FreeCatFights
General Category => Catfight , Boxing & Wrestling Stories => Series => Topic started by: sinclairfan on March 30, 2023, 08:34:56 PM
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Setting: New England, early Summer 1984, the home of recent divorcee Mrs Silva
Dramatis Personae:
Samantha, Mrs Silva's 20-year old niece from Florida, who visits her Aunt in New England for 3 weeks every summer
Whitney, Mrs Silva's 20-year old neighbor, who has opened up to her mentor lately about one of her unfulfilled fantasies.
If she plays her cards right, that fantasy just might happen today.
It's 9am. Mrs Silva is running errands until 2, so Samantha is home alone. But as she's been told Whitney might 'stop by for a chat', she's up and dressed, with her blonde hair blow-dried. She has make-up on--she's not sure why. She's watching MTV, lightly fingering herself to a Duran Duran video.
The doorbell rings. Samantha gets up hopefully and answers.
> Oh, good. You must be Whitney.
> Yes, hello. Samantha, I presume?
> You found her! And I'm glad it's you, not Jehovah's Witnesses or something.
> Well, THAT's a low bar! [Both women giggle nervously.] And I'm relieved as well. Your Aunt and I play pranks on each other. I thought she might 'send me over' without giving you a heads-up.
> [You and her 'play pranks'??? Exactly HOW WELL do you and her know each other?] Oh, she gave me a heads up, all right. If you really want what she said you want, I think you'd best come in so I can close the door.
> [I guess the chit-chat is over. We got down to brass tacks pretty fast. Maybe that's best....before we chicken out. The two women sit awkwardly on Mrs Silva's old couch.
They never did get around to shaking hands.] Sssssoooo....youtlr aunt said you go to the police academy in the Fall??
> Yep ..... wrapped up my Associate's Degree last week. If all goes well, I'll be a cop this time next year. Start earning some money. You're pre-law, is that right.
> Yes, Dartmouth right now....
> Wow, Ivy League ... smart, sexy ....
> [Blushing] Oh, thank you ... and I meant to tell you at the door, .... you're VERY preety too .... the Florida sun agrees with you....
> [Huh? Are you saying the only reason I'm pretty is that I grew up down South?] Oh, thanks .... [I told her she's sexy and smart .... All I'm gonna get is that I'm 'pretty'.]..... I heard you never fought growing up because you didn't want to get a record and lose your law license ....
> Something like that .... Just like I heard YOU didn't want a record.... that it would jeopardize your law enforcement aspirations ....
> [They're not aspirations, birch .... didn't you hear? I got accepted to the academy.] Ya .... kept my nose clean .... My aunt used to think girls don't think about career that way, until you mentioned to her that you had pretty much the same thought .... too funny.
> Yes .... funny. So .... I guees you and I have this place to ourselves until, 2?, was it?
> Yes. That's the idea. Are you thinking .... we should use it?
> I'm thinking.... I'm thinking I can see fighting you .... if that's what you're asking..... [is that what she meant?].....
> It is, Whitney. I'm thinking I'd like to fight. And I'm thinking I'd like to fight YOU.
> Because? neither of us has fought?
> That. And something else?
> Well.... Whitney. I don't know you verywell, but .... I don't like yoz very much.
> I was just thinking something similar, Samantha. I was worried driving over here, what if Samantha is someone who would make a good friend. [Fuck, this is arousing. Does she notice me getting turned on?] Well, I would never want to be friends with you, Samantha.
> Too good for me, Whitney? Xou only befriend Ivy Leaguers?
> That was a bitchy thing to say to domeone you barely know.
> You started it, if I remember.
> .....
> .....
[The two women alternate between looking each other and looking around the house.
> I wonder what room my Aunt meant for to fight in.
> I think, Samantha, that she wanted us to put on our Big Girl pants and secide on our own.
> Have you decided, Whitney.
> Right here is fine by me. So when she comes home she can see how I wiped the floor with you.
> [The two women, still sitting on the couch, lunge for each others' hair.] You fucking obnoxious bitch.
> Florida Trash.
To be continued......
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Setting: Downtown Waltham, MA, that same afternoon, an upscale lunch restaurant
Mrs Silva, a 41-y.o. divorcee
Mrs Porter, 28-y.o. and separated, Mrs Silva's friend
> What's new, girlfriend [a Freudian slip which both women notice]? Glad it's summer? Doesn't your bratty niece from Florida visit soon?
> She arrived three days ago, ..... and, umm....
> What? Tell me!
> I don't want to jinx it, but .... SHE might have a visitor right now?
> Well, what?? A boyfriend?
> A girl .... but NOT a friend.
> Ok, totally confused.
> Ok, well..... you know how Samantha has always wanted to get into a fistfight ...... Well, it's getting real now, because she's going to Police Academy in the fall ....
> The school, not the movie right?
> Ha ha, .... c'mon this is real .... well obviously at Police Academy she's gonna learn self-defense .... prolly spar some Lady Cadets, right?....
> Sexy.
> Sexy, and, since she's never been hit.... possibly pathetic .... well, I was on rhe lookout all Spring for someone for her to fight ...
> AND?.....
> AND .... Jackpot!.... this girl Whitney who used to watch my place?....
> Girl Scout?
> Total Gitl Scout, literally and figuratively.... well, she's halfway done Dartmouth .... she tells me SHE wants a fight ....
> Why do these girls tell you this?
> I know! ESP, or something, right? ... well I knew I was going to lunch today .... I tell Whitney about Samantha, and Samantha will be home; I tell Samantha about Whitney, and Whitney might come over .... and that the two girls should 'chat' .... about their .... mutual interest.
> Are you nuts? They'll obviously kill each other? You can't leave two girls that age alone to fight!
> Au contraire. I think they'll just spar. Ya know, get the adrenaline rush sensation. No harm no foul.
> Doubtful, but posdible. If they're nice girls. You didn't want to watch?
> Well, if anything happens to Samantha and I'm there, my brother will kill me. But, also .... let the women have their privacy. For their first fight.
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As Samantha and Whitney rolled onto Mrs Silva's carpeted living room floor in a hairpulling catball, they were both aggravated that their first fight experience was far less dignified, and was more girly, than they had envisioned when they woke up that morning.
Samantha had pictured light stand-up sparring with fists against a studious, pretty good-girl. Instead, Whitney had turned out to be the worst kind of preppy, snooty, full-of-herself Ivy League bitch.
Whitney had aldo wanting stand-up jabs, using her long leading left arm to keep her fight opponent at a distance while punishing Samantha's pretty Portuguese face. Whitney new that since Samantha and Mrs Silva were blood relatives, Samantha would have inherited Mrs Silva's thick raven hair and pretty Mediterranean skin. But Samantha's attractiveness had generated waves of unexpected jealousy in Whitney, her sensitiveness at her own skin's inability to generate a summer tan being reinforced by the arrival of the all-too-brief New England summer.
Both women clenched their fists while on the ground and attempted to land blows to the faces, the neck, the breasts, and soft parts they could visually locate. But most blows were finding skull, shoulders, and other useless hard parts.
Or floor. Good thing for the carpeting.
Samantha remembered an episode of The Brady Bunch where a school fight between Peter and his bully ended when Peter induced a nosebleed with a single punch. Samantha craved more than anything to draw First Blood from Whitney.
But, would that end their fight?
Did Samantha want Whitney to quit at a bloody nose?
Or did she want to hurt and maim the Ivy League bitch?
> I hate you, slut.
> Fuck you, tramp.
To be continued.....
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A-ha! A blast from the past. Nice to see a tie-in from a former story.
For those newer to our author, please go to the Search page at this site, type in "Vicky" and "Silva" to find out more of the history and exploits of the manipulative Mrs. Silva.
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Mrs Silva and Mrs Porter are speeding down I-95 South after having lunch in Waltham, uncertain of what they will find aglfter Samantha and Whitney have been given access to Mrs Silva's house for 5 hours to do what they would like. The two adults decide there are 5 possibilities.
> Perhaps they just talked.
> Perhaps they just sparred.
> Perhaps the had a short fight.
> Perhaps they fought 3 or 4 rounds.
> Perhaps their fighting got out of hand and they brawled to a conclusion.
> I don't know what you were thinking, leaving two attractive girls like them alone.
> What? Two girls can't just spar with each other? To see 'what it's like'?
> When they're that attractive? No!!! They each need to be the sexier woman .... and the tougher woman.
> You never got alone with a girl growing up? One you had met at a sleepover, maybe?
> Alone!?!? No, never!!! My patents wete always upstairs, or at least my brothers! So nothing would get out of hand!! Think about it. If you just wanted to mess around with a boy, you made sure someone else was around. If it was just you and him, it meant things would go all the way to fucking.
> If Samantha is going to be a cop, she's going to need to know how to take control of situations. Not let the situation control her.
> Cops always have back-up!!! For exactly that reason--things can be controlled by one person.
> Well... maybe .... Whitney is a good girl, tho. A-student.....
> [Interrupting] .... Honor students are the worst!!! She's gonna not be a doormat to your niece. She's gonna escalate the situation!! If she shows up, it's to fight!!
> Ok, you're scaring me. I don't want them trashing my place.
> That's ..... exactly .... why bars make women 'take it outside'. Things are gonna break.
> Shit, this was a dumb idea. Maybe. I still don't think they would, like, .... , totally brawl. I can't picture it.
> You can't picture it because they've never been alone with another girl their same looks and size.
> I guess.... growing up.... I DID try to avoid situations like that. Being alone with a girl who wadn't my friend.
> ......
> Shit.
To be continued.....
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Driving in the car, Mrs Silva couldn't understand why "sparring" wouldn't be enough thrill for the two young, pretty women.
Growing up in New Bedford, MA in the early '60, Mrs Silva remembered getting home from her public high school, and the pretty Catholic school girls getting home in the pretty uniform skirts, and the two sets of girls squaring up for standup fistfights. The liquored up Mom's inside would look the other way and ignore the fights, as long as the girls refrained from pulling hair or wrestling on the ground with their opponents. Pulling hair or catballing on the ground was viewed as something "lesbians" did, so the parents would not tolerate in their backyards. But standup fistfights was allowed, since it was tolerated when boys did it. Do how could the egalatarian-advocating women deny that behavior in girls. Equal rights.
Mrs Silva would love punching a stuck-up Catholic school girl in the nose and getting it to bleed a little. The Catholic school girls would taunt the public school girls for missing Mass on Sundays. Mrs Silva wondered why God wouldn't protect the Catholic girls from getting hurt in their fights.
When Mrs Silva won a fistfight, she would go home and masturbate. It excited her to beat the skirted stuck up bitches in fights. She would immediately start looking forward to the next day of fights.
Whitney and Samantha had never been in a fistfight. Mrs Silva wondered how that was even possible.
Other than fucking, it was the most fun thing a woman could do.
Mrs Silva loved watching other girls fight, too. She would always want the prettier girl to win.
To be continued....
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Mrs Silva remembered visiting her boyfriend, Mr Silva, the man who would become her husband (then, later, her ex-husband) at Boston College in 1967 or 1968. She prepared to get teased by the Boston College girls, who, like the New Bedford girls who she liked to spar with in high school and give bloody noses to, had gone to Catholic High Schools. As she knew they would, they teased Mrs Silva about going to community college in Southeastern Mass, to learn typing and other office skills.
Mrs Silva and a Boston College coed challenged each other to fight outside in a courtyard. Mrs Silva expected their fight to be like a New Bedford after-school fight: two girls jabbing each other in the face until one had a bloody nose or lip.
Instead, the Boston College girl dug her nails into Mrs Silva's hair, tearing whole tufts of Mrs Silva's pretty Portuguese hair out my the roots. The two girls rolled on the ground, the Boston College girls being much more experienced at using her legs in a catfight, eventually mounting Mrs Silva and slapping her face until her eye swelled shut.
Mrs Silva felt humiliated losing the catfight the way she had. She felt there was nothing sexy about fighting another woman with hairpulling and mounting. Girlfighting, to Mrs Silva, was two women standing toe to toe and punching each other in the face until one of the girls was bleeding. THAT was fighting; THAT was sexy; THAT was fun.
> THAT's how Whitney and Samantha will fight each other. Right Mrs Porter?? RIGHT, Mrs Porter??
> I don't think so, Mrs Silva. That's not usually how women fight.
Mrs Porter thought back to her disastrous 1981 marriage to her serial-chesting husband. Mrs Porter constantly caught him arranging affairs with ex's and business clients of his. Mrs Porter was always catching him with AT&T phone bills, calling the women, and fighting them.
The fights always involved hair-ripping, clothes-stripping catfights at the women's spartments, or outside bars Mrs Porter would confront her rivals at. Mounting a rival and slapping her in the face was how you ended the affair before it became a habit. Especially if the Other Woman and Mrs Porter were equal in age and looks.
Like Samantha and Whitney were.
> Women fight with nails and elbows, Mrs Silva.
> That's not .... fair play.
> There's no fair in girlfights.
To be continued.....
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Between 1975 and 1982, Mrs Silva was preganant three times with her three children: a girl, a boy, a second girl. When she was pregnant, Mrs Silva was practically bedridden with horrible Morning Sickness.
When she wasn't pregnant, Mrs Silva hosted Morning Coffee's with the neighborhood housewives. Mrs Silva would do just about anything to avoid being home alone with her toddler children.
The Coffee's would conclude at 2:00, when the neighborhood school buses started bringing the pupils backs home from school.
1:30 to 1:50 featured a Sparring Match between two of the housewivesat the Coffee. Sometimes Mrs Silva would be a participant in the sparring, sometimes a spectator.
She was fine either way, as long as a girlfight happened. Two houewives would stand in the center of the kitchen, square up, and punch each other in the face. The winner was the first woman to draw blood from her opponent's nose or mouth or lips. The fights were deadly serious. Within the defined rules, but with punches never pulled. The fighters were out to win the fight.
When Mrs Silva's oldest daughter started being old enough to be one of the students stepping off the bus, it was HER job the watch Mrs Silva's toddlers.
Because Mrs Silva would retire to her bedroom. To masturbate to that day's 1:30-1:50 fistfight. Either that Mrs Silva had just lost, had just won, or just watched. All zhree turned Mrs Silva on.
Two women had just fought in her kitchen. She found that irresistably sexy.
When her husband came home at night, she would tell him to fuck her face, as she thought about that afternoon's fistfight.
She loved drawing blood from a rival housewife in a fight.
Why had that Boston College girl resorted to pulling hair and catballing? What was sexy about that?
No, Mrs Silva thought, women are built to punch each other in the face with fists. That, and fucking. But mostly fighting.
When her niece Samantha announced her interest in fighting, Mrs Silva arranged a fistfight with Whitney, a girl as pretty, tall, young, and strong as her.
Is it possible Whitney and Samantha were both like the Boston College girl, and used the opportunity to pull hair and roll on the ground?
Didn't they wonder who would win a fistfight?
To be continued....
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When Mrs Porter's marriage starting falling apart in 1983, she became a regular lunch partner of Mrs Silva. Mrs Silva, a specialist in contentious divorce from unfortunate experience , taught Mrs Porter how to protect her and her children's financial interests in her coming Court skirmishes.
Mrs Silva loved Mrs Porter's straight blonde hair. In the early 1980s, Farrah Fawcett's 'feathered' style was how women wore blonde hair. Mrs Porter didn't care--she wore her blonde hair straight. Mrs Silva had a strong desire to spar with Mrs Porter. She hinted at it gradually, then pestered her about it constantly.
Mrs Porter was not opposed to two women sparring. But not alone. Mrs Porter reminded Mrs Silva that her Morning Coffee sparring matches were always with multiple spectators present.
To make sure the rules were followed. And to make sure the fights always stopped at First Blood, or after twenty minutes.
Whichever came first.
Because two women fighting alone wouldn't stop organically.
To be continued....
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Just as Mrs Silva was attracted to Mrs Porter's straight, thick blonde hair, so to was Mrs Porter attracted to many parts of Mrs Silva. Mrs Porter like Mrs Silva's black Portuguese hair, highlighted with a "frosted" style then in vogue in 1984. Mrs Porter thought Mrs Silva's figure was shapely and sexy. And, she USUALLY enjoyed Mrs Silva's bitchy, take-no-crap personality.
One bitchy part of Mrs Silva which Mrs Porter did not appreciate was that Mrs Silva never invited Mrs Porter to her famous Morning Coffee's. Mrs Porter knew exactly why. Despite Mrs Silva's protestations that there was no stigma associated with divorce, Mrs Silva was refusing to co-mingle her married friends with her new divorced friend.
Despite the fact that Mrs Silva was herself divorced.
Why did Mrs Silva still go by her married name? It was as if she was in denial about her divorce. Or, trying to have it both ways--the freedom of divorce, but the social status of being married and having Coffee's with married school mom's.
Mrs Porter knew about the 1:30 to 1:50 sparring matches which occurred at Mrs Silva's Coffee's. She was curious to watch them--curious about seeing two attractive School Mom's standing and punching each other in the face.
Who WOULDN'T want to watch that? Obviously it was sexy and exciting.
But no invitation had come yet. Maybe someday.
Mrs Porter instead settled for 1on1 meetings with Mrs Silva. Mrs Porter knew Mrs Silva loved Mrs Porter's hair. Mrs Silva would stroke it and caress it. Then, inevitably Mrs Porter and Mrs Silva would bend their foreheads together, their soft faces touching, cupping each others' cheeks with their hands. And the tongue-kissing: damn, Mrs Silva was a good kisser. Mrs Porter and Mrs Silva would kiss for hours.
But Mrs Porter still wanted to see Mrs Silva fight. Mrs Silva was probably bitchy when she was that day's Morning Coffee fighter. Mrs Porter could picture Mrs Silva gleefully punching another school mom in the face, over and over, for 20 minutes.
That would be sexy to watch. It made Mrs Porter cum everytime she masturbated to the thought.
She was hoping Samantha and Whitney were still fighting in Mrs Silva's living room when she and Mrs Silva arrived. So she and Mrs Silva could watch, and kiss as the fight was happening.
To be continued.....
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On Mrs Silva's living room floor, Whitney and Samantha remained locked in a full-bodied, 8-limb catball. The had rolled all the way across the room to the kitchen bar, where Mrs Silva had a bar stool set up with her (many) household bills, and her divorce paperwork from her attorney. Whitney and Samantha kicked the rickety barstool, and the papers and stool went flying, the heavy barstool narrowly missing Whitney's head. The stunned fighters popped, releasing their grip on each others' manes. They stared at each other, sweaty and breathing hard.
> You fucking coward, Samantha. You did that on purpose.
> Did NOT, bitch!!
> Fight me like a woman. No weapons.
> I'll fight you like a woman, bitch. Stop ripping my hair out by the roots!
> You wanna fight with no hair-pulling, Whitney??? Fine by me. Let's fight standing up.
Whitney and Samantha squared up, fists drawn in bare-knuckle fighter position. Neither knew where they had learned that stance .... perhaps from high school after-school fights at the city park. But it came naturally.
Whitney swung with short, chopping punches, while Samantha threw haymakers. Each landed punches with sickening 'thwacking' sounds, stunning her enemy.
And each girl missed plenty of punches to, as each girl was naturally skilled at avoiding punches. Again, likely from youthful witnessing of other girls fighting.
The girls had paid attention well. Both were fighting a very skilled, poised fight for their first fight.
Whitney especially had jumped at this morning's opportunity to fight her first fight with no witnesses. She was (unjustifiably) unconfident in her athletic prowess. But she was a natural at fistfighting.
Samantha, growing up in an underfunded Florida school district, had witnessed many girl fights. She learned the fight art of keeping your head tilted back so your opponent couldn't hit you full force with a fist. She was applying that knowledge now with great skill.
Whitney's missed punches, the 4 out of every 5 that missed Samantha's face, were hitting Mrs Silva's wooden cabinets, which were showing their age. They began to crack against the force of Whitney's angry fists.
One cabinet came off its hinges, and several glasses and plates crashed to the floor.
> My aunt is gonna be pissed at you, Whitney.
> Mrs Silva would never be mad at me. And she calls you 'superbrat', dumb ass.
> ....
> That said, we can stop now if you want .... and finish another time.
> We're finishing this NOW, slut.
> Fine by me, bitch.
To be continued.....
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Whitney became frustrated that despite her being the more effective puncher in the fight so far, she was doing as much damage to her own hands .... and to Mrs Silva's house .... as she was inflicting on her enemy Samantha. Samantha head-bobbing made her a difficult target to pin down.
As well as Samantha's strategic back-pedalling and retreating. Whitney recalled how in schoolgirl under-the-bleachers fights she had witnessed, a ring of girls formed around the two girls fighting. The girls in the circle both wanted a good view of the chickfight in progress, but also prevented the losing girl from retreating. Whitney needed to corner Samantha to prevent retreat, and only then would she be able to wear down her enemy with her jabs.
There was no good place in the kitchen to corner Samantha. But right next to the kitchen was a pantry, with three surrounding shelves of food and ingredients and staples and condiments. Whitney had to get Samantha into the pantry.
Whitney circled Samantha, getting her rival's back facing the pantray. Whitney then clutched one of Samantha's shoulders with her right hand, and dug her left hand into Samantha's hair. Samantha resisted, causing her left shoulder to pop out of her top, and then her left breast. Whitney became instantly jealous of the perfection of Samantha's Mediterranean, dark, large nipple. She released her grip from the torn blouse, and grabbed and twisted Samantha's breast, pushing her into the pantry shelves as she did so.
Whitney recalled how in schoolgirl under the bleacher chickfights, both girls would be desprrate to prevent the circle of spectator girls from seeing their top torn off. Whitney was desperate for Mrs Silva to come home and see scratches on her niece's breasts--it wpuld be indisputable evidence that Whitney had won the fight between the two rookies. So she continued twisting and tearing, getting Samantha's top completely off and rendering her enemy fully topless.
Despite the fight occuring with no live audience, Samantha reacted with the identical desperation as Whitney had seen occur at after-school chickfights. She retaliated by clutching Whitney's halter top and tearing it straight down. Samantha now experienced her turn to feel overwhelmed with jealousy at a rival's breasts. Whitney's bust was large, shapely, and firm. Samantha acted on her irresistable urge to dig her nails into her enemy's chest, and to rake it repeatedly with sweeping hand motions.
The two women sunk their claws into each others' backs, and threw each other around the pantry, knocking boxes and containters of the shelves, and tripping onto the floor.
> Stand up and fight me, Samantha.
> We WERE standing, Whitney. YOU turned this into a catfight.
Whitney wondered if what Samantha was saying was true. What DID she want when she came over this morning?
A fistfight?
Or a catfight?
> Fine. Let's catfight, bitch.
> Fine by me, bitch.
To be continued....
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While Whitney's cultural 1980s New England taboo against "good girls" fighting was a remnant of the Puritans from 300 years ago, Samantha's 1980s Florida taboo was more complex. It was an anti-"catfighting" bias based on something that Foxy Boxing strippers did in Florida dive bars.
Girls fistfighting? Have at it. It was just Bourbon Southern duelling without the gloveslap and pistols. Happened every football Friday night under the bleachers.
But to degrade yourself in a catfight with another pretty girl? There better be $500 in singles for a night's work at that, preferably more.
Lots more.
And yet here Samantha was, baited into a catfight with an Ivy League bitch fresh off the Mayflower. Samantha felt humiliated.
And yet liberated.
She was exhilarated to be tearing at Whitney's bare chest. Whitney cringed at each smack Samantha laid on her.
Samantha was gleeful at taking the future lawyer down a peg or two.
> Bitch.
> Whore.
> Trash.
> Snob.
> I'll kill you.
> Fucking try.
To be continued....
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Samantha's now-topless body reminded her of an episode growing up in Florida, the first real-life catfight involving girls in her circle of friends. The two other girls had tangled the night before under ghe bleachers at a Friday night football game. But the outcome of that fistfight must have been unsatisfactory two both gladiatrices, as they both arrived at a Saturday night pool party looking for each other.
They 'accidentally-on-purpose' met in the pool and collided, and immediately tore each others' bikini tops off. The battle then spilled onto the grass, with all the other girls in the crowd staring in silence, hoping the parents inside wouldn't figure out what was happening on their backyard lawn.
The two topless women battled with bared claws and elbows, ripping at each others' soaked flesh.
Samantha's initial thought was, "How sad for these 2 girls' reputations--they'll forever be remembered as the 2 girls who got into a catfight at a pool party."
But weeks and months later, she was impressed at their bravery for showing up at the party, knowing the likely outcome.
She was similarly proud of herself now, for accepting Whitney's offer to fight.
First in a fistfight.
Then in a catfight.
Now ..... the day will be complete if I can hurt this stuck-up Ivy League bitch.
And hurt her bad.
To be continued....
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Samantha's loss of her cool head earlier in the fight, when she had been astutely (and skillfully) bobbing and weaving her head and hips to dodge Whitney's jabs and punches, and to cause Whitney to bruise her hands on knuckles on the interior of Mrs Silva's house, was an unfortunate tactical error.
Unfortunate for Samantha.
And fortunate for Whitney. Because Whitney was now able to grab Samantha into a hard headlock, and throw her opponent into Mrs Silva's master bathroom. Whitney kept hands wrapped around Samantha's face and head, making it difficult for Samantha to inhale full breaths of air. In desperation, Samantha began clawing at Whitney's bare chest, so hard that she succeeded in breaking skin in various places.
Both women were enraged and aggravated with each other, and lost all inhibitions against using the hard bathroom fixtures--sink, tub, towel rack--to their advantage.
They began throwing each other around the hard tile room, cracking a mirror (7 years' bad luck!), breaking tiles, and accidrntally turning on the tub water.
They rolled out on the hallway floor, but the tub water began running full force, eventually flowing over the tub and onto the bathroom floor.
The girls didn't notice.
They were too busy looked in a topless catball, tumbling into Mrs Silva's master bedroom, small streaks of blood getting onto Mrs Silva's white comforter. In one final desperate attempt to break the headlock which was strangling her, Samantha rolled herself and her enemy into the exterior-facing side door of Mrs Silva's bedroom (an old New England trick--an escape route for secret bedroom guests), sendung both women flying outside, still locked in a desperate, angry topless catball.
Once outside, the continued rolling, both banging their heads on the rocky soil. Each was to stunned to continue the fight.
They were lying motionless on the ground outside, unviewable from the house, when Mrs Silva and Mrs Porter pulled up to the house in Mrs Silva's car.
*************************
Both of the MILFs had an ominous feeling when neither Samanzha nor Whitney greeted them upon arrival.
And even more ominous when the saw the hot bath water seeping from the bathroom.
"Holy shit," said Mrs Silva. "What have I done?".
"Where the fuck are they?", thought Mrs Porter. "Are they alive?".
Mrs Silva and Mrs Porter inspected the ruined kitchen and pantry.
They ran into the bedroom and saw rhe hints of blood on the comforter. They looked at each other.
"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?," they asked in unison.
Both women stripped, hopped onto the bed, and started kissing each other.
"This is the hottest thing I've ever seen," each was secretively thinking. "I wonder if the fight had a winner. And where she is."
to be continued......
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When they came to in Mrs Silva's side yard, Whitney and Samantha had had enough of each other and had no desire to resume their fight. That day, that week, and that summer.
That day--both girls were starving and parched. It had been six hours, 9am to 3pm, since they started chatting in Mrs Silva's living room. Between the fight and losing consciousness, they had not eaten or had a drop of water. It was a muggy New England June day, and neither had the energy to continue their brutal battle. Whitney walked home, and Samantha took a long bath in Mrs Silva's house to attempt to recuperate.
That week--Mrs Silva and Mrs Porter hinted, persistently, to Samantha that she had "unfinished business" with Whitney, and that the two women would gladly facilitate .... and witness .... a Round 2 rematch. Samantha was also self-conscious about the catty tactics she and Whitney had resorted to during their battle. It was embarrassing enough for a college-aged girl in 1983 to have a crowd witnessing her fistfight. A hairpulling catfight was a whole other thing ..... Mrs Silva was Samantha's own aunt, and Mrs Porter was a complete stranger. She wasn't thrilled at the thought of putting on a show for the two women at her expense.
That summer--as her time at her aunt's drew to a close, Samantha reflected with satisfaction that she had achieved what she had come to New England to do: she had gotten into her first fight. And had acquitted herself quite well. Whitney, after all, knew where to find her, and hadn't come knocking for a rematch. Samantha must have decided that Whitney had weighed the opportunities and risks of meeting up again with Samantha .... and had decided against approaching. Good .... I must have given her all she could handle.
Samantha flew back home to Florida as planned ..... and enrolled in the Police Academy.
While Samantha was satisfied with the course of the summer's adventures, Mrs Porter's catfight appetite was barely whetted. She was astounded at the damage the two women had caused, given the opportunity to fight alone, without an audience.
Mrs Porter wondered if she and a woman her own age would also fight as recklessly if alone. She asked Mrs Silva if any of the MILFs in Mrs Silva's Morning Coffee's felt the same as her .... and was willing to test herself in such a contest.
She craved to be alone with another MILF in Mrs Silva's circle, and begged Mrs Silva to ask around.
She pictured the entire event. Waiting on Mrs Silva's couch for her opponent to arrive. The sound of the car pulling up. The doorbell or door knock. The awjward greeting at the door, assessing each others' looks, just like a blind date. The awkward conversation on the couch, working out the 'rules' [as if either woman would honor them]. Standing and facing each other to fight. The first hit. The fight.
She masturbated every night to different outcomes of different fights with other women. She asked Mrs Silva to make it happen.
A member of Mrs Silva's circle agreed to try it .... then backed out. Then re-agreed. As long as Mrs Silva didn't share her name with Mrs Porter.
Mrs Porter agreed.
The last Monday of summer vacation, Mrs Porter was waiting alone in Mrs Silva's living room, waiting for an anonymous MILF to knock on the door so they could be alone.
Alone to fight.
Like Whitney and Samantha had done.
> Why are my hands shaking so bad?
To be continued.....
-
A car, an old beat-up Ford with a too-loud engine, pulled into Mrs Silva's driveway.
Mrs Porter found this ironic, because her final blow-out fight with her estranged husband was over their household cars. Her husband always took the new Toyota for himself, 'because it gets better mileage', and left her to run household errands with their beat up 1970s muscle car, which was difficult to park in crowded parking lots, with a turn radius the size of a football field. Their divorce negotiations also turned from amicable to adversarial over the division of the household cars.
Mrs Porter was in the mood to kick someone's ass over all the legal fees being acrrued in the divorce.
Mrs Porter anxiously opened the door. The two women surveyed each others' bodies, clothes, hair, and demeanor.
Similar heights--5'4". Check.
Similar weights and build. Check.
Similar perky busts. Check.
Similar straight blonde hair. Neither followed the early '80 feathered hair trend. Check.
Similar pretty faces. Check. [Does this MILF put her pretty face on the line in Mrs Silva's Coffee's sparring? Wow.]
Similar confident, but not cocky demeanors. More curios than cocky. Check.
> Hi. Come in. I'm glad you came.
> Thank you. I almost turned around and got back in the car. But, no, this is right. I'm good. I wanna see what happens.
> I do too. We can talk first, tho. Join me on the couch.
> Yes, thank you. That would be nice. [Both women sit, carefully avoiding body contact.] Mrs Silva told me you're getting a divorce. I'm sorry.
> Thank you, but .... don't be sorry. It's for the best. Get this chapter behind me. I'm still young.
> I hear you. I remind myself every so often that I'm still young. Still time to do young women things. Like this, not to cut to the chase. We can talk about other things first if you want.
> No, no .... you're right. We can talk about 'this'. Our fight. I thought Mrs Silva might send someone over who wasn't a good matchup for me .... some SHE-Hulk or something .... just to prank me .... you know, someone who could kick my ass with one arm tied behind her back .... but you're actuslly in my weight class. I think this'll be interesting.
> I was just thinking the same thing. I think we'll both .... find something out about ourselves. If you know what I mean.
> Ok, good. Looking forward to it actually. How did you want to do this. Like, a middle school catfight on the floor. Closed fists or open hand slaps?
> Actually .... I think THAT PART .... will take care of itself. I think we'll be doing all of it.... at some point. I thought the more relevant .... and immediate question is .... lose the clothes as we fight .... or before?
> Intriguing [Mrs Porter's feet reach over to playfully lean on those of her anonymous MILF opponent]..... I somehow over looked that. Wanna .... maybe start topless?
> We could do that .... or start entirely nude. That is ..... if you're not too much of a pussy
> Is that a challenge?
> Take it how ever you'd like.
The two women take their tops, shirts, and underwear off, eyeing each other. They return to sitting on the couch.
> You have nice tits.
> As do you.
> I can't wait to scratch yours up.
> Nor can I wait to do the same to your pretty face.
> Then come at me .... bitch.
For the first time, Mrs Porter and her MILF enemy have cold feet.
Maybe this wasn't a good idea.
> You can back out now, sweetie.
> Not a chance, hun.
To be continued....
-
Neither Mrs Porter nor her anonymous rival from Mrs Silva's Morning Coffee's felt the least bit awkward sitting nude on Mrs Silva's couch.
The anonymous MILF friend of Mrs Silva had gotten married during early 1970s swinging culture, or at least a sub-branch of that culture called neighborhood 'Key Parties'. Couples would attend a neighborhood cocktail party, putting their car keys in a bowl held by the host. Then, at the conclusion of the party, the inebriated men would randomly choose a set of keys, and drive home the woman whose car it was they had chosen. Whatever making out occured in the car on the way home was up to the couple, and the electricity and attraction between them. Key Parties fell out of favor in the late 1970s as society seriously addressed drunk driving, but the generation which lived thru it was perfectly comfortable with nudity with strangers, as long as those strangers were neighbors. And preferably married.
Mrs Porter, meanwhile, had attended a small, private New England college during mid-1970s streaking culture. Streaking wasn't quite the same, of course, as sitting stationary and holding a topless or nude conversation. But she enjoyed the freedom of removing clothes, attending nude beaches, and being around other nude women.
Both women were waiting for their fight to begin. But they had time. Mrs Silva wasn't due back home until 3pm. Might as well enjoy the novelty of the tense atmosphere. And the unique conversation.
> You know I'm gonna kick your ass, right Mrs Porter?
> I know no such thing. I expect to win.
> I expect to win .... AND to hurt you.
> I expect to win..... THEN to hurt you. Expect no mercy after you give.
> I ask for none.
> You won't get any.
> Fuck you.
> Fuck YOU.
This was certainly getting interesting.
To be continued....
-
Both MILFs, as they bickered on Mrs Silva's couch, thought of the college-aged women who had brawled in this same living room 9 weeks earlier.
Mrs Porter had known Whitney for a couple of years. She knew that Whitney viewed Mrs Silva as a mentor--an experienced older sister type you could quiz with questions about adulthood, ...., well, about sex. Mrs Silva was Whitney's sex mentor. Mrs Porter wished she had had such a woman in her late teens and early twenties. She never would have married the subpar man who she did in 1978 .... and was divorcing in 1984. A 6-year marriage. What a joke. Since her marriage hadn't even lasted 10 years, Mrs Porter hadn't even earned future Social Security benefits from Mr Porter.
Mrs Porter envied Whitney. Going to Pre-Law. Getting into the Ivy League. And getting a plum catfight arranged by Mrs Silva. What a sexy catfight Whitney must have had. Mrs Porter would have given anything to watch it. Hell, even her engagement ring.
The anonymous MILF was thinking of the 9-week-ago fight as well. Of Mrs Silva's niece Samantha. Samantha had always been a cute kid, but puberty had been downright generous to her. Such thick, long raven hair. Such huge breasts and firm butt. Such olive skin. Amazing no jealous Florida girls had baited her into a catfight. Amazing she had to come to New England and brawl with hercaunt's college-age neighbor.
Both women were getting turned on thinking of that fight.
> Scared, bitch?
> None in the least. Why do you ask?
> Your nipples are rock hard.
> That has nothing to do with fear, sweetie.
> What does it have to do with, hun?
> I'm chilly. We've been sitting here nude for awhile.
> Then come at me. Bitch.
> ......
> I dare you.
> Let's dance. cxnt.
To be continued.....
-
Mrs Porter and her MILF enemy lunged at each other on the couch, briefly grabbibg four full handfuls of hair, but then mutually remembering that each wanted to experience a bare-fisted streetfight, not a schoolgirl roll around catball.
If two college girls, Whitney and Samantha, had chosen to fight a bar-room brawl-style donnybrook, then certainly two MILF's should elect that same option.
And did they ever.
At close range, Mrs Porter and the MILF friend of Mrs Silva began throwing point-blank haymakers at each others' faces and boobs. Every blow to the former landed with a crackling sound, every strike to the latter with a sickening thud. Both sounds brought arousal to the aggressor of each blow, making her hungry to land even more. And harder.
Both women struggled to scold each other thru their grunts of exertion and pain:
> I've .... wanted to .... hurt you .... since ..... first setting .... eyes .... on .... you.
> You're .... not ..... woman enough .... to .... hurt .... me.
> You're ..... crying .... already .... ugly .... bitch.
> You're ... crying ... more.
Both women were astonished that a fight with a stranger could be so emotional. Neither woman had an argument with the other until this morning.
They knew of each others' existence. But barely. And only thru Mrs Silva.
Mrs Silva.
Is that why this fight was escalating? Did each woman dread reporting back to Mrs Silva that they had lost this fight?
Is that why Whitney and Samantha stopped at a draw. Was each satisfied with a draw in her first-ever fight?
Neither Mrs Porter nor her MILF opponent was in her first fight. A draw would not be face-saving; it would be humiliating.
And unacceptable to Mrs Silva. She would shun both women, and stick to her more battle-hardened friends at her Morning Coffee's.
Both women needed to win this fight.
And each knew it.
> Slut.
> Pathetic divorced bitch.
To be continued....
-
Twenty minutes into their naked streetfight, the scales tipped in favor of Mrs Porter. In 1984, workout culture was still in its infancy; it had found Mrs Porter, but not her too-busy-with-the-kids anonymous opponent. Mrs Porter's blows to her enemy's face began to go unblocked, and her slaps and punches to her enemy's stomach elicited agonizing grunts and caused her enemy to bend over like a men's billfold-style wallet.
> Told you I'd hurt you, bitch.
Mrs Porter was pleased at the tangible payoff from watching Jane Fonda workout video's on VHS. As the morning's fight had progressed, she noticed a couple of instances where the "runner's high" had picked in, allowing her to maintain most of her strength even as her enemy became sluggish and lethargic (and disgustingly sweaty) under the force of Mrs Porter's fists and elbows.
Mrs Porter knew EXACTLY what she wanted as her reward for this morning's labors. She pinned her exhusted enemy under her, sat on her waist, and bent over to get her face close to hers.
> Promise to tell Mrs Silva I kicked your ass?
> Please don't tell her that. It was a good fight. Close.
> [Mrs Porter slaps her enemy in the face four times, then kisses her twice. The kisses are even more invasive than the slaps, both eomen notice to their surprise.] Close? Are you fucking kidding me? I'm stronger than you, bitch.
> Your tits are red from getting slapped around, sweetie.
> [Mrs Porter means to slap her supine opponent, but face is drawn to her rival's. She's inviting a slap, and she receives it.] Didn't hurt, bitch. [She now bends down and sticks her tongue into her enemy's mouth. The two women begin tongue-kissing with a loud smacking noise, eerily similar to the flesh-smacking sound when they were fighting earlier.]
> Get off me, bitch. Tell Mrs Silva whatever you want, just get the fuck off me.
> Not till I cum. [When Mrs Porter's marriage to her overly-domineering husband was falling apart, he would have sex with Mrs Porter in bed at night wizhout asking her first, and wouldn't let her up until he had cum inside of her. Mrs Porter now knew the feeling of power he got from this, as she was enjoying it now on her defeated enemy.] Mmmmmmmyyyyyeeesssssss.
Mrs Porter enjoys the release of cumming on her enemy, but goes to shower so she can look her best when Mrs Silva returns home.
She can already picture the (brief) conversation in her mind.
> I kicked the shit out of your friend.
> I knew you would, babe. Get over hear and fuck me.
To be continued....
-
The day after winning her arranged catfight against one of Mrs Silva's school mom friends, Mrs Porter drives unannounced to Mrs Silva's. She knows unannounced visits are risky with separated or divorced Mom's, since there's no telling when a chance grocery store hookup will be in the middle of being consummated. Any opportunity free of 'the kids' must be seized, or lost forever.
And yet.... 1984 technology does not afford many opportunities to "call ahead". Just the basic landline phone, whose reliability is suspect.
Plus, Mrs Silva is a toll call from the town where Mrs Porter currently lives.
So Mrs Porter just drives up.
A packed station wagon is sitting in the driveway, with a college-aged beauty sitting inside, about to pull away.
> [Shit, that must be that Whitney chick, thinks Mrs Porter to herself. She looks like she's headed back to .... where was it? Dartmouth? .... I'm gonna get out and say hi.] Whitney?! Whitney!!! Hi!!! Do you have a minute?
> Ummmm, ya, I'm kinda on a schedule .... but ok. You are?
> [Gheezh ... stuck up girl, but ok.] Oh, no, it's just [extends hand] I'm Mrs Porter ... I'm the friend Mrs Silva was having lunch with the day .... well, you know .... that Mrs Silva let her niece and you .... you know .... [air quotes] .... 'use her house.'
> I, ummm, ..... , ya, so, .... like, that never happened, ok? And if you really are Mrs Silva's friend, please never mention that again, ok. That's how rumors start.
> [Mrs Silva comes out of the house, locks the door, and gets in the passenger seat next to Whitney.] Mrs Silva? Hello? Can I get a god'damned hello?
> Oh, I'm sorry Mrs Porter. I'm driving Whitney back to campus in New Hampshire. Then I'm driving her car back. You didn't think I was availablefor lunch today, did you?
> [Mrs Porter hesitates, slack-jawed at Mrs Silva's tone.]
> Because .... I'm not. Ok? Let's go, Whitney. We'll be late. [The station wagon peels away.]
> Those .... two ... fucking .... bitches.
To be continued.....
-
Once Whitney and Mrs Silva were down the road and out of the earshot and eyesight of Mrs Porter, both women let out giggly guffaws at the awkward position they had left Mrs Porter in, alone on Mrs Silva's empty driveway. Mrs Silva spoke first.
> Oh .... My .... Gawwwd .... that was classic. Did you see the slackjawed confused look on that bitch's face?
> No shit ....that was PRICELESS .... but .... Did you invite her over to see that? So that she would see us?
> No!!! I wish !!!! But, no, Whitney, even I'm not that good. I lucked into that one.
> WE lucked into it, right.
> [Mrs Silva leans over and tongue kisses Whitney] Oh, yeah, babe. You and me. Now and forever.
> [Moans from this kiss.] ..... mmmmm, babe, I like it, but ..... we still have a 4-hour drive to Hanover .... don't get me going or I'll need to pull over.
> Ok, but ..... we ARE going to pull over somewhere before we get there, right? Dartmouth is so stuffy, we won't get a chance to do it there .... I wanna do it before you're gone till Thanksgiving ....
> And then you're gonna screw Mrs Porter, right? [Whitney pouts.]
> If she'll have me. I don't think I'm her fav person right now.
> I think it's me who's not her fav person. The jealousy is just making her want YOU even more. Which, for the record, is why I think you pulled off that stunt?
> I told you ..... I didn't arrange her coming over this morning.
> That's not the stunt I meant.
> Which one then?
> Making her fight your MILF friend yesterday.
> Ok, time out .... the 2 of them wanted that. But let's not bicker. Truce. I just wanna road trip with you, you sexy bitch.
> Same. You bitchy slut.
> [The 2 women kiss again.]
To be continued...
-
Whitney and Mrs Silva had a pleasant surprise in store for them when they arrived on-campus in Hanover, NH. Whitney was now a junior, and an unexpected "single" room opened up in her dorm, and she was being the opportunity to move into it.
Her own room. With unlimited privacy. For sex. No more awkward hanging a sock, belt, or scarf on the doorknob.
For example, right now. Sex with Mrs Silva.
As soon as the last box was out of the car and in the room, Whitney and Mrs Silva locked themselves in the dorm room, moved to the bed to strip thrmselves, and began fiercely kissing and caressing each other hungrily.
> I love you, Whitney.
> I love you, Mrs Silva. Don't hang out with Mrs Porter when you drive back. Don't hang out with her alone.
> She'll be able to tell I'm avoiding her.
> Tell her it's because of me. That I asked you not to date her, the be just friends
> That'll make her mad. And jealous.
> She'll get over it.
> [I doubt it. Good.]
To be continued ......
-
Mrs Silva says her goodbyes to Whitney, grateful for the unexpected fuck session she got to enjoy with her protege. But Mrs Silva is not satiated. Having sex has always made her want ... more sex.
It's what ruined her marriage to her husband. Mr Silva would never feel able to keep up with his energetic wife. She always wanted .... more .... more .... more .... which he could deliver for awhile .... but evetually wore out. Irritating Mrs Silva.
So, today, as Mrs Silva exited the chaotic Dartmouth campus on move-in day, she could feel the eyes of the Dartmouth staff, parents, and students following her as she strutted back to her car. A group of Dartmouth Men, jocks in athletic letter jackets, even though it was 75 degrees out, whistled at her ass. She turned and showed her appreciation for the catcall.
Mrs Silva envied College Men, the whole persona. Growing up in S.E.Mass. she knew she was doomed to never enter college herself. That her Boston College boyfriend was the closest she'd get. And even that boyfriend, she had met off-campus, not on-.
Fucking a College Man in his dorm room or Frat House was on her bucket list. She had never done it. Time was running out.
Now or never, Mrs Silva told herself.
> Like what you see, fellas?
> [The Dartmouth Men can barely believe their luck. Is this chick playin' us? But their horniness overcomes their hesitations. It's been a long, sexless summer.] Yes, ma'am. You a parent here? [The Men don't want entanglements with the parent of a well-connected student.]
> Nah. Just a neighbor. Lending my csr for move-in. Now .... my pussy is up for lending. Any takers.
> [The Dartmouth Men gasp as their luck. They look around for sdcret cameras--this almost seems like a sorority prank.] No offense, Ma'am, but .... can we all take a turn?
> [Mrs Silva pauses to size up if she's up for a gang-bang.]
Just kidding. She's up for it. This is Mrs Silva we're talking about.
Mrs Silva drove him from New Hampshire two hours later with cum from 5 Dartmouth Men inside of her.
> Shit, that felt good.
To be continued....
-
Mrs Silva gets home from New Hampshire very very late that night. She revels in the memory of how good it feels to be with a man.
> Shit, look what I've been missing fucking a man. Or men. Men are so much more practical than women. They'll share a woman if she's putting out to both of them. Not at the same time ... not a gang bang, like those Dartmoth frat boys. But, just dating .... they'll date non-exclusively. They don't get all CRAZY JEALOUS about non-exclusive dating.
Her revery is interrupted by a knock on the door.
> FUCK .... 7:47 AM ?????? .... Who the fuck is knocking at my door so fucking early.
Mrs Silva crawls out of her cozy (there's already a Fall nip in the New England air) and walks over to her front door.
> Fuck. It's Mrs Porter. What a pain in the ass she is.
Mrs Silva opens her front door to Mrs Porter, but leaves the screen door latched. The two woman can talk, but can't touch. Mrs Porter is frantically jiggling the screen door handle, trying to get in.
> Hey hey, easy bitch. Don't break by fucking door.
> Fucking let me in, Mrs Silva. Or is Whitney here?? I swear, if she is, I'll fucking kill her.
> Whitney??? Pfft, get real, bitch ... you can't fucking take Whitney?
> [Mrs Porter has an appalled look on her face] Can't take Whitney???? She's had one fucking fight, and didn't even win it.
> Well, either way .... let me of your fucking obsession with Whitney .... and with ME for that matter .... I've been doing some thinking .... I'm going back to men .... and I recommend you do the same ..... I think we might have made ourselves crazy dating women .... two women don't mix, I'm thinking .... at least, not as relationship material.
> [Mrs Porter's lips start to quiver .... is the only female lover she's ever had ... DUMPING HER ????] Mrs Silva .... I .... I .... I'm going thru a divorce [her voice almost cracking] .... and I NEED YOU.
> Mrs Porter .... when you pull yourself together .... I'm happy to resume our lunches and shopping trips ..... I went thru a divorce myself .... It sucks, I know it does ..... but I highly recommend you find a man ... maybe some guy who's always been sniffing around your ass when you were married .... and tell him you're getting divorced. And let him have your way with you. It'll be fun. Trust me.
Mrs Silva closes the door on Mrs Porter.
Mrs Porter feels worse than the moment she decided to end her marriage.
She has no intention of seeing a man today.
She's gonna get into a chickfight. If she can find one.
To be continued....
-
Mrs Porter's estranged husband, after long reluctance to do so, had fanally agreed to settle thru the state mediator. This would considerably lower the legal fees associated with the divorce.
In the preliminary hearings associated with her divorce fact-gathering, Mrs Porter became irritated with the female blonde #2 lawyer on her husband's case. In 1984 Massachusetts, the males held every possible advantage in the Family Court system. All the judges were men. 96% of the attorneys, both for husband and wives, were women. Why would a female attorney possibly use her education and license to help the cheating husband? What kind of female self-hatred would lead to such behavior?
Well, if you hate women so much, bitch, why don't you fight one? Me. I'll fight you.
Mrs Porter had the business card of the blonde attorney. Shelly.
She wondered if maybe her husband had Shelly's home number.
She called Mr Porter's secretary at work (also a bitch, btw, but too small to have a fair catfight with). And she got Shelly's home number.
And even better.... her home address.
On a free Saturday, Mrs Porter drove to Shelly's house. A starter home in Quincy. Figures. The bitch buys property in her own name, not jointly with a man who can take it.
Mrs Porter knocks on the door. Shelly answers.
> Mrs Porter. This is quite unusual. It's a weekend. And we shouldn't meet outside the office.
> Shelly, what I want to do with you is quite inappropriate office behavior.
> You must have in mind either fighting .... or fucking. Which is it?
> Which do ... YOU .... think I want with you.
> I hope you say fighting. Because I have no interest in fucking you.
> [Shit. That was easy.] Today's your lucky day. Bitch.
To be continued.....
-
Shelly's house was cramped, and Mrs Porter wondered where inside she and Shelly would catfight. Mrs Porter didn't want to come all this way, and go thru all this trouble, just to have a 45-second brawl with another bitch end with a slashed scalp on the corner of a coffee table.
But Shelly led Mrs Porter down steep stairs to a damp semi-finished basement. This space also had its own clutter--a washer/dryer (not a matching set) a folding table, and a couple boxes. But it was carpeted against what was a hybrid stone-concrete foundation.
There was enough room to fight here.
Mrs Porter was just getting used to the intense mildew-y scent when Shelly turned and slapped her hard in the mouth. Shelly then began kicking off her shoes, and kicking Mrs Porter's shins and thighs.
The fight was on.
Mrs Porter's jogging shoes were too tight to come off, frustrating her at first. But she now decided too use her hard footwear to her advatage to back away from Shelly and to kick her in the knees, thighs, and even the crotch. Mrs Porter's adrenaline was running hard enough that even her high kicks were landing.
> You fucking bitch.
> You crazy lunatic.
> Fuck you.
Shelly's and Mrs Porter's fight involved little hand contact, with feet and knees instead the primary weapons.
Shelly wondered where Mrs Porter had learned to fight like that. She wondered if it was in the 1970s, when womwn's self-defense classes were all the rage.
Shelly had never signed up for those classes.
She wished now that she had. So that she could kick this bitch's ass.
To be continued....