FreeCatFights
General Category => Catfight , Boxing & Wrestling Stories => Catfighting => Topic started by: sinclairfan on August 29, 2017, 11:50:23 AM
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My name is Michelle. I'm happily married to a wealthy sales executive, 52 years old, and live, let's just say, in the suburbs of a large city off of Lake Michigan. More importantly, for this story; I have three children ready to attend a large 6 thru 12 private school on the shores of that same lake. The school costs in excess of $10,000 per child per year in tuition, and tack on room and board to that hefty amount if you're not from around here, or even if you are and but want the genuine English boarding school experience for your child(ren). So, because of the cost, and the prestigious location, if you attend the school, your child is rubbing shoulders with the children of titans of industry, politics, and entertainment. It's quite rarefied air, and in exchange for the financial sacrifice by the parents, your child's life can be transformed.
But, since it's still, at its heart, a grade 6-12 school, it still has all the mundane institutions any public middle or high school has. Classes. Athletics. Extra-curricular clubs. And a PTO. A Parent Teacher Organization. To organize social events around the holidays. To provide ancillary support for the highly talented, and relatively low-paid, staff. And to provide an organized way for well-meaning parents to contribute to the well-being of the school.
Now, our PTO is in some ways similar to, and in others different from, a typical American public school PTO. The similarity is that there are the typical egos and busy-bodies and petty rivalries of school mom's all bumping heads with each other, all for crazy combinations of well-intentioned (genuine desire to be supportive of the school) and ill-intentioned (selfish desire to promote one's child at the expense of others) efforts. It truly is a political rat's nest, and the PTO Head has to be strong and stare down school mom's who are inappropriately rocking the boat. Many of the mom's at the school do not work, leading to some of them having too much free time on their hands.
The PTO Head for the past 6 years has been a beautiful, successful blonde name Cheryl. She had 4 children work their way thru the school. Like me, she's local, from an adjoining suburb. Despite delivering and raising four kids, Cheryl somehow maintained a killer body, and her breasts still stand at attention--i swear sometimes that at 53 she doesn't need a bra. Her body, her face, her hair are all freaks of nature. She'53 and could pass for 32. Her banker husband is very much in love with her, and sites on her with gifts of jewelry and clothes.
This is also her last year as PTO Head. Her last child is getting ready to graduate, and it's time to pass on PTO leadership to the next generation.
I'm hoping that next generation will be me. Starting last year, Cheryl began grooming me to be the next PTO Head. She used me as her right hand woman for all planning and activities. She allowed me to see, day-to-day, what's involved. It's been a whirlwind, and I've made the occasional mistake, but I've learned a ton.
Now, one last relevant background fact to this story. Why, you might be wondering, did I step forward and volunteer to be groomed, instead of relaxing at home? For one reason. Cheryl.
I love my husband. But I have a raging girl crush on Cheryl. I want to get in her pants, and for her to get into mine. All the hours of volunteering, all the sweat, is just a scheme to spend time with her, and, eventually I hope, to start up something physical with her. Dumb. Juvenile. But I have a crush on Cheryl. And I'm afraid to just out and tell her, given that we're both married. So here we are.
Here we are indeed. It's now Fall, the start of Cheryl's last year as PTO Head. If I pass the test, Cheryl will nominate me as her replacement, and a smooth transfer of power to a new generation will occur. If I fail, Cheryl will step down without a suitable replacement. Chaos will ensue. Cheryl will hate me. And she and I will never kiss. Or fuck.
God, I want to fuck that woman.
I'm in her house tonight. Alone. This could be the night.
Cheryl and I are having our start-of-year PTO planning meeting. The year is off to a good start. Staffing and enrollment are strong. The calendar of social events is full but organized. Now time for Cheryl to evaluate me. The moment of truth. We're on her leather couch, both a bit buzzed. I look longingly into her eyes, praying for a favorable assessment of me. As a PTO future Head. And as a woman. Our knees touch.
Cheryl says, "Michelle, I've really enjoyed working with you this past year. You're hard working and organized. And loyal. Thank you for stepping forward and giving the PTO your time and talents."
Uh-oh.
"My only hesitation is giving you my full-throated endorsement to be my replacement next year is your political toughness. The school board members and the parents here are very big cheeses, Michelle, some of the most powerful people in the world. You need to be strong, and protect the PTo's turf when it's threatened. You have a backbone, Michelle. But I need you to stiffen it and show it this year. Starting right now."
I sheepishly ask her how. What is about to happen seems like the most contrived teenage fantasy, but I swear it's 100% true.
Cheryl continues, "Michelle, when you're intimate with your husband, who's taking the lead? Show me right now that you can lead."
Cheryl then proceed and take my hair, leaned forward, and stuck her tongue down my throat. We were like eager teenagers on the couch, kissing loudly and enthusiastically. Michelle went from being an out-of-reach object of my desire to my actual kissing partner in nothing flat. I was excited. I was melting. I felt every square inch of her mouth with my tongue--it tasted as goid as I had been imagining for a year. I felt her hair with both hands. It felt as good, as young, as it looked. I tried to take in every touch, every scent of Michelle's face, mouth, and head, not understanding what she was doing. Was this foreplay to sex? Or was this some head game she was playing with me? If the latter, how was I doing?
Although I love my husband, I had had a handful of girl on girl make out sessions in the past three years. Old college classmates back in town. And one total stranger who I met out clothes shopping. I don't know how the total stranger thing ended up happening. It was pretty stupid, when you think about it--it could have been a setup to a robbery or a gang rape. But I did and and survived. I craved girl on girl kissing, like I was doing now with Cheryl. This was the roughest by far. Shit she kissed hard. I kiss her hard back just to keep from gagging on her probing tongue.
We continue kissing. She leans over and straddles me. She removes her mouth from mine and speaks.
"Michelle. You're letting me lead. Take the initiative. Take it from me. Bitch."
Cheryl tugs my hair as she says this. And not in a playful way. I let out an involuntary "Ow."
"Don't like it, bitch?," purrs Cheryl. "Do something."
Not wanting our make out session to end prematurely, I read my new partner, and respond. I grab Cheryl's blonde hair, and I raise my legs and turn the tables, now pushing her against the couch and straddling her. I'm on top for the first time tonight, and now I put my tongue inside her mouth. We resume kissing. Wet and loud. Our breasts begin rubbing. Hers feels as hard and firm as the look. I hope she feels the same about mine.
Although we are not speaking verbally at this point, our bodies are still communicating. I remember one of my reunited college friends telling me about hate-fucking. It's where you have sex with someone, but interact so roughly that it's as if the two of you actually hate each other.
Are Cheryl and I about to hate fuck?
Going with the flow, I free my hands from her hair and slap her shoulder. I want to also her face, but first want to calibrate the force of my swing. Too soft, and I'll confirm her doubts of my leadership abilities. Too hard, and it will be like waking a dragon. I kind of fear Cheryl right now. How much of this evening has gone as planned so far? Or has it already gone "too far".
Cheryl responds to my slap. "Yes, bitch. Yes. Let's hit and slap."
With me still straddling her, Cheryl and I begin slapping on the couch, striking each others shoulders, sides, and breasts. The flesh and flesh striking echoes thru the room. We are both breathing heavily and moaning.
"I'm prettier than you," I hear myself way. Cheryl stares me in the eye. She's angry i said that. No, she's angry I thought that.
She reverses our straddle, and slams me into the back of the couch. She grabs my hair, not for control, but actually trying to pull it out. We pause, our tongues missing each other. We alternate between rough tongue kissing and rougher hair pulling. Our tops slide off, our breasts touching at the nipples.
"My tits are nicer than yours, old bitch," I lie. Hers are nicer. But I want to hurt her.
"And yet I'm on top. I knew it, slut. You can't be PTO Head. You can't lead," Cheryl hisses.
"Just watch this, then," I his back, angrier than I've been all night. Angry because, as hot as this make out session as been, it's still just some sick control thing to this bitch. I don't know what will happen next. But I'm going to make sure this bitch gets some red marks out of it.
I slap Cheryl in the face. Hard and repeatedly. The catfight is on.
To be continued.......
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Nice start. With your history of plot twists I am already imagining the directions this might take
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Our tops slide off, our breasts touching at the nipples.
::) So lazy.
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wow great start I can't wait to read more
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Our tops slide off, our breasts touching at the nipples.
::) So lazy.
Lazy ???
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INTERLUDE--MY FIRST FIGHT
As Cheryl and I square off topless, ready to begin fighting standing up, she catches my eye. I know she intends to say something hurtful to me, hoping to throw me off my game.
She purrs, "You haven't even stopped to think how I know that your husband leads in bed with you, have you honey? It's because he told me. July 3, 2017. Monday of the 4-day weekend. Remember? I know you do. You were with your kids in Mackinac, Michigan. He stayed down here. To 'work'. [Cheryl makes air quotes.] But, guess what, honey. I swung by. Asked him if he was looking for trouble. Guess he was. Because he and I did it."
I actually question to myself if Cheryl's tale is wishful thinking. Part of me thinks that if she ever did manage to get him into bed, she'd text me a selfie at the scene of the crime itself, before the love kick even had time to cool. But more importantly, I realize now is not the time or place to determine the truth. I need to focus on this fight. If I don't, she'll hurt me bad. She won't hesitate for a second.
I dig into my memory banks of my most serious, intense catfight. It was in college at Yale, in 1987. I was in a behavioral psychology seminar. I knew from the start of the semester that the syllabus included an essay, where I was supposed to describe my feelings before, during, and after an actual physical fight. Fights with sisters didn't count. But, guess what? I had never been in one. I was self-conscious about this, because I had walked away from a few potential school fights. Seemed like a good idea at the time. But in 1987, it started to feel cowardly.
I explained my dilemma to a dormmate. I wanted to go to the seminar with an actual experience to tell. What a coincidence. Her roommate had never been in a catfight either, and was curious.
Long story short, her roommate and I met in the gym a few days later. Her roommate was a pretty redhead. We wrestled on the mats, more competitive than I expected. I won. I had a story to tell at seminar.
I needed those competitive instincts to kick in now.
Fast.
To be continued.....
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STANDING UP TO THE BULLY
After "springing the news" on me about her supposedly seducing my husband, Cheryl probably expects me to pounce on her like a hormonal madwoman. I decide to seize the initiative by doing the exact opposite of what the bitch expects.
We are standing topless, both in jeans, in the center of Cheryl's living room floor. We start off about 5 feet apart. I very slowly approach her with deliberate strides, my hands down. She puts her hands down and dares me to approach.
Me: So let me get this straight. You want my husband, and you decide to wait until I'm out of state.
Her: Oh, but honey, I wanted a nnnnnice, lonnnnng fuck session with him. Give him a well-deserved break from your spoiled brat kids. Show him how a real woman fucks.
<<<<I completely close the distance between us. My arms reach down and I plant my hands on Cheryl's butt cheeks. She reciprocates, taking my butt in her paws. Our chests bump, our faces inches apart. We stare each other in the eye.>>>>>
Me: He must not have been TOO impressed. He stayed with me.
<<<<<We tongue kiss roughly.>>>>>
Her: He was thinking of me every time you two did it. I guarantee that, sweetie.
<<<<We resume tongue kissing. I'm amazed we can resist fighting for this long. This bitch is all but begging for an ass-kicking.>>>>>
Me: You must know that I have no choice now but to seduce YOUR husband.
<<<<<More rough tongue kissing.>>>>>>
Her: You. Wouldn't. Dare.
<<<<<<Continued kissing.>>>>>
Me: Try. <kiss> And. <kiss> Stop. <kiss> Me.
<<<<<<Prolonged kissing.>>>>>>
Her: What to do, what to do. Kick your ass after that happens? <kiss> Or before?
<<<<Intense kissing. This better come to a head soon--I'm ready to cum.>>>>>
Me: If you wait till after. <kiss> he may leave you.
<<<<Intense kissing and swaying.>>>>>
Her: I hate you. <kiss> I always have.
<<<<<Intense kissing. We've been standing, staring down, hissing, and kissing now for 15 minutes. The tension is like a steel rope.>>>>>>
Me: You're a no good, lying, bully slut. I see thru you.
<<<<Rough kissing.>>>>>>
Her: I guess our pretend friendship is over.
<<<<<Less intimate kissing. I wonder what this means.>>>>>
Me: I have all the friends I need.
<<<<<Now kissing, but not even on the mouth.>>>>
Her: My husband has all the women he needs.
<<<<Not even kissing.>>>>>>
Me: Hmmph. I don't think he has one.
Her: Say. That.Again.
<<<<Our noses touching.>>>>>
Me: Your husband has, oh, maybe half a woman. And your children have one tenth of a mom.
<<<<Our voices get quieter and more serious.>>>>
Her: You shouldn't have gone there.
Me: You started it--"brat kids"--remember?
Her: Do something about it.
To be continued.....
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Looking forward to more!
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ENOUGH TALK
I tell Cheryl, "Oh, I don't need your permission to do something about it, honey. But I do have a request, which I suspect will be agreeable to you."
Cheryl replies, "Please, tell me what that might be."
I steady my nerves. Cheryl will take encouragement from any fear I show. I need to seem confident, but not cocky, in my fighting skills. "I find our jeans will interfere in what we want,...and need....., to do to each other. I'd prefer we remove that obstacle up front. Before we begin."
"Finally a sentiment of yours with which I can agree," hisses my enemy. "Let's remove them immediately."
Cheryl and I warily stare at each other as we drop our jeans. After over a year of effort, I'm finally in Cheryl's pants. Just not under circumstances I would have ever thought possible. I also receive another surprise--will they never stop tonight? Cheryl is completely bare of panties, or any underwear at all. I Beyonce self-conscious of my soaked panties, and seek to forestall her mentioning them by offering commentary of my own.
"Who goes commando in jeans?", I quiz her. "Are you fucking 19 years old?"
"That comment disappoints me, Michelle. I knew you were coming and was prepared for some couch sex--you know?--maybe some lap dancing? Or perhaps some make out finger fucking? Or, ....wait....let me guess--you just do missionary? Amiright?"
"I'm plenty sexually adventurous. Whore."
"Ah, yes. So you concede I do more than you. I'm pleased with your candor tonight."
"How so?", I ask, regretting taking the bait.
"I'm....ever....so....pleased, that our true feelings for each other are now out in the open. I will conduct myself accordingly."
"As shall I. That's a promise."
"Then I guess there's nothing else to say." Shit. How does that bitch always get the last word in?
We approach each other. The opening fight tactic is no mystery--we both tipped our hand by removing our jeans and, in my case, underwear. Cheryl's blonde bush is freshly, neatly trimmed. She wasn't lying about that--she definitely prepared for sex tonight. Before our foreplay went so horribly, epically wrong. My bush is thicker than usual, altho this fact is masked by the coating of pre-cum induced by our earlier tongue kissing.
We each form our right hand into a scoop shape, fingernails protruding. We then begin digging into each others pussies. I penetrate Cheryl right away, and then quickly realize my mistake, as her pussy squeezing my hand into a ball, preventing me from inflicting much damage. This must not be Cheryl's first catfight rodeo, as she has wisely kept her hand outside of me, choosing instead to savagely scratch my engorged pussy lips with poking, slashing thrusts. I feel every cut as if she is attacking me with a steak knife. We wrap our left arms around each other's necks, as I desperately try to extract my right hand from inside of her, a task with is proving difficult. We hiss Bitch Slut Whore insults at each other.
I feel rivulets of fluid streaming down my inner leg. I hope it is sweat or pre-cum, but fear it might contain at least a little bit of blood. My hand, balled in a fist, finally extracts itself from Cheryl. I instinctively lift it hard, still balled, into the somewhat crouched blonde, and hit paydirt-- direct blow to her nose. Blood drips onto the floor. Cheryl buckles upward from my effective uppercut, leaving her entire chest available to me as a target. I 1-2 her right, and then left, books with closed-fisted hooks, then kick her in the side with my right foot. I catch a glimpse of her nose, which appears busted. Good. Let the bitch explain that at a PTO public event.
Again, though, am I reminded that this fight is clearly not Cheryl's first rodeo. She appears unfazed by my early strikes, no matter how varied, as she comes right back at me Terminator style, and grabs two fistulls of hair, yanking powerfully. My entire skull sears with pain. I respond my grabbing her blonde hair, and we standup catball crazily across the room, slamming into the opposite wall. I can feel blood smearing from her face to mine, from my inner legs to hers.
To be continued....
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OUR FIGHT ESCALATES
As the initial adrenaline of our verbal argument and the explosion into an instantly violent bitchfight begins to subside, both Cheryl and I begin to feel the pain of our scratches and the bonecrushing bruises of our collisions with the living room wall. We survey, with satisfaction, each other's bloodied bodies. Cheryl's face and hair are a mess. I suddenly realize that in over a year of working with her, I've never seen her, until now, less than perfectly coiffed and done up. I'm positively gleeful to have her need to show her face smeared with sweat and blood. Let me tell you something--blood cakes itself into blonde hair as it dries, and there's no way to present a dignified appearance. For us blondes, It's the equivalent of staying poised after getting a cream pie in the face. I'm probably no prize myself right now, but seeing Cheryl in this state makes this whole evening right now totally worth it.
Cheryl and I continue sparring and slapping, seeking to connect to the face. Our breathing is labored, our voices not as defiant as when we were in pre-fight face off mode. I go first.
"Looking good, cxnt. Come get some more."
<mutual slaps, jabs>
"I haven't even fucking STARTED, Michelle."
<mutual slaps>
"Oh, is your face gonna continue to beat up my hands and feet?? Please, Cheryl, I can't take much more."
<mutual left closed fisted jabs>
"You won't fuck for months after tonight, slut."
Cheryl and I would make terrible poker players, as our body language is giving away our strategy for the next phase of what may be a very long fight. I'm in a boxing stance, trying to keep Cheyl at arm's length, hoping to line up more hooks to the tits and kicks to the side. I'm not so much looking for a KO as I am hoping for a knockdown, then a followup kick to the face when Cheryl attempts to get back up. Cheryl, meanwhile, having performed as the superior scratcher in Round 1, is looking for an opportunity to tackle me and re-grab my crotch.
We get our second wind, and stop our verbal sniping. My jabs become sharper, quicker, and more punishing. I go in for a kick, and quickly realize my error. Cheryl closes and tackles me onto the floor, our fight on the ground for the first time. I recall my 1987 college fight on the mats. This fight on the hardwood is different. Every roll on the floor vibrates through every joint of my body which makes contact with the surface. I try and block out that pain, in order to concentrate on the threat to my pussy from Cheryl's vicious clawing. She resumes slashing me. I try and play defense with my knees and feet, but Cheryl has already secured a grip. My defense is going to have to be a good offense.
In twisting in to me to get a hold on my crotch, Cheryl has ended up on her back, her legs wide open. Her pussy is fully exposed. I grit my teeth, lean forward, and grab as tight as I can, abandoning my previous, ill'advised tactic of trying to penetrate. I instead grab/scratch/knead/repeat. Cheryl and I are viciously on the attach, neither allocating any effort at all to defense.
The pain is like having dental work without novacaine. I pray that Cheryl is not one of those psychos that don't feel pain. If she has, my tactical decision has been a losing one, since my own pain is already drawing salty tears from my eyes. Fine, I decide. If Cheryl can make me pass out from this pain, then so be it. It still beats giving to this bitch.
Out stalemate finally breaks, as abruptly and unpredictably as it began, when my opponent releases my crotch, mounts my back, grabs cups my left breast with her left hand, my right breast with her right hand, and starts kissing the back of my neck, licking from my neck to my right shoulder, then returning to my neck. She massages my breasts, roughly but sensually. She opens her legs to surround me from behind, my hand losing its grip on her crotch. We are both sitting up on the floor, me essentially in Cheryl's lap, and I can feel her hard breasts against my back. Cheryl starts moaning in ecstasy. Getting kissed from behind on the shoulders is my sexual hot button (Did she learn that from my husband? Maybe she did sleep with him.), so I am quite aroused as well. Out bodies are pressed together. I remember her earlier comment about finger fucking. Are we going to do that now? I want that so bad.
Cheryl's right hand releases my breast, and finds my pussy. In fact, she finds my clit. She touches it, maybe a tad too rough, but still sensually. I want orgasmic release.
Cheryl whispers in my ear. "Here's the part of you I want to destroy most."
I realize I've fallen for a trap.
To be continued.....
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INTERLUDE--MEMORIES OF MY 1987 FIGHT
Cheryl takes advantage of my foolish, self-inflicted mistake--letting her kissing make me drop my defenses--and wraps a reverse naked (pun not intended, but It's a pretty good one) choke on my neck. She leans back, and waits for its effects to slowly weaken me. I have difficulty breathing. I struggle to break the hold, but I am flat on my back, Cheryl partly under me and partly to my left, with me having very few effective options to lash out at her. Seconds turn into minutes, Cheryl patiently tightening her hold on me. She has be subdued and under her control. If I pass out, she will be able to do anything she wants to me. I try to continue breathing.
My mind flashes back to my 1987 arranged fight in the gym at Yale. I was a senior, she was a junior. I recall details about the girl I fought. I don't remember her name-- think it had a Jo in it, as in Jo-Anne, although I can't remember exactly. But everything else about her I do remember. I remember she had thick but short permed light brown hair--not a lot available for pulling if our fight became a catfight. I remember she had everything I felt lacking in. She had a serious boyfriend, I didn't. I remember being a senior, having assumed I would meet my future husband at Yale--the clock was ticking, I hadn't found anyone yet. The boys I had met and liked all had business school or grad school plans, and didn't want to get serious. They wanted to keep their location options open based on where they got accepted. Meanwhile, Jo ( or whatever her name was--I'll just call her Jo to keep it simple) had this super serious soul mate, their future all mapped out already. In fact, even her wanting to see what it was like to fight was centered on him. The two of them were going back to his hometown for Thanksgiving, and Jo wanted the self-confidence to staredown his hometown ex's. She figured having a fight under her belt would give off an aura of "back off, I can handle my shit" to potential rivals. Sort of like once you lose your virginity, you become more confident at flirting.
Jo also had me beat in the career department. She had picked a major, and was already taking senior-level classes in it. She already had a summer internship under her belt, and an offer for next summer. I was still thrashing around looking.
I was so fucking jealous of her.
I remember the day we met in the gym for the fight, I wanted to shake hands first. Jo refused. That was when I knew we were going to have a serious fight. Jo was taller and thinner than me, and was a runner--her body was hard as a rock. I remember she wasted no time trying to take me down--not quite a brawl, but not a girly catfight, either; something in between. I remember how much I started to hate her as the fight progressed, how much I wanted to beat her up and steal her boyfriend and steal her life.
I remember she got me pinned, asking if I wanted to give. I did, but there was no fucking way I was going to give her the satisfaction. Not with her fucking boyfriend and career all neatly mapped out. Cheryl, tonight, is the same. She can put me in the hospital, but she's not getting a tap out from me.
I kept punching at Jo, her pin eventually slipping. After more intense fighting, I then got my own pin on her. But instead of asking for a surrender right away, which would have been with defiance, I instead inflicted more punishment. By the time it was over, she was begging me to stop. I had to find the strength tonight to follow the same roadmap with Cheryl.
Quick postscript on Jo. She and her boyfriend did indeed makes that Thanksgiving homecomung trip. One of Jo's boyfriend's ex's did indeed confront Jo, they did indeed fight (in, and then outside, a bar, I heard), and Jo kicked some serious ass. She told her roommate, who then told me. I think this was her way of saying thank you.
I need to get out of this hold and kick Cheryl's ass. Then I can call up Jo and give her a thank you myself. Thank you for agreeing to fight me 30 years ago, and letting me get my first fight experience under my belt. Thank you for giving me a fair, but tough, fight.
By the way, any sore feelings from your loss in 1987? Care for a rematch?
To be continued......
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1987 INTERLUDE CONTINUED--JO'S THANKSGIVING HOMECOMING BARFIGHT
Cheryl and I continue to writhe on our backs on her floor, her right forearm clamped on my throat, attempting to choke me out. I struggle into position, trying to keep airflow into my lungs. My only way out will be the resort to trickery. Twice earlier tonight, Cheryl has tried to distract and control me by arousing me sexually; the first time with an extended, aggressive tongue-kissing session, the second time by kissing my shoulders and neck. She must think I'm helpless, or weaker, when aroused. I decide to get her to let her guard down by masturbating myself to climax.
I'm wet and aroused from this evening's events, but need something to "get me over the top". Thinking about Cheryl would have done the trick before tonight, but there's too much bad blood between her and me now for that to work--the thought of making love to that witch disgusts me.
I scroll my rolodex of masturbation fantasies. I select the perfect one. I think of my Yale "first fight" fight opponent, Jo. I think of her going to her boyfriend's hometown in November 1987 to meet his family and to have Thanksgiving dinner with them. And of the Wednesday night before, going out drinking with his old high school buddies. And is high school girl classmates. A couple of whom he had dated. Perhaps 1 or 2 still had crushes on him. And wanted him back, especially since he was 18 months away from having a fancy Yale degree. Word gets out that he has a serious Yale girlfriend, that he's bringing her to town in Dobbs Ferry, New York for Thanksgiving. They'll be at the neighborhood watering hole the Wednesday night before Thanksgiving. A golden opportunity. For some rowdiness.
The New York girls get frisky, territorial. They spend all of November counting the days till Thanksgiving break. They start telling each other what they'll do to the Yale coed if she shows her face. They'll show her that New York girls are different, tougher than her. They'll say, ok, fine, he's yours when you two are on the New Haven Green. But this is Dobbs Ferry. And I don't see no ring on your finger. You need to step down this weekend. If he wants some New York flirting and some New York pussy this weekend, he's gonna get some. Ain't nothing you can do about it, Jo. If you don't like it, you shouldn't have shown your face in Dobbs Ferry.
Wednesday night comes. Jo's boyfriend has warned her that some of his hometown girls might show her some attitude. Jo decides she'll figure out which one is the leader. If she can stare down the leader, the others will back off quick. Jo doesn't know if an actual physical fight will break out, but if one does, she's ready and willing.
The scene at the bar is tense with anticipation. Jo's boyfriend introduces Jo to his buddies first. The girls and Jo are checking each other out with their peripheral vision. Jo identifies the leader. A tough, pretty Italian bitch named Gloria. Jo and Gloria will have words tonight, will size each other up. They're on a collision couse, and they both know it.
An hour of drinking and socializing passes. The tension builds. Gloria and Jo have met eyes several times. They stare daggers at each other, neither flinching. This is definitely getting physical, Jo decides. No backing down now.
Gloria goes into the restroom. Jo follows. It's time.
J: So, you're the Dobbs Ferry bitch?
G: Better a Dobbs Ferry bitch than a Yale bitch.
J: How so?
G: Cuz this is Dobbs Ferry.
J: I was invited here. That a problem?
G: Only if you're making it a problem.
J: I am.
G: I'll fight ya.
J: Let's go.
Jo and Gloria square off in a mutual hairpull, but some women customers have already alerted the bouncers. Gloria and Jo are thrown out into the parking lot. A crowd has gathered. The bouncers don't even separate them, and They're in the parking lot gravel in a catball.
I don't know how their fight ends, as I cum to the thought on Cheryl's living room floor. Cheryl releases her grip on me, as she cuns to the sound of me Cummings.
I pop up. My trick worked.
Now, Cheryl and I can finish our fight.
To be continued....
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Gloria, a New York Italian bitch. The same Gloria who gets her ass whipped by Sheila 15 years later? I like it!
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THE ENDGAME
With Cheryl and I now having cum in front of each other, and (ugh, gross) pretty much simultaneously and in unison, all pretence at decorum between us now entirely collapsed. There was no attempt to hide our naked bodies. After tonight, we would strive to never see each other again; or, if bumping into each other at PTO, school, or alumni events was unavoidable, one of us would leave the room.
The loser of tonight's fight would be the one expected to leave.
Other school mom's would eventually notice. "What happened between Cheryl and Michelle? They used to be so close; now they avoid each other. Did they have a falling out? Did they catfight?"
Whoa, Nellie. If these women only knew. Even the most exaggerated story would understate how vicious, how primal, tonight had gotten.
Cheryl and state each other down, inches apart.
"I never knew it was possible to hate someone as much as I hate you right now."
"If I didn't know your kids, I'd cut you up and bury you in my backyard."
<<<<We grab fistfulls of each other's blonde bloodstained hair.>>>>
"I thought you said they were brats."
"They are. So bratty they deserve you."
<<<<We angrily pull hair.>>>>>
"Let's get this over with. I can't stand having you in my house."
"I can't stand being here."
<<<<<We kick each other's shins.>>>>>
"Then get out."
"Throw me out. If you can."
<<<<<<We rub our tits together. Mine are sensitive from cumming, and even the moderate collision causes me excruciating pain.>>>>>>
Cheryl and I struggle wordlessly, getting aggravated at trying to one up each other's verbal attacks. Our bodies press closer together, as we alternate between offense and defense, each trying, and partying, a throw into the wall, a shove into the granite kitchen bar, or a trip onto the floor. Since the defender is successful in each instance, we are effectively waltzing across the living room in a standing catball, our faces pressed together, our mouths close.
My mouth becomes irritatingly dry--it always does minutes after I cum. I instinctively lick my lips to relieve the dryness, but my extended tongue finds Cheryl's mouth. She opens her mouth, leans into mine, and we are soon involuntarily, then voluntarily kissing. Our previous kisses were rough, aggressive. Either out of fight weariness, or some emotional dynamics I haven't solved with this insane bitch, these kisses are slower, more tender, almost passionate.
Whether from exhaustion or the kissing, I get lightheaded and fall to my knees. Cheryl follows me, neither of us releasing mouth contact, our hands still buried in each other's hair. The sound of the kissing sends me over the top in orgasm. Cheryl senses my release, pulls herself close, grabs my hand, and uses it to masturbate herself over the top. I can feel the gushing of fun in her pussy. This causes me to kiss her deeper, slower.
The slow kissing is addictive. I crave more. I bend backwards, onto my back, pulling her on top of me.
The slow kissing permits talking.
"I still hate you. Bitch."
" I know. I hate you more."
"That's not possible."
"I want you out."
"You'll have to call the cops."
"The cops are going to be involved one way or another, I think."
<<<<<<Even slower kissing.>>>>>>
"I know. How do we end this."
"We need to <<<<kiss>>>> stand and <<<kiss>>>> punch in the face until <<<<kiss>>> one of us drops."
"Our faces will be. <<<<kiss>>>> cottage cheese. <<<kiss>>> How will we explain that?"
"Then we punch <kiss> in the...<<<<<kiss>>>>....in the....<<<kiss>>>>.."
"Say it.....<<<<kiss>>>>>....in the where?.....<<<kiss>>> ...please,say it. " <kiss>...
"In the tits.....<<<<<We cum explosively, together>>>>>
We release our grips.
We regain our breath.
"Stand up, cxnt. I meant it."
"Good. So did I."
To be continued......
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Mmmmm, this is so very hot. I can feel the heat and hatred steaming off the page. Please continue.
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I do have one question though. Why does it have to end? Why not see them continue their sweaty, passion and hate filled encounter on and on, oblivious of anything but each other?
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INTERLUDE #2--THANKSGIVING DINNER IN DOBBS FERRY, 1987
Cheryl and I stand facing each other, gently kissing, and using each other's hands to masturbate each other's pursues. I recall Cheryl bringing up finger fucking earlier in the night--she must be into that. I insert two fingers into her to keep her aroused. I don't want to restart our fight just yet. The next round is going to be close fisted. Reality is starting to intrude. One or both of us are going to have some serious bruises, or worse, to explain to our families after this is over. The mention of cops in our previous faceoff was unsettling--is that what this is actually building to?
Cheryl is cumming from by finger fucking. I feel left out, and want to cum, too. The thought of Cheryl disgusts me, so I need to close my eyes and summon up a thought which will turn me on.
I return to 1987 in Dobbs Ferry, N.Y.. The Yale junior who agreed to fight me in the gym, Jo, is spending Thanksgiving weekend with her Yale boyfriend and his family--his mom, his sister who is a freshman at Dartmouth (I know--successful family), and 3 college age girl classmates of his sister's, 1 from overseas, one from Montana, and one from Arizona, who can't get back home for the 4-day weekend.
The 4 Dartmouth girls, Jo, Jo's boyfriend, and the mom of the house sit around the Thanksgiving table, friendly at first. But then the conversation becomes a bit strained and awkward. There's an elephant in the room: the cuts and bruises on Jo's face, neck, arms, hands, and legs from last night's 2 barfights with Gloria, the Dobbs Ferry hometown rival Jo met for the first time last time.
All 5 women at the table want to ask Jo the source of the wounds. They look like catfight scars, but this is 1987 and There's no internet and no social media. News like this travels slow, and only in face to face settings like this. All 5 women are afraid to break the ice and ask, especially with the mom in the room. Great first impression meeting your boyfriend's mom for the first time--getting into a barfight the night before.
The mom leaves the room to get something in the kitchen. Montana girl get brave.
Montana girl: Jo , i gotta ask. Are those scratches from a catfight?
Jo: Umm........Yes, last night.
Sister: O. MY. GAAAWWDDD. One of my brother's ex's??? Which one????
Jo: Gloria.
Sister: i.....fucking.....knew it. <<<<excited chatter among the gorls>>>> No, that is fucking awesome. Who won??
Jo: Bouncers broke up round 1. Gloria's friends broke up round 2. So no one. Yet.
Arizona girl: You 2 gonna finish this weekend??
Jo: Maybe. There's a party tomorrow, and another Saturday.
Mom: Or you two could just meet in the park.
Dartmouth girls: MOM!!!
Mom: I mean it. Don't let me stop you, Jo. That Gloria's a bitch. Always has been. Has it coming in my book.
The girls continue to talk about Gloria, about fighting. My Yale "tune-up fight" on the mats with Jo comes up.
I cum into Cheryl's hand.
Play time is over. Time for Cheryl and me to finish this.
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INTERLUDE #3--1987 THANGSGIVING FRIDAY CATFIGHT CHALLENGE
Cheryl and I, somewhat reluctantly, close our fists and begin jabbing each other in the tits. Resorting to fists has always rubbed me the wrong way. Men should fight like men, and women should fight like women. I'm old fashioned that way.
But 45 minutes of all out catfighting hasn't produced a winner between Cheryl and me. Not for lack of trying by either of us; Cheryl had me in a reverse naked chokehold, and I kicked Cheryl direct in the sides and lined up her head a couple times.
Kicking. That's an old school girly tactic, which fell out of use for some reason in the 1990s. I remember in the high school girl fights in the 1980s, girls would kick. Boys in a fistfight would never do that.
As my fistfight with Cheryl continues, the two of us still just sizing each other up, I think back to Jo, the girl at Yale one year behind me. It's my senior year, her junior year, November 1987. She's in her boyfriend's hometown, Dobbs Ferry, N.Y., meeting his family for Thanksgiving.
His family, and his high school classmates. Including a girl, Gloria, who hasn't moved on from high school. She and Jo have already fought the Wednesday night before the holiday. Like Cheryl and me, their fight didn't (yet) come to a proper conclusion.
Jo has a couple more chances to settle up with Gloria before the end of the weekend. There are parties both Friday and Saturday night. But Gloria's posse will be at those parties. The fight won't be fair--unless Jo is getting her ass kicked.
Jo's boyfriend's family--his mom and sister--tip her off to the Dobbs Ferry Memorial Park. Cops are all over it during the summer and fall, looking out for trouble. But during Black Friday, the AM of the day after Thanksgiving, all the cops will be at the mall. Winter comes early in Dobbs Feery--no one will be at the park. There's private spots there where 2 girls can fight, if they're fast about it. Jo's boyfriend's sister has seen fights there--has even been in 2 herself.
Now, Jo just needs to get Gloria there. It's Thursday night. Jo's boyfriend's sister, her 3 Dartmouth classmates, and Jo, huddle in the guest bedroom Jo is staying in.
It's 1987. You can't post of Facebook that you want to fight a girl. You can't Snapchat to her. You can't even text her. It might as well be One Million Fucking BC.
Your best shot is to call her. (On a landline, for you youngsters. We didn't call it that back then--we called it a phone.)
Gloria: Hello?
Jo: This is Jo. From Yale. Is this Gloria?
Gloria: Do you refer yourself as Jo from Yale to everyone?
J: Are you a bitch to everyone? Cuz I heard you are.
G: Don't believe eveeything you hear.
J: Ok. Did I heard this right? I heard There's a place to fight in the Memorial Park.
G: There's lots of places to fight.
J: Ok. But to fight to a finish.
G: You sure you wanna do That?
J: With you? Why wouldn't I be? You think you showed me anything last night? Other than that you have friends that jump in?
G: They wanted to keep me from hurting you.
J: Then let's lose them.
G: Done. Why am I such a threat to you?
J: You're not. This is for me. For fun.
G: Why me, tho?
J: You still fucking want him. Don't deny it. I see how you look at him.
G: When did you hear me deny it?
J: Well, good, then. You know it'll never happen, right? You and him? With me around?
G: ........
J: Cat got your tongue, but mouth?
G: Fuck. YOU.
J: Tell me that to my face.
G: Don't bring anyone.
J: You Don't either.
G: 9am.
J: Fine.
Cheryl and I exchange catty glares. We're still not winding up fully on our swings, but We're connecting harder. Our lungs suck in badly needed air. We're at the limits of our endurance. One of us will drop soon.
For us, our 9am on a frosty late November morning has arrived.
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Very creative, two confrontations superimposed! I hope Michelle survives long enough to give us the details of Gloria and Jo's showdown. Dying to see Gloria in action!
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INTERLUDE #4--1987 CATFIGHT FINAL PREPARATIONS
Ahhhhhh, the lost art of the "wanna fight?" cold call. Today's girls have no need to learn that skill anymore, with texting and Snapchat. Let me tell you, it takes balls of steel th call a girl you might be about to fight with, and remain cool enough to arrange a neutral location, but firm enough so she doesn't sense your fear. Part of the reason I went all the way to my senior year at Yale without fighting is that a couple confrontations I had with girls, over high school dance dates or whatever, had made it to the "wanna fight?" phone call stage, but then one or both of us lost our poise on the call itself and muffed it up, so the actual fight never got set up.
Not so Jo and Gloria. Their call was perfect, a classic, and now they're going to fight tomorrow morning, in the park. Jo and her boyfriend's sister and Dartmouth classmates sit and plan strategy and clothing. Jo didn't bring many clothes--luckily she's the same size as her boyfriend's sister. They plan on layers of jogging clothes. It's going to be cold, but sunny, tomorrow morning.
Montana girl shows Jo how to make a fist for a fistfight. She grew up on a ranch, and the ranchhands taught her. Arizona girl teaches Jo how to kick. And the overseas girl gives Jo a headband to keep the sides of her permed hair from flying into her eyes. Gloria's friends are no doubt huddle around her, providing the same advice and support.
This fight is going to be a fistfight. Both of the Wednesday night catfights were brief, but both girls sustained nearly a dozen noticeable scratches. An uninterrupted catfight will cause even the winner to be marked up permanently. Instead, Montana girl cuts Jo's nails so she can ball up her hand into a full fist. The cold ground tomorrow morning will make rolling around even more painful than the fight on the gravel parking lot of the bar was. Both girls are going to stand and throw fists and feet until one goes down and can't get up. It won't go to the ground until the decisive ground and pound.
That's the stage of the fight Cheryl and I are at, the only difference being that she and I are naked, so our tits are tempting targets. I'm a harder puncher than Cheryl, but Shit, It's hard to protect your face and tits at the same time.
We've both hit the floor a couple times. But have both gotten up.
Jo and Gloria go to bed Thursday night wondering which one won't get up Friday.
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A CLIMACTIC CONCLUSION
When 2 women are fistfighting, alone, with no one to break it up, and it goes past the 5 minute mark, it becomes a straight endurance contest. And, I Don't mean a psychological endurance contest--I mean a literal test of who has the better cardio. Because, any lift from the "2nd wind", the "jogger's high", has long since burned itself out. Your arms turn to jelly. Getting up from a knockdown is like climbing a mountain. And, if You're winning, even though you talk tough with "Get up, bitch; I'm not finished with you," you're actually praying for her to stay down. Because any possibility of knocking her out with a right to the chin is ancient history. You're gassed, and your getting more exhausted by the minute.
Cheryl and I are at that stage of our fistfight. She's knocked me down three time, but I've knocked her down six times. Each one was sweet. But It's not my fistfighting skills that are going to end this. It's the precious 12 months of youth I have on her (you know the saying--"Father Time is undefeated"). And It's my superior cardio. I spin more than her. More days per week, more minutes per workout. All that sweat pays off right now.
Cheryl's grunts are animalistic. She's on her last legs. Her punches are like slow motion. Her knees are shaking. Her eyes have pure fear in them. She knows She's going down. And then the real fun will begin. I'll exact my revenge on her.
The next knockdown will be the last. The anticipation turns me on. I savor the final round of a female bareknuckles boxing match.
That's what Jo and Gloria had that sunny, frigid fall morning. Jo arrived just on time, Gloria was 10 minutes late, playing head games with Jo, much like Cheryl played head games with me earlier tonight. They called each other a bitch, and started swinging. They meant to pace themselves, and compared to most college age fighting girls, sort of did. But the adrenaline, the jealousy, and the hormones still made for a frenetic intense pace. The ground was slick. Knockdown wee fast and frequent, at one point 5 consecutive punches resulting in knockdown.
The pace slows, but only because the girls knuckles are in extreme pain. Hitting the other girl in the skull hurts the puncher more than the punchee. Each girl becomes more economical, more efficient with their hits. Now, one one lands directly, the flesh on flesh noise is like a firecracker, the pain is bonecrunching. Each girl know she is in a war. Jo wishes she hadn't put on that "college 15" weight around her waist. Gloria wishes she didn't have a smoking habit. Each is sucking in cold air, their breaths visible. They taunt each other when they exhale. At each knockdown, they say, "Get up, whore." They actually mean "Stay down. Please, stay down."
In front of me, Cheryl flops down, pathetically. My sexual desire is off the charts. I flatten her onto her back, point her chin up, and mount her face. I writhe my body, riding her face. To get myself over the top, I picture in my mind the last 30 seconds of the Jo/Gloria fight.
It was Gloria who won that fight. The same way i defeated Cheryl. Jo finally couldn't get to her feet after a knockdown. And neither could Cheryl.
Later that night, Gloria claimed her prize--a cowgirl fucking of Jo's boyfriend, with countless orgasms.
And right now, in Cheryl's living room, I claim mine. I fuck Cheryl's face. Until I can't cum anymore.
Jo never went back to Dobbs Ferry.
And Cheryl never came back to PTO.
I'm the Chair.
Got a problem with that?
THE END
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Long, involved, detailed, well written - there aren't enough good things to say about this story. Thanks for sharing it!
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Great story. Obviously a lot of time and effort went into writing it. Thanks for,posting it.
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Feast of Saint John's announcement:
The Board of Trustees are pleased to announce that with or without progress in the battle against Covid-19, the Feast of St John's Fundraiser will proceed as scheduled on Sunday, December 27, 2020. Two women who are well-known to almost all of us, due to their prominence of school alumna (Class of 1986 and 1989), school parents, and PTA Chairs (2012-2017) and (2017-2019), Michelle and Cheryl, will renew their rivalry in a no-rules battle to be broadcast on closed-circuit TV for all paying donors.
More details to come, but mark your calendars for December 27.
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Tonight, we are proud to report that despite the very trying circumstances of 2020, our school alumni, parents, benefactors, and 2 of our most prominent PTA volunteers (Cheryl and Michelle) came together to carry on the Feast of St John tradition of a fundraising catfight. The showing of the fight was on closed circuit TV, rather than being in person; but the funds raised matched what is given in a "normal" year, allowing our school to see its way thru to the other side of this terrible pandemic.
In the run up to this event, many of you no doubt heard the story of the falling out Cheryl and Michelle had on their transition of the PTA presidency. Time had no headed the wounds remaining between them, and they agreed to put their rivalry to the test in the ring tonight. The result lived up to the hype.
Both ladies looked as stunning upon entering our improvised fight room as they did in their Thanksgiving taped interviews. Both are sporting lovely straight blonde hair down past their shoulders, have an agreement to not cut it since Halloween in order to present each other with potential targets in their no-rules brawl. As each woman removed her tank top, it was clear that they've been hitting the gym extensively (and eating healthy!), as their shoulders and forearms were carved to perfection. Both of the women have the breasts which women 20 years younger than them would envy, and neither gladiatrix showed a hint of shyness at putting it on display for our worldwide audience of paying viewers--or for each other. Each stared at the other icily as they removed their heels, and then their school uniform skirts, displaying flawless female targets to her eager enemy. We'll just observe that both women appear to have recently found bikini waxing salons who have figured out how to stay open during a pandemic, and leave it at that.
Both women came to the center of the small, enclosed room for the pre-fight staredown, with the mentor (Cheryl) bringing noticeably more intensity than the protégé (Michelle). For a brief instant, we wonder if Cheryl is intimidating her former understudy, until Michelle flashes a knowing eye-roll at one of the three fight cameras, and gives a too-cool-for-school shrug at Cheryl's attempt at bravado.
Cheryl is frustrated at cookiness of her younger challenger, and buries her claws into Michelle's thick blonde mane. Michelle responds at first with body punches to Cheyl's side and chest, but is forced to reciprocate the hard hairpulling when Cheryl begins to drag Michelle towards one of the three walls of the veritable fight pit, and begins banging Michelle's head and face into the padded-but-hard side. Michelle quickly restores balance and evenness to the fight. Both women are in a standing full hairpull clinch, now freeing one hand each and exchanging belly punches, alternating with uppercuts to the face. Hissing insults can be heard between the blows.
> I'll fucking kill you, bitch.
> Try it, you washed up cxnt.
> I fucking hate you, shut.
> Because you know I'm better than you, jealous bitch.
> I should have knocked you out years ago.
> You think you're hurting me, bitch?
> I'll fucking hurt you now.
Both women use their free hand to lock on a grip on one of their enemy's breasts, bending at the waist to maintain a grip in the hair with the other hand. Twisting turns to raking and clawing, as each begins to rake visible red scratches into the others' chest.
The action now goes down onto the floor, with Michelle scrambling to the top and mounting Cheryl's back. Cheryl corrects her error quickly, and Michelle briefly succeeds in wrapping both her arms around Cheryl's chest and grabbing a double handful of Cheryl and pinching mercilessly. Cheryl decides the best defense is a good offense, and throws her elbows backwards into Michelle's face, connecting with her enemy's nose and mouth. Michelle bravely maintains her composure (and her grip on Cheryl's torso), but we can see her counting teeth with her tongue, and we are reminded of Kawhi Leonard's bloody mouth injury in the Christmas Day L.A.Clippers game.
Are the ladies weighing a catfight endgame via submission or via striking?
Both women's backs are now notably covered with layers of sweat, as the intensity of the fight builds in energy and duration. Cheryl's elbows jab mercilessly backwards at Michelle's face and chest, while Michelle's claws dig relelentlessly into Cheryl's breasts, raking rows of scratches into her enemy.
>I'll fuck you up bitch.
> I'll wreck you, shut.
Michelle rolls onto her back, using her back heels now to kick Cheryl's groin area. Cheryl desperately tries to bends backwards to break Michelle's grip, her body language for the first time betraying hints of panic. Michelle is now using all for limbs to both leverage control onto her prone opponent, and to strike at vulnerable able of her enemy's body.
If Cheryl cannot break Michelle's grip soon, she will be at her rival's mercy.
The pace of the fight subsides for the first time all evening, Cheryl needing to gather herself to consider her dwindling options, Michelle to further lock her hold.
Drop of blood start to trail down Cheryl's chest. At first they appear to be from the rake marks on her own chest. But as the trails get longer, it's evident that the source is Michelle's own nose and mouth, from the reverse elbow Cheryl landed minutes ago
> Go toe to toe with me, Michelle. You don't want to beat me this way.
> I'll beat you any way I want, bitch.
> Then let me up and go toe to toe with me. Let everyone in TV land see that fucked up face of yours.
> <Michelle thinks>
> Go toe to toe with me, hun. We'll always wonder who woulda won.
> <Michelle thinks more>
> And so would our husband's.
> The let's show them, bitch.
Michelle releases her hold on Cheryl, and both bloodied women rise to their feet and square up. Michelle's face is unrecognizable from the blood streaming from her wounded mouth and nose. Cherl's blonde hair is stained from the matted blood from Michelle's face and her own chest.
Both women are seeing red, literally and figuratively. They are visibly angry with each other.
Both step in with boxers stances, aiming left jabs and right hooks square at each others' jaws. Cheryl is aiming for Michelle's open wounds, trying to worsen the damage to Michelle's face. Michelle is alternating with hi-lo combinations to her enemy's breasts and face, before similarly electing for exclusively head shots.
Both women's heads snap back with alternating right hands hitting square in the face at full strength.
Cheryl is the first to score a knockdown, Michelle falling backwards on her butt.
> Had enough, slut?
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ST JOHN'S 2020 FIGHT, CONCLUSION
Michelle vs Cheryl
Long time Feast of St John's aficionados will at this point recall the unwritten rule of longstanding that a bleeding St John's gladiatrix may, without penalty or sanction, call a medical time out to towel off and even seek neutral medical attention. St John's combatants are freely volunteering their time, sweat, safety, and potentially their dignity on behalf of the school and its Treasury. We have no interest in requiring them to sacrifice, unnecessarily, their current safety and future beauty.
At the same time, those historically-oriented multi-generational attendees of St John's fights will also note that rarely do bleeding combatants avail themselves of the timeout privileges afforded them. Michelle, last night, built upon that long tradition of a cut catfighter "powering thru" a gruesome cut.
And one final footnote that even last night's remote viewers were unaware of as they watched live: Cheryl and Michelle, partly as a gesture of social distancing to any doctor or nurse or EMT who would have been serving in the role of ringside Florence Nightingale, and partly as an expression of the enmity and disdain they bear towards each other, waived the presence of ringside medical assistance. So Michelle's only available relief, anyways, would have been a towel.
Back to the recap of the fight action.
Cheryl's commitment to a toe to toe showdown with her erstwhile protégé was demonstrated when she failed to immediately pounce on and mount her fallen and prone opponent. Michelle was clearly dizziness and stunned by Cheyl's barrage of fists, and likely would have succumbed to any of a series of moves now presenting themselves to her enemy as options: a classic ground-and-pound, a flying kick or a series of same, or a wrestling-style flying elbow. Whether Cheryl is this morning regretting her noncapitalization of her temporary advantage is between her and her maker (or, at least, St John the Evangelist, patron Saint of the day); but Michelle must certainly be counting her Christmas blessings.
For, as she regained her bearings, then her balance, then her footing, the former pupil proved herself as the good student and rapid learner Cheryl one complimented her as, and squared up with her enemy in a right-cross-leading inverted stand (though boxing right-handed, leading with her right fist and right hip). This achieved two goals, one intangible and the other tangible. In the former department, Cheryl was caught flat-footed, confused by the stance and intentions of her foe, and losing momentum in the frequency and power of her strikes. In the latter category, Michelle's counterpunching game became ferocious, and she leaned backwards away from each of Cheryl's swings, and pivoted in a single motion to jabbing at Cheryl's jaw and nose.
Within minutes, Cheryl's face resembled Michelle in coverage of facial skin by crimson fluid. Michelle's hands were drawn to the red targets like an angry bull to a cape, and she began dropping her enemy gradually but rhythmically.
Down goes Cheryl.
Down goes Cheryl.
Down goes Cheryl.
> Get up, bitch, I'm not done with you.
But she's done with you,,Michelle. On the third knockdown, Cheryl tapped out. Michelle was disappointed at first, but no doubt remembered the closed circuit witnesses to her epic victory.
She mugged for the camera.
Soak it in, Michelle. We pray that 2021 bring similar returns to the traditions and excitement of our school.
St John, pray for us.
And God Bless Michelle, one of the greatest fighters the Feast of St John has ever seen.