That's fucking hot.
B: And, Miriam. It was the fight that ended her marriage. Just like mine.
M. Mind. Totally. Blown. Barb, aren't you two sorried about fighting each other. I mean, knowing what each other are capable of?
B: Sort of. But, well, it's in boxing gloves. What could go wrong?
Turns out, a lot could go wrong.
To be continued.....
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DECEMBER TRAINING
All 6 of the women chosen to fight on December 27 are given forgiveness from their service hours the entire month of December. Well, that's not exactly true--we're expected to use our service hours to train. We are warned that a topless boxing match is all about cardio, and to run and train. We are given free December gym memberships at six different gyms. Mine is at a sports complex a few miles to the northeast of the school.
One night, December 15, 12 days until fight day, I notice a set of boxing speed bags in the upstairs section of the gym. I realize that I've never had a pair of boxing gloves on in my life. I inquire about borrowing a pair, and I go upstairs and starting working on a bag. My awkwardness is evident to the 4 men and 1 girl who are working out in the same area. The girl, about 20 and unbelievably attractive, introduces herself as Samantha and asks if I'd like some help. "This is harder than I expected," I sheepishly admit. Samantha shows me the right way to wear the gloves, and shows me some basic drills with the speed bag. She then takes me over to a punching bag, and shows me some tricks on footwork and combinations. I become embarrassed that I considered stepping into a ring against a big girl like Joan without knowing these pointers from Samantha. At the end of the workout, I tell her, "You're a life saver, Samantha. Can I take you out to dinner? My treat?". "There's a fun sports bar down the street," she eagerly responds. "Meet you there."
As we sit down at our booth, Sam eagerly tells me how little she gets taken out to dinner. "Huhhh?", I ask, genuinely confused. "Sam, you're the prettiest girl I've seen in years. Guys must line up to date you."
"Not really," she replies, genuinely sad. "Boys and girls my age don't really date. They hook up. Which I'm not really into. Well, not very often. But, well part of it is my fault, too. It's what I do for a living. I'm, ummm, don't hate me, I'm a dancer. You know, a stripper."
I'm genuinely unoffended, and seek to keep Sam comfortable with opening up to me. "Oh, Sam, that's ok. That's the guy's problem, if that makes him insecure. But, I take it, that's why you learned to box? For self defense."
"Oh, I wish. No, the story is much less glamorous than that. You see, sometimes a few of us dancers get asked to bachelor parties to have Foxy Boxing shows. After 2 times of getting my ass kicked, I decided I better learn how to actually do it. But, that's my story. What's yours? Self-defense?"
"Ummm, well....ok, I can't really tell you the whole story.....I'm sort of sworn to secrecy on this, so please don't pry....."
"What...is it like some kind of underground fight club....."
"Well, ...not exactly.....well, I take it back. Sam, that's exactly what it is." I consider telling her, time out, not that tawdry, it's the biggest school fundraiser of the year. But then I get scared that I'll reveal too much. "Yes, it's a fight club."
"Cool. So, when's your fight?"
"I shouldn't....I shouldn't disclose the exact date. But....it's soon. How do you think I'll do?"
"Well, judging by that claw mark on your tit, fine, as long as you're not fighting whoever did that to you." Shit, does everyone I meet notice that? Is that why none of my Tinder dates developed into relationships?
"No, no, it's not her. And, hey, I'll have you know, I won that fight."
"Shit. You two weren't fucking around that day, huh?"
"No, no we weren't. Well, since you bring it up. Here's the woman I am fighting." I show Joan's Facebook photos to Sam.
"Not bad. You're both so tall. But you can take her."
"Well, don't be so sure. These claw marks on my chest? She has three times as many. On her crotch."
"What?!?!?!?"
"Oh. And she won that fight."
"Holy crap. Well, all I've got go say is, you two better keep your gloves on that fight."
Why does everyone keep saying that? First Miriam, and now Sam.
To be continued.....
-
Now I am hooked, because I know the devious mind of SF has some twist planned for Barb........just what it is ,one can only guess, but it will be entertaining I am sure.
-
DECEMBER 22nd CONFRONTATION
December 22nd at our school is the last day before the 2-week long winter break. The afternoon and evening are parent-teacher conferences for sophomores and freshmen. Juniors and seniors have their conferences earlier in the fall, given the importance of college standardized testing, applications and early admissions in those years. So, the point for me is, I know that when I go into the school building on the 22nd, I won't see the woman I'm going to be fighting in 5 days, since her daughter is a junior.
I'm not afraid of facing Joan--Samantha's boxing lessons have me more confident than ever in handling myself against Joan, or anyone. It's that, well, it would be awkward. I want to save what we need to do for the ring.
Shit, I could really use the spring service hour forgiveness. My son is growing so damn fast, I spend all week buying food and clothes for him. The Saturday night dances, those are fun, but I don't get home from those until 3am, totally ruining my Sunday.
And that's without the drama that happened at last Saturday's dance, the last of the semester. My son's date was none other than Samantha. Which was cute, at first. My semi-awkward freshman son made all his classmates jealous by dancing all night with a "10" 20-year old stunner. But, when I clean up the gym and arrive home, exhausted, at 3am, Sam and my son are "doing it", --well, you know how a couple has just finished? that was them--not in his bedroom, but on the living room couch. I open my arms and shrug my shoulders, wordlessly asking for an explanation, and my son goes, "Oh, ummm, sorry mom--we were watching Women's Mixed Martial Arts on pay-per-view and got carried away. The couch is still clean if that's what you're worried about."
I assure him that the couch is the least of my worries, and send him to bed. Sam prepares herself for a verbal scolding.
"Barb, I'm so sorry. That, with your son, was unplanned, I promise, he knows it can't be a regular thing...."
"Sam, Sam, stop. Just, eww, trust me, the less said about that, the better. I'm worried, because....Sam, female fighting?? That's what you and he were watching?? Sam, <<<<<I get close to Sam and hush my voice>>>>> please tell me you didn't tell my son I have a fight next week?? At his school? A, I don't want him to know. And, B, Sam, I could get in big, big trouble. These fights are supposed to be top secret."
"Barb, no, no. Just, no. I did NOT tell him about you fighting."
"Did you tell ANYONE?? Sam, I need to know!!"
<<<<Sam seems to be thinking. What's there to think about?!? Just answer me, Sam.>>>>
"Barb. No. I did not tell anyone about you fighting."
I send Sam home. Then I feel guilty. Here, this nice girl has just taught me how to not embarrass myself in a boxing match. And probably unburdened my son of his virginity. And I treat her like that? Ok, I just want this fight over.
So, you see, the last thing I need to do is run into Joan on the 22nd. Good thing that won't happen.
Except it does.
I'm sitting outside a classroom, between conferences, waiting for another parent behind closed doors with a teacher to finish, and Joan sneaks up behind me.
"We need to talk, Barb," she hisses.
"Joan? Why are you here?". Her eyes are serious. I have difficulty looking into them. "What's YOUR problem?"
"As if you didn't know, you bitch. Your son told my daughter in the hallway this morning that you're going to kick my ass. How the fuck does he know about us?"
"Joan, I assure you--there's some other explanation for this. And in any case, I don't see how we possibly resolve this in and angry confrontation like this...."
Luckily, four moms and two teachers have noticed the commotion outside the classroom door. ("Bitch" and "fuck" are strictly forbidden words on school grounds.) And at least a couple of them must be planning on attending the St John bouts, because they seem to recognize Joan and I as the two tall women scheduled to box each other. They physically separate us, as some risk to their own bodies, since Joan is quite agitated.
And do am I. Is Joan's story true? Did my son find out about the fight? From Sam? On purpose? By accident? Is there an alternate explanation?
And what good could possibly come from Joan confronting me at conferences? Did she want to streetfight me in the school hallway? Did she think a rational face to face conversation was an option with a woman you'll be fighting in 5 days? Stupid bitch.
The 6 parents and teachers get Joan calmed down. Well, sort of. She agrees to leave. But not before pointing at me and saying, "This is war, Barb. It didn't need to be. But it is now."
Oh, great.
To be continued......
-
CHRISTMAS EVE
On Christmas Eve, I invite Samantha over to spend some time with my son and me. I know my son is going to want to spend the night with friends, which I feel is totally inappropriate--Christmas is for family--and decide that the 20-year old bombshell he got naked with a week and a half ago will keep him at home. Plus, I'm a little sad that Sam is alone for the holidays--her family is estranged from her because of her stripping.
Except, when Sam comes over, bearing gift cards for each of us (how thoughtful), she's in a short red dress with no bra and no panties. I don't normally swing that way, but I decide I want her for myself. I ask my son if his friends are texting him to come out with them. They are. "Fine, you can go. Just be home by midnight."
As soon as he's out the door and his ride pulls away, Samantha's and my tongues are in each others' throats. We playfully pull each others' hair, and remove each others' tops, rubbing our hard nipples together. In between wet, rough kisses, I ask Samantha how long she's wanted to kiss me. She tells me the scratch scars on my breasts turn her on, and that she's been thinking of fucking me more and more as she's thought about them. I ask her if that's what she calls it--fucking--when she does it with a girl.
"I don't know." <<<<Long, sucking kiss. Then a moan.>>>> "I've never done it this long, this intense with a girl."
"Liar." <<<<I mean it playfully, not accusingly. I'm about to become Sam's most serious female partner. Gawd, that's hot.>>>>>
"What?? You think I'm a slut??" <<<<Don't blow this, Barb. This could become your hottest sex ever. Maybe try something self-deprecating.>>>>>>
"Samantha." <<<<I cup her face in my palms and look in her eyes.>>>>> "You make me a total, horny slut."
<<<<Samantha thinks for a second. Then my line does the trick.>>>> "Get your face in my pussy. Right. Now. Barb."
I slide Sam's dress off the rest of the way. At first, I'm licking and fingering her. But then the two-women-alone-on-Xmas-Eve vibe overtakes me, and I want her mouth on me, too. We slide into a side-by-side 69. Our lovemaking slows down. Lovemaking--that's really what this is. I want go tell Sam I love her, but am terrified to ruin the mood, do I bite my lip. And Sam's thigh.
I become self-conscious of my height, as my legs extend for what seems like a quarter mile beyond Sam's head. And her hair, totally toussled and knotted from our rough make-out session. She licks me out without inhibition. I try and keep up. I love how she tastes.
Samantha slaps my ass. Is this what she did with my son that Saturday night before I got home? Did she suck his cock off? Or just give him a hand job? At first I'm ashamed of myself for thinking of my son with somrone that way--but I'm so jealous of the thought of anyone else having Sam, that if I need to use my son to "keep her in the family", I'm willing to resort to that. In between licks, I gingerly verbalize my jealousy to her.
"Sam, I covet <<<<that word came up in my son's Religion class this week--I decide it sounds primal>>>> any man or woman who's had your pussy."
Sam licks me hard and contemplates the compliment, formulating one in reply. "Barb, I covet Joan for getting to fight you."
The word "fight' is like sexual catnip to me at the moment. I picture Joan angrily charging me at school two days ago. I've been wanting to text that bitch since then, but have resisted, restrained by the Feast of St John code of silence. Sam gives me a final set of licks, and I cum in waves.
"Unnnnnnnggggghhhhh.!!!!!!"
<<<<breathless pause>>>>>>
"Uuuunnnnnnnnnnggggghhhhh.."
<<<<deep inhale>>>>>>>>
"Uunnnngggggghhhhhhh."
I've always been self-conscious of my o-face, feeling it almost matches my going-to-the-bathroom face and sound. Stupid and juvenile, I know, but I'm sensing it again. Part of the reason I tore into my ex-husband's high school lover so viciously when I fought her is that I assumed they discussed my o-face theatrics. Now Sam's seen them. And she still hasn't cum yet. I need to make her cum, and apparently my tongue-work by itself isn't doing the trick.
I gently finger her, and whisper catfight sweet-nothings into her ear.
"I'm going to kick Joan's ass.......I'm going to give her two black eyes......I'm going to punch both of her tits......She fucking hates me now......We're gonna fight like momma grizzlies......Because of what you had my son tell her daughter......"
"Oh....Ohhhh.....Ohhhh......Ggaaaaaawwwwwwwwwwwddddd."
"Oh Gawd."
"Oh Gawd."
Sam cums on my hand.
I know what makes her cum now.
And I know she told my son that Joan and I are fighting. Shit, Sam, why'd you have to go and do that?
Sam and I listen to Christmas music. But now we're just two single women on Christmas Eve. Our company ceases to be comforting. It's sad.
Sam put her clothes back on.
"Tell me what happens at the fight."
"Sam, I don't think I explained this seriously enough to you. Those fights are....secret. They could embarrass the school if word got out about them."
"Then......can I go and watch?"
"Sam, you have to make a big, mega-donation to the school. I can't have you do that."
Sam is hurt, I can tell. Too old for the innocence of childhood, too young for the privileges of adulthood.
Before leaving, she checks her texts.
"What the fuck?", she asks, reading a text to me. " 'Hey, you cocksucking bitch girlfriend of Barb's son. This is Joan's daughter. My mom is going to break Barb on the 27th, got it?' "
Then, 3 minutes later, "Answer me, pussy coward."
Sam starts to type a reply, but I stop her. "No, Sam. Ignore her and block her. I'll handle this on the 27th."
"And you'll tell me aaallllllll about?" <<<<more a command than a question>>>>>
"Fine."
Not fine.
To be continued......
-
can't wait for the showdown this is getting really interesting
-
REBECCA VS KIM
December 27, the Feast of St. John, finally arrives. At 2 in the afternoon, a professional make-up crew arrives at my house by limo to begin preparing me for the fight. Since, this is a Foxy Boxing match, my long blonde hair is washed, blow dried, and hairsprayed as if it's 1986 and I'm on my way to a Van Halen concert (Sammy Hagar Van Halen, not David Lee Roth). Every inch of my body is powdered and scented. My anticipation of my body colliding with Joan's builds. The purpose of the make up and scent, I'm guessing, is to lower our middle class inhibitions in tearing into each other.
Not that I need encouragement. I'm infuriated at Joan for turning what should have been a non-personal test of strength and wills between the two tallest moms at the school into a ridiculous grudge match. A month ago, I was looking forward to being friends with Joan after our bout. Not now. Her daughter's text to my new friend Sam was out of line, and Joan confronting me at parent conferences was inappropriate and just embarrassing. I'm intent on knocking her out in front of all the other parents.
As are the evening's first opponents, Rebecca and Kim, to each other. In the limo on the way to the gym where the fights will occur, I hear the makeup staff eagerly discussing the cattiness which has been occuring between the two single moms, their daughters locked in an academic cheating dispute. Very few students drop out of our school, but 90% of one's that do, do so because of academic cheating. Rebecca and Kim likely have more than pride and service hours on the line in their fight--the loser will possibly have to drop out of the school. It's escalated into a Trial by Combat.
This should be fun to watch.
I'm escorted into the stands to view the first bout. I'm given the option to relax in the locker room, but I want to see what these Foxy Boxing bouts are all about. I see Joan seated across the ring from me. We give each other the finger. Her make up crew has given her dark hair a goth-style look--her eyebrows are caked in eyeliner. Gawd, that is one hairy bitch. I remember her bush from the night we Skyped. For some reason, I want to rub my pussy against it. I catch myself locking eyes with her. I feel myself getting wet thinking of Joan, her hairy body, her armpits, her eyebrows, the thick hair on her head, her thick, wide bush. Why am I obsessing on it?
The crowd fills in-100% female. Shit, I'm soaked, my felt seat with a damp spot on it already. VIPs are introduced. The largest donations to the school are announced. Some of the VIPs have made donations of over $100,000 for tonight. Dang, there's some big money in this room. Maybe if I win, one of the VIPs will reach out to me, introduce herself. You never know.
Rebecca and Kim are introduced. Two petite, spunky blondes. The remove their robes and strut around the ring, showing their breasts. Kim's are bigger, but Rebecca's are firm as a 21-year old's. Are Joan and I going go be expected to parade around like that? I thought my breasts were ok, but dang what's Rebecca's secret.
The wet patch on my seat gets bigger.
The rules are announced. No referee. As many 5-minute rounds as it takes for there to be a clear victor, and a beaten loser. I ask the woman in seat next to me how many rounds these things usually last. "Three or less," she curtly replies, as if the answer should be obvious. "Although one match in 1975 went thirty-four rounds, believe it or not. Loser's eyes were swollen shut for a week." Shit.
The bell rings. Rebecca and Kim come out swinging, trying to literally decapitate each other. The Bachlorette-party-style-screaming crowd standsand cheers, but not me, self-conscious as I am of my wet spot. I try and sneak glances thru the spaces between the screeching spectators. 1975, huh? The fucking boxing gloves look like they're from 1975--dried out, discolored, torn. $100 grand donations and no one thought to buy fucking new boxing gloves.
Kim gets on top of Rebecca. With no referee to stop them, they fight on the ground, rolling around for a bit, but Kim getting a noticable advantage. There's no technique at all occuring--it's a total streetfight. Should I fight Joan thst way, or box her standing up? Fuck, I wish Sam was here and I could ask her.
Kim leans her elbow on Rebecca's throat. I hear the crowd say that Kim is trying to choke Rebecca out. A desperate Rebecca bites at Kim's arm and wrist, finding flesh, as an angry Kim explodes in anger and namecalling. The excitement of the crowd grows. Kim stuffs her glove over Rebecca's mouth to guard against Rebecca's biting. Kim's knees are pinning Rebecca's arms, so biting is her only available defense. The crowd is cheering encouragement to Rebecca, wanting this vicious brawl to last a little longer.
Rebecca sinks her teeth into the thumb of Kim's boxing glove. The standoff continues. It's now a race--Kim trying to choke out Rebecca before Rebecca's teeth penetrate Kim's glove.
Rebecca wins the race.
With a searing primal screech, Kim falls backwards, nursing her thumb. The crowd around me observes excitedly that Kim is bleeding, the Rebecca has bitten thru Kim's glove and inflicted a bite wound on Kim's hand. Rebecca knocks the wounded Kim onto her back and mounts her, punching her face repeatedly with her gloves. Kim throws off her damaged gloves and pulls Rebecca's hair, blood from her wounded hair caking into Rebecca's blonde hair. Rebecca attempts go shed her gloves, wanting to inflict damage on Kim with her bare hands, like Kim is inflicting on her. But the gloves are on too tight.
Instead, Rebecca leans down and begins biting Kim's large breasts. I can hear nothing now over the screeching crowd. Rebecca's face now matches her hair, covered in a film of fresh blood. But the blood is Kim's from Rebecca's several bite wounds.
The bell marking the end of the first round rings.
To be continued.....
-
BITING?
As two female attendants towel Kim's blood off of Rebecca's face (but not out of her blonde hair--towelling it just makes it worse), two female doctors work on the cuts on Kim's hand and chest. The crowd is impatient for the brawl to resume, but if waiting for Kim's wounds to be treated is the price they must pay, they are willing to pay it.
The woman sitting to my right has proven to be a valuable repository of information on the history of the St John's fights. I pass the time between rounds quizzing her.
"Were they actually biting each other?"
"Yes. Well, no. Rebecca was biting Kim, But Kim never got a chance to bite Rebecca. But she will if they let her have a Round 2."
"Does biting happen a lot in these fights?"
"I wouldn't say a lot. But any time one girl starts, the other girl retaliates. Rebecca only started because she was about to get choked out. Now she's just praying the fight gets stopped. Either because the doctors stop it. Or for eqipment failure."
"You mean the gloves? Will they let the fights go on if there's no gloves?" I immediately think of the scratches Joan showed me on her crotch. I don't relish the thought of getting into a fight with the gloves off. All my footwork training with Sam--was that for nought?
"They'll probably leave it up to the girls. If one girl doesn't want to go thru with it, she'll be excused. It's one thing to force a woman to box. But forcing her to catfight is totally different. Not ladylike, you know?"
"But, well, can't two women have a bare knuckle boxing match without it becoming a catfight?"
My seating neighbor sizes me up, realizing I'm in the next match. "Well, maybe you can pull it off. Tall, strong. It's the clinches, though. Once the inside jostling starts--the shoving, the pinching, the scratching <<<<shit, that word>>>> .....I mean, look at thst boob of yours, honey. Either your pet cat tried to run out of your arms one day, or you and some....adversary......had a go at one another. You tell me--how did bare knuckle work out for her and you that day?"
"Not so well."
"Well, there's your answer. So.....Joan's her name, I think? If you and Joan need to go at it, hand to hand, and she says yes. what'll you say?"
"I don't know. Suggestions?"
"Depends. The day you got the beauty mark of yours--who won?"
"I did."
"Then go for it. You'll become a St John's legend."
To be continued.....
-
This keeps getting better and better
-
".....LIKE RABID HYENAS"
My conversation with the interesting woman sitting next to me, and my dread of the prospect of catfighting with Joan, is interrupted by a wave of a renewal of screeching by women in the audience. Kim has sprinted across the ring and made a beeline for Rebecca. Rebecca braces, and the two blondes collide, their arms swinging in a wild helicopter motion, each aiming for the other's head, similar to the start of Round 1, except this time barefisted. Kim appears to land a series of blows directly to Rebecca's face, who now realizes she is backed into her own corner of the ring when she is unable to retreat either to her left, right, or backwards. Kim presses forward, continuing to swing wildly.
My footwork lessons with Sam flash back to me, as I foresee, just before it happens, Kim flopping foward uncontrollably into Rebecca as her hands and feet are swinging out of sync. Rebecca and Kim collide into dach others' arms, each closing their arms together in a mutual bear hug. Locked together standing, they roll the length of the ropes of Rebecca's side of the ring, going all the way from one corner to the other.
Their foreheads start the spinning, violent waltz leaning into each other. But as the clinch comes to a stalemate in the opposite corner, Kim bends her head slightly to the right of Rebecca's, and sinks her teeth into her opponent's left shoilder. After a visible facial expression of shock and hurt, Rebecca mirrors the head motion, and attacks Kim's shoulder with her teeth.
Kim and Rebecca strain into each other with their legs at sharp angles, pushing each other ever lower against the ropes, facing each other at an awkward angle due to being pressed into a deep corner of the ring. A deep gash is visible on Rebecca's left shoulder, as Kim moves her face down the frontside of Rebecca's body. Rebecca's facd is pointed towards me, and is a contorted blend of rage, pain, and vengeful determination. The angle of the women's extended legs now causes them to fall face first to the ground, facing each other. They grab double fistfulls of hair, and instinctively roll away from the corner which was so restrictive to their movement.
As they roll acrorss the ring, each adversary's body fully touches the white ring floor surface. Correction, it was white. It's now smeared with red streaks, as each woman is excreting blood from some area of her upperbody. My eyes are drawn to an apparent deep gash on Rebecca's left shoulder and Kim's left deltoid.
Free to move again, in the center of the ring, the two women lock into a double fisted catball, each sitting on her butt, facing forward to the other. Each tries to bend their knees and kick the other with the ball of her foot. Both women are petite and flexible, and are able to lanf glancing blows, but do not appear to be able to put any force into their awkward kicks.
They fall to their sides, still locked in a hairpulling catball, their faces nearing each others' necks again. The action slows, but it becomes difficult to tell what is happening.
Several women in the audience, including me, turn to their neighbor and ask what is happening.
The mystery woman next to me puts her mouth up to my ear and shouts, "They're fighting like rabid hyenas."
"What does that mean?", I awkwardly shout into her ear. "How do hyenas fight?"
"They're going for each others' jugular. Literally."
"They're biting each other in the neck??"
I turn my attention back to the ring, but my view is obstructed by the spectators in front of me, who seem every bit as rabid as the gladiators.
"Yes, don't you see? Look at Rebecca's shorts. There's a big puddle of blood on them."
I've been so drawn to the blonde hair and exposed flesh of the fighters' bodies that I've completely missed the white, skirtlike boxing trunks now parachuted on the floor in front of Rebecca's sitting body. I see a pool of purple liquid, and follow the trickling stream up to her shoulder. Reality dawns slowly on my reluctant consciousness, searching for some alternate explanation for what my eyes are witnessing. In an instant, I get light headed.
I grab the shoulder of my neighbor to keep from swooning. I feel sickeningly nausceous, and my flesh feels clammy. I turn away, facing my neighbor.
"I....can't....watch. Is...that....a fucking pint of blood on her shorts?" I must be mumbling either too incoherently or quietly or both, because the mystery woman ignores my question and instead gives me a trucated blow by blow of the fight."
"Rebecca's getting desperate....she's pinching Kim's boobs.....now Kim is punching Rebecca in the tits......now she's squeezing them.....now she's punching Rebecca in the face....holy crap, look at that bite on Rebecca's neck.....Rebecca looks pale.....she's not evrn defending herself now.....she's so out of it she doesn't even know to get down....oh my, they're going to stop this soon.....Kim's punching Rebecca in the face and I don't think Rebecca even feels it....there she goes.....she's down.....Rebecca's down....the doctors are going in, it's over......they both have cuts on their necks....the doctors are rushing Rebecca to the locker room.....they're treating Kim in the ring, but they took Rebecca out......Lordy, Lordy, that was barbaric, but if they were alone fighting, one of them would have--well, been in serious trouble, ya know?......ya know what I mean, Barb?....Barb, why are your hands cold?.....Barb? Barb? why aren't you saying anything? Barb? Barb?.....are you ok? Are you going to be sick?....Are you going to puke?"
Right on cue, I bend over, quietly barfing into my boxing robe. The crowd is distracted by the site of the wounded victor, Kim, being treated in the ring, and doesn't notice my embarrassing emission.
"Holy crap, Barb. Do you get sick at the sight of blood?"
"I never used to....until....just now."
"You're about to have a hand to hand catfight. What are you going to do?"
Good question. Damn good question.
To be continued.....
-
"IS THERE GOING TO BE A PROBLEM?"
A pair of VIP women come to my seat in the stands and escort me to the lockerroom. I assume they are part of the team who will be helping me prepare for my imminent bout with Joan.
But I am instead hustled to a small office. About 6 women are sitting on chairs and a desk. I recognize two of the women immediately. One is Fiona, one of the combatants in the third bout of the evening (if a third bout ends up happening). Fiona chose not to sit in the stands to watch the Kim/Rebecca war, and does not appear to be aware of the debacle which resulted. Ghd leader of the impromptu meeting is an glamorous 50-something blonde who I recognize as the reigning Alumni Association President, and thus the chief sponsor of the Feast of St John event. I've also read about her as a big cheese pharmaceutical executive for a local company, and one of the Top 50 women executives in the country.
The women have apparently been waiting my appearance to begin this emergency meeting, as the door is shut behind me and the Alumni President begins speaking, a shake in her voice.
"Well, I've just been given the report on Rebecca by the doctors, and I'm a bit relieved, if still appalled. Rebecca will be fine. But,....Kim came within a sixteenth of an inch of Rebecca's carotid artery. A sixteenth of an inch!!!! Just imagine the scandal if Rebecca had needed to be taken to the hospital. This school would have been closed. Your children's educations....ruined. I'm....just...so...angry."
Fiona looks at me, then at the glamorous executive lecturing us. "That's heavy what happened to Rebecca,.....but....are who are you appalled at? Us?"
The President stands up and approaches Fiona menacingly. "You tell me. There's a rumor making the rounds that, in direct violation of Feast of St John's rules, this year's elected fight opponents, were baiting each other via text and other forms of social media. And that friends of the selected combatants were baiting each other as well. And that this baiting contributed to Rebecca's and Kim's athletic exhibition degenerating into the gutter-wench battle we just witnessed. Do either you have anything you want to share? And before you answer--your opponents are being questioned in a room at this time as well. So please don't insult me by lying to me."
My mind races. I lose eye contact with the President. Has someone reported the conversations and texts between Samantha, my son, and Joan's daughter? Is the President trying to trap me in a lie?
Luckily, Fiona is more poised than I am under pressure. Either she's just a natural bad ass, or avoiding witnessing the Rebecca/Kim bloodbath is helping her stay calm as a cucumber. "No disrespect, Madame President, but it's no secret that Rebecca and Kim had a feud in progress. But that wasn't their fault. It was the school administration's. Their daughters have been involved in a cheating case that should have been adjudicated weeks ago. Could have been....unless there are folks in the adminstration who are here tonight....and were hoping to stir the pot between Rebecca and Kim....who, by the way, are not gutter wenches, please watch your words.....you know, to make for a more entertaining fight....THERE'S what you should be appalled at, Madame President..."
"Enough!!! Enough about Rebecca and Kim. This is about the next two fights of the night. You're going to need to fight without gloves. <<<<My body tingles at those words, my lightheadedness returns.>>>> I'm asking you: before I allow you in that ring--was there any pre-fight baiting between you and your opponent?? Lie to me, and I cancel the fight."
Fiona answers without hesitation. "None. I received the challenge by phone Thanksgiving evening. Our tone was serious but professional. We congratulated each other on drawing the most votes of any proposed matchup. We wished each other well, and have not communicated since."
While neither refuting nor assenting with Fiona's polished reply (shit, how is she so poised 30 minutes before a hsnd to hand catfight?) the President turns her attention to me. "And how about you, tall girl? Is that barf on your robe?" <<<<I'm actually happy the barf is on my clothes. Perhaps it will distract her from my body language as I lie to her.>>>>
"Umm, yes, I'm sorry ma'am. I'm fine now, but, ya know, pre-fight jitters. I lost it in the stands. Umm....to snswer your question...Joan and me....no, nothing personal between us. Just 2 single mom's blowing off steam, ya know? Trying to get out of service hours. That's it. Nothing personal. No gutter wench tactics from us, I swear."
I'm starting to over explain. Even Fiona is doubtful of my response (as I am of hers--but hers was more convincing).
"Start any biting with Joan, and I will end your bout with her so fast your head will spin. No biting!! Promise me!!"
"I promise, Madame President! No biting."
Guess I'll be going after Joan's massive bush with my hands.
Whoops, I didn't say that out loud, did I?
Nope. Phew.
To be continued.....
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you are a master at story telling with every story I'm shocked at how well you are at conveying emotions
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A CHAT WITH FIONA
Fiona accompanies me to the locker room for my final preparation for my fight with Joan. I need to rehydrate from my vomiting episode at the end of the Kim/Rebecca brawl. I suck down bottled water as quickly as I can without getting a bellyache. Fiona and I check that we're not being eavesdropped on, and quietly speak to each other.
Me: So....good fibbing back there. You and...Theresa...have been <<<<air quotes>>>> baiting each other. Haven't ya?
Fiona: Hell ya, sister. There's no way to have a fight with a bitch, whose text you have, and not.... <<<air quotes>>>>... test each other. Amiright?? <<<<we fist bump>>>> How about you and Joan. Any <<<<air quotes>>> pleasantries exchanged??
M: More than just pleasntries. We almost got into it at freshman conferences.
F: Just as well you didn't. Woulda been interrupted. Gawd, your nipples are hard. Penny for your thoughts.
M: Her bush.
F: 'Scuse me?
M: When she called me, to let me know we got the second most votes, ya know?....it was by Skype. She showed me her bush.
F: Wow, was she making a pass at you?
M: I don't think so.....she has scratch scars there.....she told me the story behind them.....her husband had been sexting with a woman....they hadn't started snyyhing for real yet....but the stupid chick was in a hotel and left him a voice mail, which Joan, ummmm, intercepted.....and went to the hotel....
F: Shit....and the two of them had themselves a scratch fight, huh?....
M: Something like that.....
F: Are you thinking of Joan's bush?.....or of how you and her are gonna scratch each other tonight?....
M: I....dunno....what are you thinking of?
F: You won't take it personally if I don't watch, right? I hafta focus on Theresa.
M: I know what you mean. Watching Kim and Rebecca, or watching Rebecca bleed at least, I, ummm, got sick...is that bad?
F: You'll be fine.....Are you gonna, ummm, keep your word? You know, and,....not bite Joan?
M: That's the thing...."no biting" just means that everything else is...allowed.
F: Allowed...and expected.
M: What are you going to do to Theresa?
F: Rip. Her. Tits. Off. <<<Motioning a my breast scars.>>>> Make her feel 10 times the pain you felt when your.....friend....did that to you.
M: You would do that for me??
F: That...and....
M: ....and?......<<<<Gawd, kiss me Fiona>>>
F....that....and.... annnd....
M: ....and.....<<<<Gawd, Fiona is hot>>>>>
F:....and.....let you see this....<<<<<Fions pulls down her boxing trunks, revealing a perfectly trimmed auburn bush>>>>>.....do you like it....touch it...
M:.....it's....it's.... <<<<I stroke Fiona's surprisingly silky smooth bush>>>>>.....
F: ......tell me, dammit......
M: ....it's .....magnificant.......<<<<kiss me, dammit, Fiona>>>>
F: ......better than hers?.....<<<< Fiona's face and mine are inches apart....I hope my breath doesn't smell like barf>>>>.....
M: ....I'll shred hers.....to eliminate the competition....
F: .....Fucking shred her.....I can't stand that you saw her bush.....
M:......jealous?.....<<<<<dammit kiss me.....why are we kissing?>>>>>......
F: ......trying to make me jealous???.....
M:.....Will you hate-kiss me if I make you jealous?.....
F:.....like this?.....
Fiona and I cram our tongues down each others' throats. We kiss hard and long and wet and deep and loudly.
Too loudly.
The PTO President interupts.
<<<<Ahem!!!!!!>>>>>
We awkwardly look at her, still embracing.
"Would you ladies like to fight? Barb versus Joan, then Fiona versus Theresa? Or shall I cancel so you two can....fuck?"
Fiona looks at me.
"Go on out there and kick some ass."
"And scratch some bush?"
"Yes. For me."
"For both of us."
To be continued....
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MY SCRATCHFIGHT WITH JOAN
My surprise makeout session with Fiona, or more like the circumstances of it, has put me in a state of elevated arousal. Beyond elevated. I'm hornier than I've been since the 1990s, when my ex-husband and I were freshly graduated from Nebraska and had time to do it three times a day. Surely all the screeching women in the audience can see my erect nipples. Surely they can see my bulging soaked crotch pushing against by boxing trunks.
Surely Joan can.
She and I lock eyes the instant we're both in the ring. Before the horrifying ending to the Kim/Rebecca bout, and the separate locker room debriefing we just received from the PTO leadership team, I had envisioned us bullrushing each other on sight, like some sort of Jerry Springer intro. Instead, we both know we need to chat about the new circumstances of our contest. We stand eye to eye in front of the rabid, catcalling, standing ground, somehow tuning them out and facing each other. Joan speaks first.
So, they gave you the 'no biting' speech, right? That they'll interfere and stop us if one of us bites?
I was never planning on biting you, anyways, bitch. Just to tear that slut pussy of yours.
That's not my point, shithead. What I mean is, if I get an advantage in our fight, you better not bite me to end it before I gdt to really hurt you.
No worries if that's your concern, hun. I don't want anyone stopping me until every hair of that bush is plucked.
And you think you can do that, sweetie? Let me make it easy for ya. <<<<<Joan drops her boxing trunks and steps out of them, whipping them into the delighted crowd. I drop mine as well.>>>> Why so soaked, whore? Been fantasizing about me?
Fantasizing about shredding you, Joan. <<<<We wrap one hand around the back of each others' hair, our bodies now bumping together in coiled anger. The bell rings.>>>> Tell me, that night you confronted the woman who was sexting with your husband, in the hotel, you thought your bush would intimidate her, didn't ya? But it didn't, did it?
<<<<<'Fight, bitches, fight!!!!' some frustrated audience members screech. But wiser ones overrule them: 'They're having girltalk. Let them finish. The fight will be more vicious once it starts.'>>>>>
Pffft, she nearly crapped her pants that I showed. And who are you to talk? You thought you and your husband's mistress could have a straight-up fistfight, didn't you? <<<<Joan places her nails on my breasts.>>>> I bet you were surprised when she started doing this.<<<Using not even a quarter of her full strength, Joan begins digging her nails into the erect flesh of one of my breasts. The lesser scarred one. Our eyes remain locked.>>>>
<<<<In response, my free hand finds Joan's bush. I hope she doesn't notice that I've been craving to touch it since the night I saw it on Skype. The thickest, hairiest carpet I've ever seen. I can't process how fascinated I am with it. Joan's armpits are hairy, too. With my peripheral vision, I observe that although she shaved shortly before arriving in the gym this evening, stubble is already groen back in. Did her ex-husband like hairy women? Or, is that why they got divorced?>>>>> Hairy bitch.
Soft wimp.
How am I soft?
You've never fought woman to woman. Your divorce fight, it was how men fight.
My tit scars say you're wrong.
That was her doing, not yours. You fought her like a man.
<<<<I continue caress her bush, astounded by its thickness, but Joan is pissing me off now. My female rage estrogen hormones are flowing.>>>> Fine. You want me to come after you like a woman? After I finish with you tonight, now that I have the text of your tough talking big mouth princess daughter, maybe I ask her if she'd like a piece of me.
<<<The stare Joan and I are giving each other takes on a new feel. Did I just threaten her daughter? Was I just baiting Joan, or would I really do that? Would I really go there? We're both contemplating the dangerous territory our 'girtalk' is traversing.>>>> You have some nerve, Barb, sleeping with the sick fuck slut girl who took your son's virginity. <<<<Damn, how does she know about Samantha?>>>>>>
<<<<Joan's clutch on my tit tightens. My fingers penetrate her carpet and find the flesh of her pussy.>>>> Your daughter has a filthy, gossipy mouth on her. Someone needs to punch it shut.
Who? You? She can fight.
That's what you teach her? How to catfight?? Great mom you are, Joan. No wonder she's a bitch.
No wonder your son can't have her.
He doesn't want her, dumbass.
He wants his mom's leftovers?? Sick fuck.
<<<<We go to the ground on our knees, one hand still pulling hair, the other mauling our enemy's genitals, no longer holding back.>>>> We need to fight.
Then fight me. Bitch.
<<<<<Joan and I are now rolling in the ring, locked in a catball. Our long legs snake around each other, and our hips gyrate in a humping motion. The front of our bodies are locked so tight that I lose my grip on Joan's bush, and she loses hers on my breast. To compensate, we dig our nails into each others' backs, scratching aggressively. The humping motion accelerates, in perfect rhythm. I sense I'm going to cum, and stop fighting the sensation.>>>>>
<<<<<I have an epiphany. I now realize why Joan's daughter starting sending spiteful texts. Gawd, I want to rub Joan's face in this. With her and I gyrating at the hips, I hiss at her....>>>> Know what I think, Joan?.... <<<<my breathing becomes heavier, making it hard go speak>>>> ....I think your daughter wanted my son....was flirting with him.....building up to something.....but she waited too long.....once he had Samantha, he lost interest in your daughter.....
Imagine.....<<<<Joan is near climax, clutching me hard>>>>....the fight Samantha and my daughter would have over him??........
Gawd, that would be epic.......
Joan.....<<<<<I feel Joan and I exchanging pre-cum, our hips soaked in it>>>> let's bait.....the two of them.....Samantha and your daughter.....into a catfight.....
Yes....yes.....yes.....no rules.....like Kim and Rebecca.....oh gawd, Barb.....
oh gawd, Joan......what a fight that would be....
Oh gawd........<<<<We both scream and cum>>>>>>......
<<<The bell ending round 1 rings....>>>>>
To be continued......
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ROUND 2
Joan and I come together at the center of the ring, my hand immediately reimmersing itself into her thick bush, hers locking onto my scarred breast, as well as my unscarred one. Our mouths move close to each others' ears so that we can converse over the screeches of the agitated crowd.
"Your daughter must have felt so....helpless...thinking she was an older girl with a younger boy....thinking she was in control....and then....an even older girl swoops in....and makes the boy lose all interest in her.....a rival older than her....with a job....prettier...."
<<<<I feel a sharp pain as Joan's nails dig deeper into my chest>>>>....."Samantha is....NOT....prettier than my daughter....."
"......Maybe just slightly less pretty....but, so, so much sexier, Joan....with that porn star mouth of hers....those wanton eyes......"
"...my daughter isn't the only one comparing herself....and coming up short....my daughter is educated....with a future....can carry on a conversation...can defend herself...."
"I'd love to see her defend herself against Samantha...."
"I can't even imagine....how vicious that would be....."
"Let's not imagine it Joan....let's watch it....bring your daughter to my place on New Years Eve...."
Joan and have have been swaying in the center of the ring for the entire second round. They can sense genuine tension between us, do they agree to just "go with it". But they are beginning to lose patience, wanting some sort of resolution to the bout. A chant starts crescendoing its way thru the crowd"
"sex..fight!!....sex...fight!!.......sex...fight!!.....sex...FIGHT!!!!....sex...FIGHT!!!!.....SEX...FIGHT!!!!"
Under normal circumstances, I doubt a sexfight is this crowd's cup of tea, and it's almost certainly not what they voted for when they decided to force Joan and I to battle tonight. When you see a pair of 6-foot plus women matched up, you're expecting a battle of two Amazons. But the hyperviolent outcome of the Rebecca/Kim bloodbath has reminded the crowd of the dangers of pairing off two single moms who have real-life tension between them. The body language of Joan and me betray the existence of some sort of genuine soap opera, and they're content for a more feminine resolution. They also sense the nightcap of the evening, Fiona and Theresa, has all the makings of an epic donnybrook.
The time for talk between Joan and I has ended, if for no other reason than that the chanting crowd is drowning out our ability to hear each other, even at point blank range. We give in to the demands of the paying patrons, go to our knees, and begin violently tongue kissing each other.
As our tongues invade each others' mouth in the most unwelcome way possible, we pull each others' shoulders forward, grinding our breasts and inflicting great discomfort. The rhythmic mashing becomes primal, and I'm reminded of beached elephant seals battling fof territory and mating rights. I assert my rights to be the school alpha mom against Joan, and my son's right to choose his first serious girlfriend.
Joan must be feeling the same. As if reading my mind, she hisses threats at me:
"Tell Samantha....my daughter is going go fuck her up so bad....your son will never want to look at her again...."
"Tell your daughter....my son wants a woman....not a girl...."
"Show Samantha....that being a woman...is more than being a slut around boys....it's doing this...<<<<Joan mauls both of my breasts>>>>....to women who get in your way....."
"Show your daughter.....<<<I grab Joan's bush, and prepare to yank>>>>.....what happens....when two women....want the same thing.....<<<<<I tear out a handful of Joan's bush hair, and display it to the crowd>>>>....."
Joan winces in pain from the move her ex's sexting mistress must have never tried the night of their showdown. I've found Joan's Kryptonite--not a surprising one for a woman as hairy as her. If I was so inclined, I could have now inflicted a vicious beating on my wounded opponent. But, if there's one thing I've learned this evening, it's that it's much more fun to watch a catfight than to be in one.
And, if I play my cards right, I've got a doozy of a one to watch in 4 days: Samantha vs Joan's daughter.
I mount Joan, and slap and punch her face. I ask her to give, and she complies. I claim my victory, and rejoice in my release from service hours.
I go to the locker room and shower. Fiona greets, congratulates, kisses, and fingers me. I wish her luck in her fight with Theresa.
I text Samatha.
>It's over. I won. 2nd round TKO.
>Woo-hoo!! I knew you would!!
>I got you a fight in 4 days.
>Against who?
>Joan's bitch daughter. Don't text her, tho. I wanna watch.
>You better take my cellphone then.
>Yes, shut it off. I'll be right home.
>Hurry.
>Hurrry so we can fuck? Or hurry so you don't get in your car and go to her?
>Both.
to be continued.....
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OMG!!! What a great story!
Too bad the two younger girls didn't get to see the moms fight!
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great story! Hope you give us the third mom fight. There should be some PTA event with the winners and losers. PTA president should be in a fight, but that may be a different untold story. Your writing is better than the catfight stories that Amazon is selling
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PILLOW TALK
Samantha and I spend Dec 28, 29, and 30 in bed, almost nonstop. My body is exhausted from both watching and being in a catfight on the 27th. While Samantha.....well, she just wants to be where I am.
S: Tell me why Joan's daughter hates me do much.
Me: Again??
S: Again.
M: <<<<Sigh>>>>
S: And don't play coy with me. I know you love telling it.
M: I can't deny it.<<<<tongue kiss>>>> I do. <<<<wet tongue kiss>>>> She hates you because, she wanted to fuck my son. Not just fuck him, but to be the girl he lost his virginity to. And her plan was working....She would be the girl he remembered for the rest of his life.....they were flirting with each other.
S: But??.....Then???...
M: But, then, along comes a sexy stripper with a wanton mouth.....
S: ...I actually Googled the word 'wanton' because of you....
M:. ..My son actually Googled 'Foxy Boxing Images' because of you....
S: He told you that???
M: I saw it on his browser history.
S: Sure that wasn't your entry?
M: Ha ha. I don't get on on images.
S: What DO you get off on?
M: Kissing you.
S: And??.......
M: You and Joan's daughter catfigting....over a cock....
S: What do you like about it?
M:....I keep thinking of how....Rebecca and Kim tried to actually kill each other....it was....surreal.....
S: I want her to....just....try....and....hurt me.
M: .....You'll put her in her place.
S: Something like that.
To be continued.....
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Please continue. I love thw way this story is going.
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SAMANTHA VS ANDREA
Samantha and I spend all day on New Year's Eve, December 31, clearing out the small weight room in my basement for Samantha to fight Joan's 18-year old daughter, Andrea. Joan and I have been covertly baiting Samantha and Andrea for the past 4 days to maximize the, ummm, fighters' enthusiasm. I promise Samantha she can stay at my place, rent-free, for the next year if she wins the fight, and for the next three years if Andrea needs to be carried out of my house after the fight. I've also told Joan to inform Andrea that I will contribute $10,000 to Andrea's college fund if she wins, and $25,000 if Samantha needs assistance out of the matted weight room aftrr the fight.
The weight room has an observation window for Joan and I to view the fight. I'm looking forward to the opportunity to be a spectator. Four days ago, I was a participant in one St John's catfight (not fun, even in victory), missed another (Fiona outlasted Theresa in four brutal rounds between 2 experienced streetfighters), and embarrassingly vomited as the Kim/Rebecca brawl descended from boxing to a bloody donnybrook.
Tonight's event will serve as eye candy as Joan and I engage in, I hope, some wild make-up sex. Although I had Joan at my mercy at our St John's fight, I went "easy" on her at the end. I wanted her cooperation in baiting her daughter Andrea into a fight. And, unlike Kim and Rebecca, there was no pre-existing grudge between Joan and me. We fought, raised some money for our school, I won, ..... now it's over. No need for us to be lifetime enemies. Let the healing between us begin tonight, with some deep tongue kissing to a chickfight. A chickfight involving the woman we must like to watch--for me, my new lover Samantha; for Joan, her own daughter--a tad out there, I admit, but who am I to judge? Not my problem.
Samantha and Andrea, on the other hand, do have an underlying grudge. A boy. My son. They were competing for him. Samantha won. Andrea has a problem with that. Fine, let's settle it. Like women.
Joan and Andrea arrive early. Rude, normally, but actually Samantha and I are ready--more than ready. We go immediately to the basement. I motion Joan to the viewing chair next to me. She takes her place without hesitation. I tease her about the marks and bruises on her face. "Shut up and kiss me," she says, with her words and her body. Our fingers are inserted into each others' pants in under 30 seconds. Heaven--Joan's thick, carpet bush gets me going everytime. Now, where's my catfight?
While Joan and I were, ummm, making up.....Samantha and I were wasting no time in tearing into each other. Their young adult screams reverberate through the basement, tangled bodies slamming into the weight room mats. Joan's pussy squeezes around my fingers, as she is apparently as aroused as me (meaning, an 11 on a scale of 1 thru 10) by the brawl unfolding 15 feet away from us.
Samantha and Andrea pull each others' tops over their heads, revealing engorged, aroused breasts. Although they were not witnesses to the Kim/Rebecca bloodbath, they waste no time resorting to the same weapons those hellcats did once the gloves were off (figuratively and literally)--teeth. To the shoulders, the chest, the arms, anywhere within striking distance. Joan and I neglected to arrange for rounds, so this will go on until there's a loser, which seems like will be soon.
Very soon.
Joan and I cum onto each others' hands.
To be continued......
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Fuck don’t stop now hon. This is just getting better with every post.
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DEPRAVED
With Samantha and Andrea's fight raging in the background, Joan and I, between tongue kisses, begin whispering, then hissing, to each other.
> Your girlfriend and Andrea have over 20 bites each on them....
> I think your daughter has more, but your point being?....
>.....My point being--won't they get infections?.....
> ....I prepared.....I brought.....what's that stuff called??.....Bacitracin?.....you know--we can rub it on them.....after the fight.....
>....That's pretty depraved.....bringing Bacitracin to a fight.....
> .....You're one to talk, sweetie.....
> ....'Scuse me????.....<<<<tightening our grip on each other>>>>>.....
>....getting off watching your own daughter fight.....seems a little.....
>....a little ....WHAT?!?.....honey?!?....
>....Don't 'honey' me.....
>.....Seems a little....WHAT.....bitch??.....
>....Perverted.....Who gets off watching her daughter fight??.......
> <<<<tightening our 'embrace' further>>>>.....who sleeps with the slut who takes her son's virginity?!?....
> .....Don't call her a slut......
>.....That's the part of that sentence you have a problem with, whack job??......
>......What part SHOULD I have a problem eith, sweetheart?!?.....
>......<<<<our hissing becomes hateful>>>>.....oh, I don't know.....maybe the part where you're partner-swapping with your own son....where does that stop, Barb??.....
>......It stops before you stop bear-baiting your own daughter,....JOAN.....
>.....She wants to be kicking Samantha's ass......asshole.....
>......I don't see any ass kicking happening.....
>......What....do you wish....<<<<a subtlely less spiteful tone>>>>>.......you were seeing?.....
>.....mmmmmm......more.....kneading......of each others'....tits.....more....pulling.....and grabbing.....
>.....yes...yes.....but that would be so.....painful.....<<<<we both turn our heads yo take in the Samantha/Andrea brawl>>>>>
>....but......think of how much....they hate each other.....
>....do much jealousy......
>.....Andrea jealous of Ssmsntha's looks....
>.....Samantha jealous of Andrea being 2 years younger....
>....Andrea jeslous of Samantha being so....experienced....
>..... Samantha jealous of Andrea going to college next year....of being so smart....
>.....No wonder they're.....biting!.....each other.....
>....Look at them....just totally....bitchfighing....
>....I can't hold it...in.....
>.....oohhhhhh......ohhhhhhh......
>....cum on me......cummmmmm.......
>.....oooooooouuuuuuhggghhhh....
>....ffffuuuuucckkkk......ffffffuck.....
>.....shit.....so hot......
>.....how...are....they.....still fighting?????
>......I hope......Andrea.....kicks her ass....
>.....I hope.....Samantha......does.....
>....sssoooo....hhhhottt.......
To be continued......
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Fantastic. Can hardly wait for the next post
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HOW LONG?
The Samantha-Andrea brawl continues, but with Samantha sfarting to get the upper hand. She's been on top of her younger adversary for more the three minutes now. I get turned on at Joan's willingness to watch the fight tide turn against her daughter and not interfere.
I tongue kiss her, and ask her a question.
> How long <<<<kiss>>> have you known you get turned on by your daughter fighting?
> One day a couple months ago....I was going thru her cellphone.....I was in her texts.....I saw a text fight she was having with another girl....
> ....A girl from our school?.....
> No, a girl from our town.....but who goes to the public high school......
>......<<<<<carressing Joan's thick bush>>>>....why were they text fighting?...
>.....The fight was completely online....and accidental....the other girl posted Instagram pictures of herself in a bathing suit, and called herself "Thunder Thighs"....so Andrea tried to compliment her for her "bravery" posting the pics.....and then the other girl went onto Andrea's Instagram, and commented on one of Andrea's pics, "Now THAT'S whai I call courage"....
> As a compliment?..... or to start shit?.....
>.....Thats the thing....you could take it both ways....
>....so how did Andrea take it?.....
>....she came to me.....and asked me how I should take it....
>.....and?????....<<<<my bush carressing becomes faster>>>......you stirred the pot?.....
>...<<<<<Samantha has Andrea pinned in a clinch on the floor, in control of the fight, but too tired for the moment to ground and pound her rival>>>>....I told her about what it was like being a high school senior before Instagram....how senior year meant one thing: Yearbook.....how your bio was your 4-sentence shot to say anything you wanted to say, knowing everyone in the class would read it....and that it was forever....some people would put things with 8/16/89, and you'd look to find the other person who had put that, and it was obvious the two of them had had sex with each other for the first time that day.....well, anyways, I told Andrea how girls would put coded bitchy comments to other girls in there.....oh, I don't know, like....Like: Warm weather, Dislikes: Gossip, Blondes.....the secret was to put just enough information for only the girl the comment was intended for to figure it out....so my point was, the Yearbook was our Instagram....except Yearbook was once a year.....and Instragram is--constant....
>....so....then Andrea started looking for hidden bitchy comments by this girl....
>....and found them....and posted her own to the other girl....
>......mmmmm.....and you were loving every minute, weren't you 'Mom'?.....
>.... ohhhh, Barb, admit it--aren't you jealous of these girls--they have so many ways to contact each other directly....and indirectly, obtusely.....
>.....I know....if I had a daughter, instead of a son.....
>.....should we....break up Samantha and Andrea?....the fight seems to be out of gas.....
>.....I haven't heard Andrea give.....have you?....
>....We should have thought to have rounds.....like the St John's fights.....
>....No, this is better....<<<<tongue kiss>>>>
> ....How so?.....<<<<tongue kiss>>>>>>
>....Samantha's a better fighter....if she can rest, she'll finish Andrea....the fight will last longer this way....<<<<tongue kiss>>>>....
> .....I'm getting turned on again....
>....Me too........
>.....Finger me. Joan......
>....Yes, Barb.....yes....yes.....yyyesssssss......yeeeessss....
To be continued.....
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SEX VS CATFIGHTING
As Samantha and Andrea continue their angry catball on the floor, Andrea too exhausted to have any hope of mounting a comeback, but Samantha too exhausted and weakened to, at least so far, secure either a knockout or submission from her rival, Joan and I remain locked in our own embrace, caressing and kissing each others' breasts and faces, talking about fighting and fucking, all while taking in the thrilling sites and sounds of the Samantha/Andrea bitchfight.
In other words......Heaven.
Joan and I continue to cum ...... unpredictably .... langorously .....I'm delighted with myself that she and I never allowed our St John's fight to get out of control.....that we never became bitter, implacable enemies, like Kim and Rebecca. This is better. Just two single moms, exploring their love of fighting. Watching catfights. Talking about them. Instigating them--one tonight, maybe more later. A world of possibilities before us.
> Joan, honey, I have a theory.
> What's that, Barb?
> You know how both of our marriages ended after a showdown catfight? Mine versus the bitch Ron went to high school with in Nebraska? And yours versus the work colleague in the hotel?
> Yeah, babe, what about it?
> Well, I've been thinking about those fights.
> Hhhmmmm, sexy.
> I know, that's sorta my point. My theory is that.....those fights were so sexy.....so exciting to us....the way we each rose to the challenge....like, there wasn't even any question about it, we just told the other bitch, straight out: You, me, right now, we're settling this thing.....woman to woman....well, after the fight happened, even though we both won......and even though we both still loved our husbands.....well, there was no.point.....no sex with them would ever match the catfight we had with the other girl....
> So......if you think about it......those two other bitches DID gdt something out of it....they DID split us from our husbands....
> Joan, Joan....the glass is always half empty with you, isn't it?.....
> Maybe.....or maybe we should be doing less thinking .... and more....oh, I don't know, what can we do instead of thinking.....
>Mmmm, babe......I could.....caress your bush all night.....mmmmm....
> Mmmm.. Not that I'm complaining....but why do you like my bush so much, Barb?
> Mmm... it's so.....sssooo. ....fucking..naughty. Just, llike, dirty. When you show it, it's just such a naughty thing to do.
<<<<Joan and I lock eyes and cup each others' faces. We exchange deep, passionate kisses. We finger each other to orgasm. We kiss more.>>>>>
>Barb, I'm glad you said that....that way.
> Mmm, why's that, Joan?
> Because, when I see my daughter in a text fight.....I get this feeling.....it's like you said, it's a naughty feeling.....and I just wanna.....fuel the flames....like, to make the fight even worse....
> I think we all like to see 2 other women bickering, right?
> But, Barb, this is totally different....i can't....help myself....Barb, this is my only daughter and I.....I could do this everyday--watch her catfight another woman.....
> There's nothing....wrong....with that....that's not what you're thinking, is it?.....
> Thank you for saying that.....but.....but you don't understand...it's that....the feeling is so strong.....I feel like sometimes I would do anything.....and Barb, I mean it....ANYTHING....to get her into a catfight....
> Meaning?....help me out here....<<<this confession is getting interesting>>>>
> Like, I mean....taking her cellphone and pretending to be Andrea and sending bitchy texts about another girl ...or to another girl.....
> Holy shit, Joan. Have you done that??
> Not yet. But,....Barb.... I want to. And I'm going to, soon. I just know it.
> Joan, no offense....but if you want to send bitchy texts....why not just find someone you don't like,....and send them? As yourself.
> Oh, Barb, I might do that. But it's not the same....it's just not. Maybe it's because Andrea is 18....or maybd it's too late for me--you and me, we grew up with landlines and rotary phones and passing paper notes around the classroom--it's not the same....all Andrea and her friends and your son KNOW is Instagram and Twitter and Snspchat....they're so much better at...fighting...on those than we are....
> Joan, you weren't shitting me....You actually get off on that, don't you?
> I do, Barb. Is that bad? Does that....repulse...you?
> It turns me on that you can verbalize it to me.
> Show me. And not by fingering my bush.
> Mmmmm....you tease, you.
> What should we do?
> Tell me about a girl from school, one who I know, who Andrea is text fighting with.
> Hmmm...there's one in your son's class....a blonde named Kelsey.
<<<<Joan and I rub our hard breasts together, locking eyes, then tongue kissing until we cum. The whole time, I'm picturing the eventual catfight Joan will no doubt bait Andrea and Kelsey into.>>>>
To be continued.....
-
God a world of opportunity here. And Joan and Barb are so hot
-
ST LOUIS 1996
Joan's story about the internet fights her daughter gets into, and will be getting into, remind me of the first internet fight I almost got into, in the internet Stone Age, in December 1996.
I was a junior at the University of Nebraska. Out football team was playing against the University of Texas in the Big 12 Championship in St Louis. A group of 16 of us from my dorm piled into 4 cars and made the drive from Lincoln to St Louis.
The night before the game, a group of us Cornhusker girls, rowdy and wearing dressed in red, were out drinking in one of the few non-dive bars in downtown St Louis. We ran into a group of obnoxious Longhorn girls, dressed in burnt Orange and jeans. We naturally started pairing off by size and trash talking to each other about who would win tomorrow night's football game.
I remember the Texas girl in the group who was the tallest was a blonde named Traci Br____ks. I don't know why we immediately told each other our full name--maybe it was because we were travelling and out-of-town--we each hsd a sense of freedom. We were jawing at each other about whether Nebraska or Texas was better at football, which girls were prettier, which were tougher, which could kick the others' ass. It was standard juvenile bravado, but at the same time quite exhilarating. There was a 5% chance things might spin out of control and fists start flying, and Traci and I knew we would be facing off against each other if the time came to defend our schools' honor.
The bouncers in the bar eventually noticed our mini-confrontation, and our opposing colors, and separated us. But not before I had picked up 3 interesting nuggets about Texas Traci: one, her full name; two, her major (Finance), and three, that she was an athlete at Texas, a varsity Track and Field team member in the javelin and shot put.
The next night, at the game in the TWA Dome, I desperately stared into the Longhorn student section looking for Traci. There were 70,000 people at the game, but Traci was tall and blonde, surely I could find her, right? Well, no such luck--half the Longhorn bitches in their section were blonde, so Traci, if she was at the game, blended into the crowd. My search was futile. Oh, plus, we lost the game. What a letdown.
When I got back to Lincoln, I booted up my (dial-up) AOL (that's America Online, for you younger folks), and went to my Webcrawler (Netscape, the first web browser, didn't come out until 1997), and (very slowly) found the University of Texas athletic site. They had a full roster, with head shots, of every member of every athletic team. I found Traci, along with a profile of her--her career highlights, her hometown, including parents and siblings, her major and her career plans. I was hoping there would be an email address. Dammit-no such luck.
Now, by 2017, this is pretty unimpressive stuff--the next step would be to Google her. But Google didn't even start until 1998. This was 1996--stalking a stranger on the internet was....well, it was creepy. I logged off of AOL, and lay down on my bed. I fantasized about what I would say to Traci if I had found her email, or a phone number, or a home address. "Hey, remember me from St Louis? I'm the Nebraska girl who was trash talking with you. Wanna find out if Texas girls or Nebraska girls are more bad ass? Wanna fight?"
I remember the fall 1996 semester winding down in the dark December days, classes ending, and finals week approaching. I remember having full days completely available for studying, my friends asking if I wanted to go to the library. And me saying, "No thanks, I'm gonna study in my room." And then pulling up Traci's profile picture on AOL. And masturbating to the thought of us finding each other on the internet, arranging to meet each other halfway in Wichita, Kansas over Christmas Break, and having a vicious catfight with each other. Both of us wearing the school colors like we were that night in St Louis, fighting for school and state pride. And just because we hated each other.
I remember as December 1996 became January 1997, and not being able to let go of the idea of fighting Traci from Texas. I remember spending hours of time on AOL, getting into the Texas Finance Department web administrator's site, asking if there was a student named Traci, and asking for her email address. I remember being asked if I was a faculty member or administrator at University of Nebraska (since @unl.edu was in my email address), then being asked why I was accessing their site thru AOL. Shit, I remember saying to myself one day and slamming my phone down, wondering if I was "busted", if the FBI was going to knock on my door. Then masturbating to offset my fear. Then, one day, January 18, getting Traci's student email address. Agonizing for hours about what to say to her by email. Typing it up, my fingers shaking. Hitting send. Waiting for a reply. Masturbating. Waiting. Logging back in. No reply yet. Masturbating. Waiting.
Then, on January 21. "Your email to Traci could not be delivered because this address has been deleted."
Shit. Did she dis-enroll? I go back to the Athletics website. No Traci on the Track team. Fuck. Where is she?
That, you see, was the internet in 1997. No Facebook. No Snapchat. No Google. I never did find Traci, and we never did fight.
So, Joan, if you want to bait your daughter Andrea into catfights, and watch them, like you and I are doing tonight, you go right ahead.
As long as I can watch, too.
To be continued.....
-
FIGHT CLEANUP
With Joan and I sexually satiated, and with the Samantha-Andrea war having run its course, we break up the two girls, and begin to treat their wounds. Joan comforts her daughter, while I tend to Samantha. Having been a stripper for over a year, Samantha can tell when someone has used her body for their own sexual pleasure. She can tell that's what I've just done--that Samantha's objective tonight was to give Andrea an ass kicking, but mine was to get off. She seems genuinely hurt and betrayed. Neither of I say so out loud, but we each sense that our fling is over. That all that remains is the formal breakup.
And I'm ready to move on to my next thing. Being in on Andrea's online and, God willing, real life catfights.
I rub down Samantha's back and shoulders. I marvel at the bite marks Andrea has just inflicted on her. I think back to the St John's brawl between Kim and Rebecca. I feel strangle proud of my son, and of myself for raising a son, who could make two women want to destroy each other over him. I feel disgust at Samantha for her life choices, or for the circumstances that led to her life choices, of being a fallen woman--the type of woman who a man can sleep with, but would never consider dating. Samantha stole my son from Andrea, and even proved herself the better woman than Andrea--but even then can never truly "win" my son. It's socially impossible for the two of them to ever be a couple. To date at one of the Saturday night school dances. At senior prom. To go thru college together. To get engaged, married, to make a family.
Samantha can, and did, cock-block Andrea. But that's all she can do. To negate something else, for someone else. Not to accomplish anything positive for herself.
As I dress her wounds, she and I silently come to this sad realization. And what it means for her. The limits on her future. And that's before middle age even comes. The room weighs heavy with sadness.
Andrea is a different story. Her future is wide open with possibilities. After tonight, she'll never fear staring down another woman, any rival. Men will sense her confidence, and be drawn to it. They'll pursue her. Men who are drawn to strong women like her. Including ones who already have a strong woman, like her. Neither woman will back down. Just like I didn't back down to Ron's side chick, and Joan didn't back down to her ex's office colleague.
I crave moving in with Joan. To sleep in the same bed as her. To have her carpet-thick bush to myself. The sexual chemistry between us is undeniable. Andrea and my son never did consummate anything between them--they could get used to living under the same roof. Household finances would be so much more managable with one mortgage, one electric bill, one water bill, instead of two.
The next day, I call Joan on the phone.
> Happy New Year, Barb.
> Happy New Year, Joan. Is Andrea ok?
> Hell, no. She got her ass kicked. But she'll recover. I'm proud of her.
> If it makes her feel any better, she gave Samantha all she could handle.
> You and Samantha doing it like rabbits?
> Actually, that's why I'm calling. Joan, I've been thinking. About yiu and me. Do you, ummm, do you wanna move in with me? Like, I sell my place, and we become, ummm, a couple??
> Barb, I'm.....wow....flattered? Yes, flattered....and, umm....shaking...in a good way.....Barb, isn't this....impulsive?.....I mean, we're .....responsible, for one thing, for raising 2 high school students, right?.....Barb, we need to talk about this...
> Joan, I know...you're right....can I change my question....Joan, can we talk about, maybe, living together?....at some point?....
> Barb, yes....yes, I'm sexually attracted to you.....if I ever decide to be in a relationship with a woman.....it would definitely be you....I mean, do we date first?.....how does this work?....
> Not that I have the answers, Joan, but.....we're way way past dating aren't we?......between the fight we had.....the fight we watched.....that counts for, like, 10 dates, doesn't it?
> I suppose. I'm definitely agreeing with you. Let's just....let's talk this thru.
> I want you.
> I know. I want you, too.
> I'm free tonight.
> Of course you are, bitch! You don't have any service hours this week! I do!
> I know, I'm sorry. Being a single mom sucks. Let's not be one anymore.
> I agree. Let's not.
To be continued......
-
JANUARY 2, BACK TO SCHOOL
On January 2 of the new year, Andrea returns to school as a student, and Joan returns to fulfill her service hour obligations. Basking in my freedom from servicd hours, I begin moving my "essentials"--clothes, sheets, toiletries--into Joan's place, and I contact a realtor to put my place on the market. My place is nicer than Joan's, but it will "move" faster in a sale. I break the news to my son, who is fine with having Andrea as a step-sister--and with me coming out of the closet. Crisis averted.
When I get to Joan's place with my stuff, I see Andrea's cellphone charging in the corner. I have an irresistable desire to read her text messages. I pick up the phone, hoping she doesn't have it locked with a passcode or thumbprint. Success--she doesn't.
I scroll through her Instagram, her Snapchat, and her texts. Lots of talk about "fucking" and "69" and "bj's". It's hard to tell if Andtea talks about sex constantly or if she actually engages in it, but if the latter, thank goodness my son slept with Samantha instead of Andrea, because Andrea must have an STD by now if her actions at all resemble her talk.
I start searching for the good stuff--the internet catfights. Who was thst girl in my son's class Andrea was text-fighting with? Kelsey? I find Kelsey's Instagram page in Andrea's favorites. I see bitchy comments posted by Andrea on certain of Kelsey's posted selfies. I go to Andrea's Instagram page to look for comments by Kelsey. Kelsey appears capable of giving of giving as well as she takes. Although in theory cellphones aren't allowed at school, several of Kelsey's friends appear to have snuck them in today, because they are commented to Kelsey about Andrea's scratches and bruises, asking Kelsey if she was the inflictor of the wounds. Other girls know about the Andrea-Kelsey feud.
I begin to masturbate to Andrea and Kelsey fighting--fighting virtually, and fighting for real. Then the thought hits me--I have a gitlfriend now. I don't need to masturbate--I can have real sex.
I text Joan.
> I'm at your place. SOS. Horny as fuck.
> From what?
> Looking at Andrea's Instagram.
> Wait'll you see her Snapchats when she's home some night. Wild stuff.
> Shit. I need to cum. Can you get here.
> No, bitch. I'm stuck with service hours cuz of you.
> Fuck. If I go to the parking lot, can you sneak out to my car for a bit?
> 10 minutes top.
> That's all I need.
> Me, too.
> Siya, babe.
> xoxoxoxo
I hope I make it without cumming at s stoplight.
To be continued......
-
CAR SEX
With the mid-day January sun coming into the car at a low angle, providing us with refuge from the bitter Midwest winter cold, Joan and I kiss each others' dry, chapped faces, while fingering each other under, respectively, my sweatpants and her skirt. We've both cum once each, quickly, but desire more before I return home. We fish around for a discussion topic which will get us "over the top".
> Barb, I have a confession to make. About....ummm, your son.
> Mmmm...oh, boy. Well, go ahead, I'm not exactly one to talk, crushing on your daughter Andrea like I am. <<<<We pull each other closer, our noses pressed into each others' cheeks.>>>>>>
> Well, not about your son, exactly.....about his,....well, his bed.
> Tell me, Joanie.....don't be shy, just tell me. <<<I figure, there's nothing this woman can tell me about my son more twisted than where my mind has already gone with her daughter Andrea.>>>>>
> Well, it's just that.....after he got ready for school and left, I....I.....I pulled up his comforter.....and, Barb, men can be so gross, but this part I miss about having a man around.....ever since my divorce.....there was cum in his sheets.....
> Mmmm, you knew that would be there, didn't you, Joanie?....Don't act like you're surpised...<<<<<our tongue kissing gets wetter, deeper>>>>>
> But.....Barb.....it's not that....it's....what was he thinking sbout when he did it?......
> Mmmmmmm, why don't you ask him when he gets home??.....<<<<<I'm as close as can be to cumming>>>>...
> I want to.....except.....I don't want to mske him self-conscious about it....the next time....and the next time....and the next time.....he does it.....while I'm at home.....listening.....
> Mmmmm, Joan.....that fantasy is.....naughty....
> I know it is.....do you think.....it will happen?.....
> I'm sure it might......now that we're all one big, happy family.....weekdays will probably be tough....this school keeps the students so busy.....no idle hands, right? ....but I'm sure some weekend....maybe I can take Andrea out....and leave you and him....alone....see what happens...
> <<<<<<Joan begins riding my finger, releasing herself desperately with rapid hip thrusts....she finishes quickly>>>> Fuck that's hot.....so, Barb.....as long as we're talking fantasies.....where would you take Andrea....
> <<<<<<Our conversation has taken such a twisted, depraved turn, I actually lose track of whether we're talking fantasies, or planning next weekend. I decide to just go for it, and let my mouth follow my mind into whatever deep, dark corner it chooses to go.>>>> Mmmm.....I'd drive Andrea to Kelsey's house....
> Mmmm.....Barb, sssoo naughty.....but....what if Kelsey's mom answered the door?.....
> Ooooohhhh ggggaaawwwdd, I'd actually want that....so I could tell her that the texts between Andrea and Kelsey have really gone to far.....that surely they're one text from fighting in the restroom at school.....they'll both be expelled....let's let them fight right here, right now.....and settle this...
> Mmmmmm, you'd watch the whole fight, wouldn't you?....
> Part.
> Why just part?
> Mmmm, silly......because.....Because Kelsey's mom and I would get so.....frisky, watching....that we'd start fighting too.....mmmmmm, that bitch......<<<<<<I cum onto Joan's hand>>>>>>.......
> Barb, I don't know which made me more jealous.....the thought of you watching Andrea fight without me.....or the thought of you fighting someone else.....
> Mmmmm.......you probably need to geg inside the school, don't you.....
> Back to reality?
> For now.
> I'll be home soon.
> To check up on me?
> That's right. I'm a jealous partner.
> Well, so am I.
> Oh, really?
> Really.
Joan gets out of the car, adjusts her skirt, and returns to school.
This arrangement is going to be trouble.
To be continued.....
-
"ARE YOU OBSESSED WITH MY SON?"
As January progresses, there are kinks in the honeymoon glow between Joan and me. The sex becomes less frequent and less exciting. But I knew that would happen eventually--I'm somewhat relieved at its subsidance at times, since the torrid pace and intensity of the New Year was scary and disorienting. I'm also new to the girl-on-girl thing.
Rather, my annoyance and unease comes from two other sources. First, my loss of freedom. My house is on the market. I have to leave it "staged for showings" 24/7. In a sense, it's already no longer mine. I have no refuge, no "fortress of solitude", to retreat to when I need to think, to decompress. I begin to resent Joan for the loss of freedom. I wonder if she notices when we're making love....or even when we're not. Plus, I have no patience for the give and take negotiating of the house selling process. (No. I will not consider touching up the paint on the crown molding in the bedrooms. Dumb ass.)
But a second source of tension between my new lover and me is my son. Joan's original comments about missing, and enjoying, a man's dry ejaculate in men's bedsheets seemed innocent at first. But it begins to take on a more sinister air. Everyone so often, I catch Josn in my son's bedroom, feeling his sheets. When I come home, and the two of them have been home alone, I sense a guilty vibe coming from my son--since he was a toddler, he's been terrible at hiding guilt from me.
It's not that I think they'll have sex. In fact, I'm confident they won't. Samantha confides to me thst my son is turned off by feminine pubic hair. And Joan has the thickest, widest damn bush I've ever seen.
Or did. On January 26, the Feast of Sts. Titus and Timothy, I hop into bed with Joan. My hand reaches down to her crotch.
She's shaved.
The sensation is.....it's......did she do this to please my son?
I decide to tty to catch her in a lie before she can think.
I tongue kiss her roughly. then ask, "Are you obsessed with my son?"
> "No more than you are with Andrea."
> <<<<Oh, so we're gonna play that game, are we, bitch? Our tongue kissing turns progessively more violent.>>> That's different. I like watching her in fights she's involved in anyways.
> <<<<>We are starting to say 'ow!' at each others' bites and sharp tongue lashes.>>>> I like watching him masturbsting.....which he, likewise, is involved in anyways. Touche, bitch.
> <<<<<We begin to pinch each others' biceps, not at all playfully.>>>> Then, why shave, honey? If not to fuck him, bitch?
> <<<<<> Joan pushes me down and mounts me face.>>> What kind of mother knows her son's preference is pussy grooming. Bitch. Bitch. Eat it, bitch. <<<<<Joan fucks my face and cums more rapidly, and intensely, thsn usual.>>>>>
> <<<<Joan rolls off my face and fingers my pussy.>>>> What kind of mom encourages her daughter's catfights, fucking bitch? <<<<I thought I said that to hurt Joan, but the mere mention of Andrea catfighting sends me into ecstasy. I cum violently to Joan's fough fingering.>>>>>
We catch our breaths. Then turn away from each othrr angrily.
> Be careful with my son.
> Be careful with Andrea.
I dream of sex all night long.
To be continued.....
-
WINTER OF DISCONTENT
As the long, dark, cold, grey winter drags on, my sex life with Joan degrades into disrespectful face-riding, demeaning namecalling, and physical selfishness. Not that our relationship outside of the bedroom is much better. Although our finances remain fully separate, we somehow find a way to constantly fight over money. Offers, with contingencies, begin to materialize on my home. Joan encourages me to hold out for an unencumbered offer, but then questions why I allow a certain prospective buyer lose interest.
Why the sale of my house is any of her business is beyond me. We fight in bed one night just over this topic. Verbally. Then physically.
As January tax forms arrive, Joan "accidentally" reads thru alimony and child support statements from my ex-husbands. She performs calculations on the payments as a percentage of his income. She alternatively derides me for extracting an unjust settlement, then for accepting too little.
I become the object of constant nagging from her. In bed, I hiss at her that her husband was tempted by affairs and office flirting because of her relentless badgering of him. She proclaims her superiority as a wife by rubbing in my face the long-lasting affair, with his high school sweetheart no less, by ex-husband indulged in behind my back for years, as I commuted each day into the city. Joan and I catfight in bed to a mutual climax angrily as we bicker over whose marriage was worse. Over who was the worse wife.
Our bedfights escalate. We move onto the topic of parenting. Except......not over who is the worse mother. But over who would be the worse step-parent to Joan's daughter or my son. I hiss at Joan that she has no interest in mentoring my son, that she just uses or cohabitation as an excuse to stalk him, to linger in his bedroom. Joan taunts me for my fascination with Andrea's cyber-feud with Kelsey. Joan relates a principal's office summit meeting with herself and Kelsey's mom, where the two parents were read the Riot Act as to the school's zero tolerance policy on fighting, but also on cyber-bullying. Andrea's and Kelsey's social media posts are being monitored by school security. As a high school senior with her final spring semester approaching, an expulsion would be paralyzing to Andrea's college prospects.
Joan and I verbally fight, in bed, over who is paying for Andrea's college education, who is funding her 529. Yearend statements in Andrea's name arrive by mail. I "accidentally" open them. Joan notices, and sulks for the rest of the day. Then lays into me over it at night, in bed.
I think back go the St John's fight Joan and I had. I went easy on her at the end of the fight. The reality sinks in with me--Joan thinks SHE went easy on ME. She thinks she let me win.
We each think we would win a real fight.
Only one of us can be right.
To be continued.....
-
Mmmmmmmmm.....the next fight will be so fucking nasty. I can?t wait
-
VALENTINE'S DAY MIXUP
Between our busy schedules--my house showings and discussions with my realtor, Joan's service hours at school, income tax preparation, and daily school transportation for Andrea and my son--and our increasingly frosty relationship (except for our intense and climactic bedfights, we rarely speak directly to each other), Joan and I manage to botch our first Valentine's Day together.
Andrea's February after-school activity is the School Play--she has landed a plum role as the Lobster in a musical version of The Little Mermaid. The role involves numerous vocal solo's, and enables her to display her acting and vocal talent. It also keeps her away from Kelsey between now and May, so that the two enemies don't arrange or stumble into a school catfight which will cost Andrea her high school diploma. The drawback is that the practice hours are long, and I frequently end up driving her home.
Oddly, Andrea has not yet gotten her drivers' license. She has no interest--upon graduation, she plans on living in a city like Chicago or San Francisco or Austin where no car is necessary and just Uber-ing everywhere. This is a direct contrast with Joan and my generation, where a license was not only a rite of passage to adulthood, but a gateway to freedom and sex. But Andrea's phone and Instagram and FaceTime and SnapChat meet all her 18 year old sex needs--no car, or license, necessary.
I come to enjoy the car rides home with her. Our talks in the car replace the companionship missing in my relationship with her mother.
My son, meanwhile, is excelling on the school's Math Olympiad team. They practice problems after school everyday, then once a month have a large intra-school math meet. Since the afternoon practice sessions end at the same time as Joan's school service hours do, she gets into the habit of driving him home after school.
In Joan and my bedfights (what we do together in bed has long since shed any remote resemblance to lovemaking), our bonding with each others' child becomes a topic for taunting and teasing. As in:
> Andrea was telling me how well one of her solo's went in practice today. It's doing wonders for her confidence.
> <<<<Pinching and twisting my biceps mercilessly>>>> Your son was telling ME what girls and school he's attracted to. And what type of women outside of school.
> <<<<Mounting Joan, and clawing at her nipples>>>> I bet that had to hurt, hearing how different the women he desires are from you.
> <<<<slapping me on the side of the face, tugging my ears>>>> Show what you know, out of touch bitch. He lllluuuvvvvs tall women. He calls us...Amazons.
> Slut.
> Bitch.
> Whore. <<<<I angrily mount Joan's face, if for no other reason than to silence her shrill voice telling me hurtful things about my son. Joan isn't "listening" to my son's sexual confessions--she's shaping and forming them. And I hate her for it. Joan bucks desperately to escape my pin, and maneuver that is successful most nights, but not tonight--I must be more angry and determined than usual. I cum into her face, as Joan simultaneously finishes herself with her fingers. We roll away from each other, doing whatever the opposite of cuddling is called even though we both desire it. But we are both too proud to call a truce. If my house was in any condition to sleep in, I would leave right now and spend the night there. Joan's feet and mine accidentally touch, and we kick each other away. We resent each other even more than when we started tonight.>>>>>
If we were a straight couple, now would be where the makeup sex would start. But we're a f-f couple, both in our first f-f relationship. Neither of us knows how to make the first move towards reconciling.
So, instead, what happens next.....happens.
The next night is Valentine's. Time has slipped away on us, and neither Joan nor I have made date plans for our first Valentine's as a couple. And, anyways, Andrea's play practice is running late. I'm in the parking lot, waiting for her, to drive her, home.....I guess. Or, maybe.....do you suppose she'd like to go to dinner with me? Ya.....fat chance, Barb.....I'm sure every place is sold out tonight.
Well, wait.....then.....how?.....Joan is texting me. It's a selfie.....her and my son.....out at dinner. I text her back.
> How'd you get a table? Someone cancel?
> I made the reservation a couple of weeks ago.
> For you and me? Or you and him?
> Oh.....I was keeping my options open.
> So, what are Andrea and I supposed to do for dinner, selfish bitch?
> I'm offering to bring you two home take out, dumb ass.
> Never mind. She and I will be fine. With food....and other things.
> What's that supposed to mean? Some stupid, awkward, clumsy, disgusting sexual double entendre???
> My son doesn't mind you texting while you have dinner with him?
> f u
> Cute. So your long messages WERE bothering him? His eyes wondering?!?, LIKE YOUR HUSBAND'S DID????
> f u i'm busy
> YOU texted ME, stupid shit. Don't wait up for Andrea and me.
> f u
> Fuck you, Joan
I wait for her retort, but none comes. I know she's itching to send one. The fact that she isn't typing must mean my guess was right--my son must have commented on, or at least noticed, her angry texting while they were at the table. He must have begun disengaging from their conversation. She must have noticed her multi-tasking skills were deficient--that she was failing at whatever sick scheme shd has planned for my son tonight, realizing she could make me jealous OR wine and dine him, but not both. Having to choose must have been frustrating to her.
But she's chosen. I become sad at what my parenting has exposed my son to.
Andrea climbs in the car. She sees tears welling in my eyes.
> Everything ok?
> No. I had a text fight with your mom.
> Over what?
> We....umm....aren't doing anything for Valentine's....apparently.
> <<<<<thinking>>>> That's sad.....can I help?
>....<<<<<<thinking>>>>....Do you wanna.....maybe....swing by Kelsey's house?....See what happens?
> <<<<thinking>>>>> Let's go.
To be continued......
-
Now it heats up
-
CRUISING WITH ANDREA
Andrea and I drive thru the dark February night to the neighborhood her enemy Kelsey lives in, 2 towns north of where Andrea lives and where their school is. Although neither of us have any definite plan in mind, we are both excited at the possibilities of our impulsive decision. The school's decision to monitor Andrea's social media accounts means that since the New Year, Andrea and Kelsey have had to cease their dispute on Instagram and Facebook, and their class schedules have been arranged do as to avoid any contact in the hallways. An IRL crossing-of-paths is the only scenario remaining open to them. I sense Andrea's anticipation at the possibilities of our "field trip" to Kelsey's house.
I, meanwhile, am experiencing my own anticipation. Kelsey's mom--I know I've seen her at school--blonde lady. What's her name? Lorraine, I think? What will she say about bringing Andrea to Kelsey's? Why will she think I brought her? Obviously not for a playdate. Will Lorraine allow Kelsey to fight Andrea? And if so, will she want to watch?
Or will Lorraine want to protect Kelsey? Will she be angry at me for bringing Andrea? Will she call the cops? Or will she want to fight me? Does Lorraine fight?
What if Kelsey, Andrea, Lorraine and I end up in a 2on2 fight in Lorraine and Kelsey's house. How do you determine a winner in a 2on2 fight? The "team" with the first girl to give loses? Or, is it "last woman standing"?--the fight goes on until 3 women can't go any longer? Would Lorraine and I fight during the entire brawl, or would we "pair off", me fighting Kelsey and Andrea fighting Lorraine for part of the fight?
As we cross the county line and the houses become noticably larger, and the roads become noticably less well-lit, I struggle to take my mind off of tonight's fight possibilities, and to focus on driving. We enter a gated community with the gate open. The roads are twisty and unalphabetized, nothing like the predictable grid system of Cook County. We're the only car driving around, and no doubt would look totally suspicious to a patrolling police car, were one to show up. Shit, these houses are big. I feel pangs of nostalgia for the nuclear family life that I had with my son and ex-husband, until thzt bitch Colleen ruined it all. Do these massive McMansions speak to the wealth of the owners? Or are they mortgaged to the hilt and nothing but debt traps?
As we cruise through the darkened development, looking for house number 12764, I notice there are no sidewalks. How damn sad. No wonder these spoiled rich-bitch teenagers get into so much trouble on Instagram--there's no going outside after school to see who else is out. They just come home to their brick McMansions, lock themselves in their bedrooms, and go online. This town is less than 10 miles from Cook County, but it's a world away socially. So sad, so sterile.
And, yet.....damn, the wealth. Range Rovers and Lexus's and Acura's and SUV's in every driveway. Do the moms in this neighborhood work? The dad's obviously work either downtown, or as doctors in the suburbs. Does Lorraine work? Is she doing something with her husband right now? Out to dinner with him? Already in bed?
Shit, this was a stupid plan.
But Andrea and I press on. We've come this far--we need to see it to a conclusion.
We get to a house numbered 12764. We get out and knock on the door, our nerves tense with anticipation. No answer. Shit, it's cold out. We ring once more. Still no answer. Owls hoot in the background--there's a sound you don't hear much in Cook County. We get back in the car, defeated and relieved at the same time.
"Was that even the right house?", I ask, rhetorically. I enter it into my GPS. "You are....6 tenth's of a mile.....from your destination."
"You've got to be fucking kidding me. Right development, right house number, wrong street. Why would they give two houses in the same development the same 12764 street number?!?!?", I demand to my innocent passenger.
Andrea and I are hungry, lost, and frustrated. And lonely. What a damn pathetic way to be spending Valentine's.
Welp, this evening was a total....fucking...waste. We look at each other, the only decision remaining being which Drive-Thru we do for dinner on the way home, Taco Bell or McDonalds.
Suddenly, on the darkened road behind us, we hear 2 female voices, walking on the road parallel to us. We strain to listen. The two girls are laughing, giggling really, probably stoned. One has some sort of Eastern European accent, and the other is Andrea's age. "I think that's fucking Kelsey," says an incredulous Andrea. "What??" I ask, my nerves on edge agsin, my heart racing. The pitch black darkness causes us to rely on sound to orient ourselves.
The female pedestrians approach our car from behind, and Andrea seizes control of the situation. She tells me to shut the car off, and gets out of the paaengers door. She strides to the sound of two females, now about 20 feet away, and confidently shouts,
> Hey, Kelsey, you bitch.
> <<<<After just a moment's hesitation.>>>> Andrea?? What the fuck are you doing here?
> <<<<<I'm out of the car now, too, standing behind Andrea protectively. I've literally and figuratively got her back, while Kelsey's mystery partner--tall like me--has hers. Our eyes adjust to the near total darkness enough to vaguely make out each others' figures.>>>> I'm here looking for YOU, dumbass.
> Oh, is that right. To fucking do what? <<<<All four of us are now less than 10 feet away in the street.>>>>>
> <<<<Kelsey's blonde ice queen Eastern Europen partner speaks.>>>> Kelsey, who are these two bitches?
> This is that slut Andrea from my school.
> That's what I thought. I'll fucking handle this.
> <<<<The blonde ice queen lunges for Andrea, and I leap between them, tackling her to the ground. We roll into a heap on the road, while Andrea and Kelsey wastd no time tearing into each other with fists and feet and knees. The blonde claws at my face, the only flesh on my body unprotected by heavy wibter clothing. I tear into her hair, trying desperately to get her razor-sharp nails away from my face. She and I are fighting silently, while just inches away, Kelsey and Andrea punch and kick to shrieks of "bitch" and "slut". Fists and shoots collide with coats and flesh, harmless blows intermingled with crushing unrestrained attacks. The ice queen regains my undivided attention when she mounts me and attempts to slam my head into the pavement. I deperately kick out of her pin, and angrily attempt the maneuver on her, but find her to be too strong for me. She and I stalemate, and I hear dogs barking in the house my car is parked in front of. The middle-aged female resident opens the door and shouts, "What's going on out there?!?.....I'm calling the police," and retreats back inside.>>>>>
The blonde ice queen grabs Kelsey by the wrists, and they run. The suddenly vulnerable Andrea and I instinctively race to my car, and burn rubber out of the development.
"Do you think any cameras saw the license plate?", the surprisingly practical Andrea asks me.
"I doubt it, it was so damn dark," I reassure her. "Let's just get the fuck out of here, then we can talk."
We speed back to Cook County. No cops following us--phew.
We pull into a large Mcdonald's parking lot. I park into an isolated area.
Andrea mounts my lap, facing me, and sticks her tongue down my throat. I reciprocate, clutching her hair with one hand and putting my other hand under her shirt.
We recklessly kiss and fondle in the darkened lot, not pausing to talk until we've each cum once.
> I couldn't tell--did you fuck up Kelsey at least?
> Not as much as I want to. But I think her mouth was bleeding. Fuck, I wish we coulda kept going.
> Who was that fucking blonde with her?
> Her family has a nanny from Poland. Thst mighta been her...or a relative or friend of hers. You and her were.....going at it pretty good.
> I know....I had her but......I kinda wanted to watch you and Kelsey fight.
> <<<kiss>>> well, I....<<<kiss>>>....kinda wanted.....<<<<kiss>>> ....to wach you and her fight.
Andrea and I finger each other in the car for another hour.
We head home.
I pray that Joan is asleep--I'm not in the mood now to explain to her what happened tonight.
I slip into the bedroom.
You know how sometimes, you just know?
I can tell my son has been in this bed tonight.
In the dark, Joan hisses at me, "You were with Andrea, weren't you?"
"You were with my son."
Joan and I silently fall asleep.
To be continued......
-
Oh god don?t you dare stop hon!
-
AFTERMATH
Thursday February 15 is my hangover day from my impulsive action to drive Andrea to a catfight-slash-streetfight with Kelsey. There's a small but not negligible chance that I have jeopardized Andrea's academic future. If Andrea is expelled from high school in February, there's no chance of her receiving college acceptances on April 1. She'll finish high school somehow somewhere in the summer or fall, but she won't be starting college with her class. I need to hope her high school doesn't hear about the Andrea-Kelsey fight in the next few days and weeks.
I also need to have it out with Joan for what happened between her and my son, and between Andrea and me. Our only way of communicating anymore is bedfighting--the next time she and I are in bed, I suspect the topic will come up. Things could get ugly.
Finally, I need to deal with the elephant in the room--my raging, irresistable girlcrush on Andrea. Ever since Andrea came at me in the school hallway at parent conferences, then Joan and I watched Andrea fight Samantha on New Year's Eve, then I moved into Joan's place, I've been crushing on Andrea and everything about her. I know see that my becoming Joan's lover was nothing more than a way for me to get close to Andrea.
I obsess about everything about Andrea. Her shiny auburn hair. The clothes she wears. The way she smells. Her social life. Her feud with Kelsey. I'm grateful that Samantha cock-blocked my son from hooking up with Andrea--now Andrea can sleep together without the awkwardness of knowing she's been with my son.
I confront a frightening thought. Did I have Andrea fight Kelsey last night because I really do want to get her expelled, to sabotage the start of her college career. If Andrea goes away to school in August, not only will she and I be physically separated--she'll lose interest in me compared to all the other sexual options, male and female, presented to her there. I won't stand a chance.
I can't wait till this afternoon to pick her up from her play rehearsal. I spend the day scrolling through Andrea's Instagram page, masturbating to the pics in it. I fantasize that there's an R-rated Instagram app, say, called, Hootergram, with topless and nude pics of Andrea.
Or pics of her fighting Samantha. Then Kelsey. I could stare af those all day long.
Another reason I know I'm obsessed with Andrea: even though I was in a catfight last night myself, and an inconclusive one at that, with Kelsey's Polish nanny or whoever the mystery companion was, I have no interest in pursuing a rematch. My fight with Colleen was to a decisive finish, and even my 1996 St Louis Big 12 Championship Game confrontation with Texas Traci didn't end until Traci disappeared off of the nascent 1997 prehistoric grid. The pre-Andrea version of myself would be in my car, right now, back at Kelsey's, looking for the blonde Polish ice queen who scratched up my face last night.
But I have a 5:15pm pickup. Will Andrea and I talk about what happened last night? Will we kiss?
What actually occurs surpasses my wildest expectations.
Andrea gets in my car. We lock eyes, and she speaks first. "Let's do this right. One of the girls in my class gave me this--it's a key to a furnished apartment in downtown Arlington Heights. We just need to leave it the way we found it. The sheets might not be totally clean, but other than that it's fine. Wanna?". "Yes, Yes, Andrea. God, yes."
Between rush hour traffic and commuter train crossings, it takes forever to get to the apartment. Well, not forever, it just seems like it.
"Have you ever been with a woman?"
"Not beyond kissing, no. Well, you know, until last night. And even thst wasn't naked."
"Anything in particular you'd like to do?"
"Everything." <<<<Holy shit, I practically explode in the front seat of the car.>>>>>
Andrea are on each other in seconds flat as soon as we get the apartment door open, stripping as rapidly as humanly possible. I become self-aware of every imperfection and sign of age on my body as I soak in the look and feel of Andrea's 18 year old flesh. Something is off on our kissing--last night's was so tender, so rhythmic. We can't find that groove, at least not yet. We realize that today is not for kissing, it's for fucking each other.
We sit on the bed and face each other, and scissor our legs together. We pull each other close, and grind our pussies, desperately in need of release. Andrea has inherited Joan's massive bush area, but Andrea's is still soft, thin, and not completely filled in.
My cellphone starts to buzz frequently. I ignore it. I'd ignore the goddamned Zombie Apocalypse if it was underway right now. All I wnt is Andrea.
"Is this what tribbing is?"
"Yes. Do you like it?"
"I love it."
Andrea is confident in bed, which in turn gives me confidence.
"I want us to cum together. Tell me, 1 thru 10 how close you are."
"4"
"Good, me too. Well, not 2. I'm a 4 also."
"5"
"Mmmmmmm. Me too"
"6"
"Mmmmm......oooooooo"
"8"
"You skipped 7, you bitch"
"I know, I can't help it, catch up.....ooooooooo"
"8"
"9"
"9"
We lock eyes and tongue kiss.
"Cum with me.....mmmmmmmmmm?
"Oooo.......ooooo....ooooooo.....ohhhhhhhbb.....aaahhhbh"
"oooooo.......aaaahhhhhhhhh"
"Show me how to 69"
Andrea and I suck each other off to countless more orgasms, my cellphone buzzing the whole time.
Andrea gets up to shower.
I check my phone. Shit, it's my son. I call.
"Everything ok?
"Yes...ummm....mom, this is embarrassing, but.....Joan was getting a little too....ummmm, affectionate......and didn't take it too well when I said no......anyways, I'm spending the night at my friend Dan's. Is that ok?"
"Yes of course. His mom's fine with that, right?"
"Yes. Sorry, Mom."
"No, I'm proud of you. You did the right thing. I'm the one who should be sorry."
To be continued......
-
Mmmmmmmmmmm.....keeps getting hotter
-
RUBBING JOAN'S FACE IN IT
As Andrea and I wash up, get dressed, and eat dinner at an Irish pub in downtown Arlington Heights, I bask in the triumph of my romantic conquest over Joan. Both of us had clumsy Valentine's encounters with each others' 18 year old offspring. But I parlayed mine into a full-on followup lovemaking session the next evening, while Joan faced humiliating rejection from her paramour. Pffft--how awkward--who gets turned down by math nerd 60 days removed from losing his virginity? Joan must be seething right now. Hashtag-WomanScorned.
I enjoy that she's seething. And I dread it--I will no doubt be the one to pay the price, in the form of a brutal bedfight, or worse. If this was a fairy tail, I would pack 4 days of clean clothes in my car and the cashiers' check from the sale of my house and head South or West with Andrea and never look back. She and I would cruise around the backroads of Smalltown Middle America, picking fights with women in country-music-playin' redneck bars and learning about each others' bodies in Motel 6's and Hampton Inn's. For the next 20 years, till she was my age. In other words: Heaven.
But this isn't Heaven, it's Earth. And this ain't no Fairy Tale, it's real life. Andrea is 5 weeks away from college acceptances arriving in the mail. I can't jeopardize her future--well, at least no more than I already have by driving her to a streetfight last night with her internet enemy Kelsey. And then there's my son--he's safe for tonight with his friend, but I can't bank on their hospitality indefinitely. I have to give him a stable base close to the school to pursue his studies, at which he's finally excelling after a thoroughly frustrating grade school and middle school career.
Shit. Figures. I finally find.....is it love?.....do I actually love Andrea?....again, and I don't know how I'm going to make it work.
I have to have it out with Joan tonight. Tomorrow is Friday, a school day. Andrea needs to spend tonight in her home to properly prepare for school. There's no way for me to avoid Joan.
As Andrea and I wrap up dinner, I decide to get a feel for her mood by texting an offer to bring her home some take-out.
> Andrea and I will be home in 30 minutes. Can we bring you home anything?
> Really, Barb? Really?
> Ummm, ya, really. I'll really bring you home something. Do you really want something?
> I regret inviting you into my house.
> <<<<So, you're going to play the victim, bitch? Fine by me.>>>>> Don't whine. You got what you wanted, I got what I wanted.
> There's still one thing you need. Face me and I'll give it to you.
> Do I seem afraid to face you?
I'm startled by Andrea's voice: "Who are you texting with?"
"Oh, just your mom. I....ummmm....was asking if she wanted us to bring her home dinner."
"Does she?"
"No......She's pouting."
"I.....didn't.....the last 2 days.....I didn't mess things up between you and her, did I?"
<<<<Nothing Joan and I would have ever had would have topped the last two days, Andrea. I would tell you that, if I could know it wouldn't scare you off.>>>> "She and I just need to....talk things out. Don't worry."
Andrea and I step into the cold, dark night and get into the car. Talk things out with Joan. But....what exactly is it we're trying to talk out. To go back to the way things were between Joan and me. To break the news to her that I like Andrea better. Am I trying to work out a way to be with.....both of them.....at the same time? Well, not in the same bed at the same time...that would be gross. I just mean....to be with Joan sometimes and with Andrea sometimes. I think. Is that sick? I didn't think this thru, at all, I now realize. I just.....let the last 2 days happen. I never thought about the morning after.
It's here now. And I don't know what to do.
What is it Andrea wants? What is it Joan wants? Why is no one taking control of this situation?
Well, not Andrea. She's 18. She can't take control. Or certainly shouldn't be expected to. No. It's up to me and Joan.
We're home. Andrea heads to bed.
Joan is in bed, waiting for me. Naked.
"You and I need to talk," she hisses.
"Let's do that," giving her attitude right back.
I strip and join her in bed. We sink our claws into each others' biceps immediately. Like we've been doing to each other for at least 3 or 4 weeks now. Apparently tonight will be more of the same. Just nastier.
"Heard you struck out with my son."
"Interesting choice, Barb, going there. Stirring the pot."
"You seemed a little down earlier. Wouldn't want you the say later this fight wasn't fair."
"Oh, what do you say we forget about fair and just go for it, sweetie"
<<<<<Our nails move up each others' biceps to each others' shoulders. Our bare breasts press together. I've never heard this tone in Joan's voice. But if she was hoping I would fear it, she hoped wrong. It only makes me angry. And determined. Our claws dig into each others' shoulder blades, and down each others' backs, slicing like blades.>>>>>
"Fine by me, honey."
Our faces press together, and our mouths commence their familiar tongue fighting. We've been doing it so often the last few weeks, the motion and the rhythm has become familiar. And the way it turns me on has, too. And I sense Joan getting aroused as well. Shit, I wouldn't have thought it possible, but no matter how hard Joan and I try to have an all-out bitchfight, no matter how.....cruel.....we are to each other....in words, in actions, in our foreplay....we always end up....tongue kissing each other to a climax.
Joan's tongue kissing.....I've never felt anything like it, even with Andrea. Andrea's kisses were too.....she was too conscious of trying to match my kiss, my motion, my intensity....Joan's mouth doesn't care--it just plunges into mine. ...and mine into hers. The hungry, desparate sounds of Joan and I kissing each other are....seductive.....naughty......forbidden, even.
"I missed kissing you so bad, Joan," I hear myself involuntarily say.
"I know....but.....don't mess it up.....don't tell me that."
Joan is right. My arousal backslides. We each try to recover the passionate intensity of moments ago.
"Bitch."
"cxnt."
"Liar."
"Cheater."
Our claws sink deep into each others' butt cheeks. Our mouths desperately writhe against each others'. And then we release our kiss. We wordlessly know what this means.
We both need to cum. And fast. We begin struggling to mount each others' faces. Slaps ring out thru the bedroom, and we tear into each others' hair. Each of us briefly mounts the other's face, and begin to hump to a climax, but the are thrown off by the even more desperate bucking of the woman underneath. We twist and buck and mount repeatedly, locking up in a mutual 69. We slap and now punch each others' torso's, and grind our hips, in desperate need of release. I lose control, and hear Joan lose control as well.
"Aaaaaaarrrhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh"
"Eeeeeeiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii"
"Aaavggggggggggggggggghhhhhh"
"Eeeeiiiiiioooooooooohhhhhhhhh"
I come down slowly from my dizzying buildup and release, reorienting myself steadily.
I look under the crack of the bedroom door.
I see someone's feet moving away.
Andrea's. She was listening to Joan and me.
Joan and I remain in our 69, kissing each others' thighs.
I hear Andrea close her bedroom door.
Joan and I continue kissing. I taste Joan getting wet again. I listen into Andrea's bedroom. I hear her moaning. I get wet, and Joan moves her tongue from my thighs to my crotch.
I hear Andrea, muffled through the two closed doors, moaning louder and faster. I position Joan's tongue to be inside of me.
Andrea cums. I cum onto Joan's tongue.
I want go cuddle with Andrea.
I try and get up. Joan's legs pin me down. I instinctively kick at her. She kicks back. Joan and I are on our backs, holding ourselves up by our elbows kicking each other in the dark with our feet. I feel the balls of Joan's feet connecting with my jaw, my nose my forehead.
Losing our battle with these tactics, or at least sustaining unrelenting blows, I begin scratching at her thighs, indicating by touch that my nails are ready to move up her body if she refuses to stop.
"Truce?", I question my adversary.
"Stay out of her bedroom," Joan counteroffers.
I consider my options.
"No guarantees tomorrow night, bitch."
We fall asleep.
To be continued......
-
INTERLUDE: FEAST OF SAINT JOHN, ONE YEAR LATER
I still owe you a resolution to the Joan-Andrea-me triangle. Don't worry, it had one, a I'll get to it.
But, as I sit down to write this morning, the calendar speaks to me. It's December 27th, the Feast of Saint John, one year to the day after Joan and I were gladiators in Bout 2 of three memorable fights, three fights which, frankly, injected new life into the fundraising institution. I'm not a part of the school anymore--more on that later--but Fiona is, and filled me in on the deatils when she and I caught up in early December.
Prior to a year ago, the night of Fiona's victory over ber opponent and mine over Joan, attendance at the December 27 event and, more importantly, cash commitments to it, had been in a bit of a slump. In the 1980s and 1990s, opportunities to see two motivated winner box topless to a knockout finish were, well, non-existant, outside of the annual spectacle on offer during Christmas Break. So, sell-out attendance and generous giving were the norm.
But this is 2017. Any woman with the topless foxy boxing itch can scratch it 24/7/365 on Pornhub, or even YouTube. The dropoff in contributions was small at first, but was on the precipice of becoming an avalanche. Fiona filled me in on the backstory to last year's first bout--the one where 2 school mom's with a real-life beef--their 2 daughters were involved in an academic cheating she-said-she-said--were paired off in a Saint John's bout, at which their boxing gloves "accidentally" tore, so the women finished their brawl hand-to-hand. Predictably, the brawl escalated into a no holds barred bloodbath, with the victor biting the loser in the neck. I had been in the audience for the event, and my involuntary vomiting onto my seat spoke, more than any words can, to the primal, unfiltered reality of what my eyes had witnessed.
That stunt, by whoever had conceived and arranged it, had almost killed the Saint John's tradition forever. In this age of viral news and instantaneous worldwide dissemination of scandal, the distribution of a story of middle-aged woman gathering annually and raising money off the sweat and blood, literally, of single mothers trying to get an education for their children, and feeling pressured by circumstances to bite and scratch each other for the viewing pleasure of wealthy Real Houewives--well, needless to say, the Fight Night tradition, if not the entire school, would have been toast.
But, both of the women in the famed "Jugular Fight" survived, and so did the Feast of St John's event, if in a slightly modified format. Like any institution which survives the ravages of time, the organizers of the St John fights understood and followed the rule, "For things to stay the same, they need to change." The two changes for this year's fight night were: One, both women needed to, at all times, with no exception, be wearing boxing gloves. Last year's bare knuckle brawls would not be allowed to recur in the future--the risks of unrestrained female fury were deemed to be unacceptable. And, Two, instead of combatants being restricted to single moms, ANY mom at the school could issue a challenge to ANY (female) faculty member at the school. If the mom won the fight, she would get complete forgiveness of service hours. If the teacher won, she would get a cash bonus out of the proceeds of the funds raised. Since the teachers at the school worked for below-market salaries, these stakes would be sure to be appreciated by their recipient.
When challenges were issued, votes were tallied, and results announced the Friday after Thanksgiving, the winning bout was between the sexist mom at the school, versus the sexiest teacher. The mom was a married blonde with two children at the school--the teacher was a young athletic brunette, and an aluma of the school. Fiona and I both excitedly viewed the promotional pictures, with Fiona promising to attend the fight and tell me about the outcome--Fiona being still a school parent and eligible to attend; myself, not and thus not. Fiona and I both wish we could be fight participants ourselves on Dec 27. We recall our crash-course training this time last year, mine with the sexy blonde Samantha. The surreal neervousness the night of the fight. The thrill of competition. And then, for each of us, victory. Glory Days.
The Saint John tradition will live another year. We think back to the 1972 bout which has survived by word of mouth. Two school mom's slugging it out for thirty-four brutal rounds, each stubbornly refusing to give. Both of their eyes swollen shut. We think of the first, original St John's fight--the aggrieved mom standing up for her bullied daughter. I think back to my small part in the long, proud tradition of St John's fights. Will women 30 years from now be talking about the fights Joan and I had--first, in the ring, over service hours; and, then, out of the ring, over Andrea?
I guess now I should tell you about that fight. The out of the ring one.
To be continued......
-
Don?t keep us waiting too long
-
HAPPY ST JOHN'S DAY
Today is December 27. The Feast of St John. For any female parent, alumna, faculty member, trustee, or benefactof of our boarding school, today means only teo things--fundraising, and fighting. It's a day to reminisce and catch up. But it's also a day of great seriousness--there's plenty of proud, respected private boarding schools, in the Rust Belt, who have gone the way of the horse and buggy, for one reason only: lack of funds. To the bitter end, they had the enrollment, they had the reputation, they had the academic and quality to keep their doors open. But without the generous giving of private donors, ever-rising tuition is a fool's game which saps vitality out of any school.
So, the Saint John's fights must be compelling, to prime the pump of giving for at least another 12 months.
And, I'm proud to report success for this year. On both the fighting front, and the fundraising front. Congress did us a favor in the latter category. Due to changes in the tax code enacted for next January 1st, especially for residents of high tax states like California, New York, New Jersey, Connecticut, and Illinois, it's advantageous to move charitable giving forward to the current calendsr year. So, between tax considerations and the insanely high 2017 stock market, donors "brought their checkbooks" to this year's fight.
And, the 2 fighters, a beautiful mom named Michelle and a striking mathematics teacher named Sarah, brought the action. I didn't attend, but my friend and fellow prior year fight victor did. She told me the details of a splendid 7 round foxy boxing battle between the two rivals. In order to restore sanity, but not too much, to the prior year's near disastrous mayhem, this year's event included timed 5-minute rounds, with a special celebrity guest referee. I'm not allowed to say who it was, but let's play the 3 hints game and stipulate that she's from yhe Windy City, is blonde, and once dated Jim Carrey, ok?
Micelle and Sarah went toe to toe, counting intermissions anf pre-match lapdancing (an important, essential component of Foxy Boxing which was wisely revised for this year's festivities) , for almost exactly an hour. They both got knocked down, mounted, and pummelled by their opponent, only to regain their wind and return the favor. Until Round 7, when Sarah the teacher secured the KO, pounding Micelle into unconsciouness and securing for herself a 2017-18 salary actually representative of what her STEM skills and background would draw in the marketplace. Good for her. Hopefully her faculty peers are already in training for the December 27, 2018 parent-teacher boxing match.
A new tradition is born. Or, an ancient and venerable one gets new life. Depending on your perspective. The school survives.
Something didn't survive 2017. My relationship wiyh Joan. On February 16, she and I had a girlfight to end all girlfights. It was over money, living arrangements, a breakup, and her daughter. It was over which of us was the better woman. Better looking, better parrnt, better fighter. Every reason two women can clash was put into a giant pot and mixed all together. It was vicious, ferocious, and raw.
I've avoided thinking about it until today. But today is the Feast of St John. I suppose I've been in avoidance mode long enough. Time to come to terms with my final showdown with Joan.
Here goes.
To be continued......
-
WHAT???? Don?t you fucking dare tease us this way! We are all waiting for this epic fight.
-
"I'M ENDING THIS RELATIONSHIP"
On the night of the 16th, the Thursday night before a Friday before a 3-day Presidents' Day weekend, I climbed into bed for the last time with Joan. She was angrier than a swarm of hornets. While performing her Thursday service hours at school, Joan had heard rumors of the Andrea-Kelsey fight in Kelsey's development on Valentine's Night, and knew right away that it was me who had driven Andrea there. She knew Andrea and I had begun getting physical. And, worst of all for me, Joan was a woman scorned, having gotten lucky with (on the 14th), then getting rejected by (on the 15th) my son.
Joan knew she needed to end things between Andrea and me before the 3-day weekend got rolling--there was way too much time and opportunity for trouble. And since she couldn't console herself in the arms of my son, all bets were off. She was going to take her daughter back. She was also going to prove to herself, and to me, that she had let me win our St John's fight 7 weeks ago.
I apprehensively climbed into bed, naked, that night for what I knew was going to be a vicious bedfight. Perhaps if I had been scorned by Andrea that week, the outcome would have been different. Perhaps I could have met Joan's anger with some of my own. Instead, Joan kissed me right away, hissing, "I'm ending this relationship." I answered, not entirely sarcasticslly, "Me and you? Or me and Andrea?".
"You fucking bitch," responded Joan, as I felt her right hand descend in my nose and right cheek. In the darkened bedroom, Joan and I faced each other on our knees, and began wildly swinging with right and left fists and slaps. The fists were directed at each others' faces. The slaps were directed af each others' breasts, and included painful pulls and malicious twists after locating their target. I couldn't tell if Andrea was listening at the door like she had the night before, but it hardly mattered--this fight was loud enough to be audible from anywhere in Joan's house.
Unfortunately for me (and my body), I was the slower woman to adjust to fighting in the dark. Not being able to see if it's a face-punch or a tit-twist coming your way until after it lands is frightening and disorienting. And Joan was giving me the opposite of what I had braced for, it seemed, with every blow, catching me clean. My retaliating strike, each time, seemed to be mitigated by her upraised elbows.
I immediately wondered, and still do to this day, if the hotel room fight with her ex-husband's work lover had taken place in the dark. If, on that night, Joan had mastered to art of beating someone up who couldn't see you. If she had, after 4 weeks of tongue-kissing bedfights with me, been saving this one in reserve for the night she would need to put me in my place. Or, was she just letting her Mama Bear instinct do its thing ehen she sensed Andrea slipping out of her orbit and into mine?
Losing strength from what was turning into what was becoming an increasingly one-sided beating, Joan tore at my hair and mounted my face. After pleasuring herself via grinding and rolling for torturous minutes which seemed like they would never end, Joan began to try to smother me. In her puposeful anger, I desperately tried to maintain consciousness, fearing what Joan would do to me once I was completely at her mercy.
Because I know what I would have done to her if the tables were turned.
*********************************
I woke up at dawn the next morning, fully clothed, my belongings in suitcases with me in my car, my car parked in an Arlington Heights municipal parking garage. Joan must have had help getting my unconscious body out of her house last night, and Andrea was the only person who could have helped her?
How could you, Andrea? I wanted to ask her. I thought we had gotten so close that evening in the furnished apartment. Did you pick Joan because she's your mom? Because she won our last fight? Did I let you down by losing?
I never did contact Andrea afterwards. Nor Joan. I guess I didn't want go see how far our fight could escalate, if we could match or exceed the Kim-biting-the-carotid-artery episode of the first St John's bout.
My son dropped out of school in May to attend a math and science academy. Andrea got into the University of Michigan to study physical therapy. I saw her post that on Instagram.
I'm pretty sure I'll never see Joan again. Although.....you never know.
THE END