FreeCatFights
General Category => Catfight , Boxing & Wrestling Stories => Series => Topic started by: sinclairfan on July 19, 2022, 10:48:23 PM
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My name is Sherry. I'm 57, my 2 kids are grown and educated, and my husband has been "doing his own thing", in his own world. He doesn't hate me ..... It's worse than that; he's indifferent to me. He and I still do it on Saturday nights, sometimes quite enthusiastically. But half the time he's not thinking of me--he's thinking of women he works with. Don't pity me--I've accepted it.
Am I a MILF? Two parts of me I think qualify. My straight black hair is still its natural color--just single strands of gray, which I pluck out one by one. And it's got nice body. I can tell guys look at it. And my trim body from head to toe has kept its shape, without me being anorexic or even particularly green. I drink regular Pepsi, not Diet and not Coke Zero. I eat my protein in meat form. I'll take rice over quinoa. And yet my body stays thin--108 lbs on my 5'5" frame.
Not so MILF-ish? My tits, never huge, are not so much sagging as just sorta retracting into my body, seemingly, as if I live in Alaska. My legs? I wish I looked better in panty hose and even shorts--I find I just look .... boring ..... down there. And my skin tone is just relentlessly pale .... I don't tan OR burn. I'm just .... white ..... all the time.
So, I play to my strengths. Show guys my hair and my thin-ness. Play with my hair, and let them touch it. Press my upperbody against them, and let them hug it.
It worked one day with a former co-worker, who moved away but still flies into town. His name is Phil. He's married. He and I always had a shy flirty thing going on (shy flirty is my favorite--it means he's thinking about me when he doesn't see me).
We never acted on it from 1993 to 2022. But when he stopped flying into town during the 2 years of pandemic travel restrictions, when he found it he'll be back in town in July 2022, I said to myself, "Fuck it. Life's too short."
I decided to finally have an affair with Phil and fuck him.
Even if it meant a catfight, psychological then physical, with his horrid bitch of a wife, Beth.
Beth and I had shaken hands at work once, in 2002, when she came into work with Phil's now grown infant. The handshake between us was chilly--she had busted him st home one night speaking about me a bit too glowingly. I could tell she was jealous of my hair--hers was boring and frizzy.
When Phil called me tonight and said he was in town and checked into his hotel, I slipped out of my house and drove there. We both swore to each other, "I've never done this before." Which was true.
He was already on the hotel bed, fully clothed except for his shoes and belt. I lay next to him, also fully clothed. But that didn't seem naught enough.
"Let me feel you on me," he said. I climbed on him, twisting our legs together. We tongue kissed, desperately yet lovingly. It felt wonderful.
But our twisting legs--I cpuld already tell it was inevitable that Beth and I would be twisting legs that way real soon.
In a catball catfight.
Good.
I wanted that almost as much as I wanted to fuck Phil.
Perhaps even a little bit more.
To be continued......
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The night Phil and I fucked* wasn't the first time I had wanted to fight Beth. No, I had wanted to fight her since 1999, when I realized she was going to marry Phil. One day in his office shortly before ill-considered 2001 marriage, I had held Phil's hand in his office after he had hugged me. I was trying to wordlessly tell him that I woild get divoreced and marry HIM if that's what it would take for him to dump Beth. But .... no dice. Phil was too nice of a guy to back out of a marriage commitment.
If he had backed out of marrying Beth, he and I would have fucked 6,000 times by now. 300 times a year for 20 years. Instead of once*. But who's counting?
* Our July 2022 fuck was good-but-not-great. The tongue kissing .... GREAT. The fucking .... good. Not great. Isn't that always the way, ladies?
But .... back to business. The business of me and Beth fighting.
I wanted to fight her even before I met her in 2002.
I wanted to fight her since 1999. I feel like I already mentioned that .... did I? I REALLY wanted to fight her. To lock my claws in her dirty-blonde-or-whatever-the-fuck color her hair was. No definite color. Not long/Not short. Not Straight/Not curly.
Almost. .. just a rat's nest. Why does Phil want to fuck her?? Why does anyone want to fuck her?
Is it because she sucks cock? I did that for my husband a lot early-marriage, but stopped liking it. Or ... I stopped liking the way HE did it. Gagging me, shoving his cock hard down my throat. Didn't Dr Ruth used to say fellatio is supposed to be like licking an ice cream cone?? Oral with my husband is nothing like that.
Nothing.
What would fighting Beth be like?
To be continued......
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After my 2002 limp handshake with Beth, I was pretty sure she and I had down the catfight challenge gauntlet to each other. I had neither avoided meeting or approaching her, even tho I was but one of dozens of Phil's coworkers in that office. But nor had I been at all warm in greeting her .... nor she me. So, obviously, we were testing each other .... and neither had backed down.
The only way for two women in a triangle to square that circle is to catfight.
Which excited me. And yet .... it scared me, too.
Because what if I lost a catfight to her? How humiliating.
Plus, if she got me at her mercy .... what would she DO to me? What physical damage would she lay on me.
Because I sure know I would lay a lot of pain on her. A lot.
Because I hated Beth. Phil and I were the better-matched partners, and always would be. I couldn't change that ... but I could punish her for her role in it.
If Beth was under me, pinned ..... hell, I'd slap her face. Backhanded slaps, the knuckles are outward-facing when you slap that way. Then I'd press down on her shoulders and start clawing her, so that anyone who saw her in a low cut top for the rest of her life would see unmistakable catfight scars.
Then I'd work her tits. Just like me, Beth was modestly-endowed. That must be Phil's 'thing'-- modest boobs. But I'd scratch Beth's up.
Mercilessly. Even dugging my thumbnails into her underboob.
Finally, after tormenting her chest for a half hour, I'd reach behind me and tear at her bush.
So if I, the side chick, was thinking of doing that to my crush's wife .... what must SHE be thinking of doing to ME? A clear threat to her home, especially now that there was an infant at home.
So I couldn't afford to lose this fight.
And so I stepped up my frequency and intensity at the gym. And asked my workout buddy if she would grapple with me on the mats.
> I might have a catfight in the next few days. Weeks at the most.
> Oh, really? If it's a catfight, it'll be nothing like grappling.
> You think I don't know that? You think I don't know what a catight is about?
> Every real woman knows what a catfight is all about. I just hope she's worth the price.
> She is. She's a bitch. And I hate her.
To be continued.....
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I’m liking this one. Please continue!
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The grappling routine I had worked out with my workout friend consisted of getting on the mats in the jazzersize (at it peak popularity in 2002-03) room, grabbing each other by the hair, and trying to trip each other down the ground so we could mount each other and go for a pin. One of the attractive workout instructors at the gym took an interest in our sparring skirmishes, and would shout tips and instructions to us mid- and post-catfight. By a fortunate coincidence (from the perspective of preparation for an actual catfight war with my rival Beth), my catfight sparring partners had the sale length and style hair as Beth's--not quite straight and not quite curly, down to just shy of the shoulders.
Both of them had hair that would start curling up in the back, so they could never really let it grow down their back. My catfight sparring partner compensated for this shortfall by coloring hers a really nice tint of blonde--her hair definitely turned heads in the gym and in the office. Beth compensated for her uncooperative hair by being a total bitch in life.
One day, after a particularly intense sparring session, which left strands of both black (mine) and blonde (my sparring partner) hair on the workout mat, our attractive oberserver/instructor/coach struck up a conversation with us about why we were having catfight 'workouts' against each other. My blonde partner didn't hesitate to respond.
<> Sherry here is pretty sure another woman wants to catfight her soon. The wifey of her office crush.
<> Oh, really?!? How intriguing. An office romance, or an office crush?
<> Oh, just a crush. Sherry HAS a man. She's happily married.
<> The plot thickens. Sherry wants some side action, and wifey wants to cockblock her?? [Why are they talking ABOUT me with me sitting right here??]
<> Sherry likes the flirting. We ARE supposed to network in the office, right?? If some co-workder electricity happens, she's not going to AVOID her crush, right? The job still needs to get done.
<> Sherry, that's cute that you're blushing. [They finally acknowledge my presence.] Wifey sounds like a bitch. She'll go after more than just your hair if you and her ever have it out.
<> That's what I've been trying to warn her. One of wifey's hands wiill be deep in Sherry's hair .... but the other will be digging into her tits.
<> So .... shouldn't you to be sparring that way?? Going for the breasts? Because .... [the instructor has our undivided attention now] .... if you two are too close as friends to practice a catfight that way .... a REAL vicious catfight ..... I'll practice with you like that. ...... Righ now if you want.
<> Do it, Sherry!!! Before she changes her mind!!! Plus, .... I want to watch this!
<> [The instructor pulls her top over her head, and then turns so that my workout buddy can undo her sports bra. The instructor has perfect 38c's much larger than mine (or Beth's).] C'mon, Sherry, let's do it. Let's get you in shape .... for a REAL catfight. Take your top .... and let's maul each other. Pretend I'm the wifey .... and fucking attack me.
<> Go for it Sherry!! Fucking destroy each other! It's the least you can do for me after fucking up my hair for two weeks.
<> [I pull my top off. I stand up and face off with the instructor, our boobs colliding with each other, the feeling primal to my core.] Pretend I'm the wifey. Claw me up. [The instructor cups my boobs and starts pinching. The pain is intense.] Don't let me keep cockblocking your crush. Pretty mine are the tits he caresses every night. Fuck them up.
<> Do it, Sherry, go after her tits! She's got yours. Pretend she's Beth! [My sparring partners inciting of me finally works. I grab the instructors hard nipples and start twisting.]
<> That's perfect. When you're in a catfight with a woman ..... with BETH ..... twist the boobs exactly like that. It hurts. Watch. [The instructor corkscrews my tits with both her hands. She's right--it hurts.]
<> [My workout partner has a hand down her shorts and is masturbating to the catfight workout happening in front of her.] Less talking, more fighting! C',mon you two, FIGHT!!! Save the coaching for after!
<> [The instructor puts her mouth to my ear and whispers....] Your friends wants to see a catfight. Let's do it. Catfight me.
To be continued......
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I was flattered that my workout buddy was aroused at the thought of watching me catfight the jazzercize instructor. I also welcomed the opportunity to repay her, in this small way, for the 2 weeks of hairpulling she had subjected herself to in order to get me 'fighting fit', as my military uncle had used to say at the holiday dinner table.
Growing up, whenever I had a boyfriend locked up, my military uncle would remind me to be on the lookout for girls from his past or present who might be a threat to our dating happiness. He would have me show him their pictures in a yearbook or Polaroids I could find from house parties, and he would conduct a 'threat assessment' of whether they were likely to confront me, and if so who would win the fight. He told me all men are dogs who will cheat if given the opportunity, and thus "girls need to fight for their man".
I had seen it happen after school--usually dumb confrontations, but sometimes full-fledged girlfights. It had never been me involved yet.
Until this afternoon. Me versus the instructor.
I was excited.
To be continued.....
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The jazzersize instructor knew exactly how to get me to develop some animosity with her--she backhanded me to the jaw with a swift slap, a similar backhand slap to the one I had been fantasizing about delivering to Beth's jaw. She stared at me with a 'Do something about it' smirk that I wanted to wipe off her face, and I responded immediately with a lefthanded slap to introduce an element of surpise--she was no doubt expecting a right cross, and her lack of any motion to block mh strike was either due to my successful ambush, or due to her wanting to get hit to get her blood bumping as hard as mine now was.
The smirk was reduced, but still partially visible.
> That's all you got, bitch?
> I have lots more where that came from--I've seen you watching me the last 2 weeks.
> Guilty. I like seeing you get hit. And ragdolled.
> I haven't gotten ragdolled. You must have been imagining that, honey.
> Imagining it .... and fantasizing about it, sweetie. [We grab each other by our tits and twist.]
> [Our single spectator appreciates that we've escalated beyond words.] Fight, you two!!! Fuck each other up!!
I want to. More than anything.
Against this instigator instructor. Then against Beth.
To be continued....
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My military uncle's constant 'fighting fit' comments had entangled themselves in my mind, even before my 2002 catfight with the jazzersize instructor, into associating aerobics instructors and fitness coaches with girlfighting, in at least two different ways.
The first way was that, I was constantly thinking to myself when enrolled in any aerobics class, Wow, she [the instructor] is in really good shape. She could last long in a fight, I bet. From the few catfights had seen in my life, unless the 2 girls were a complete physical mismatch [in which case, they would usually both try to avoid an actual fight], the winner of a physical catfight used to come down to heart and endurance. And losing your physical wind was a very effective way to drain all uour heart and endurance. Aerobics instructors might lose catfights .... but it would never be because their endurance failed them.
The second aerobics-catfight association locked in my mind was--kicking. Kicking, to me, had always been an underutilized catfight tactics. Even just a well-timed kick to the shin could cause an enemy to have to drop her guard from her arms--to scan her attacker's eyes for whether the next blow would come from high .... or from down low. This made slaps (or fists) from the hands even more dangerous, as they were now less likely to be deflected. This added damage accumulated during a long fight. I'd watch the aerobics instructors doing leg lifts and knee thrusts during class, and think to myself--that girl would KICK ASS in a catfight.
As the jazzersize instructor and I jostled around the mat, twisting each others' breasts, the thought came to me that I wanted TO FUCKING KISS THIS BITCH. [I was getting angrier with each tit twist.]
So I did it. Twice.
I kicked the jazzercize instructor in each shin.
She kicked me back. Hard, but not as hard as I was fearing. I had seen better from aerobics instructors.
> You wanna kick, bitch?
> I do. I want to fuck each other up. That's what you wanted, isn't it.
> Ok. Let's do this. Let's fuck each other up.
The jazzersize instructor comes at my hair, grabs it, and attempts to pull mu face down and start kneeing my face. I grab her and start attempting the same, but we both fall to the mat and attempt to mount each other. With two weeks of intense grappling practice fresh in my mind, I succeed in partially mounting, but not pinning her.
We start yanking hair desperately, and are screaming in pain.
My workout buddy is screaming to.
She's masturbating hard to the fight she's witnessing.
I can't blame her.
This is a damn good catfight happening.
To be continued.....
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My workout buddy masturbating to my fight, and succeeding in cumming, makes me wonder .... was she agreeing to spar and grapple and pull hair with me for 2 weeks because she has a crush on me?
I hope so.
Because if she has a crush on me .... maybe Phil does too. Maybe our flirting at work isn't just about attention. A break from Beth the nagging bitch wife.
Maybe he actually wants to fuck me.
I hope in bed with Beth at night, when she asks him who he wants to fuck, he gives her my name.
The woman who gave her the cold fish handshake in the office when she visited him.
The "Here I am, bitch. Let's fight." handshake.
The "Let's fuck each other up" handshake.
The "I hate you. You hate me. Let's dance" handshake.
To be continued....
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I could identify how watching me fight for 2 weeks had gotten the jazzercise instructor invested in the catfight she was having with me. At the 1980s pizza parlors nightclubs I went to after work in New Haven, girlfights would lead to .... more girlfights. In other words, you could go months without there being a single happy hour girlfight. But then one Friday, out of the blue, a girlfight over an unfaithful Italian boyfriend would break out, all the spectator girls would circle and yell and cheer and get all hot and bothered, and .... BANG .... the very next night, 2 different girls with a grudge would meet, by accident, at the same place, and .... instant girlfight.
Then the place would get a reputation for girlfights. And girls who wanted some action would start showing. Which led to .... more girlfights.
So, when the jazzercise instructor saw my workout buddy and I practicing fighting, she decided to keep showing up. This gym must be Catfight Central.
And .... if it wasn't before .... it was now.
Because there was an epic girlfight in progess on the mats. And it wasn't ending until there was a winner.
Because neither of us were getting winded.
And we both wanted to fight. And to fight dirty.
To be continued....
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Think back to your SAT days. Remember syllogisms?
The 2 women in the room right now with me--the jazzercise instructor I was catfighting, and my workout buddy watching the catfight, were to each other as Phil was to my husband.
Meaning.....
My husband and I 'had sex', and my workout buddy and 'fought'. But the sex, and the fights, were .... routine .... pedestrian .... obligatory.
BUT ......
The sex with Phil .... and the catfight with the jazzercize instructor, well... those were ....
> spontaneous
> passionate
> unpredictable
> dangerous.
Yes, dangerous.
Because the fight with the jazzercize instructor might get me hurt.
And the sex with Phil might get me hurt. Or might get Beth hurt.
Because when Beth finds out about Phil and I fucking, she might confront me.
And I'll be unapologetic ....damn unapologetic .... to her. The electricity between Phil and me is real. Life is short--we acted on it. My only regret is we didn't do it earlier.
When the sex with him would have been better.
And the post-sex fight with Beth would have been harder, since she and I were younger.
Younger, and even more 'fighting fit' than I am now.
To be continued.....
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The hotel room affair sex with Phil was, of course, two people gleefully exploring each others' nude bodies for the first times. I went for Phil's upper legs and hips, letting my inner thighs glide all over the beefiest, most muscular part of his middle-aged body. After several minutes of such sliding, I began to feel like a cat who for no reason in particular just stretches out her tail and back while standing next to a human, flexung and feeling pats and carresses. Marriage sex was all about going all the way or not bothering. No novelty.
Phil's encounter with me, on the other hand, was dripping in novelty. It had all the will-they-or-won't-they of regular workplace dating, compounded by a jealous wife (Beth) dangling implied--and occasionally actual--threats and roadblocks over the proceedings. And yet, here we were in bed, overcoming every obstacle thrown in front of us.
It made every kiss a stolen kiss, every grope a furtive grope, every naughty touch a little bit .... dirty. In a good way.
Phil chose to express his dirty desires by reaching around my bare back and fingering and stroking my hair. Did he agree with me that it was the quality about me which was staving off Father Time. Did he like that it retained its useful sheen, not ruined by sun or decades of dye-jobs?
My uncle's 'fighting fit' pep talks had a physical dimension--was your body ready for a nasty battle? But it also had a psychological component--were you ready to go to war with your enemy, or was it wiser to accept a humiliating but face-saving (and body-preserving) peace.
Being physically in bed with Phil was a tangible demonstration to him .... and to myself .... that I'd had enough of Beth's bluster and putdowns; she was welcome to come at me now, I'd be waiting for her. And once she found out that Phil and I had hopped into bed, she would take notice at my act, and action, and acting out.
Which would bring more action.
Let's go, Beth.
To be continued.....
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When Phil and I were at a lull in our hotel-room lovemaking, and paused for some pillow talk, he surprised me with the question he chose to ask me.
> When was the first time you wanted to fuck me?
> So, I can answer this with no hurt feelings, right?
> Good point. Yes. However we got there, we got together, and I'm happy about it. No [air quotes] 'wrong' answers, Sherry.
> Ok. So .... from a purely looks perspective .....I considered you fuck-able from Day 1. First time we met. And, that's a non-trivial bar ...... only 10%, maybe 8% .... of men I bump into are fuckable, even once.
> So, top 10%ile .... I'll take it. So ... what were my chances if I had propositioned you, say, Day 3?
> Ok, now here's the complicated part.... Phil, you were married .... as in, wearing a ring married. And my competitive female jealousy assumes you're Sonny-and-Cher happily married....
> Sonny and Cher? Didn't they get divorced?
> Well, good point ... 'I've got you, babe' Sonny and Cher.... THAT phase of their marriage ..... so I didn't want to compete with that .....
> But ..... what changed ?...
> Easy. Your bitch wife. I wanted to pull one over on her.
> So it's about her, not me?
> Ok, you promised ... no hurt feelings.
> Good point.
But he's right. It's about her.
Beth the bitch.
To be continued.....
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When Beth did confront me, shortly after the consummation of my affair with Phil, ..... Well, true to form, she did it in the most jack-ass sceanrio possible.
She sat behind us at Saturday evening Mass, as my husband and I were attending.
I've long since lost the ability to properly kneel at Mass, especially during the Eucharistic Prayer. The priest, that night, chose to use the Roman Canon, Eucharistic Prayer No. 1, the longest form there is. So I was respectfully sitting the whole time .... and she was behind me kneeling, her nose in my hair.
Sometimes I could swear she was sniffing it.
At the Sign of Peace, she shook my husband's hand. And ignored mine.
Probably for the best. If she had touched my hand after her Eucharistic Prayer stunt ... I probsbly would have smacked her right there.
We got in line for Communion. My husband let me go ahead of him. Beth stood close behind my husband, letting her scent drift close to him. I'm pretty sure he noticed.
But she wasn't trying to pick him up. No, ... she was just trying to bait me.
Come bait me, sweetie.
But not in Church.
To be continued....
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That Sunday night I was in bed, and Beth texted me. I know it was probably her by the area code on her number, and definitely her by the content of her text.
> You didn't want to 'go' with me last night, Sherry? Pussy.
> In a Church, bitch?
> I specifically stayed in the parking lot after church, sweetie.
> That's just as trailer trash, tramp.
> You sleep with my husband, and I'm the tramp?
> Your husband and I held out for years. We've been fucking each other in our minds practically since we met.
> Then have the balls to go thru me to take him, bitch.
> Someday. I'd rather go AROUND you for now, honey.
> That's a pussy move. Face me.
> Come at me somewhere private, big mouth.
> I intend to. Bitch.
> I can't wait. cxnt.
[I wait 10 minutes for another text. Then I masturbate my brains out.]
To be continued....
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After a week of looking over my shoulder, and sensing Beth was nearby (most especially on a trip to the grocery store--I'm positive she was stalking me in the aisles), I went to Saturday evening Vigil Mass --and Beth sat right behind us.
Her scent was her usual cologne, but was laid on much thicker. Her clothes were very formal--a skirt to just below the knees, high heels, a corduroy blazer over a shiny, white silk skirt.
Clothes no woman would ever fight in. Her offer to fight me in the Church parking lot after Mass was empty and insincere.
Did she really intend to fight me at all? Or was she trying to bait me to assault her, so I'd have trouble from the law.
Or ..... was she giving me .... and Phil .... a preview of our life if Phil left Beth? A life of us being constantly stalked and harrassed by Beth.
The homily is long. I take out my cellphone and text Beth, who's sitting right behind me.
> Seems like it would be hard to fight in that outfit, bitch.
> Seems like an opportune time for you to jump me then, sweetie.
> "Jump" you? Is that what you'd tell the cops happened?
> How would YOU tell them you know me? From screwing my husband?
> You and I both know we're not fighting in a church parking lot. Cut the crap, Beth.
> I know no such thing. I'm feeling quick frisky right now.
The homily ends. My husband nudges me to put away my phone.
I turn around and look Beth in the eye. She returns my stare with s blank sociopath stare.
I'm feeling frisky myself.
I silently mouth out a word to her for her eyes to lip-read:
> Bitch
> Slut.
To be continued....
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After Mass, my husband and I are in our car, driving to our usual Saturday evening steak dinner, after which we'll have our usual Saturday evening-into-Sunday morning sex.
I'm actually looking forward to it, since I'm horny as fuck from my Church run-in with Beth.
My husband is pissy, tho. I ask him why. He answers:
> Did you really think that was appropriate?
> Did I think WHAT was appropriate?? [I honestly don't know what he's talking about. So now I'm pissy, too.]
> Texting during the homily, Sherry? Really??
> [Oh, shit. Did he notice that?] Oh. Umm..... it was someone from work with a work question.
> On a Saturday afternoon??
> Yes, [I lie], it's a busy time of year.
> Ok, fine, it was someone from work. But was it a work question? Or a sex question?
> [Oh, shit.] Excuse me??? A sex question from someone at work?
> Sherry. Lately in bed, you've been talkng in your sleep. You've been saying the name 'Beth'.
> [I have???? Holy crap.] So what are you saying??? I'm having a work affair with some at work named Beth??? [Now I'm super-pissy.]
> Or a crush at least. If it's not true, show me your phone.
> [Holy fuck. I should have deleted the text bitchfight with Beth.] Ummmm, .... we don't show each other our phones. We're not middle schoolers.
My husband knows he's caught me in a lie. He's wrong about what the lie is. But I'm busted.
And we both know it.
And it ruins our dinner.
And we don't have Saturday Night sex.
Beth has ruined my Saturday Night with my husband. And I get no satisfaction for my horniness.
Fuck you, Beth. You'll pay for this.
I text her Sunday night.
> Pull that Mass bullshit with me next Saturday, and I WILL FUCK YOU UP, sweetie. I'm not joking.
> I look forward to it, bitch.
> So do I. cxnt.
To be continued...
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Tuesday at work, Beth calls my cellphone. We skip the hello-how-are-you pleastantries.
> Why are calling meat work?
> Phil told me all the managers at work are at an offsite tomorrow. I was hoping you could take a day off and join me as a guest at my spa.
> Why would I want to do that?
> It's complicated.
>I need more than that to spend a vacation day, [lowering my voice] bitch.
> They have private spa's there. I was hoping we could get naked and compare bodies.
> Why?
> I'm enjoying the sexual competition with you, tramp.
> [I'm suspicious Beth is trying to deceive my husband that I'm having a f-f affair. Otherwise I'd just tell her to swap nude selfies with me.] You'll send me directions?
> That was easier than I thought. Did you let Phil in your pants that easy, slut?
> Shut up before I change my mind, Beth.
> See you tomorrow. Bitch.
> I can't wait.
> Me neither.
To be continued....
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On Wednesday morning, I meet Beth in the lounge/waiting room of her snooty spa. I've heard rumors that the application fee here is thru the roof. What a bitch that she spends her weekdays in the Steam Room, while I slave away in an office job.
The injustice of it all just galls me to no end.
I had originally thought Beth would have me meet her in the parking lot. With all of her big talk about fighting in the Church parking lot, I thought that would be an unwise idea--that an unplanned fighg might break out between us right there. So we met in the foyer.
The staff had me fill out some paperwork to get a Day Pass. The girl at the desk asked me how I knew Beth. I said, "I'm close with her husband. Very close." She laughed nervously.
Beth and I went to the locker room, got into towels, and were led to the Sauna. As soon as the door closed, she took her towel off. She thought I would be intimidated by her Perfect-10 body and her 38D boobs, but I responded in kind and revealed a body every bit as youthful-looking.
If Phil was going to choose between us, he would need to use some other basis than our bodies. Because in that area, Beth and I were a "push".
We sat on benches on the opposite ends of the sauna.
> So, you finally have me alone, Beth. What do you want to ask me?
> Do you think if you take Phil from me, I'm just gonna lay back and take it, Sherry?
> [For the first time, we're talking to each other by our names, not 'bitch' and 'slut'. Our standing up for ourselves has induced a veneer of mutual respect.] Do you think if you stalk us like a psycho, I'm just gonna lay back?
> I can't attend Saturday Night Mass?
> You can't sit somewhere else there?
> I like sitting by you. I keep my enemies close.
Beth has started fingering herself.
She and I have one thing in common--we both find our cat-and-mouse erotic.
We stop talking and watch each other fingering ourselves deeper and deeper.
I'd heard of Mutual Masturbation before and always found it kinda .... boring.
Until today.
Beth and I cum at the same time, watching each other masturbate.
And then we do it again.
We put our towels on and leave in silence.
The girl at the front desk takes my ID badge.
"When you say you know her husband .... do you mean, intimately"?.
"I do. How'd you know?".
"I can tell when two women ate frenemies ... not real friends."
Smart girl.
To be continued....
-
That Wednesday night, as I was getting ready for bed, Beth texted me:
<> Interesting seeing your nude form in the Sauna this afternoon, bitch.
<> [Is she being a wise ass? Sounds like it.] Interesting how?, Beth. Always enjoy being enlightened by you, know-it-all.
<> Interesting because: I would have thought someone trying to trade up in husbands would have a more 'Killer Bod'. Yours was 'Meh'.
<> [It was as good as yours.] Your husband thinks it was 'Killer'. He fucked it.
<> He was disappointed in it, sweetie.
<> He did NOT tell you that.
<> How would you know, hun?
<> Because he still flirts at work.
<> He likes attention. So what, Sherry.
<> If I make him pick between youband me, he'll pick me.
<> Doubt it. [She's not gonna get away not mentioning the elephant-in-the-room: that she and I masturbated in front of each other.] And anyways, why'd you masturbate with me there?
> I was fantasizing about kicking your ass in the parking lot. Why'd you run?
> I didn't run. Why didn't you just come at my in the Sauna?
> Next time I will.
> Bull shit, liar.
> Fuck you, bitch.
To be continued....
-
All day Thursday, I worked the phones with the front desk girl at Beth's Spa and made arrangements to, without Beth knowing it, "observe" Beth's massage therapist giving Beth a nude body-on-body massage Friday morning, and then making arrangements with the massage therapist to get Beth all "warmed up", and then to leave me alone with Beth in the massage room. All without Beth knowing. Until I chose to tell her.
Friday morning came. I parked my car discreetly in the parking lot, hoping it would be in a spot Beth wouldn't notice it.
The threrapist got nude with me, and I stood in the back of the mood-lit room, while Beth removed her towel. The therapist began, lathering Beth up with oils, and explaining the she'd do the first 20 minutes, and her trusted apprentice (c'est moi!) would finish up.
She assured Beth I gave Happy Endings.
The therapist rolled all over Beth gor 20 minutes. I could and smell that Beth was aroused and soaking wet.
I was, as well.
At minute 21, the therapist left the room, telling Beth and me to "have at each other, ladies."
I craved to touch Beth's sweaty flesh with my lotioned hands. I wondered if my moans were betraying my identity. Beth was face-down: she couldn't see me.
I rubbed Beth all over her body, above, at, and below the belt.
I rubbed my erect tits on her back.
I was turned on the most I've ever been. Beth was moaning, but spoke.
> You remind me of a woman I might be fighting tomorrow.
> [I disguise my voice.] A fight? A catfight?
> A total catfight. No rules.
> Over money, then?
> Sort of. Over my husband's money.
> Not over HIM?
> See doesn't want him, the bitch. [WTF?? Why does she assume that?] She wants to take his money from ME.
> I find it sexy when women fight.
> I find it sexy to be in a fight.
> Who'll win the fight??
> I will. But only after hurting her terribly.
> [I decide to end this charade.] I think SHE'll win.
> I've said little about her. How do you know?
> Because I'm HER. [Beth turns her head.] Helllo, Beth.
> I should have known, Sherry. Do I still get my Happy Ending.
> On two conditions.
> What are they, bitch?
> One--give ME a Happy Ending back.
> And two?
> Two--make sure our catfight happens tomorrow. Church parking lot.
> Fine.
I rub Beth off to orgasm, then she returns the favor.
It takes less than 2 minutes for each of us to climax.
To be continued....
-
Saturday afternoon, as I dress for Mass, I decide what clothes I want to fight Beth in.
Beth has been dressing progressively nicer for Mass. Not that I typically dress casual for Mass, but she's been really over the top. Expensive, silky blouses, ruffled skirts, heels. Much nicer than I typically dress for work, that's for sure.
I pick out the nicest clothes I can think of that I'm sure I won't need to squeeze into, and I start to dress. But then I notice I'm sweaty and grimy from cleaning and doing laundry this morning. The two times I was "with" Beth this week, I was clean and scented, and so was she.
I don't want her to smell good while I don't.
I get in the shower. Touching my body reminds me of the full body massage when our bodies were touching. I hope she noticed how tight me skin was. Neither of us have stretch marks--we never had kids. I wonder if she and Phil ever miscarried. Or wanted kids.
I'll have to ask Phil that when he and I marry.
I sit down in the hot shower, and point the removable showerhead at my aroused pussy. I go back and forth in my head, thinking of:
> my future wedding, and honeymoon, with Phil, and
> fighting Beth in 3 hours.
To be continued.....
-
At 4:15pm on Saturday, when my husband and I would start thinking about getting ready for the Vigil Mass, our doorbell rings. I'm upstairs drying my hair, and my husband answers.
> "SHERRY!!! SHERRY!!!! It's that woman from Church!!! She offering to drive you. She's telling me to drive myself, and she'll bring you."
> [Fine. Get the hell out, tool.] Ok, honey. Let her in and tell her I'll be down in a few!!!!
> Ok, bye honey.
> [OMG OMG OMG .... Beth is in my fucking living room?? I run to the window facing the driveway. Pfffft, figures ..... an expensive oversized SUV. What a spoiled bitch Beth is. I can hear her snooping around my kitchen.] Beth??? Do you need a drink ??
> I'll help myself. I see your glasses and your decanter. [Figures--my tool husband didn't offer her a drink.] Bourbon, I presume?
> Whiskey, yes. Do you need a mixer?
> I drink straight when I'm about to fight.
> [Fuck you, drunk tramp. You drink straight 24/7.] Not that I object, but .... I thought we were fighting AFTER church. [We're still shouting from different floors of the house.]
> I'm no theologian, but I hardly think that's appropriate, Sherry. Do YOU???
> [Bring it, bitch.] Then bring it, Beth. Inside or outside?
> How about that old tool shed in the backyard?
> How do you know what my backyard looks like, bitch?
> Is that a yes?
To be continued....
-
As I finally came downstairs to confront Beth, moving gingerly in my heels and nylons, I detected her strong scent before even seeing her. It was the same scent she had been wearing to Mass the past three weeks, just stronger. I had to confess tho, that I had splashed more of my own perfume on than on a typical Saturday night. I had put some down the cleavage of my chest, and it was wafting up into my nose. The blending of her scent and mine was erotic to me, just as the blending of our bodies would be in a few minutes.
When I came downstairs, Beth was sifting thru the drawers of my kitchen.
> Why do you need to be in there, bitch?
> Just curious what kind of kitchen you run.
> Beth, you cxnt, at least I run my own kitchen--I don't hire help.
> Perhaps Phil has become accustomed to a kitchen run by professional help. How will you keep him satisfied .... after the honeymoon phase of your affair is over?
> [I've been walking closer to Beth.
We're feet away now.] He'll know that the household he and I have is ours. He'll have a sense of ownership for a change. It will be .... liberating .... for him. [I'm right at Beth's back now. My face is in her blonde hair, which is freshly washed and smells good. I reach around her with my left arm and grab her left wrist, which is in my drawer.] Now stop fishing thru my stuff .... bitch.
> Stop flirting with my husband .... slut.
> [My crotch is rubbing, thru our silk skirts, onto Beth's firm butt. I'm as aroused as can be.] Drop my stuff .... or I'lk MAKE you .... sweetie.
> I'd like to see you try, .... honey.
> [I sink my face fully into the back of Beth's hair.] You smell so good.
> So do you.
I'm now fully dry humping Beth from behind, both of us standing. My clit is erect and pointed at Beth. I hope she can feel it thru our skirts.
We begin rocking rhythmically.
> Don't stop, bitch.
> I won't, slut ..... I can't.
I kiss Beth's neck. I hear her starting to cum.
To be continued....
-
After Beth and I came, we were in no mood to fight. Or, at least, I wasn't .... and Beth didn't make any move to come at me. She and I didn't speak to each other beyond hissing threats and insults. Even "wanna fight?" was beyond our ability to communicate.
My husband was at church, presumably waiting for me. Beth knew this. Were we really driving to church now? To receive Holy Communion? Weren't we in a state of mortal sin? Was what we just did together mortal sin?
Was hating each other like we do mortal sin?
I smell Beth's sweat on my hands, on my clothes. Will people in church be able to smell it? Saturday Evening Vigil Mass is well-attended. All the couples doing what my husband and I do--Mass, dinner, our once-a-week Saturday Night fucking, commencing once the SNL skits turn not-funny.
Which, my husband and I actually do again that Saturday Night. He tells me it's a turn-on to him that Beth is obviously crushing on me. He doesn't consider it cheating if she keeps following me.
He has no clue what's actually going with. With Beth. With Phil.
I decide not to enlighten him. Yet.
Next Sunday morning, I wake up early to pee.
I text Beth.
> Enough bullshit. Let's fight. Today.
> If it's in that tool shed of yours, then yes.
> Fine. What clothes?
> You pick.
> Office clothes. 4pm.
> Good choice, and yes.
To be continued....
-
When I was in my 20s, I used to volunteer at my Catholic parish every Sunday afternoon from 1 to 4 to count the Sunday offering. A group of three guys would count and tally the bills. But Sunday Church offerings in the 1990s still included generous contributions of coins, and someone needed to count those, create piles of pennies, nickels, dimes, and quarters, and roll them into cardboard wrappers so that the bank would take them in that night's drop. I was reminded about all the beautiful Milwaukee cathedrals on the city skyline growing up, and the stories, not entirely exaggerated, about them being built by the spare change of that city's 19th century German, Czech, and Ukrainian immigrants. Step by patient step, penny by patient penny, I could see and touch even the smallest penny becoming a mighty edifice.
Beth's and my hatred for each other was growing that same way, and Sunday afternoon seemed as good a time as any to put the spire and the bell on the cathedral we had been building for a decade.
> My flirtatious work banter with her husband.
> Her cold-fish handshake with me when we met at work.
> My hotel room sex with her husband.
> Her stalking my husband and me at Saturday Vigil Masses.
> Her and I meeting in public places....
> ....and me massaging her ....
> ....and she and I hate-kissing ....
> ... then hate-fucking .....
> ..... then sex fighting.
The only unchecked box on the list was to catfight each other.
Sunday at 4 seemed an appropriate time to do it.
To be continued....
-
Beth showed up a little before 4 and went straight to the backyard shed, waiting for me. She was dressed in business wear, including very un-sensible heels. I dug out tall heels of my own so that she would not complain later about being at a disadvantage during our fight. I wanted her to feel the sting of losing a fair fight.
I was glad Beth had not come into my house. Besides not liking her leaving her scent for my husband to notice later, I suspected if she came inside, shw and I would just start kisding and never get to the fight part.
I realized now that what she and I needed was what high school fight opponents sometimes need--an instigator girl or girls to push us together during our standoff to have the fists and fur start flying.
I walked outside and yelled out to Beth while walking towards her.
> I'm here, bitch. No excuses this time. We're fighting right now.
> Finally. Fine by me. Bitch.
I open the shed door. I go in first, hold the door open for Beth, then close it and latch it behind both of us.
> Two bitches enter....
> ....one bitch leaves.
Beth and I come together in our heels and go for each others' hair. Our faces are nose to nose, forehead to forehead. I smell her heavy scent. Should I have put on more perfume? Who puts on makeup and perfume for a fight?
> You smell good. Soft.
> You smell like a pig. [Do I smell that bad? Is it because I'm nervous for the fight?] My husband will get tired of you in bed once the thrill of the affair is over. He'll come crawling back to me.
> Oh? Has that happened before bitch?
> [I must have struck a nerve. Beth is hesitating before answering, weighing what marital secrets of her I already know versus those I can't possibly know.] Let's just fight.
> Fine. Let's kick the shit out of each other.
> Or I could just kick the shit out of you. Then go in your house and steal your jewelry.
> Were you casing my house last time you were here, slut?
> Were you casing my husband at work all these years, whore.
> Yes .... and now I'm taking him.
> Over my dead body, Sherry.
> Fine by me, Beth.
I'm actually not posturing at the moment.
I could literally kill this bitch right now, that's how jealous I am of her.
Our heels kick up dust from the floor of the shed.
This is gonna be a brutal fight.
To be continued....
-
By fighting in zipped and buttoned top, jackets, and pants, our body temperature rises wwre being trapped with our own bodies, and exhaustion ... or at least serious muscle weakness .... were affecting us much more quickly than if we had been fighting in workout clothes.
Already, because of the way the last few weeks and days had gone down between us, Beth and I had entered today's battle with the determination of hellcats--any victory would have to be secured via a knockout, as a voluntary 'I give up' was unlikely to be passing thru our lips.
Now, just minutes into our fight came the additional complication that we had already lost the strength to land blows that would secure a knockout or submission. Sensing that our punches were carrying the force of a baby hummingbird, we stopped throwing them, and instead resorted to suburban high school chickfight tactics.
-Hairpulling
-Face scratching
-Kicking
-Knees to the groin area
-Ear-twisting
-Finger-biting
Each of these defintely carried pain when applied. So this fight, though lacking in skill, was raw and painful.
We each fell to our knees, gripping each other by the scalp. Clumps of hair could be seen on the shed floor.
> You fucking bitch.
> I fucking hate you.
> I'm taking your fucking husband.
> I'm making sure neither of you can afford this house.
For the first time, I began to wonder if I was breaking my work wife arrangement with Beth's husband fo I could be with HIM .... or to screw over HER.
It felt so good to be hitting Beth. I wanted this fight to continue, even if it was futile.
> I want to hurt you, slut.
> Then hurt me, bitch.
To be continued....