FreeCatFights
General Category => Catfight , Boxing & Wrestling Stories => Catfighting => Topic started by: sinclairfan on September 06, 2021, 05:28:26 PM
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My name is Anne. I'm 56 years old now, and grew up in Rhode Island in the 1970s and 1980s. It was a pretty good life, and I kept my nose to the grindstone to keep it that way, and to make sure my adulthood would turn out even better. I was a good girl, did well at school, and did everything I could to make sure no permanent mistakes would put me off the rails from where I was trying to get to.
Which, in the early 1980s meant: No drugs, and no getting pregnant. I can see now, though, that I took both of those rules to an extreme. My "no drugs" rule somehow turned into never taking even a sip of beer until college. This led to some embarrassing, and potentially dangerous, episodes in my 20s when I didn't know my tolerance with alcohol and was lucky to not get pulled over (or to hit anyone) when I was driving while under the influence, probably three or four times the legal limit. This could have been avoided by learning how to drink socially at high school parties and hangouts.
And, the the sex department, it translated into a chaste existence that would make a Catholic nun look downright wanton. I avoided high school boys and anything to do with them. I avoided flirting with them; talking with them; help, even making eye contact with them. I probably seemed either painfully shy to half and obnoxiously snooty to the other half. And this had nothing to do with looks--I was as pretty as most any girl in my high school class, and had found my niche at the lunch table and in social clubs with my own sex. I was average at worst on the popularity totem poll. I talked on the phone at night with girls, hung out at the mall on weekends, and was never lonely or depressed. It was a surprisingly drama-free four years.
I knew I was straight--I wondered what it was like to kiss a boy, and was curious about how their whole machinery worked "down there". I would sneak reads in my home encyclopedia about testicles and prostates and sperm. But the notion of taking it to the level of actually interacting with a boy--well, that was off the table until much later in life. I was focused on my studies first, then getting a career going.
I didn't play any sports, but I did end up taking an important position on the Yearbook Club. Desktop printing and publishing was becoming a thing, and I had a vague notion of heading in that direction for college and my career. So what better way to learn than by helping put a yearbook together?
There was a section of our yearbook where class member would "rank" the senior class members. In 2021, this would no longer be considered appropriate, but cetain "jock"/fratboy boys would of course rank girls by their looks, or even worse, their sluttiness. Us girls on the yearbook committee were irrestibly drawn to these lists. We'd read them, laughter amongst ourselves, be ashamed at how proud we were to show up with a high ranking on a list, then throw them away--they were publishable in yearbooks, even in 1983.
One day, came across a strange list.
What two girls in the Class of 1983 would have the best catfight?
Number 1--Anne vs Donna.
My hands started shaking. I blushed uncontrollably. Our teacher advisor, Mrs. Harris noticed me.
"What is it, Anne? Why are you shaking?"
" No reason," I lied, crumpling the list.
To be continued......
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A good start
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Mrs Harris could tell I was lying, both because my demeanor was so generically flustered, but also because Mrs Harris was my favorite teacher in the whole high school. She knew about my interest in desktop publishing, and had contacts for weekend and summer jobs in local office parks getting some experience in the field. And earning some always-welcome walking around money, for things like gas and food.
I had confided in Mrs Harris my semi-feminist desire to become financially independent, to not be dependent for support on a man when 'I grew up", even if it was man I loved. Mrs. Harris was very like-minded in this regard, and confided in me her strong feminist beliefs, nurtured in the 1970. Although she had been happily married for 8 years, she had chosen to hold off in getting pregnant, not wanting to derail the rapid ascent up the teaching ladder. She was preparing to become an Assistant Principal in a couple years, with eventual hopes of full Principal, the Superintendant, then "early retirement". She would fit in kids ("just 1 or at most 2") somewhere in there if possible; but if not possible, "so be it". I was excited by her ambition and her intense desire to be master (well, "mistress") of her own fate, and I felt as if I was talking to the older sister I didn't have.
My only sibling was a younger sister, one year younger than myself. No brothers. And not close at all to my sister. She played sports. And slept with boys. As in, actually in our house. I could hear them. I would get so angry at her -- she knew no boys were allowed in our house by our Mom. But my sister would sneak them in when my Mom was working one of her three jobs. She had gotten divorced 5 years earlier, and while she was civil with my Dad, and he was prompt with child support, alimony, and even pitching in on yardwork around the house, my Mom had become accustomed to nice things.....and our big house....and felt the need to work hard to keep up the lifestyle. And to compete with the Jones's in our town, who would whisper about her being a divorcee. Remember: This was 1983 in (very) Catholic Rhode Island.
My sister was putting me in the impossible situation of either snitching on her, or putting up with her gross noises and pillow talk. No high school virgin wants to listen to her younger sister getting lucky, over and over and over, with a revolving door of boys.
So I'd confront my sister. And we'd both be aggravated and resentful. And frustrated with our life.
And we'd catfight.
First verbally. Then, as the weeks and months went by, lightly physically.
Then full on violent. We're talking, full on barroom brawling. Hairpulling, scratching.
Above the belt.
And then below. This was no hold barred. Each of us trying to submit the other.
Which, neither of us ever could. We were complete equals in catfighting ability.
So our fights would go to mutual exhaustion. And never resolve anything. Except to lay the seeds of bitterness for our next battle, the next time she had a boy over.
No one knew about these fight. Except for my sister. Me.
And Mrs Harris.
To be continued.....
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How my fights with my sister at home came up with Mrs Harris was a bit of an accident. I didn't want to say anything to an authority figure which would reflect poorly on my overworked Mom.
But one day after school Mrs Harris and I were alone after a Yearbook Club meeting, and she cornered me with a question.
> Anne.... did I hear correctly from another teacher earlier today...., is Lisa in the class of '84 your sister?
> You heard correctly.
> Oh, see ...... it's just, I never would have guessed that. She has curly blonde hair, yours is brunette and straight ..... your faces are, well, different .....
> [with half-sarcastic false modesty] I suppose you think she's prettier???
> [backpedaling] Oh, no, no, Anne, no .... no, please don't think that ..... Lisa is attractive, but if you force me to choose between the two of you ..... it's no contest, you're much prettier. And smarter.
> [winking] Nice save, Mrs Harris.
> [moving closer] Anne .... I wouldn't pry about your family if I din't find you attractive, and smart, and strong. [Backing up] BBUUUTTTT....
> But, what?
> Have I hit a nerve? Ate you and your sister .... not close?
> [Abruptly] We hate each other.
> OK, I'm sure it's not hate. ALL sisters are competitive at times....
> We HATE each other. Mrs Harris .. Lisa and I BRAWL. Some day soon one of us will be in the ER. Or both.
> [getting physically closer again] Does ...... anyone know? Has anyone seen this?
> No one knows. It starts when our parents aren't home .... and she breaks house rules.
> Did you learn by .... watching ... grownups fight in your house?
> Mrs Harris .... I don't want to make you hear anything you need to ..... report.
> Anne .... if sisters got reported for catfighting ..... every woman in America would have a criminal record.
> [My body tangled at Mrs Harris saying that word: catfighting.] Lisa and I catfight. A lot. And it's getting worse.
> Anne, you surprise me all the time. But you're right. Let's discuss this another time.
To be continued....
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One weeknight shortly after Mrs Harris had hesitated and cut off a conversation with me at school after I hinted she was getting personal, I was home alone (my slut sister was out fucking in some boy's car) and my phone rang. This was 1983--no cellphones, no caller ID. I needed to answer in case it was my Mom, and I did.
> Hello?
> Anne? It's Mrs Harris. Are you free to talk?
> Oh, hey, Mrs Harris. What's up? [I was feigning calm, but inside my heart was racing. Mrs Harris, my favorite teacher, calling me late on a school night?]
> Anne, I'm glad I caught you. You and Lisa don't have each other by the throat, right?
> Not at the moment. Maybe when she gets home.
> That bad, huh?
> That bad. She's literally letting a guy have his way with her on the first date. Behind our Mom's back.
> That sucks, Anne. I wish I could help.
> You are. Thanks for listening.
> Awwww, thanks. Wanna know what helps ME ..... when I get aggravated by SOMEONE..... or SOMETHING .... or, just, the world?
> No, what? Tell me Mrs Harris.
> Well, ..... and this is 100 true .... I think about kicking another woman's ass.
> Mrs Harris?!?!?!? You???? .... like, whose ass? [Did I just say that out loud?]
> Well, don't tell anyone .....
> I won't. I swear.
> You know Miss Fredrickson? The new gym teacher?
> Mrs Harris!!!!!!
> What? You don't think I can take her??
> [My pussy is soaked. And my fingers are stoking it.] It's just .... she's so pretty ..... well, you both are.... Mrs Harris .... have you ever .... TOLD her .... this????
> Not yet. ..... Anne .....
> Yes, Mrs Harris??
> Can YOU tell her?
To be continued.....
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I like this story so far, I can't wait to see where it goes.
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I hung up the phone with Mrs Harris, promising to broach the catfighting topic with Miss Frederickson my next gym class, which was in 3 days. (Hell, let's face it, I would have said "Yes" to anything Mrs Harris asked me that night on the phone.)
I then masturbated myself to sleep. I realized my masturbation frequency had grown from once per week, before Mrs Harris and I started becoming close, to once per night.
I then fell into a deep sleep. And started dreaming. About Mrs Harris and Miss Fredrickson, buck naked, catfighting in the gym locker room showers. Catfighting hard, like my sister Lisa and I did, actually trying to hurt each other. I found the catfight the two teachers were having to be serious to the two of them, but erotic for their audience (which was 1 person, me). The gym showers were running full blast with steaming hot water, filling the locker room with humid mist, and causing Mrs Harris and Miss Fredrickson to sweat buckets. Their skin was pure muscles and exertion, and both somehow looked even sexier naked than they did in school clothes (and that was saying something, since both teachers always dressed impeccably).
My pussy exploded while I was dreaming, the sound of my own moaning startling myself awake. I tried to fall back asleep, to capture the dream back. But I was now wide awake. My clock said 12:49am.
> Shit, I exclaimed out loud, why did I need to wake up? Shit, shit, shit.
I saw a night go on in the hallway through the cracks of my door. Either my Mom or Lisa had heard me. Shit, don't let is be Lisa.
My door cracked open.
> Are you masturbating, slut?
> [Shit. It was Lisa.] You're no one to be calling someone a slut.
> Fuck you, Anne. That was fucking pornographic, what you just did. They could hear you in fucking Providence. Can you touch yourself, like, 50 times quieter??
> Can you fuck 50 times quieter when you open your legs here, before I tell Mom?? [I'm equal parts mortified and angry.]
> Tell Mom, and I'll slap you silly, Anne.
> What's stopping you, tramp? Let's go right now. [I'm totally ready to catfight Lisa here and now. She can tell I'm serious.]
> Someday. I'm tired now. And it's a school night.
> Chicken.
> Whore.
> Slut.
> Tramp.
> Bitch.
Lisa goes back to bed.
To be continued.....
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This thing is getting hot. Carry on.
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Our high school had an extended break between second and third periods, during which the "bad girls" (and boys) went out to the high school courtyard and smoked Marlboros and Winston's. One of the girls, one of the blonde's, one of the pretty blondes, always out in the courtyard was Donna, a classmate of mine with whom I've never spoken beyond 'hello'. Donna was my height (5-7), my measurements (38-32-34 or so), with thick blonde hair, sort of straight and sort of teased and sort of feathered in a Farrah Fawcett way.
Donna was always out in the courtyard, but never actually had a lit cigarette in her hand or mouth. She would sometimes be holding an unlit cigarette, chatting with smokers, sometimes (but not always) kissing the bad boys out in the courtyard.
I knew this, because I had been watching Donna, between 2nd and 3rd period, from inside the school for all 4 years of high school. Watching her unlit cigarette thing, whatever that was all about.
And the masturbating to it at night, in bed.
Masturbating to thought of her actually lighting one of her cigarettes, and taking a puff. Masturbating to the thought of her kissing one of the bad boys in the courtyard. Then tongue kissing him.
Masturbating to the thought of her tongue kissing one of the boys in the courtyard who had a bad girl girlfriend, the girlfriend getting jealous as fuck, and then challenging Donna to a catfight, right there in the courtyard, right there in the front of the boyfriend, right there in front of the "good" students, like me, staring out from the inside at the bad girls and boys outside smoking and kissing and catfighting.
I wondered how Donna would do in a catfight. She seemed like she'd fucking kick ass. Her body proportions seemed perfect to dig into some bitch's hair, like I would dig into my sister's Lisa's when she and I would catfight. I would masturbate to the thought of Donna totally losing it on some jealous bitch's hair and face over some courtyard stolen make-out session. Each trying to fuck up the other before getting broken up by the Assistant Principal.
Who next year would be Mrs Harris.
Gawd I loved Mrs Harris's hairspray. Her scent. The way she'd get in close with me when she asked about my catfights with my sister Lisa.
The way she asked me to set up a catfight between her and Miss Fredrickson. Or ask about one.
I hung around gym late after 2nd period that day to ask her exactly that.
I got out of the shower, my pussy somehow wetter than when I had gotten in.
I got dressed.
I knocked on her door between the showers.
The showers I had wer-dteamed about her catfighting Mrs Harris.
I knocked.
"Come in."
It was Donna.
""What the fuck are you doing here?"
To be continued.....
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I was so shocked and flustered to see Donna (or, for that matter, any student) in Miss Fredrickson's office between periods that it didn't immediately register with me that Donna's clothing was completely disheveled. Her blouse was unbuttoned at the top, revealing a lace bra and the tops of her 38c breasts. Her skirt was unbuttoned and a cute rope belt had been untied. And her high heels were unstrapped in the back.
Granted, she may have been getting ready to change into her gym uniform for next period. But something about the half-assed nature of her undressing made it look less innocent than that. And why not do it in the locker room? Why get changed in the gym teacher's office? Behind closed doors?
Something was fishy.
Since Donna and I were both 19 and at the age of consent, in 1983 there would not have been a scandal about Donna having sexual interactions with the school gym teacher. But in 1983 in Rhode Island, the same sex angle WOULD have been a scandal--a career-ending one for Miss Fredrickson.
My, how the world has changed from 1983 to 2021.
But all I could think was--damn, I have some juicy gossip for Mrs Harris. Miss Fredrickson was doing something inappropriate with my classmate Donna. Maybe, just maybe,, Mrs Harris could use this knowledge to goad Miss Fredrickson into the catfight she was craving with her.
And maybe, just maybe, I would be invited to watch.
I felt my crotch getting soaked, and hoped Donna wouldn't notice. I needed to get out.
I started to back my way out of the office to get to my 3rd period class. But Donna wasn't going to let me leave without having the last word. She spoke up to get me to pause.
> Hey! Anne! C''mere!
I pretended to not hear her and to be on my way. I turned my back on the bitch.
> Anne! Don't ignore me!! HEY!! VIRGIN!!!!
[Did she just call me that? How does she know?? Does the whole school know I'm a virgin???]
I turn around and face her. I close the office door.
> Don't call me that, you slut bitch.
> Why not??? Because it's true??? Virgin?
> Say it again and I'll tear your hair out.
> Pffft.
[But it works. She stops calling me that word.]
> Why'd you call me back?
> Tell your sister Lisa to stop fucking my boyfriend.
> Ha! My sister and I don't talk. Tell her yourself. Can I go now?
> Tell her anyways. And, yes, you can go now.
[I half want her to call me a virgin once more. But she doesn't.]
[My hands are shaking. My nipples are erect. And my pussy is soaked.]
[But I have what I want. Gossip for Mrs Harris.]
To be continued.....
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This is simply fabulous. It hits so many of my hot buttons. Can't wait for the continuation.
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I stayed after school for a Yearbook Club meeting, hoping to update Mrs Harris on the double life her rival Miss Fredrickson was living, and seeing her reaction. But Mrs Harris's backup, not Mrs Harris, was in the room, informing us that Mrs Harris had a personal matter to attend to, but that the rest of us should make use of the time and continue with work on the yearbook.
I turned to the Senior biographies section, and looked up Donna, and what her Likes and Dislikes section. Under Dislikes, she put "sneaking around" and under Saying, she put "Two's Company, Three's a Crowd."
I immediately thought of this morning's confrontation I had with her, where she told me to tell Lisa to stop fucking Donna's boyfriend. I assumed it was just trashcan to fluster me, by reminding me that my younger sister slept with boys while I didn't.
But was she serious? Was Donna actually being two-timed by her boyfriend? And, of all people, by my younger sister?
And for how long had this been going on?
I tried to replay in my mind the boys my sister had over. Every one of them seemed to be new--"relationships" didn't seem to be my sister's thing. She was more a "play the field" / "having a good time" type.
But then I thought of the boy she had been sleeping with lately in his car (gross; how is that sexy?). At first I assumed that, too, was a different boy every time. But then it dawned on me that the car engine it a distinct revving sound when it pulled out of our driveway. And that he and Lisa seemed to have some pickup drill worked out where he would circle our cul de sac first, almost "casing the joint", and then pull in, with my sister already outside waiting for him, her having heard him pull onto our street minutes before.
My sister had no scruples about inviting boys into our house, and into her bed. Why not this boy? Was it because the two of them were hiding their sleeping around from others?
And why did he tolerate Lisa sleeping with other boys? Was it because he was cheating on his own girlfriend himself?
Was he cheating on Donna?
And what was the connection between him and Lisa? Did the two of them have mind blowing sex? Was Lisa that good in bed? Or were the two of them so bored with sex that they were seeking a thrill, in the form of a secret affair?
I got sad that I didn't have the type of relationship with Lisa where she would confide in me about who she was sleeping with. The rift between us had become so wide that whole pieces of her life were a mystery to me.
I went home, hoping Mrs Harris would call. She had my number, but I didn't have hers.
I decided undress lay down on my bed and masturbate to the thought of my confrontation with Donna earlier in the day in Miss Fredrickson's office. And what would have happened next if Donna had used the word "virgin" just once more.
I was just starting get aroused, when my bedroom door was pushed open. Shit, I forgot to lock it.
Double shit. It was Lisa.
> Well, well, look at you go Anne. The masturbating queen. if only the whole world knew your secret life.
I pop up, naked, startled, irritated, frustrated. This whole day has been frustrating. I think of what I can say to hurt Lisa the most.
> Fuck you, bitch. If only the whole world YOUR secret. Fucking Donna's boyfriend.
Something clicks in my sister's eyes and face. Fear. Shock. Then anger. She comes at me, grace me by my shoulders, and pushed me into my closet door. Her nose gets into mine, almost touching. Our bodies are pinned together. Her face is red.
> WHERE did you hear that, bitch? ANSWER ME, Anne. THIS IS IMPORTANT.
Part of me wants to zip my lip and make my sister stew in her own juices. But her level of agitation is like nothing I've ever seen. Shit, she actually CARES about this boy she's fucking. That's not like Lisa.
Good, I have her. I can hurt her. And I will.
> Donna told me. Between 2nd and 3rd periods.
Lisa slaps my face.
> AND WHAT DID YOU SAY, DUMBASS?!?!? YOU DENIED IT, RIGHT????
I hesitate. DID Donna know? Or just suspect? What were her EXACT words. I realize now that I don't know. Shit.
> ANNE, you fucking dumb ass. She was TESTING YOU. AND YOU FUCKED UP. YOU SCREWED ME. MY OWN DAMN SISTER.
Lisa slaps me once more.
Lisa calms down a tab.
> Anne, you don't understand sex and relationships. You're so fucking naive. This all happened because you're a virgin.
I see red. I'm shaking. And pissed.
> Say that you're again, Lisa, and you and I are having this out for real, right here, right now.
Lisa looks me in the eye. She's as pissed and hurt as I am.
> Fine by me. Virgin.
I lunge at my sister, tearing into her blonde hair and throwing her head around like a rag doll. But her body is fully clothed in a t-shirt and jeans, while I'm buck naked. So she claws at my breasts and twists and mauling them, ripping at flesh and digging into my boobs.
I retalitate finding her breasts under her t-shirt and pushing and pulling in them as hard as I can. Lisa respond by moving her hands down my frontside, finding my exposed and wet pussy, scratching it until I grunt in excruciating pain.
We fall onto the floor, our hand and arms flailing at each others' most personal regions. Her attacks are more effective, since I was dumb enough to get into a catfight with myself naked, and my opponent fully clothed.
Was I going to lose a catfight to my younger sister?
Just then, the front door of our house opened.
It was our Mom.
> LISA!!!!! ANNE!!!! Stop fighting right away!!!!
Shit. This was bad.
To be continued....
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My sister and I stand up, bruised and embarrassed, our mother not knowing what to make of the scene in front of her, confused by many things (she would brag all the time to her friends, "Oh, my daughters are easy! They never fight."), but probably most confused by my nakedness. I expect, and hope, for her to order me to put clothes on, but she decides an explanation for what has just happened can't wait. I cover my breasts with my crossed arms, but my pussy is out for all to see.
> What's this nonsense all about? I'd love to hear what's worth you girls trying to kill each other!
My sister speaks first.
> Anne narc'd on me about Lance to his girlfriend Donna!!!
> Anne?!?!?!? Are you insane??? Why the fuck would you out your own sister?!?!?
> WHOA???? TIME OUT!!! You know his name is Lance???? I didn't even know his fucking name!!!!
> But you knew your sister was seeing a boy??
> [air quotes] "Seeing"????? IS that what you call it?
> Mom!! Anne is lying!! She knew everything!! She was just talking with Donna about Lance and me this morning at school!!!
> Anne?!?!?!? You were doing what????? Why the fuck would you take the side of Lance's girlfriend over your own sister????
> MOM!!!! STOP SAYING THAT!!!! How am I the bad guy here???? I wasn't conniving with Donna. Hell, I almost got into a catfight with her.
> Ya, ALMOST. So instead you catfight your own fucking sister?!?!?!?
[I decide I'm just completely tired of talking about this to either my sister or my Mom. I'm at a complete disadvantage, being naked both literally and figuratively. Literally, because I cannot believe the absurdity of trying to explain myself while wearing no clothes. Figuratively, because there IS one basic fact about which my sister is completely right. Donna DID trick me into confessing that Lance was two-timing Donna with Lisa. But not in the way Lisa and my mother think. But I can't tell either of them the REAL reason I was talking with Donna. That I was trying to instigate a catfight between Mrs Harris and Miss Fredrickson.
Shit. Mrs Harris. I still haven't spoken with her. She's the only one who will listen to me. I just want her to call tonight
> Mom, you've clearly taken sides and made up your mind. Can I just take a shower and get dressed.
> You may. But then you're fucking grounded. And that means no phone calls. And it means go to school for classes....AND THEN COME STRAIGHT HOME. NO YEARBOOK CLUB.
[My life passes before my eyes. My phone calls and Yearbook Club with Mrs Harris are the only happy moments of my life right now. If those are taken from me, I have nothing.]
[I hatch a scheme. I'm going to take a shower. Then I'm going to pack four days of clothes into my backpack. I'm going to school tomorrow. And not coming back home. I'm going to beg Mrs Harris to let me go home with her. At least for a couple days. I can't take this house right now. My Mom will chill out in a few days.]
> OK. Can I take a shower now?
> Just one more thing. Shake your sister's hand and kiss her.
> KISS HER?????? Gross!
> What are you afraid of Anne?? I know you never had sex. But don't tell me you never kissed anyone.
> [Game on, Lisa. You wanna do this.] OK. You wanna kiss Lisa? Let's kiss.
[I step up to my sister and get right in her face. She meets my stare right back, which sort of surprises me, but there's no turning back now. I open my mouth to hers, expecting her to keep hers closed. But she doesn't. She responds my licking my lips with her tongue. Our tongues touch, accidentally by me, by seemingly intentionally on her part. She's trying to flustered me, but I'm in no mood. I put my tongue inside her mouth. She flinches first, pulling back and ending our kiss.]
> Freak.
> Slut.
> Virgin.
> END THIS. NOW, GIRLS. I'M NOT JOKING.
My sister slams the door behind her in her bedroom. I retreat to mine and do the same.
I get in the shower. I start the water. I start to soap up.
But there's something I need to do first.
I rub myself off, trying to muffle my moans under the sound of the shower.
I cum in my hand.
And then I start doing it again.
Wave after endless wave of orgasms.
I hope the water is loud enough for my sister and mother to not be able to hear me.
I get out of the shower feeling dirtier than when I got in.
I need to get out of this house.
I hope Mrs Harris will take me.
To be continued.....
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The next day at school, I can't wait until afternoon to see Mrs Harris, so I go to her class during homeroom at the start of the day.
Thank goodness. She's here. Only 2 or three students are in the room yet, so I'm able to engage her in conversation.
But she's almost as happy to see me as I am to see her.
> Anne! I tried calling your home last night, and you Mom wouldn't put you on the line. She said you and your sister had fought.
> [Fuck.] You talked to my Mom?!?!?!?
> Yes! Anne, what's happening between you and your sister?!?
> Oh, Mrs Harris, it's terrible. But it's not my fault. My sister is seeing another girl's boyfriend, and somehow I'm the bad guy.
> Indeed, Anne. Don't cry. C'm'ere. [I didn't plan on crying. Why did she say that? Mrs Harris moves in close to me. She smells good, like always. Her chest gets up into mine, and I can feel our breasts touching. Her left hand reaches down and grabs my right hand.] Anne, how did this all happen??
> [Mrs Harris hand is caressing mine.] Mrs Harris, where do I start??? Why were you out at Yearbook Club yesterday afternoon??? I needed to talk to you. About Miss Fredrickson and ..... and ..... another senior. [I look around the home room. The class is filling up. The other students are starting to notice Mrs Harris touching me.]
> I need to talk to you too, Anne. [She puts her cheek into mine. Her skin is so soft. She puts her mouth into my left ear. She whispers...] Your mother said when she broke up you and your sister, that you were completely naked. And that your sister had you by your pubes. Is that true?
>[I whisper back to her....] Basically true.
> Ohhhhh, Anne. After I got off the phone with your Mom, I fucked my husband's brains out for 3 hours picturing that. He had to beg me to stop. So I did. And kept masturbating next to him. Anne, that's so fucking hot. We need to talk about it.
> I want to. Can you bring me home with you tonight??? Mrs Harris, I don't want to go home. I hate it there. I have four days of clothes with me. I just need to borrow your .... toiletries .... your makeup. Your brush. A toothbrush. [Or, we could just share a toothbrush. Right now, I wouldn't hesitate to put Mrs Harris's toothbrush in my mouth. Fuck, I'm horny.] ???
> Let me talk to my husband. I think he'll be OK with it. But let me check with him first. Come see me at the end of the day. But....
> But?
> But you do the same..... tell your Mom when we get to my place. So she doesn't worry. Ok?
> Do I have to?
> Anne, let's do this right. Above board. So we can talk. Alone. Ok?
Mrs Harris let's go of my hand. I feel the absence of her touch, the intrusiveness of the other students in the room. I just want to be alone with Mrs Harris. I just want away from my house. Away from my sister, and away, now, too, from my Mom. How could she take my sister's side? How could she tell others about my fight? About me being naked. About my "pubes"? I didn't even know my mom knew that word.
****************************
Mrs Harris calls her husband at work. He's ok with me spending the night at their place. As long as I tell my Mom. So. I call my Mom at her work. She can't pick up, but a coworker of hers does. I ask her to tell my Mom that I'm going to go home with Mrs Harris. And spend a few nights there. And I'll call her at home later this afternoon from Mrs Harris's place. Which Mrs Harris wanted me to do anyways.
I get in Mrs Harris's car in the school parking lot, a Cadillac. Kinda old, but fancy.. Four or five loitering students stare at us getting in the same car, no doubt wondering why a teacher and a student are leaving the school parking lot together. Great, within a few hours the whole fucking town will know Mrs Harris and Anne were in a car together after school.
As Mrs Harris pulls onto the highway, I bring up all that's happened since yesterday.
> Mrs Harris, I went to Miss Fredrickson's office yesterday. And Donna was there, alone. But, it's not just that she was alone. Mrs Harris, she was.... well, not undressed, but, like, getting ready to undress.
> Well, it WAS gym class. She was probably just changing. Slow down, tho, Anne. Stop spazzing. You're hyperventilating.
> [She's right, I am. And my heart is racing. But it's because I can't believe I'm in Mrs Harris's car. And going to her house.] No, Mrs Harris, well.... there was more to it than that ..... but there's more than that.... well, first, Donna told me to tell Lisa to stop fucking Donna's boyfriend ..... and well, my sister's such a slut, I just ASSUMED .... that Lisa knew that Donna knew.... but Donna was just trying to trick me.. And it worked. Sorta. I didn't disagree with her, and ... well, it's so stupid, because my Mom already knew about Lisa and the boy ..... his name is Lance .... he's Donna's boyfriend, ok? ..... that Lisa has been fucking on the side? ......
[Traffic gets heavier. Mrs Haris is weaving between lanes. She's getting irritated trying to decipher my stories and navigate traffic.]
> But Anne. Anne, Anne. Slow down. How did Lisa PROVOKE you to fight her??
> [Shit, she sure is obsessed with Lisa and me catfighting]....and, well, ok, we'll get back to THEM later, but .....well, that's the other thing I wanted to talk to you about [I can't believe I'm about to confess this to Mrs Harris, my ugliest secret] .... Mrs Harris ..... Lisa gets me everything by calling me this ..... and Donna me yesterday too .... they both called me a VIRGIN. Which I am. And, Mrs Harris, I hate it. I need to lose my V-card. Can you help me? I heard it hurts. The first time, you know. I want someone who's good at it, and won't hurt me. Who's experienced.
> How about my husband?
> [Did I just fucking ask that? And did she just give the answer I think I heard? Is this car ride happening? Is this past few weeks actually happening?] You'd be ..... OK .... with that? You wouldn't, like, hate me after that??
> Well, there would be conditions, of course. You and he can't kiss. Or even small talk. I mean, while you're doing it. And no contacting each other afterwards. I guess I should be asking you ..... would YOU be OK? With those .... arrangements?
> [Thinking. I can't believe this is happening.]
> And, Anne. [Turning, and looking me in the eye.] I mean it. No contact between you and him afterwards. Ever.
> Of course not.
**************************
The rest of the car ride is silent.
We pull into her driveway.
> You should unpack. Then call your Mom. Let her know we're here.
I go into the guest bedroom. I see a portrait of Mrs and Mr Harris. He's so baby-faced. He's 28, but looks 22. Him taking my virginity will be look hooking up with a Providence College hockey player.
Perfect.
I call my Mom.
> Hello? [my mom sounds upset]
> It's Anne. Everything ok?
> I hope you're happy. You should have been home with Lisa.
> Why????? What happened????
> Donna came over and kicked the shit out of here. Anne, you should have engaged been here to defend her.
To be continued......
-
The moment my Mom told me that Donna had kicked the shit out of Lisa was the moment something snapped in me and I started disassociating from Mrs Harris.
There was too much, psycho-sexually, on my plate. Way too much:
<> My girl crush on Mrs Harris.
<> My catfight wet dreams of Mrs Harris versus Miss Fredrickson.
<> My escalating catfights with my sister.
<> My tongue kiss make-up kiss with my sister.
<> Miss Fredrickson doing something creepy with Donna.
<> My near-catfight with Donna.
<> Lisa having an affair with Donna's boyfriend.
<> Donna coming over to our house to confront Lisa.
<> Lisa and Donna fighting.
<> Donna kicking Lisa's ass.
<> My desire to lose my virginity.
<> My opportunity to lose my virginity to Mrs Harris's husband.
That was twelve courses on my plate.
I could juggle all of them.
Until I couldn't.
I needed to focus.
And as soon as Mr Harris came home from work, I knew which one I needed to focus on.
Mrs Harris offers to be in the bedroom when he takes my virginity, when he and I make love. Or to be just outside the bedroom, waiting in the kitchen. Or to leave the house entirely, to pick up dinner, which all three of us will eat together afterwards.
"Dinner sounds nice," I somewhat ungratefully tell my hostess.
"Are you positive, Anne?", Mrs Harris asks me.
"Very," I reply, not looking Mrs Harris in the eye. I go to my bed and strip.
Mrs Harris leaves, telling her husband, "Go easy on her."
She takes her car keys. We hear her leave, her Cadillac start, and leave.
I look Mr Harris in the eye. "Actually, go hard on me. Real hard."
Mrs, Harris had told me no kissing with Mr Harris, and no small talk. It takes us 3 seconds to break the no kissing rule.
Mr Harris grips my ass and put his tongue into my mouth. I reciprocate enthusiastically. I undo his belt with my hands, pull down his pants, then take his cock in my hands.
I lay down at the end of the bed my legs dangling over the side. I want him to be stand up when he fucks me. He senses the position I want to be taken in.
I wish it was possible for us to kiss and talk at the same time. But since it's not, I release our kisses,,and begin talking to my lover.
> I think your wife's a bitch. I hate her.
He's inside of me. It hurts. But is as exciting as I hoped for.
> I hope you enjoy this with me more than you do with you wife.
He and I are rocking back and forth on the bed.
> This is just the first time Mr Harris. Let's fuck twenty time. In twenty positions.
In my encyclopedia searches, I had stumbled across drawings of twenty-eight or so sexual positions. I want to try them all with Mr Harris.
> You're not talking, Mr Harris. Don't tell me you're afraid of her, are you?
> [He looks at me mid-thrust.] Aren't you.
> [I think.] Na. I think I can take her.
> I think you might have to, before this is over.
> She can bring it.
He explodes inside of me into his condom. I sense the pain everyone talks about.
But I'm not a virgin anymore.
He throws away the condom and looks at me. "You ok?"
"Yes. Let's do it again."
He appears to hesitate.
"What is it, baby? Was I no good?"
"Are you for real?"
"Try me."
To be continued.....
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Didn't see that coming... Loving this story! Keep it going!
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After I slept with Mrs Harris's husband, there was a divide between us. The butterflies-in-my-stomach feeling when she would get close to me was gone. The arousal I would feel when her hand caressed mine was replaced by a sense of violation of personal space. Even the smell of her hair and cologne, which used to be so aromatic to me, now made me want to gag. For the next three days that I stayed at her and Mr Harris's house, she had given me her cologne to use. I tried it for a day, which I spent breathing as shallowly as possible, so distasteful did I find it.
The car rides back and forth from work were spent in awkward silence between me and her. My sleeping with her husband was the elephant in the room between me and her. We could neither bring it up (she tried a couple times: "Ssssoooo, was it what you expected?", "Glad your v-card is gone?"), but my curt responses masked my intention to have sex (and LOTS of it) with Mr Harris at some point in the future--I had his work phone number and intended to use it. As luck would have it, that week was college acceptance week, and I turned down an acceptance at Northeastern in Boston to instead accept one at Rhode Island College locally, in order to be closer to Mr Harris.
If I had my way, he and I were going to be doing lots of fucking.
I also stopped have the vivid dreams I had been having of Mrs Harris catfighting Miss Fredrickson. I just didn't care anymore. If anything, if the two of them did fight, I would have been hoping for Miss Fredrickson to lay a beating on Mrs Harris, much like the one Donna had laid on my sister.
What HAD happened between Donna and Lisa, I found myself wondering. When Lisa and I fought at home, she fought like a hellcat. She was also an there, which Donna was not. In a fair fight between them, Lisa should have been able to hold her own. What the hell had happened??
I began to wonder: if two women are in a love triangle, does the one who's cheated on take on some sort of superpower that lows her to thrash her rival?
Would Mrs Harris do that to me if she ever found out about me and Mr Harris?
After three days of awkward car rides and silence while at her house, Mrs Harris and I knew the whole temporary living arrangement of me at her place had run its course. (I was on my last set of clean clothes anyways.) That day after school, instead of going home in her car, I went back home.
My mom wasn't home, but my sister was. I asked if I could come into her room. She nodded, and we sat next to each other on her bed.
> Are you OK, Lisa? [My mom wasn't exaggerating that Donna had kicked the shit out of her. Lisa hadn't gone to school since their fight, and I could see why. Both of her eyes were still black, and her face and breasts were covered with scratches.]
> I will be. Lance still wants me. He told me Donna is boring in bed. And nags him constantly.
> I'm sorry I wasn't here to defend you.
> Don't sweat it. I should be able to handle my own shit. I underestimated how serious she was. It won't happen next time.
> [Her forgiveness of me coaxes me to disclose my secret news to her.] My narking you out won't happen next time either. I'm not a virgin anymore.
> But ..... I'm confused ..... weren't you at Mrs Harris's?
> I was. And I fucked Mr Harris. More than once.
> Anne!!! Wow.
> It gets better. Not right away, but .... We're gonna do it again. [It's been years since Lisa and I have spoken so intimately, as friends.]
> Wow, Anne. I don't know what to say. Or, I guess.... actually ..... I knew you had it in you when.... [She's blushing now] ..... after our last catfight, when Mom made us kiss ..... I didn't think you would do it .... but you did .... do you know what I'm talking about.
> I think I do. But let me make sure.
Lisa and I lean our faces into each other. We exchange a series of quick chaste kisses on the face.
Then on the lips. First slow. Then fast.
Then, neither of us is being chaste about our kisses. We open our mouths to each other, and find each others' tongues. Both of us is trying to be the aggressor, but we are each others' equals at kisses, just as we are in catfighting.
Lisa's phone rings. She motions whether it's OK if she gets it, or if I want to continue kissing her.
" We should probably take the hint and stop before we go too far, sis." She answers the phone.
Lisa gets it. It's Lance. I see her blush. She and he must still be a couple.
"Yes. Anne is right here with me. Why Lance?"
Lisa listens. She then tuns and looks at me.
"Anne, there were a bunch a kids in the school parking lot at 4:00 today. Donna was there, and you weren't. The rumor is you and her were supposed to catfight there at 4, and you didn't show. Is that true?"
Now, false after school fight rumors can crop up at any time. But the timing of this one was too specific.
Had it been started by Mrs Harris? Or was I just feeling guilty about my feelings for her husband?
I went to my bedroom, I pulled down my pants and lay on the bed.
And imagined me confronting her about the 4:00 rumor, and me looking like I had backed out of a planned catfight.
And imagined her acknowledging she had started the rumor.
And saying to me, "What are you gonna do about it Anne?".
I imagined myself lunging at her, and digging my nails into her face.
I imagined her retaliating, mauling my breasts with her soft hands that had held my hand for weeks.
I starting moaning. I could feel myself close to cumming.
I could hear my sister in the next room, cumming herself, as she and Lance had phone sex. That was enough to make me cum. I was positive she heard me. And was glad she did.
Lisa hung up the phone with Lance. She came into my bedroom and lay next to me on the bed.
"So, Anne ..... did you want to continue that kissing we were doing?"
"More than ALMOST anything."
[We tongue kiss hard. But my last remark hangs in the air.]
" Anne. What's the other thing you want to do? Besides this."
[I let a dramatic pause build.] "To catfight Mrs Harris."
To be continued.....
-
Yearbook Club between Mrs Harris and me becomes a test of wills, with us alternating between giving each other the Silent Treatment for 30 minutes, and then sniping insults at each other and hoping the few other students in the classroom don't hear us.
> "Your hair looks particularly Brillo Pad-dish today, Anne."
> "Let's get in the car and drive to your husband's office in Providence and see what he thinks of it."
> "You ever set foot in that office in Providence and you'll leave it in a wheelchair, I swear, Anne."
> "Oh, but why, Mrs Harris? Because he'd fuck me on the desk if he ever had the opportunity?"
> Homewrecker.
> Psycho.
> Slut.
> "How am I a slut???? I've slept with one man. YOUR HUSBAND!!!!"
Shit, I said that too loud. The other students are staring at us now. We shut up.
With four weeks to go until graduation, I get a letter from Digital Equipment Corp in Maynard, Massachusetts, where I had a lucrative summer internship lined up, thru a contact of Mrs Harris's. It's how I'm going to pay for Rhode Island College, and how I'm going to be Mr Harris's mistress.
There's mail from them one day after Yearbook Club.
"Dear Anne--We regret to inform you that your internship for Summer 1983 has been defunded. You may continue it on an unpaid basis, but we understand if you cannot and wish to withdraw."
I pick up the phone and call Mrs Harris's house. She answers.
> Hello?
> This is personal now, Mrs Harris. I got the letter from Digital. You fix this or I'm shoving this letter us your fucking ass.
> Oh, will you, Anne? This wasn't personal when you planned an affair with my husband?????
> I spiced up your sex life with him better than it's ever been. At least his mistress is someone he can't leave you for.
> I let you in with conditions. You broke those.
> The conditions you set are impossible to meet. I wasn't going to try to steal him from you. But all bets are off now, bitch. This is war between you and me now.
> Oh is that so, little girl??? As in, woman to woman ..... or, woman to little girl???
> I'm 10 times the woman you are.
> Prove it.
> Fix the Digital internship first.
> Make me.
> When and where?
> Anytime. Anywhere.
> You fucked with my pay. Maybe I should fuck with yours. Fight me at school. They'll fucking fire your ass.
> Try it. Bitch.
> Whore.
I hang up the phone.
My sister has been listening.
> Catfight at school tomorrow???
> No Holds Barred.
> [My sister is 3 feet from me] ....That's [2 feet] ..... so..... [1 foot] ..... fucking ..... [we tongue kiss] .... hot.
> I know.
> Stop talking, just kiss me.
To be continued.....
-
I dress for school that morning anticipating trouble between Mrs Harris and me, so I dress in a tear-away blouse so that when she and I are broken up by onlookers, it will look like a teacher tore the top off a student, maximizing the amount of hot water Mrs Harris is in with school administrators (and the amount of gossip our confrontation causes in the school community). I also do something I haven't done in about 3 years--I have no bra underneath.
She and I will finish our catfight, no doubt, at a still to be determined time and place. Something which I am eagerly anticipating. Today will just be the undercard.
I walk to the school entrance. It's a spectacular Rhode Island spring morning--so I'm not surprised, at first, to see a circle of students congregated outside the front door. But I start to get wary that they seem to be staring at me. Like the parting of the Red Sea, the circle opens, and I feel a shove in my back. I collide with a blonde who I recognize right away, from her 38c chest (she and I are pretty much the only students in the school who are that endowed) and the scent of her cheap cologne still lingering in our home from when she came over to fight my sister, as being Donna.
The whole crowd starts chanting FIGHT-FIGHT-FIGHT-FIGHT, and Donna's claws are digging into my scalp. Her fists begins pounding my face.
I realize right away a couple of things. First, I've been duped into a fight on school property, which is going to get me suspended. Second, I have no doubt that Mrs Harris is behind this. Donna knows that if she wanted to fight me, she could come to our house like she did to fight my sister, or do this after school in the parking lot, after hours and off school grounds. Third, I realize I better respond to Donna's punches, so I grab her hair with my left hand and uppercut her with my right fist, over and over, fast and hard. (This fight is NOT a marathon--it's a sprint.)
And fourth, I remember the tearaway blouse I'm wearing. Just as I remember it, I feel Doona's hands reaching down for it.
And ..... it comes right off.
The FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT chant turns to BOOBS TITS BOOBS TITS. Donna and I fall to the ground, and the entire high school circle closes in on us, leaving us no room to swing at each other anymore. The fight is stalemated in a clinch--Donna got in more punches, but mine were more powerful, and I can see and feel blood coming from her nose and mouth.
But we're now just waiting to be broken up.
Which happens withing a minute or so. Two school teachers come and pull us apart, and they cover my exposed chest with my torn blouse. The teacher asks where my locker is, so I can clean it out. I'm probably suspended until graduation. I've attended my last day of high school.
"But she started it."
"That's not what Mrs Harris saw from the window. She saw the whole thing."
Fuck, I'm gonna kill that bitch.
To be continued.....
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I'm enjoying the hell out of this story. I think it's one of your best. There are so many delicious angles. Please explore them all.
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I was rather hoping Miss Frederickson would take care of Mrs Harris (I mean, really take care her) but if you want to soften her up first and perhaps steal her husband along the way, that's fine too. She is one weird individual (!) and I'm not sure she should be around children. A little late to report it now though.
-
My biggest advantage in my war with Mrs. Harris, I decide, is that when she called a "little girl", she wasn't lying. She actually does think of me as a student, and not as an adult who has her eyes set on her husband. I decide to make her pay for underestimating me.
Over the next two days, I make good use of my free time from being suspended from school, and splurge on myself, upgrading my wardrobe, getting office-appropriate skirts, blouses, shoes and boots. I then buy a copy of the Providence Journal, and hit the want ads. I know Mr Harris's company, Fleet Bank, is downtown, and the office it's in, so I start looking for open positions. It's 1983, the economy I'd booming, and my DEC experience looks golden on a resume.
Back in 1983, it wasn't possible to submit your resume "online". Instead, big companies would have staffing and temp offices on the ground floor. You would bring copies on your resume on bonded paper, and if it looked professional (and you did, too) and if you had done some legwork and knew what openings you were applying for, you could fill in some paperwork and get called in for an interview that same day. I looked spectacular in my new clothes, and my hair looked even better, so I scored an interview and told them I could start next Monday. As the interview (with a sexy Italian woman with a Providence accident), I could tell I was acing the interview. Two days later they called and offered me a job. I'd be on the 7th floor; Mr Harris was on the 9th.
My mom was ecstatic to finally have a second paycheck in the house. She was always skeptical of the concept of spending thousands and thousands of dollars on college.
But I had no plans to be in my Mom's household for more than few weeks--or, tops, a couple months. I was going to steal Mr Harris. I was going to live in HIS household, in HIS current house. Mrs Harris would just need to move out ..... or I would throw her out.
A house where he and I would have sex all the time, at least anytime we weren't working. Just like my sister Lisa had sex with Lance anytime they weren't at school.
I was super-naive. I was spoiled about the work it takes to maintain a house. The cooking, the cleaning, the yardwork, the maintenance, the snow shoveling. I was spoiled because my Dad kept handling a lot of that after divorcing my Mom. My Mom got the best of both worlds from him--a check, and his labor. I wondered if when she was out at night if she was rewarding him for his work by fucking him, and that's how she kept him in our lives, if they didn't fit as a couple but did as lovers.
I started fantasizing at night about me stealing Mr Harris from his wife--but then her getting her own place and trying to lure him for sex there.
And me finding out and getting furious with her, and challenging her to a fight.
I got ready for my first day of work that Monday morning, loving my work clothes look.
"Good luck kiss?, sis," I ask Lisa.
"Of course."
To be continued....
-
My first day of work at Fleet is a whirlwind of training and paperwork. The girls in my new hire class are all so pretty and smart, I begin to wonder if Fleet hires women on the basis of looks. 1983 was still the in the Dark Ages on sexual harassment topics, and I get jealous of all the sexy secretaries and clerks Mr Harris is surrounded by 50 hours a week. (Someone in HR must consider me to be pretty if they hired me.) I wonder if he's ever been tempted to stray from Mrs Harris with any of them.
And if he did, I wonder if the sex was as good as the sex he had with me.
Towards the end of the day, I make a point to pop up to Mr Harris's cubicle on the 9th floor. I want to make sure Mrs Harris knows that I'm working in his office--that her threat to me to never set foot in his office backfired on her.
Plus....I miss Mr Hariss's smile.
When I stride over to his cubicle, he doesn't seem surprised to see me. I ask him why not.
> Oh, someone mentioned you'd be starting today. I recognized your name.
> Oh, good. [I begin talking to him in a suggestive seductive tone.] Any ..... other ..... things you remember about me, Mr Harris? Ya know, besides my last name?
> [He considers whether to take the bait I've dangled in front of him. He's sizing me up.] I think I do. But I could use some reminding.
> [Good. He and I are on the same page.] Anytime you want, sailor. We can use my place ..... or yours.
> Lemme free up my calendar later this week. Be thinking .... say, Wednesday? After work.
> I look forward to it. Honey.
I drive home with my head spinning with joy, excitement, arousal. Every feminine hormone is at full throttle.
Including Jealousy. He's going home to her, tonight. Mrs Harris. I hate her.
I step into the house. My sister can see I'm glowing.
> Good day at work it looks like?
> The best.
> Anne, I .... ummmm ..... remember how until a few weeks ago, we'd constantly fight each other?
> Ummmmm, ya ..... remember how dirty we'd fight sometimes. Sorry about that.
> No, no, nothing to apologize for. That's not why I mention it. I, uuummmmm, .... this is embarrassing.
> Ask me anything.
> It's just that.... I see you in those workclothes ..... it make me want to wrestle you. You know, play fighting.
> [I square up to Lisa. She looks pretty damn sexy right now herself in her mini-skirt and halter top. I kick off my heels challengingly.] We can play fight .... or, we can titfight. [My pussy is soaking.]
Lisa steps up to me and bumps her chest into mine. She feels the shoulder pads of my work blouse, rubbing our breasts together thru our clothes. I grab and hair and respond to her rocking motion with my own, pulling our chests closer together.
> C'mon bitch, let's fight.
> Oh, you think you can take me, Anne??
> Ya, I do.
We're staring into each others' eyes challengingly.
> I miss fighting you.
> I miss fighting you, too.
> Bitch.
> Whore.
Our tits continue to press together thru our clothes. I recognize my sister's groans from when she's fucking Lance.
> You gonna cum, Lisa?
> You first.
To be continued....
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Sinclairfan, I had the urge to drop a couple quick paragraphs here. One, I have always liked your writing style and your story structure. It is different from the usual "modest build, then lots of detail on the fight" structure we see on this site a lot. This structure is not for everybody's taste, but I enjoy it very much. Thank you for your great work over the last few years.
On this story, I read the first part of the story a couple weeks ago and then came back yesterday to read the rest up to now. How my view of the story has changed. Over the first part of the story, I was rooting for Anne to prevail over the various people who were making her life miserable, and cheered Mrs. Harris as a sympathetic mentor. Now I am actively rooting against BOTH Anne and Mrs. Harris, hoping both of them get their separate and respective comeuppances. Well done on the change of direction. I am quite interested to see where this goes next.
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On Wednesday afternoon, Mr Harris gives me a key to a room at a sleazy by the hour motel in the theater district of downtown Providence. I'm terrified, yet aroused, walking past hooked and none-too-discreet pimps in broad daylight (this was early-1980s urban America, keep in mind). If I wasn't a lilly-white office girl clearly from the suburbs, the pimps would clearly be approaching me as a teen runaway--instead, they're not quite sure what to make of me. I act confident--which I am; I'm about to fuck the brains out of Mr Harris--and they leave me alone (except for staring at my firm ass).
The staring gets me soaked as fuck. The mild Rhode Island spring is already transitioning to a humid summer. My pussy is sweating, and now pre-cumming, thru my panties.
I recognize the pre-cum smell I get when catfighting my sister Lisa.
Or thinking about kicking the shit out of Mrs Harris.
Or fantasizing about Mrs Harris catfiighting Miss Fredrickson in the school gym showers. What a catfight that would have been.
Gawd, I want Mr Harris's cock in me now. I want to lay my back on his washboard belly and have him fuck me from behind, wrapping his hands around me and caressing my tits.
I hope he and I do that this afternoon.
I'm at the sleazy hotel. It's so gross here. The liquor smell. The Chinese takeout spare ribs smell. Gross.
I need to marry Mr Harris so we can fuck in a clean house and bed. And floor. And shower. And kitchen table. Everywhere in the fucking house.
In Mrs Harris's house.
I put the key in the lock and open the door.
There's someone in here. She's naked.
It's Donna. From high school.
> Why fuck are you here, Anne?
> Mr Harris gave me a key. Why the fuck are YOU here??
> MRS ..... Harris gave ME a key.
> To fuck Mrs Harris ?!?!?
> To fuck .... MR .... Harris.
> Well, that's not happening ..... LEAVE!!!!
> I don't do what YOU .... tell me to.
> You're not gonna be here when Mr Harris arrives.
> Oh ?!? Where am I going??
[We both know we're about to fight.]
[Fine.]
To be continued.....
-
My women's intuition, which had kicked in for me already at age 19, told me that Donna's presence in the sleazy hotel room was all the handiwork of Mrs Harris. That she had set up Donna's jumping of me in at high school doors on what turned out to be my last day of school. That Mrs Harris had written the School Yearbook nomination about 'Anne vs Donna' being the Best Catfight Matchup in the Senior Class.
It now made sense, in its own demented way, why Mrs Harris had let me get with her husband in bed. Mrs Harris had calculated that the risk of me starting an affair with her husband was outweighed by the chance she might get to see me fight Donna.
That she had been fantasizing about Donna and me catfighting for the past school year. Just as I had been fantasizing about Mrs Harris catfighting Miss Fredrickson the past few weeks, to the point of wet dreaming about the two of them having it out in the school showers.
Well, two can play at this game Mrs Harris. I know you're somewhere in this sleazy hotel room. And you're gonna get to watch your desired senior catfight.
But before this is over, I'm gonna get to watch YOU fight Miss Fredrickson.
And then..... I'm taking your fucking husband from you.
Before this is over .... I'll be Mrs Harris. Not you.
Donna, God Bless her, just a pawn in this chessgame between the 2 Real Alphas, has fallen in the same trap I did in my final (real) catfight with my sister Lisa. She's buck naked. And I'm fully clothed.
She's gonna pay for this. Big Time.
Donna bull rushes me, fearing my uppercuts from at our interrupted school catfight. I'm ready--my claws are out, and I dig into her 38c tits with all 10 of them. She slams me into the wall, and my back hurts like he'll, but I just use that as motivation to dig into her tits, twisting and yanking and jamming and mauling with every ounce of hate and sexual frustration from 19 years of woman
hood.
We're on the ground, and she has my hair, yanking out my best office haircut.
> You fucking bitch.
> You whore.
> You slut.
> You gutter wench.
> I fight better than you, Mrs Harris told me.
> My sister fucks better. Lance told me. AND her.
This one strikes a nerve. Donna is out of control. My hair will pay a price, but Donna will pay a worse one.
She'll be winded in 30 seconds. 60 seconds tops.
I was a little wrong. It took 180 seconds of the worst hair pulling I've ever endured from Lisa, even in our worst fights.
But it's worth it.
Donna is winded.
And now her ass is grass.
I mount her. And I twist and maul and jam and tug her tits in the opposite direction as when our fight started.
She's probably crying. But I don't give a shit. I see red.
Wanna know how I remember?
Because the blood from her tits, in my mind, blends into everything else I'm seeing around me--her nude flesh, the sleazy shag carpeting, the oak walls, the stained ceiling, the gross filthy porcelain on the bathroom fixtures.
In my mind, it's all red.
That's how much I hate Donna. And how much I hate Mrs Harris.
Donna is done. A broken woman at 19.
I'm tempted to call out Mrs Harris from wherever she's hiding and touching herself right now.
But I resist the temptation. I'm gonna .... PLAY .... with that queen bitch first.
I wash myself off and get in my car.
Shit. The bitch ruined my hair for weeks. To punish her, I stomp on her tits one last time on the way out.
I drive to the school. My old high school.
I walk to the gym. Hoping Miss Fredrickson hasn't left for the day.
Good. She hasn't.
> [Startled.] Anne?!?!? What happened to you.
> Donna and I.
> Donna?!?!? Is she ok?!?!? [Good. The 2 of them are still fooling around.]
> Mrs Harris forced us to fight. It was ..... disgusting. Can you .... help me???
> [Her face turns red.] That BITCH. Anne, tell me what you need.
This is gonna be a fun fight to watch.
To be continued.....
-
This is gonna be a fun fight to watch.
… and to read, I'll warrant. :D
-
Very erotic tale.
-
I get home, considering my afternoon and evening to have been 90% successful. Tomorrow, Miss Fredrickson is going to let me drive her to a confrontation with Mrs Harris. And I've gotten back at Donna for her jumping my little sister.
The only setback, or disappointment, was that I never did get to fuck Mr Harris tonight. I was really looking forward to that. I really need a dick inside of me soon.
I open my front door and head to my bedroom, passing Lisa's open bed room door. She and Lance are kissing. The notice my disheveled rat's nest hair.
> Anne?!?!? Are you ok?!?!? What happened?!?!?
> It's all good. You'll be happy to hear this. I clawed the shit out of Donna.
> Whoa!! Where?!? How?!?
> It's complicated. But she won't be bothering either of anytime soon. If ever.
> [My sister gives me a younger-sister-looking-up-to-her-older-sister look that she hasn't given me in years.] Anne ..... ummmm, ...... you look totally horny right now. ..... amiright?
> [I blush. She's right, tho.] That obvious, huh?
> Ya know ..... you can fuck Lance right now. .... I mean, if you wanna.
Lance shows me his erect cock. He slides onto his back on Lisa's bed. Lisa moves to a chair at the foot of the bed and pulls down her panties.
I undress and move over to Lance. I lay facing up onto his belly. I guide his hands to wrap around my aroused breasts. I slide his cock into me, and I start sliding my butt onto his hips. He kisses the back of my neck.
I lock eyes with my sister. She's masturbating herself, watching her boyfriend fucking me.
I build very quickly to near orgasm. Lance's neck kisses are completely arousing.
My sister and I starting mouthing the same three words to each other.
LET'S
CUM
TOGETHER
LET'S
CUM
TOGETHER
[and suddenly we do]
mmmmmmmmmmmmmmm
I pull out of Lance. He cums on my back, and licks it off of me. I cum again.
I look at me sister.
> I need a shower. Care to join me, Lisa.
> Yes. Lance, gives us 30 minutes.
> Just 30?
> Good point. Lance .... this could be awhile.
To be continued.....
-
The next morning, getting ready for work at Fleet, I have a surprisingly difficult time arranging my thick brown hair in a way that's presentable. Donna really did a number on it yesterday in our catfighting, tearing it out from the roots in four or five different places. My eyes are also very puffy, and my forehead has scratches and bruises. I'm leaving work early to drive Miss Fredrickson to her fight with Mrs Harris, but I do the best I can to get thru the morning in the office.
Maybe four hours will be a short enough shift to sidestep the office grapevine.
Nope.
I underestimate how gossipy the Fleet girls are at commenting on all of our appearances. I'm in the crosshairs by 10am, where about five of the prettiest girls corner by at a training coffee.
> Anne, no offensichtlich, but what happened to your face?
> Ya, girl, what's the deal?? Bärbel wire fence obstacle course.
> [I decide to be <sorta> honest.] Catfight. With a girl, over a boy of course.
> Wow! A serious catfight ?! You go girl.
> I knew it!!! I told you girls it was a catfight! [I get damp realizing the Fleet girls have been gossiping about me catfighting.]
> Sssoooo, whose boy? Hers? Or yours?
> Well, mine, now, right? [This is kinda true. Lance and I DID fuck yesterday.]
> I knew it! You TOOK a boy from some bitch, right?!
> Go Anne! So Gangsta!
> Everytime I see the portrait of Mr Harris's wife on his office desk, I wanna TAKE him from her. Ya know, fight her over him?
> [Shit. Another pretty girl on the office is crushing on Mr Harris? Has she already flirted with him? Am I gonna hafta Deal with her later. I need to get the conversation off of Mr Harris.] Ya, this boy Lance, and his ex Donna. It was our second fight. The first one got interrupted.
> Ew, I hate it when a girlfight gets broken up.
> Ya, really, right. It's like, let us finish. Get things resolved.
> Really. Otherwise there's just unnecessary Drama. I hate that.
> Ya. One empty room. Two girls enter, one leaves. That's the only way.
I get into my car to drive to Miss Fredrickson's office at school.
At every Red light, I masturbate.
To be continued....
-
Later that afternoon, I'm in girls' gym lockerroom to pick up Miss Fredrickson to bring her to to parking lot of an old abandoned Mammoth Mart for her vmcatdight wuth Mrs Harris. My panties and hands are so damp with the smell of cum and sweat that there's no way she can have miased it. She doesn't mention it, though. I wonder if it's because she's too busy thinking of her own fight coming up in an hour.
She looks so sexy in her curly blonde hair and sweatsuit.
I ask her when her last fight was.
> You mean besides barfights in Attleboro?
> Ya, I mean like a real fight.
> Senior year of high school. 1976. Night of senior prom. After prom, on the beach in Fall River. Portuguese girl. We were both in prom dresses, heels, hose, the whole deal. I was the ex, she was his date.
> Hairpulling....?
> Hairpulling, eye gouging, tit-grabbing, fishhooking.... you know, like the curled fingers in the mouth .... like, no rules at all Anne [I get wet that she calls me by my name] ....
> Is that what this fight with Mrs Harris will be like??
> We'll see .... you didn't ask me if I won that fight in 1976.
> I know you kicked the living shit out of her. You didn't aske me if I won the fight with Donna.
> I could tell by the fight in front of the school that you two would fight again..... soon .... and that you'd win.
> Is that ok? I mean .... I know you .... like .... her.
> Liked, Anne. Liked.
> Oh?
> I only .... fuck .... girls who win catfights.
> I hope ..... Mrs Harris's husband feels the same way
> If he doesn't .... you know where to find me.
> I might come lookin' for you ...even if he does.
> I hope you will.
To be continued.....
-
While Miss Fredrickson goes into her office to change into her fight clothes (Jeans and t-shirt--so hot), I feel so grown and Mature at the conversations I've had the past day--with Miss Fredrickson, with the Fleet Bank girls. Such open talk about fighting.
I get jealous about the Fleet Bank blonde who obviously has the crush on Mr Harris. How long as she liked him? Does she like him back?
That bitch.
I have a free Minute, and access to a free phone line (something that was hard to come by in 1983). My number at work ends in 1114. She's 7 desks from me, so hers ends in 1121.
I impulsively call her. It's still workday hours. She might answer.
I dial.
Shit. I shouldn't have done this. I go hang up.
Too late.
> Fleet Treasury, Cara speaking.
> Cara, hey, it's me, Anne.
> Hey, Anne, you forget somethin' [you can take the bitch out of Providence, but you can't take the Providence Accent out of the bitch .... apparently.]
> Ya, ummmm, the thing is..... I heard a rumor Mr Harris's birthday is coming up .... and I wanted to get him a card. Is that true?? Is his birthday soon.
> Nah, you're way off .... his birthday is November.
> Oh,.... , umm, how did you know that? If you don't mind me askin'.
> OK, Anne.[lowers her voice]... let's cut the crap here. Mr Harris is off limits. You hear me?
> Oh??? .... because he's married.
> Because he's married.... and because I .... have seniority in this office over .... YOU .... ok, sweetie?
> Oh, is that a fact Cara?
> It's a fact, Anne ... get it thru your thick, catfight-concussed skull, before I fuck you up ten times worse than your high school buddy did, k?
> I thick Mr Harris is old enough to choose between you and me, Cara.
> There's no choice, Anne. I'm Warning you. DONT ..... FUCK ..... WITH ... ME.
> ooooo, I'm scared ....[Cara hangs up on me]
Miss Fredrickson walks up to me in her jeans.
> Anne? You look ..... flustered.
> Then please hold me. And kiss me. Hard.
Miss Fredrickson sits on my lap. I feel better already.
Hope we don't Show up late for her fight.
To be continued....
-
When Miss Fredrickson and arrive at the jogging path where she's going to be catfighting Mrs Harris, I'm in even more of a mood than usual to watch two women go at it. Cara is an unwelcome new presence in my life--I'm doing all the work to break up Mr Harris's marriage and make him available, and she thinks she's going to swoop in and snap him up? Cara and I are going to eventually fight for him, I can feel it. The thought is making me uncontrollably horny.
Miss Fredrickson steps down to the open firepit clearing where she is going to fight Mrs Harris. I'm hidden in the woods about 20 yards back, but have a good view. Mrs Harris emerges out of the other end of the woods, dressed in cutoff shorts and a halter top. The two of them don't speak, they just square up and start swinging, not girly windmill punches, but not quite controlled punches like boys throw either--somewhere in between, but deadly serious, aiming at each others' jaws. About half of their punches are connecting squarely. I can tell by how their heads snap back at the impact, and by the slapping sound I can hear with each blow that connects.
I had learned the hard way fighting my sister Lisa that a fistfight between women that goes longer than a minute or two runs out of gas because your (and her) knuckles get bruised and sore, to the point you can no longer properly form a fist.
Sure enough, 90 seconds in, Miss Fredrickson and Mrs Harris wordlessly switch tactics, and begin to go for each others' hair. But not to rip out clumps of it, like Donna did to me in both fights. They're each trying to maneuver the other into an off-balance standing position, and snap a lighting flash jab at the others' face.
Both are using such a similar fighting style, it's almost like they both had the same teacher. Or that one of them learned from the other.
The standup hairpuliing is so sexy that I can't resist touching myself. Then fingering myself. Then wristing myself.
I cum and cum, fast, hard, and often. My eyes water and I lose sight of the catfight, but can still hear it.
Which arouses me even more, and causes me to cum even harder.
Shit, I don't think Miss Fredriclson is going to win.
I don't think either of them will.
I think it's going to be a bloody draw.
I wonder how Mrs Harris will get home.
Who brought her here?
I start looking into the other sides of the woods.
I knew it.
It's Donna.
I think of the sexual electricity between Lisa and me after we made up after our fights.
I wonder if I would be like that with Donna.
I get up and sneak behind Donna. Mrs Harris and Miss Fredrickson are still fighting. Good.
I tap Donna on the shoulder and startle her.
> Good fight, huh?
> [Recovers her composure. She senses that if I was going to jump her, it would have happened by now.] What are you doing here?
> Same thing you're doing. Getting horny as fuck from a catfight. Mind if I join you?
> [Thinks 5 seconds.] Undress me first.
> [I remember the morning in the gym Donna was being partially undressed by Miss Fredrickson. Rhat must be Donna's "thing".] Only if you tongue kiss me hard first.
> Deal. Now stop talking, bitch.
> Shut up too, slut. [I mount Donna in a flash.]
To be continued....
-
As Donna and I kiss to the sound of Mrs Harris and Miss Fredrickson catfighting in the background, I remember my new-found enjoyment of, and arousal from, shoulder kisses.
I maneuver my shoulders to Donna's mouth, and whisper into her ear.
> Kiss my shoulders, bitch.
> Suck on me hard, slut.
> Admit I'm a better fighter than you.
> Admit Mrs Harris and Miss Fredrickson like me better.
> Admit Lance likes me better.
[Shit. Whoops.]
[Our rhythmic, in-sync rocking has stopped. Our bodies are tense. Opposed. On guard.]
> Did you actually fuck Lance?? I thoughthe's with your sister now.
> [I've come this far. I might as well finish.] I actually fucked him, bitch. And I actually will again.
> [Donna's clas sink into me.] I hate you, bitch.
> Do something, then, bitch.
> Don't tempt me, Anne.
To be continued.....
-
I can sense the tension between Donna and me has changed from being amorous to being hostile, but that she is trying to hide this from me until she can get out from being under me. I'm mounted, on my knees, which are in turn pinching into her sides. My brown hair is dangling down my face into hers, and I enjoy the sense of power of being on top of her. My hands are locked with hers, holding them over her head, her blonde hair spraying helplessly everywhere on the forest floor, flecks of leaves and tree bark everywhere in her hair.
Seconds turn into minutes, and I brace myself for her to start bucking her hips to try and dislodge me. I wiggle my hips forward so that she can't ambush my spine or kidneys with her knees.
Even though we are no longer kissing, I find my mount of her to be even more erotic than our protracted make-out session. I enjoy pinning another woman under me, and decide I will do this to Mrs Harris after we fight for her husband.
Mrs Harris. Damn, I'm so turned on pinning Donna that I've lost track of the progress of her fight with Miss Fredrickson. What are those two bitches up to now?, I wonder. I look up to where they were fighting.
Shit, one of them is down on her back. The fight must be over. But who won???
I hear Mrs Harris's voice, coming from a foot or so away from where I'm pinning Donna.
> Well, well. What do we have here? Are you two ladies about the start Round Three? Mind if I watch?
Donna looks up over my shoulder.
> Mrs Harris?? Your face is all .... scratched. And bloody.
> You should see the other girl.
> So, you .... you won the fight?? You beat Miss Fredrickson??
> Don't tell me you misded the best part!!! Hell, yes, I won!!! Punched her straight on the face for two minutes straight .... well, you know .... once I got control of the fight. Took longer than I expected, I admit .... but let's just say she won't be working at our school next year .... or eating solid foods for the next week or so. Shame you missed it. Now .... are you two ..... ladies .... about to put on a show for ME?? After the one I just put on for you?? I must say .... you two are living up to the BEST CATFIGHT MATCHUP award you got in the Yearbook.
I finally find my voice.
> You published THAT, bitch???
> Oh, Annie, honey ..... you bet your sweet ass I published that. Let the whole world know you're not the GOOD GIRL you pretend to be. Now.... let Donna up and take me home ..... or PUT ON A SHOW for me. I'm horny as fuck.
Donna and I are both hesitant about what to do next.
> C'mon, Donna. You lost both fights to her so far, last chance for redemption.
> I want to, Mrs Harris. But tell her to let me up and start square.
> Sorry, cutie. I luv ya. But you're gonna hafta handle that one yourself.
Mrs Harris sits on the ground, unbuttons her jeans, and starts fingering herself.
> C'mon, girl. Make me proud.
To be continued.....
-
I love this fucking story.
-
Donna is thinking of the quickest way out of my mounted pin on her, but I maintain my fingerlock on her to keep her under me.
I'm flatttered by how aroused Mrs Harris is from watching me kneel on Donna. I remember how ashamed I expected to be after Donna and I had a school entrance catfight in front of basically the entire senior class, and my top got torn off with me wearing no bra .... and yet the shame never arrived.
I wondered on the nights after that catfight ..... and find myself wondering now... how many senior is our high school class were masturbating to the sight of my 38c breasts being exposed by Donna.
I pictured all the senior girls fingering themselves in envy of how much bigger my breasts were than theirs.
Then I pictured all the senior boys jacking themselves off, regretting that they never asked me out all 4 years of high school. Never danced with me at a high school dance. Never cornered me at a Rhode Island house party. Never drove me home and pulled over in front of my house. Never came over my house when my mom was at work.
So much kissing and touching they could have had with me.
So much fucking they could have had. I doubt I would have ever initiated. But I doubt I would have said no to a hard fuck. Hell, even a soft one.
I lock eyes with Mrs Harris. I think about what got me off when she was fighting Miss Fredrickson twenty minutes ago. I decide it was the face-hitting.
I unlock my right hand from Donna's left, and slap Donna hard in the face. The strike echoes thru the forest.
> I hate her, I silently mouth to Mrs Harris. I hate you, too, bitch, I mouth to Mrs Harris.
> Slap her tits, Donna, says Mrs Harris (out loud) to my prone opponent. Donna does as she says.
> [I slap Doona face again, harder, and backhand her as well.] I mouth to Mrs Harris, I'm badder than her -- and badder than YOU.
> [Mrs Harris is already pre-cumming from the sounds of Donna and me slapping. This is what she unbuckled her pants for. And it's working.] Fight back, Doona, dammit. Why can't you beat this bitch????
> [I'm talking out loud now to Mrs Harris, not mouthing silently to her anymore:] Why can't you stop me from stealing your husband, cxnt?!?!?!?
> YOU HAVEN'T STOLEN HIM YET, SLUT!!!!
> [Mrs Harris and I cum in unison. Donna bucks me off of her .... finally .... but I regain my composure and lock her into a mutual hairpull catball. We roll along the forest floor, our legs snaking around each other, neither able to get complete control. I'm exhausted from an afternoon of cumming, kissing, and .... now..... catfighting. But Doona is just as exhausted from 45 minutes of me mounting her. We all notice is getting dark. I whisper in Donna's ear:] Take the quuen bitch Mrs Harris home. And tell her to pack her fucking bags. I'm moving in there this weekend.
> [Mrs Harris hears me:] YOU ... Anne .... you pretentious bitch ..... take Miss Fredrickson HOME. And stay away from .... ME .... AND my HUSBAND ...... forever ..... or I swear to God, Anne, I'll....
> You'll do WHAT, loser??
> I'll make you wish you were never born, Anne.
> I look forwatkrd to it, slut.
[Donna and I release our holds on each other. We get up. I help Miss Fredrickson to my car. Donna helps Mrs Harris's to hers.]
I can't wait to steal that bitch's husband.
To be continued.....
-
The entire car-ride home from the clusterfuck anticlimactic Mrs Harris-Miss Fredrickson catfight, which Mrs Harris somehow managed to turn into Anne-vs-Donna-Round-3, all I can think about is titfighting with my sister Lisa. The time we tried doing it, it had all of the tension and competition of my pre-Mrs Harris catfights with her, and way way way less of the danger.
I hope she's in her bedroom, I think to myself, as I open the front door of our house and tear off my top, exposing my rock-hard breasts. Oh, good--there's a light on in her bedroom.
I burst thru her door.
Shit, no Lisa. Instead, it's just Lance. He blushes at the sight of my bared boobs.
> Lance. Oh. Sorry. Where's Lisa?
> I was hoping you might know. She's been gone since dinnertime.
> Oh. Umm.... can I stay? Like, can we talk?
> Ya, Anne. Totally. And, umm .... you can leave your tits out if you want.
> Oh .... ya ... although, Lance .... This IS .... MY ...... house, right?
> That's true. No offense. Carry on. I'm not staring ..... just, a, ummmm .... congenital lazy eye.
> Ya, ok, .... we'll go with that. Lance, about that .... can I ask you something? Nevermind, I'll just ask .... did any boys in high school talk about as someone they would just ... excuse my French ..... come over and fuck? Like, if they knew I was home alone. [He hesitates.] Like, be honest, I wanna know.
> Anne, ...., and I'm not just saying this ..... boys wanted to fuck you. You just seemed like the type that needed to be wined and dined first.
> But, then why did no one even do that??
> Well, Anne, ......., every boy was different ..... probably some were afraid you would say no. ...... , ya know, like, to a date.
> But I never did. Not once. Never said no.
> Well, ..... ok, ...... but, Anne, your hair was so hot.... your breasts are so perfect.... it just SEEMED LIKE you would say no. And that's scary to boys.
> [Lance may not realize it, but he's telling me exactly what my ego wants to hear.] Lance, the other night when we fucked, you never kissed my [air quotes] 'perfect breasts'. How come.
> [[Lance weighs in his head if I'm shitting him.]
> [I decide to take the onus off of him.] Lance .... please kiss my breasts ..... and ..... fuck ..... me ..... hard.
I mount Lance like I was mounting Donna an hour ago, and undress him like I was undressing her.
He tries his best to suck my breasts, but I'm grinding too hard into his hips.
He penetrates me, and I gasp. I rock harder and harder, enjoying the power of being in control. I grasp my sister's headboard, hoping I don't tear it off.
Because then she'll know I rode Lance.
And she'll kick the shit out of me.
To be continued......
-
I am LOVING this story, every part of it is just amazing and keeps getting better and better
-
This is really good and hot Except for the blood and scratches that's a turn off for me but then you turn me on again.
-
As I shower to clean myself off from fucking my sister's boyfriend Lance, and as I go to bed nude (a new habit of mine), I think about Lance confiding in me that boys thru high school wanted to fuck me, but were afraid to ask me for a date for fear of rejection. I had inadvertantly (or, maybe subconsciously on purpose) sent signals that I wasn't interested in learning how to fuck.
I reflect on all the years Donna stood in the courtyard during 2nd peruod smoke break, unlit cigarette in hand. I face palm myself as to the 2 real reasons she was out there.
She wasn't outside to smoke.
She was telling the boys, those outside in the courtyard milling around--and those inside the building looking out the window-- she was available to fuck.
And she was telling the girls--those like me, staring outside into the courtyard--that she was available to catfight.
That if someone like me wanted to stir up shit, say
by talking behind her back,
or flirting with her boyfriend,
or gossiping about her,
or looking at her funny in the hallways,
or accidentally bumping her at a school dance,
or just showing up at her home after school;
well, then, we would go at it like bitches and find out who the better woman was. And let of some steam.
So many ways to start a catfight, if you thought about it.
And knew how to tell the other girl you were "game."
Cara at Fleet now knew I was "game". My impulsive late-in-the-day phone call to her about Mr Harris had put her own notice that I was a catfighter. And her giving me my crap right back told me the same about her.
It was pretty much a given she and I would be fighting soon.
The fuse was lit--there was pretty much no stopping it.
I masturbate myself to sleep to the thought of Cara and I catfighting in a Providence alley after work.
And then I wet dream to a trip to the smokebreak courtyard in high school, a trip that never happened but I now wish did.
Donna would catch my eye.
> Why are YOU out here, bitch?? Good girl gone bad??
> Why are YOU still holding that unlit cigarrette.
> Maybe I'll light it and shove it up your ass.
> Maybe you can try in the school parking lot after school.
> Be there. And I will.
> Fine, sweetie.
> Fine, honey.
I cum in gushes onto my sheets.
To be continued.....
-
The next day at work at Fleet, the air is crackling with tension in the seven desks between Cara and me. The other Fleet girls can sense the tension between the two of us, but none ask either of us about it. Fleet girls have spats come up from time to time, and the tension usually passes, like a bad head cold, in 24 to 48 hours (in fact, a bad head cold is usually the cause of the tension).
But this feud between Cara and me is different. It's not going away with the passage of time. She and I will need to resolve it physically.
In 1983, like most northern American cities, downtown Providence hadn't yet been gentrified and beautified and Disney-fied. It wasn't "family friendly", or safe for children.
Just the opposite. It was gritty. Dirty. Grimy. Gross. Tough. Crime-ridden.
There were dark back alleys you wouldn't go down alone.
Unless it was to cause trouble. Or run from trouble.
Or to catfight.
Walking to work that morning, I assumed that 5:10 tonight would find Cara and me in each others' hair in one of the dark alleys I walked by from the municipal parking to the Fleet office. The thought excited me. Beating her on her home turf would compound the sensation of control. Of dominance.
But Cara couldn't waot that long, apparantly. At 10:30, coffee truck time, I could smell Cara's cheesy cologne over my shoulder, and heard her harsh Rhode Island accent purring into my ear:
> I have a key to the Executive Washroom, bitch. Follow me ... NOW. No one will interrupt us.
I drop what I'm working on, and discreetly follow her to an isolated part of the building, thru an empty foyer, and finally into the rain forest-themed Executive Washroom.
Mr Harris probably washes up on here. So hot.
Cara kicks off her heels, and locks the door behind us. No, literally. She KICKS her heels off. The fly into opposite walls. I unbuckle mine, licking a stare with her. I step off of them.
> Is what you did with your heels supposed to SCARE me, bitch?
> [Cara and I are both wearing short summer skirts and halter tops. My first fight in awhile that both girls are equal in clothes.] No, slut. THIS is supposed to. [Open-handed, Cara slaps me on the cheek. It hurts much more than a punch. The sound echoes thru the room.]
I'm at a loss as to what to do next, but as the seconds go by, I realize doing nothing is not an option. In a soccer-style/football-placekicker-syle motion, I kick Cara in the upper shin. She pretends not to mind, but then drops to one knee.
Good. I hope she can't walk to the parking lot this afternoon.
> Thanks for the idea of losing the heels, bitch.
> Thanks for giving me the idea to do this ..... [on all fours, Cara rushes at me, grabs my upper legs, and drags me down to the hard, cold washroom floor. I catch my fall, and grapple my arms around her shoulders. We're upright on our knees, facing each other, embracing in a wrestling-type hold.]
It's damn hard struggling in awkward skirts, on an awkward floor. Our bodies are pressed against each other. I have an urge to pull Cara's hair, but am afraid to release her shoulders.
We start grunting, our wrestling devolving into the mutual, stalemated draws I'm so familiar with from fighting my sister Lisa. If Cara or Iwere outside, we'd pull each other to the ground and try to mount and pin each other.
But the thought of doing that on a public bathroom fllor is just too gross.
So Cara and I continue or futile upright struggle.
The pace slows. Our breathing gets harder.
Cara breaks the silence.
> Can I ask you something, Anne. [She called me 'Anne', not 'bitch'. This must be an olive branch.]
> Go ahead. Cara.
> Do you love him?
> Mr Harris?
> Who else?
> I think I do.
> I think I do too, ya know.
> I, ummm ...... that turns me on. That YOU love him.
> It turns me on, too. That YOU love him.
> Are you turned on now?
> A lot. A real lot. You are too, right?
> A lot.
We pull back on our holds on each other. We press our foreheads together, and begin to kiss.
> Cara. My shoulder. And neck. Kiss my neck.
Cara complies. I surprise myself and cum on the gross bathroom floor.
Cara and I have resolved nothing between us.
May the better woman win.
But first I need Mrs Harris out of the picture.
Like .... soon.
To be continued.....
-
I sit back at my desk with my hands shaking and unable hold any papers or file folders or paper clips, or anything else.
I wonder if the reason Donna held an unlit cigarette at 2nd period smoke break was to calm her nerves from a catfight challenge having just been made, or contemplating making one.
I wonder how many catfights she "scored" from going out to smoke break all those years. And how many of them were intense draws, like the one I just had with Cara in the Executive Washroom.
I wonder why Cara asked me if I "love" Mr Harris. Did she already know she loves him? Has she told him? Have she and he exchanged gifts.
I want to tell Mr Harris that I love him. Like, right now.
It's 1983.
I can't text him.
I can't email him
What to do?
1983 have this futuristic technology called a "pneumatic tube". You put a note in a capsule in a vacuum tube. And it goes to a designated office in, like 3 seconds.
I write my note.
Dear Mr Harris,
I love you. Have I ever told you that? Because I do. xoxo Anne
I seal up the tube. I make the sign of the Cross. And I send the capsule.
For 24 unbearable minutes, I wait for a reply.
It comes. I unscrew the capsule. Cara is watching me, but I don't give a fuck.
"Dear Anne. I know you love me. But Mrs Harris will fleece me if I divorce her. Mr Harris."
Pfft. So much for Mrs Harris's independent feminist principles.
He didn't say he loves me.
But, I know now: it's on me. I need to "get this done."
I need to get Mrs Harris out of his life.
I give a smug side-glance to Cara. Good. She knows Mr Harris replied to my note.
To be continued.....
-
I get home from work, wanting to have a sister-to-sister conversation with Lisa, telling her that today, for the first time in my life, I told a man that I love him. I'm glad my sister and I are on speaking terms again and can have these types of conversations.
I walk in the door eagerly, but for the second day in a row, it's just Lance at home. I like Lance, but I wish Mom would lay down the law in the house and tell Lisa to be less welcoming about boys moving into our house. To be in charge. Like I will be when I'm running Mr Harris's house.
Lance looks like he misses Lisa, and wants to talk to me. I have a topic I could use some male perspective on.
> Hey, Anne. Anything new at work today. [I had a bathroom catfight with Cara, but Lance doesn't need to know that.]
> Oh, the usual. But Lance, there IS something I've been meaning to ask you. About the birds and the bees.
> Ooooo, sexy.
> Ya, well, easy there, this is serious. This girl at work..... some Providence bitch ..... she and I might be interested in the same guy. Well, more than interested .... we've both fucked him .... at least I'm pretty sure SHE has .... and I think he's gonna pick whichever one of us is better at it.
> Makes sense.
> So.....?
> So? Not follwing ya, Anne.
> So, which one of us is better at it.
> I don't know her.
> But you know me.
> [Shrugs .... poor Lance, so spacey sometimes]
> So?
> [Shrugs again .... maybe he just needs me to spell it out]
> So how am I? At fucking?
> [Gets his tongue] You're the best I've ever been with. [Wow!]
> You're just telling me what I want to hear.
> No, it's true Anne. Like, Donna, and Lisa, .... I dunno it's so hard to make them cum ...... they just need it for so long .... but you cum so easy .... and over and over ... it's just .... FUN ..... fucking you. With them it's work. Takes all the fun out.
> [Lance is a man of few words, but every one he does say reminds me of the saying 'talking a girl out of her pants'. I need to do it with Lance. Right this minute.] That ..... umm .... my question wasn't meant as a proposition,..... but do you, umm, wanna do it right now?
> You want tell your sister? She'll freak if she finds out. This is more than once.
> [If this was meant to slow me down, it was the wrong thing to say--it just revvs my engine any more. And by engine, I mean pussy.] Then we better not tell her.
I can tell Lance is as turned on by the thought of cheating on Lisa as I am.
Because for the first time that he and I have fucked, HE mounts ME.
And I experience the joy of letting the guy take charge.
Lance fucks my brains out.
To be continued.....
-
At work the next morning at Fleet Bank, after a night of wet-dreaming to cheating on my sister wirh Lance, I've barely sat down when the pneumatic tube at my desk makes a <thwack>ing sound. It's the capsule, with a message for me.
I hope it's from Mr Harris, telling me that he loves me, and that he should have told me yesterday. Or that he's divorcing Mrs Harris, even rho she'll fleece him finacially.
It's neither.
It's from Cara. "Meet me in the Executive Washroom at 10:30, bitch. In a stall, this time. Don't tell me you haven't been thinking about it since yesterday."
I'm tempted to write back that, no, I actually have given much thought to catfighting Cara, because I had mind-blowing sex with my sister's boyfriend.
And hope to have more with him tonight. After work.
But Cara doesn't need to know that.
Instead I write her back, "Of you and I go in a stall together, slut, one of us is getting dunked in the toilet. xoxo Anne" I send the capsule thru the tube, and wonder if any of Donna's high school restroom post-2nd period fights happened in a stall.
"Try me, cxnt." Fine. We're on at 10:30.
For two hours, I sit restlessly at my desk, while pussy stews in its own juices. I wish I could get up and say hello to Mr Harris, but I'm worried what will come running down my legs if I get up and walk.
I can hear Cara sitting seven desks behind me working. Is she as turned on as I am?
10:30 arrives. Cara has already headed to the Executive Washroom--she has the key. I head in. I can see her shoes in the stall she's established herself in. I stride in. She slams the stall door, latches it, and gets in my face.
> Let's go, sweetie.
> Let's go, whore.
Our hands are in each others' hair, trying to dunk each other into the toilet. Even though this is supposedly the Executive Washroom, the porcelain surfaces are far from clean--as persistent level of stain and droplets covers them. Both of us strain, almost in desperation, to avoid contact with any surface. The thought of sitting at a desk the rest of the day is mortifying.
Cara pushes me against the stall wall, but I push back and force her shins against the toilet rim. She loses her balance, and she's sitting on the very back of the toilet seat. I push down with all my might to prevent her from moving either up or forward. Both of us are straining against each other with full force.
> You fucking bitch.
> You slut whore.
> I hate you.
> I hate you more.
Cara outwits me and without warning completely releases her grip. My body flies down in into hers with full force, her back slamming against the toilet tank. I'm in her arms, we're face to face.
And we're toungue kissing desperately, our mouths making sucking sounds that echo thru the entire stall.
> Finger fuck me, Anne.
I tick my middle and ring fingers under Cara's skirt hem line, and am finger fucking her rapidly. She explodes into my hand.
Later that afternoon, all of us get an Interoffice Memorandum.
The Executive Washroom is closed until further notice.
To be continued....
-
That Friday evening and night in my house, my own childhoood house, is claustrophobic torture. Cara and I have lost our private catfight den at Fleet, probably because someone snitched on us. My divorced mom is absent as usual, probably over at my Dad's bachelor pad apartment, giving him the attention and affection which, if she had only given to him while they were still married, would have prevented their marriage, and our happy home, from breaking apart in the first place.
And, worst of all, my slut sister is in her bedroom with Lance, both of them ignoring me, and being indiscreetly loud in their fucking, knowing I can hear them.
How can Lance tell me I fuck better than my sister, and then choose to be with hertwenty-four hours later?
My house is no longer my home. I need to find a different one, and fast.
I need to take Mrs Harris's home from her, and make it mine and Mr Harris's.
I go to bed early that night, burying my head under my pillow to muffle the sounds of Lisa and Lance's lovemaking.
And I'm up at dawn. I pack my workclothes, and my own cologne and soap and makeup--I'm taking Mrs Harris's from her, but I'm putting it in the trash, not using it. The thought disgusts me. I fill my car with all my belongings.
I thought I'd be making this car ride in 8 weeks to go the Northeastern in Boston, and then to Rhode Island College. But I don't need either of those now. I have a career at Fleet Bank.
And I'll soon have a new husband. Mr Harris.
The whole car ride, the excitement in my pussy builds for my confrontation with Mrs Harris. Donna gave up Lance with such ease when my sister Lisa starting fucking Lance--sure, she came over to our house and slapped Lisa around one day. But Lisa kept right on fucking Lance, and there was nothing Donna could really do.
It'll be the same with Mr and Mrs Harris. Mrs Harris and I will have our epic bitchfight. But Mr Harris will want to be fucking me. So Mrs Harris will just disappear into his past. She hot and young--she'll find someone else.
I arrive at Mr Harris's house just as the sun is rising. The scene couldn't be more picture perfect. Their new two-story Federal Revival, with full central air, is ahead-of-its-time in 1983 Rhode Island, where the humid summers normally favor Ranch or outdoor patio lifestyles.
What a bitch Mrs Harris is, planning to have zero-to-one kids and buying a house with four bedrooms. What are the extra rooms for, bitch?
What's even in those extra bedrooms?
I ring the doorbell. Mr Harris, in his bathrobe, answers.
> Anne! [He's not upset to see me. Just understandably surprised.]
> Mr Harris, I know I should have called. But I can't stand it at home anymore. My obtuse mom. My slut sister. Her horny boyfriend. It's not .... home. Can I crash here??
> Who is it, baby???? [I hear from upstairs.]
> [I recognize that voice. But it's not Mrs Harris's.] Mr Harris, is that .... DONNA ?!?!?!? WHY THE FUCK IS SHE HERE?????
I push thru the door past Mr Harris. I feel the tables turn on me from my conversation with Cara, her telling me she had ..... seniority privileges on me .... in flirting with Mr Harris. That's how I feel with Donna.
Plus, I won three catfights against her. In front of the school, at the Providence no-tell-hotel, and in the woods.
I barrell up the stairs, planning on throwing Donna out of this house by her hair.
When, another bathrobed woman emerges from the master bedroom.
It's Mrs Harris.
> Well, well, it's Anne. You just can't let go of your high school feud with Donna, can you? Why don't you FUCKING GROW UP, ANNE????
> [I'm pissed off, now.] I'm GROWN, bitch. And this feud isn't between Doona and me. IT'S between YOU and me ..... you've just be using Donna this whole time. I can see that now. [The thought of Donna, Mrs Harris, and Mr Harris sharing the master bed enrages my jealousy.]
> Well, what are you gonna do about it, sweetie??
> You and me, Mrs Harris. RIGHT .... NOW.
> I'm game. With Dannoa and Mr Harris watching? Or not watching?
> You .... and me .... alone, Mrs Harris.
> Fine. What are we waiting for, Anne?
> For them to leave.
To be continued.....
-
I just LOVE this whole story and now its reaching the climax. Cant wait to see what happens next!
-
As Mrs Harris and I listen to Donna and Mr Harris pull away in Mr Harris's car, my throat is dry from anticipation of what is about to occur between Mrs Harris and me. I hope she will break the silence as she and I stare acrosd at each other in the 2nd floor hallway, since my voice will betray the anxiety I have of facing her in a no-rules catfight.
She reads my silence correctly, and speaks.
> Anne, before we get started, I have a confession, and a question. I'm wondering if you'd like to hear either, or both.
> Both, Mr Harris. The confession first. [I hope she doesn't interpret my answer as a reluctance to fight. I want this more than ever. We're five feet apart, and we both take a step forward, staring at each other woman to woman. Just a few months ago, I was nervous about even looking her in the eye. But this morning, I'm unable to look away from her. Her blonde hair is so beautiful even in its dishevelled early Saturday morning mop. Her face is even more beautiful without makeup as with.]
> As you wish. My confession is this. I regret getting you suspended from you last four weeks of school. Not because of what it did to you. But because of what it did to me. I missed our after school yearbook chats. I missed being around you in school, listening to what you had to say. Having someone to confide in. Someone your age, I guess. The way we would ..... test each orher. What we would trust each other with .... what we would hold back. You were ..... strong ..... and finding your strength everyday. I found it exciting. It couldn't go on forever .... but it could have gone on another four weeks. I regret that you and I lost those four weeks, Anne.
> I regret it, too, Mrs Harris. And that you ruined it.
> I'm glad I told you that, Anne. Now, do you still want the question.
> Yes. Please Mrs Harris.
> Very well. What's it like to come into another woman's house to take another woman's man and home?
> You've never done it?
> Never. I've contemplated it, of course. Every woman .... or at least, every married woman .... has contemplated it. But, no, I've never acted on the .... desire.
> Then you are missing out. Because I'm feeling more erotic now than I ever considered possible. How does it feel to fight another like me off? To defend your home.
> That feeling is similar .... erotic. Transcendentally so.
> Mrs Harris .... I think there's nothing more to say.
> I think you're right.
We step together until we're nose to nose. Our breasts touch thru my top and her robe.
To be continued.....
-
Mrs Harris and I are toe to toe, chest to chest, and nose to nose in the narrow 2nd story hallway of her house. I envy her Federal Revival over the Raised Ranch I grew up in.
Correction. MY Federal Revival. With Mr Harris. And I want her out now.
> What a waste these extra bedrooms are, Mrs Harris. Extra bedrooms are for children. The children I'm going to have with my husband. Your .... EX- ..... husband.
> [Contempuously..] Big talk, girly. Children having children, how sad.
> I'll prove to you I'm no child, but a woman. I'll throw you out of this house. I've dreamt of this for weeks.
> And a DREAM it will remain, honey. BUT .... let's say I'm wrong.... you can't throw me into the street .... and expect me to drive to my parents' house .... in a bathrobe, can you?
> Then dress. But make it fast. And I'm watching.
> Freak.
> You're one to talk. Go.
Mrs Harris struts into her bedroom, realizing too late thst I've gotten the satisfaction of bossing her. She stops short, causing me to run up on her heels and get her thick unkempt hair in my nose and both. I somehow resist the urge to shove her in the back, which would no doubt spark a catfight in an instant. Instead she just chuckles at me.
Is she enjoying this as much as I am?
Did she and Donna "sort out" their hierarchy when she brought Donna into her house? If so, that sucks--I broke Donna for her.
I'm not broken. I'm horny as fuck. And possessive. I might still have unfinished business with Cara after this.
I lie down on my back in Mr Harris's unmade bed, the one he took my virginity in. I have THAT over Donna--her virginity was long gone by the time the Harris's got her.
Mrs Harris strips off her robe, and starts putting on lace underwear. She twirls and allows me to see her bare breasts clearly for the first time.
> My rack is better than yours. That's why your husband wants it.
> 34EE, sweetie. Any man would suck mine over yours. [She's not lying thar her cups are bigger than I realized. Is that why she's showing me?]
I go to reply, but am unable. My fingers are already masturbating myself under my shorts, thru the waist. I didn't plan on cumming in front of her, but before I can stop myself, I do.
> mmmmmm ....... mmmmffgfg ..... fffffffUUCCKKKK.
> So melodramatic. Like a virgin with a new toy.
> So, sensitive, Annie-pie. Your pussy may not be a virgin anymore. But psychologically, you're going to be ..... THAT .... for while. Possibly forever, .... but definitely for awhile. A virgin, honey. VIRGIN.
To be continued.....
-
If all Mrs Harris has to use against me is juvenile name-calling, and not even accurate name-calling at that, then I figure I must be having a good morning so far. It must be slowly sinking in to her that I'm actually serious about taking her husband from her. And that her husband is interested in having me.
I wonder if Mrs Harris now wishes she had at least one child with Mr Harris. I intend to get pregnant with him as soon as I can, if possible on our honeymoon, or even before.
My mother had Lisa and me shortly after marrying my father, and now has our youth and her freedom. Having children young is the way to go, I decide. Mrs Harris's feminist path is a mirage, a false promise.
I stand up, emblematic of my growing sense of superiority over Mrs Harris. I always sat in her presence in school. Why was I so in awe of her? She's just a regular woman, who puts her pants on one leg at a time. Which she is literally doing right now, so we can start our fight.
> What's the smirk for, girl-y.?
> I was just thinking: The only regret I have of when your husband fucked me is that I didn't ..... WE didn't .... take you up on your offer to stay and watch. I wish you had seen it. How a real woman fucks.
> You seem pretty confident for a novice. What makes you the expert.
> Because I've done it ..... [shit fuck shit fuck shit fuck; What a fuck up I am. I accidentally start to tell Mrs Harris about my fucking Lance. She doesn't need to know about that. And especially Mr Harris doesn't need to know about that. I wonder if Mrs Harris has noticed my slip up.]
> [Shit, if she didn't notice it at first, she notices it by my abrupt silence...] Sssooooo, the virgin slut has been sleeping around, has she? Is that why, ..... even after three fights, ...... there's still tension between Donna and you? Huh, slut?.... Quite unsporting of you, by the way, ..... , that day in the woods, to not let her off the ground to fight.
> You could have gotten me off of her.... if you wanted to watch a catfight so bad.
> I'm telling my husband you're a slut. SLUT.
> Get out of my house, bitch.
> Get out of mine.
> Make me get out.
> Come at me and I will.
I crave bodily contact between my ex-mentor and me. I walk up to her and grab two fistfulls of hair. She reciprocates, and we're on our knees on the floor. We yank on each others' hair as hard as we can.
I just want to mount Mrs Harris and dry-hump her thru my shorts, to ride her like I rode Donna in the woods.
We stare daggers into each others' eyes.
I realize Mrs Harris is the sexiest woman I've ever seen.
> Do you think I'm sexy Mrs Harris? [I expect she'll say no.]
> When you're fighting? Very sexy.
> Are you turned on now, freak?
> I love when you call me a freak.
> Because it's true?
> Because you notice its's true.
> I still want you out.
> You can't make me.
> I'm going to try. Right now.
> Do it, slut.
To be continued....
-
Mrs Harris and I are now at her bedroom door, which leads to the narrow hallway, which leads to the steep stairway (about 15 steps, straight down, with no turns or breaks), which leads to her front door. I want her out of this house. Catballing with her on the bedroom floor isn't getting her out, and is just giving my knees and elbows rugburn on the harsh Berber carpeting.
I grab ahold of the waitstband on Mrs Harris's shorts in the back, and raise her first to her knees, then to her feet. I'm surpised by how easily I'm able to mover her strong but light body.
Is that the real reason Mrs Harris is postponing children? To keep her taut, lean figure?
I shove Mrs Harris into the hallway, slamming her entire frontside into the hallway wall. She releases a painful-sounding grunt, which excites and arouses me.
The last time Lance fucked me, I surrendered control and allowed him to dominate me. Has Mrs Harris never truly surrendered to Mr Harris, in bed or out? Has he never attempted to dominate her? To take control? Has she been wanting him to notice her desire for student fights all these years, and he never did?
Am I the first one that noticed it in her, and brought it up? Is that why she's surrendering to me now?
Will she surrender if I throw her down the stairs and out the door?
I lead Mrs Harris to the threshold of the long stairway. My right hand has her shorts firmly in a wedgie, allowing me to toss her body almost like a ragdoll. The power I have over her body causes my heart to race. Miss Fredrickson was wrong to try to outslug Mrs Harris in their fight in the woods. She should have taken control of Mrs Harris's light body and then pinned her, like I pinned Donna.
> [Mrs Harris becomes aware of the control I have over her body. She's actually frightened.] Anne, no, not the stairs. Don't throw me down the the stairs.
Mrs Harris clings to my waist, desperately trying to use my body to alternately block her own path to the stairs, and then as Wiley E. Coyote would use a tree branch on the side of a cliff to cling to the keep from falling.
She realizes it's this marrow thread by which her marriage is dangling.
The pleading in Mrs Harris's voice is disorienting. That, and the height of our bodies at the precipice of a freefall (and, never having eaten breakfast that morning), causes me to become lightheaded.
Mrs Harris's legs and mine tangle. Her desperate nails dig into my arm flesh.
And we tumble down the stairs, looked in a catball. We summersault down the stairs, grunting and rolling as if we are in a car wreck.
We come to the bottom of the landing, our arms and legs tangled and pretzeled together.
> Anything broken? [Are we asking about each other, or wondering aloud about ourselves?]
> We could have died, Anne.
> I'm glad I didn't.
> That's cold.
> Am I sexy when I get like that?
> [Mrs Harris answers me not with words, but my cupping my cheeks in her hands and sucking my mouth and tongue with an aggressive kiss. We continue kissing. For some reason our eyes are open, not closed. We lock our legs together, kissing loudly and aggressively, and rock each other to multiple orgasms.] I'm not leaving, Anne. Do you not see yet what you'll nned to do to get me to leave?? If Mr Harris and I separate, you'll need to get him to leave, not me.
> Fine .... but Game On. Freak.
> Game On yourself, sweetie.
***********************
I spend Saturday and Sunday in the shower, healing from my fight with Mrs Harris.
On Monday, I walk to Mr Harris's office to ask him to leave his wife.
The office is dark, the desk is cleaned off.
I storm to Cara's desk.
> Where the fuck is Mr Harris?????
> Anne, you didn't hear the news? Fleet is buying Norstar Bank in Albany, New York. Mr Harris is going there, .... New York ...., for four months. This all happened Sunday afternoon.
I feel my world crashing around me.
To be continued....
-
In 1983, when someone told you they were going away to Albany, NY for four months, they might as well have been telling you they were going to Mars for 4 years. Communicating with them was just impossible--no cellphones, no texts, no email, and landline communication which was unaffordable (unless you were rich like the Harris's) and had none of the accessories like caller id or voice mail.
I felt an emptiness at the pit of my stomach, something I had never felt in my loneliest days as a virgin.
Being away from Mr Harris for four months was unacceptable.
> Cara, did Mrs Harris go with Mr Harris? To Albany?
> I didn't think to ask. But I know where to get the housing expense records.
Four months would take Mrs Harris into the start of the next school year, which she would not be able to do without taking a break from her career, which she would never do. Which is why Mr Harris needed me as his bride, not her.
Cara makes it official by finding out that only Mr Harris submitted expense records for the stay in Albany.
So Mrs Harris must be back at their house. With Donna.
> Cara, are Mr and Mrs Hariss, like, separated??
I think back to when my parents got divorced, it was preceded by at least a year of living separate lives. Is that what the Harris's have been doing? or at least srarted? Will this clinch it? Is that why Mr Harris is afraid of getting "fleeced"?
Is that why Mrs Harris is experimenting sexually? And behaving wrecklessly?
Security calls Cara and I into a conference room.
> You 2 ladies are terminated. Immediately.
> For what??
> For udong the Executive Washroom inappropriately.
To be continued....
-
Cara and I are given a small cardboard box to pack our desktop knick-knacks and are escorted out of the building by security.
I can't believe I got fired after one week at my first real job.
"What do we do now?," Cara asks me.
"Cara....wanna come with me to Albany? Drive up there and try and find Mr Harris?", I impulsively ask her.
"We're gonna need money to do that, Anne. I have some, but not much."
"I have my Rhode Island College deposit check refund. I can pitch in that .... if you pitch in what you can."
"I don't have a car," Cara feels the need to confess to me.
"Oh ... we can take mine," I volunteer. "But, Cara, .... how do you get to work?"
"Umm .... well, when I started, the city bus."
"And ..... lately???", I ask, already knowing the answer.
"Mr Harris would take me. He'd pick me up on the way. And drop me off at night." [My heart sinks at knowing how far Cara and Mr Harris have progressed in their .... relationship ..... or, I guess now, their full-blown affair. Am I making a mistake bringing Cara to Albany with me? Cara loves Mr Harris--but does he love her back?] Can we stop at my place and get some things?"
"Sure." [No turning back now. Cara and I are in this together.]
We drive thru a really seedy part of Providence to get to Cara's three-decker home. She asks me to come in. I'm expecting a large Italian extended family to greet me, with the smell of pasta sauce cooking on the stove. Instead, I'm greeted by the scent of women's hairspray and perfumes, inducing a sneezing fit.
"Sorry," Cara tells me, " most of my roomates are dancers."
"As in ..... strippers?", I naively ask.
"We prefer 'dancers'."
"Oh," do you.... 'dance'?", I curiously ask Cara. She's attractive, but not .... "stripper"-attractive. If there is such a thing.
"I'm trying to cut back. But, yeah, I dance." [I want to ask her if Mr Harris knows. And what he thinks. Maybe it makes him like her even more.]
I lie on Cara's bed and watch her pack some things. And take a huge wad of cash out of her closet. Maybe my college refund check isn't as generous a contribution to our pot as I think it is.
Mr Harris and Cara must have fucked on this bed. I wonder how many times.
The scents of the house are making me horny. I'm staring at Cara's ass as she packs.
She catches me staring.
She walks over to her bedroom door and locks it.
We each button our shirts, and Cara slithers over to the bed and mounts me. We open our mouths and begin tounge-kissing each other deeply.
We clumsily undo our skirts and slide out of them. We want out hips to be pressed against each other. Cara tips back into a crab position, and is supporting herself on her elbows. Our crotches grind together. I cum before Cara, who is still just getting started. She opens her knees, and I start going down on her.
> Oh, yes, finsh me. Finish me, bitch. [Cara starts to pull my hair hard as I go down on her, which re-arouses me.]
I lick Cara over and over until she cums.
I mount Cara and kiss her passionately on the lips.
> Let's drive to my place now, bitch, and do it there too.
> You slut.
To be continued.....
-
As Cara and I get onto, then off of, 195, and drive into the nice suburb I live in, I sense Cara's envy of the neighborhood I grew up in. The Fleet girls stereotyped me as a typical Rhode Island college drop out, and Cara is realizing now I could have gone to school at either Rhode Island College or Northeastern. I wonder if she's realizing I'm a better fit for Mr Harris than she is.
I just want to get in and out of my house with basic clothes and supplies, and my college deposit refund check. Then I want to get on the road to Albany. Cara and I will need to find a cheap hotel who will take us.
But I also want to have sex with Cara in my childhood bedroom. We come to a stoplight, and I look over at her. We kiss each other on the lips.
> You're such a sexy bitch.
> So are you. I miss fighting you.
> We can do that later. I want to fuck you for now.
> You did good at my place. Most girls hold back going down on me. My bush .... intimidates them.
> I love your bush. Does .....
> Does .... who?
> Does Mr Harris love it??
> Should we talk about him? That way, I mean? Is that the best idea?
> Because we both want him?
> Because we both love him.
> Is it love .... with him .... for you? Not just fucking?
> It's love. Definitely not just fucking. [The mood in the car is less playful than seconds ago; it's much chillier.] How about you? Is is REALLY love? Are you sure?
> I'm sure.
> Then we probably shouldn't talk him about him that way.
> I agree. YOU, on the other hand ..... IT'S JUST FUCKING ..... sweetie.
> [Smiling] .... you don't love me?
> I love how you fuck, Cara. But, no .... I don't love you.
> Good ..... and, samsies. [We llok each other over, and kiss again.] God, you're sexy.
> You are too. Sweetie. We're almost there. I can't wait to get you in my bed.
> Do me, baby.
> I want to. [And, ....., eventually ,.... I want to fuck her up and take Mr Harris from her.]
To be continued....
-
By the time Cara and I pull into my driveway, we're touching each others' flesh everywhere we can--thighs, triceps, cheeks, calves, waist spare tire, hands, forehead, eyelids ..... God I love sucking her eyelids. I wish she would love sucking my neck and shoulders like that.
Going into the house, Cara and I tell each other how much we want to fuck each other in my bed.
> I want to totally fuck you, bitch.
> Get me off, slut.
> You can slap me, sweetie. [slaps my face]
> That all you got, hun? [I slap her three times harder. I love slapping harder than an ethnic Providence city girl like Cara, whose older than me. And a dancer. Is this real?]
> [Cara lifts a fist at me, about to swing.]
> [My sister Lisa's voice says:] Anne?? Is this girl from Fleet?? ..... Are you two .... fighting?
> No, it's good, Lisa. ..... Where's Lance??
> Mom told him he had to pay rent.... or leave. So he left.
> Oh, wow. Mom actually did that?? [I get more aroused. I wish I could have thrown Mrs Harris out like Mom threw Lance out.]
> Gonna introduce me, Anne? I didn't know your sister was blonde!
> Lisa, this is Cara. Cara ... Lisa.
> Charmed. Anne, I don't mean to interrupt your .... fun.
> You can join us, Lisa. Right, Anne?
> [Cara can't possibly realize how 'close' Lisa and I are with each other. But she's about to find out.] Lisa, strip. Cara, strip.
> Is that an order.
> Yeah, is that an order bitch.
> Do it before I kick both of your asses.
The three of us are in my bed a minute later.
> Lisa, check out Cara's bush.
> Oh ..... my ..... God.
> She says girls .... what was it you said, Cara? They're turned off my it?
> They shy away.
> 'Shy away'--that was it. Well, umm.... I'm not shying away. Are you Lisa.
> No way.
> Are you two, like for real, Lisa and Anne??
> Does this seem fake to you? [Lisa and I are both going down on Cara together.]
> Mmmmmmmmmmmm...... yes ..... keep going.
To be continued.....
-
For the entire drive from Providence to Albany, Cara and I finger and pinch and carress and kiss each others as our car caroms down the Mass Pike at 75 miles an hour. A little over half way there, we're so aroused that we can no longer drive saglfely, and we pull over at a Rest Stop (the Mass Pike had lots of those in the 1980s) to relieve ourselves and get each other off.
We get out of the car (the rest stop parking lot is too crowded with summer travelers and truckers to offer any privacy in my parked car), and discreetly stroll down to a secluded spot in the hilly woods. We tear each others tops off and start sucking on each others' boobs hungrily. I wish Mr Harris's long cock was slamming my wet pusdy right now, but Cara is the next best thing right now.
I try and tell her that. Women like to hear that sort of thing from their lover.
> You're so fucking attractive, Cara. I want to ignore it, but I can't. I hope you know that.
> You're such a fucking sexual animal, Anne. I would have never guessed it the day you walked into work.
> Thank you for telling me that.
> Your sister, too. What sort of shit goes on in that house??
> [She'll never believe me if I tell her it got out of control just in the last few weeks; I might as well exaggerate, tell her something she'll believe.] You have no fucking idea, Cara, abd neither does she..... I fuck her boyfriend behind her back every chance I get. [Cara gets instantly twice as soaked as she already wad, her nipples hard as rocks. Good.]
> Fuck, Anne, that's fucked up. Would she be pissed if she knew?
> Probably. She got into an actual catfight with his last girlfriend over him.
> I love that you called it a catfight. That's totally different than the streetfights I had growing up in Providence. Catfighting is so .... primal.
> Like you and I did in the Executive Washroom?
> Yeah .... like that. Who do you think ratted us out?
> I don't know how .... but I think it was Mr Harris's wife. She does narc shit like that. She got me kicked out of school senior year.
> But I thought you said her and Mr Harris are separating??
> I think they are. But she's a sick fuck .... she doesn't want me in his office. Not you either, if she knew you love him. [The air comes out of our party balloon instantly, as if a gray thunder cloud just rolled in.] I wasn't supposed to talk about how we both love him, was I?
> Ewwww, and you make it worse???? Really, Anne???? ..... You fucking your sister's boyfriend .... you do that because you dig HIM? ... or because you haye HER? ..... cuz that's pretty damn cold, Anne.
> [I'm hurt, and want to hurt Cara back.] And who the fuck are you, Cara .... Mother Fucking Theresa???
[Both of us are silent, avoiding each others' eyes. We realize we're two vulnerable in the middle of no where with no jobs, limited money, and unlikely prospects.]
> Let's drive and find Mr Harris. That'll make things better.
> For one of us.
> Excuse me.
> Never mind. You're right. Let's go to Albany.
No turning back now.
To be continued......
-
Cara and I arrive outside of Albany and check into a cheap motel. The front desk clerk eyes Cara suspiciously as Cara takes out a stack of cash and explains that she and I are on a summer road trip and stopping thru for a few days for a tour of the State Capitol. Cara suddenly feels years more mature and worldly than me. Will Mr Harris pick Cara over me because of her maturity?
Cara and I order a pizza and get it delivered to our hotel room. We sit on one of the twin beds eating the pizza, and I begin to wonder what staying in a Northeastern University or Rhode Island College dorm eating dinner with my floormates would have been like. What privacy ground rules would my roomate and I have worked out if we wanted to fuck a guy for an hour?
When I applied to college, I had anxiety about being the roomate always being asked to leave the room. Now I wonder if I would have been the roomate always needing to request privacy.
Cara is quiet as she eats her pizza. We stopped touching each other in the car after I confessed to fucking Lisa's boyfriend Lance behond her back, and Cara asked what other "sick shit" goes on in my house.
Tonight in the hotel will be awkward if we don't loosen the tension between us.
I get an impulsive idea of how to re-break the ice between Cara and me. I don't know where the idea comes from, since I've never done nor seen it before, but I put the idea "out there".
> Wanna have a face slapping contest?
> You mean, like ..... we sit on the bed and slap each other in the face?
> Ya, ..... , not hard, we can start slow if you want.
> [Cara considers the idea. We sit on the side of the bed facing each other.] Ok, you go first. Show me how hard.
> [Part of me wants to clench my fist, punch Cara in the jaw, take her cash, and propose to Mr Harris. But it was sporting of Cara to offer me the first slap. I open my hand, and gently but firmly slap her cheek.]
> Owww! This is fun. My turn now. [Cara lines up her hand, like she's practicing a golf shot. I hope I don't regret this idea. But I enjoy the sensation of being at her mercy. Cara winds up and slaps me hard, but not as hard as she could have. I wince, but get over it.]
> This IS fun.
> Do you and your sister do this?
> [It suddenly occurs to me that before Lisa and my arguments crescendoed into full-on violent catfights, we would slap each other in the face. Is that where I got the idea.] Yes, sometimes. Do you and your stripper roomates do this?
> How'd you know they're dancers? I never told you that.
> [How DO I know that?] I guess I assumed .... your place just smelled so good ... and they were all so pretty. [It dawns on me why Cara is so self-conscious.] Does Mr Harris know .... that YOU'RE a dancer??
> This is really dangerous, Anne. Talking about Mr Harris .... and you and your sister .... and slapping each other like this.
> [She's right.] Maybe we should just slap then.
> It's your turn. What are you waiting for?
Cara and I exchange face slaps for another ten minutes. The tension between us is less than in the car, but not entirely gone.
It's time for bed.
I wonder if we'll use one bed or two.
I use the bathroom to change for bed.
I return to the bedroom. Cara is asleep in her bed. Does she want me to climb in next to her? Or use my own bed?
I decide to use my own.
I lay down. I can't sleep.
I start masturbating. To the thought of Cara and I slapping, but with closed fists.
I cum loud. I wonder if Cara heard me.
If she did, she pretends she doesn't.
To be continued.....
-
The awkward silence of Cara and I in separate beds continues all night, with me hoping that Cara will climb into my bed.
Is she hoping I'll climb into her bed? Is she not climbing in because the bed is so small? There's not enough room for us to lay side by side--one of us would need to mount the other.
Is she just tired from the long car ride? Does she regret spending her stack of cash? Was she saving it for something else?
It's mid June, so the dark starts giving way to dawn at 5:15am and comes thru the shade on the motel room window.
Cara and I have no firm plan of what to do today. We know where the Norstar office is in Albany. But are we going to try and get in? Security at Fleet in Providence took our Fleet ID's from us. Fleet and Norstar aren't even officially one company yet anyways.
And will Mr Harris be free to talk to us during the day? Or too busy with work? We want to know where he's living in Albany, not where his job is.
Either way, I'm not tired anymore anyways. I go to the bathroom and plan to shower and put in work clothes.
I spent a fortune on these office clothes and now don't even have an office job. And I'm running out of money every day Cara and I are in this motel.
Does Mrs Harris have the same sensation of running out of money if she divorces Mr Harris? I hope she does. Because this sensation sucks.
I go into the awkward tiny bathroom. I climb into shower. The water is loud and tepid, even with it on full Hot. The water pressure also sucks. My hair is never going to get clean in this shower. My skin feels like it's breaking out from clogged pores.
I want to look my best for Mr Harris. But I just feel gross.
I get crabby when I feel gross. I'm crabby now. I climb out of the shower to dry off.
I'm startled to see Cara at the tiny sink, washing her face. Our bodies bump as I almost lose my balance in the slippery shower.
> Watch it, bitch. [I didn't mean to call Cara a bitch--it just blurted out with my frustration at the shower. Should I apologize? Before I can, Cara decides to escalate the situation.]
> [Cara turns and puts her nose directly into mine.] Don't call me a bitch, bitch.
> Don't call ME a bitch.
> Or what, Anne? Are you gonna fuck me up, go to Mr Harris, and leave me stranded in Albany with no money? [So, Cara is having the same money worries that I am?]
> Oh, is THAT where your head is at, Cara? Are you gonna take MY car and strand ME in Albany??
Cara and I take a half step forward, our bodies touching from chin to chest. Our mouths are speaking into each other's mouth, our lips actually touching as we argue.
Our argument is abruptly interrupted by a banging sound on our bathroom wall, followed by "SHUT UP!!!! IT'S SIX A.M.!!!!!"
Shit. The walls are paper thin and we woke up the person in the room next to us.
But Cara and I continue our face to face argument, just quieter.
> Don't even think about backstabbing me, bitch, or I ... WILL .... FUCK .... YOU .... UP.
> You pretentious Barbie Doll, you lay a finger on me and I'll fuck up those movie star looks. [Cara thinks I have movie star looks? She's a dancer and the prettiest woman I've ever see. And she thinks I'm pretty?? I still feel gross.....but now I feel aroused too.]
> You stuck up city bitch. You think you're so hard, but it's all just talk. Classic bully.
> Fuck you, Anne. Don't make me show you I'm more than talk. I'll show you a side of me you haven't seen yet. [How bad ass has Cara had to get in her Providence street fights, I wonder. Her threat sounds even more menacing in the whispering voices we're speaking with.]
> Oh, you're a real tough bitch, huh, Cara?? Huh? [I bump my aroused breasts into hers.]
Cara and I press our mouths into each other and start .... biting .... and kissing .... and sucking. Fighting each other with our mouths and tongues and teeth.
Waves of arousal swirl in my mouth and head and breasts.
Neither of us backs down from the other.
> Bitch.
> Bitch.
Both of us cum together, accidentally biting each other and breaking skin as we do on our lips.
The intensity of my orgasm is indescribable.
Cara runs water in the sink, and we wash each others mouths and faces.
I just want to keep my body pressed against Cara's.
She and I climb into the shower, pressed together.
Neither of us is able to stop kissing the other.
The water dribbles onto us, unable to clean us off as our sweat gets each other dirtier and dirtier.
But neither of us can stop cumming.
To be continued.....
-
After kissing each other to exhaustion in the shower, Cara and I rinse and stumble out of the shower and fall naked onto our beds. We stare at the ceiling in silence, getting our breath back.
We're both in need of a rest, but neither of us is near satiated.
I think of the word 'insatiable' over and over to myself.
> Cara, I won't be able to make myself presentable to go to the office. This shower isn't going to cut it. My hair won't come out right.
> Mine, neither. It's supposed to be in the 90s today.
> Shit. Should we just try and find out where he's living? Get his address?
> Ya. Lemme work the phones. [In 1983, telephones are something which, literally, need to be 'worked'. As in dialling switchboards, getting transferred. And at daytime long-distance rates, Cara and I are going to deplete more of our precious cash.] I can call the Fleet office in Providence. Let's wait till people are in, tho.
> [I take that as my cue that we have time for more sex. I climb over to her bed and mount her. Cara looks up at me and carresses my breasts with her hands. The inside of my mouth is cut, and hers must be too, as we don't kiss. I wish we were kissing, but carressing will have to do for now.] When you called me a Barbie Doll ..... what did you mean by that?
> Ooooo, you don't forget things, do you Annie?
> Well? What did it mean??
> Relax. It was a compliment.
> Doesn't sound like one.
> Well it is. Did you ever notice that Barbie's tits are, like, impossibly proportioned? Compared to the rest of her body? Well, that's you, Anne. Firm ass, but huge boobs. When someone first looks at you, well, you do a double take ... like, is that body for real??
> [Being told I'm sexy arouses me every time. Including now.] I think that way about how pretty your face is. Your hair and your face together. It makes me do a double-take every morning in the office. Like, is it possible for someone to be that pretty.
> Thank you. But .... what did you THINK I meant??
> I thought you were implying that girls like me .... from the suburbs .... that we're these delicate models who don't fight. We get into girlfights in the suburbs, too, you know. We just wait till after school and do it in the parking lot. Or the park.
> Well, I ..... don't think that. But you're right .... city girls ... many of them .... think country girls can't fight.
> I'm glad you don't think that.
> I don't think that .... ALL .... country girls can't fight. Just SOME of them.
> I think country girls WANT to fight .... if they could do it without getting in trouble.
> Why aren't YOU afraid of trouble, Anne?
> I am .... I'm afraid of trouble. But I'm more afraid of missing out.
> Missing out on what?
> Fucking. Other stuff, too. But mostly fucking. [The room gets quiet. We recognize each of us wants to fuck Mr Harris.]
> Have you ever scissored with a girl? It's close to fucking.
> Show me.
Cara and I face each other in a crabwalk position and lock our legs together. We push and grind our hips together.
It's exciting and sexy.
But not as good as fucking.
And not as good as fighting.
I wish I was fighting Cara right now. Or my sister. Or Donna. Or Mrs Harris.
To be continued.....
-
As Cara starts making phone calls to get ahold of Mr Harris's whereabouts in Albany, and as my stomach starts giving me a bloated-gassy feeling from the cheese of all the pizza Cara and I have been subsisting on, I feel a sense of inadequacy from Cara's contacts at Fleet Bank and her looks and natural beauty and sexiness. Sharing Mr Harris with her will never work--I'd always be feeling competitive with her and have a sense of not measuring up.
What a bitch Donna is, to be able to live with Mr Harris while Mrs Harris was in the house with them. How does she not feel inadequate next to Mrs Harris?
I wish I had beaten up Donna more when I had her on the ground in the woods. When Mrs Harris was watching us.
I need to get out of this tiny hotel room.
I wander into the lobby. A bunch of newspapers are laying on the table.
(Newspapers were the Facebook news feeds of 1983. For those too young to remember.)
I go to the comics. Apartment 3G, my favorite. A melodrama about a single woman in the city named Margo, my role model for being fierce and independent. Her apartment neighbor is a recently divorced man named Marc. The two badly want each other, but are afraid to act. So sexy, a recently-divorced and newly-available single man.
Available for fucking.
The sexual tension between Marc and Margo is heightened by conversations revealing that each is being woo'd by rival suitors. Margo feels a sense of jealousy at the other women, one in particular, itching to get into Marc's pants. She catches herself frequently spying out the peephole in her front door to see if Marc's lover is entering or exiting.
What does Marc's lover, my rival, look like, Margo wonders to herself?
Am I prettier than her?
Could I take her in a catfight? (Margo never says this in the comic. But I know she's thinking it.)
Apartment 3G is so taut because it unwraps its Margo-Marc story so slowly, in 3-panel snippets per day. Sunday's paper has 8, or even 12, snippets (in color! so that the design of Margo's sexy clothes are revealed), but those usually just recap the plot from the prior Monday thru Saturday, for readers who don't get the paper daily.
Reading Apartment 3G makes me want to masturbate to a vicious catfight between Margo and Marc's sexy suitor.
Shit. I wish I had some privacy right now. I'm so fucking horny and frisky.
I turn to the businesss section. I talks about the Fleet-Norstar merger. It gives the address of the Norstar office.
I wonder if Mr Harris is at that address right now.
Or if his temporary housing is close to it.
I have my car keys. I ask the front desk girl for directions. I get in my car and drive over there. Without teliing Cara.
It's less than 2 miles away. I find both--the Norstar building, and the luxury apartment building across the street.
I try the apartment first.
There's a doorman.
> I have a delivery. For Mr Harris, Fleet Bank.
> Room 306, ma'am. What are you delivering?
I'm delivering my pussy to him, dumb ass, I want to answer.
> It's confidential, sir. Can you let me in? He's supposed to be back this afternoon. From work. At Norstar.
> I'm aware of that, miss, he indiscreetly answers, not wanting to appear ignorant to a 19-year old girl.
Pretty crappy doorman. He'll probably let Cara in if she figures out that Mr Harris and I are here fucking.
But he lets me in.
Finally. A shower with decent water pressure. No hair dryer, tho. My hair will need to towel dry.
But I feel so dirty that I take a long shower.
I climb nude into bed. Mr Harris's bed.
I masturbate. Then fall asleep.
I can't wait for Mr Harris to get home.
Tonight. And every night.
For the rest of my fucking life.
To be continued.....
-
I spend a languid afternoon in the bed in Mr Harris's temporary apartment, alternatively falling asleep in a deep nap, waking up, the masturbating myself back to sleep to the catfights I've had with Donna, with Mrs Harris, and with Cara over the past month.
It doesn't seem real that I actually fought Mrs Harris to a draw in her own bedroom and living room. Earlier this year, she was my mentor, a teacher I could barely look in the eye during conversation. She was almost unapproachable, so intimidating did I find her beauty. My attraction to her was a secret I could only hope she would never notice. I wanted to get to know her personally, outside of school, but never dreamed it was even a remote possibility.
But that whole time, she, too, was harboring secrets about me. She was fantasizing about instigating, then witnessing, a catfight between me and my classmate Donna. She probably never dreamed it would happen.
She got her wish, but now I intend to extract a punishing price from Mrs Harris for the fulfillment of her twisted fantasies. I intend to take her husband from her.
Even tho I admit that by late afternoon/early evening I was dizzyingly hungry from skipping lunch and dinner, what happened next is 100% accurate and true, no matter how impossible or implausible it seems.
I heard at the door the keys being fumbled with and placed into the lock. I stood next to the bed, just a towel wrapped around my breasts. It was too late to get any more dressed.
Mr Harris walks into the bedroom and sees me. He's startled, but not as much as I feared. It's almost as if he was expected my presence, and is startled instead merely by my near-nakedness.
> Anne????
> Mr Harris. I'm happy to see you. I thought ..... I might never see you again. [I sense lust in his eyes. I sense tears in my eyes, as I for the first time verbalize my worries at hearing Mr Harris had left Rhode Island, that I had lost my Fleet job, and that Cara had been with Mr Harris and loved him. There will be time to talk with words later, I decide. This isn't that moment.]
> [I turn my back to Mr Harris, facing the bed and placing my hands on it to support my weight. I bend at the waist, and point my butt at Mr Harris. I spread my legs, trying to make my throbbing pussy visible to him. I wonder if he notices what I do just now, which is that my pussy smells like cum from my hours in bed spent masturbating. I turn my head to face him, but then decide this makes me look less vulnerable. Maybe he'll be more willing to take me if he doesn't see me watching him. This strategy seem to work, as I hear him undoing his zipper, his belt, and then pulling down his pants. I feel his hard cock enter my pussy. I feel ownership of Mr Harris's cock as he begins to rhythmically fuck me, as if it's mine as much as is. And I certainly know whose it ISN'T: Mrs Harris has no right to this cock. I'm its rightful owner, and I'm claiming it from her. It's not Donna's, either. And not Cara's. Mr Harris's mind and mine are somehow in sync as we fuck, as just as I'm thinking of her, he speaks her name as he fucks me.] How did you get away from Cara?
> How did you know she was in Albany with me?? [Both of us are finding it harder to converse, as our breathing gets harder and deeper as we fuck.]
> She was calling the office all afternoon, being stalkerish almost. As if I'd find that attractive.
> Do you find her attractive ..... when she's NOT calling??
> [playfully ..... at least I hope he means it playfully] Why? [grunts of pleasure and exertion] Are you jealous of her, Anne hun?
> [My heart races that he calls me 'hun'.] I'm jealous that she fucked you before I did.
> But I'm fucking ..... YOU .... right now. How did you pull that off? How did you slip away from her?
> Well..... the car .... and the car keys are mine. I found this place by accident ..... sort of by accident. And the doorman was an idiot.
> Lucky for me.
> And me.
Mr Harris fucks me from behind harder and harder as I brace myself on the bed with my hands and elbows and arms. I love that we're talking about Cara as we fuck, that he knows we both want him, that we're both trying to backstab the other to get him.
Do all married couples talk about their days like this as they fuck right after work? I hope so. I find it sexy.
> Shit, Mr Harris, my clothes are with Cara. At the place we're staying.
> She'll fucking rip them to shreds if she finds out you came here.
> If she does,....... I'll kill the bitch.
> [My threat to Cara's safety seems to put Mr Harris's desire over the edge. He explosively cums inside my pussy. I cum too, in waves.]
My secret desire was to get to know Mrs Harris better.
Mrs Harris's secret desire was to watch me fight.
And, I'm starting to think Mr Harris's secret desire was to have women fighting over him.
All three of us got our wishes.
To be continued.....
-
As Mr Harris runs out quick to buy me 4 or 5 sets of underwear, stockings, bras, tops, and shorts to at least get me thru the weekend (I find it sexy that he knows how to buy women's underwear--his bitch wife probably made him buy hers because she was "too busy" with her career), I think back to the Margo-Marc storyline in the Apartment 3G comic strip on the daily newspaper.
In one 4-week tangent, Marc asked Margo one day to watch his apartment to receive a refridgerator service call while he was at work. Margo sat on Marc's couch, curiosity consuming her as to whether any articles of women's clothing were lying around Marc's apartment. Since none were in the open (not surprising--Marc was impeccably clean, neat, and organized--traits Margo found irresistably sexy), Margo got curious about the interior of Marc's bedroom drawers. Fighting her own conscience, Margo eventually "invaded" the drawers. Her heart sank. There was women's lace underwear in there.
And not just any women's underwear. Some had stirrups running down the leg, and some was "crotchless". I had never heard of crotchless underwear before--the concept thrilled me sexually. Margo comes to the heartbreaking realization that his relationship with his nameless suitor has progressed beyond dating. The two are being intimate--and erotically so--in Marc's apartment, just across the hall from Margo.
Margo seethes with jealousy at Marc's suitor. She weighs declaring her feeling for Marc before Marc can consider marriage to his sexually acdventurous girlfriend.
But Margo's morning in Marc's apartment brings more surprises. Marc's phone rings. Margo lets it ring at first, not wanting to invade Marc's privacy. But as the phone continues to ring, she rationalizes to herself that she should pick up and answer, since, What if the refridgerator service men are calling, needing directions to the apartment?
Margo holds her breath and picks up.
> Hello?
> [Margo is surprised to hear a woman's voice.] I'm looking for Marc. May I please speak to him? [the tone is polite but insistent]
> Marc is at work. May I take a message?
> If Marc is at work, then why is there a woman in his apartment?
> I assure you I am in Marc's apartment doing him a favor. [Whoops, thinks Margo; that sounds like a sexual innuendo.] Might I ask who would ask Marc such an impertinent question. Are you his mother?
> I'm not Marc's mother. I'm his ex-wife. But .... who might YOU be??
> [Margo is conflicted between telling the truth--that she's Margo, Marc's neighbor, house-sitting for the day--OR , behaving mischieviously, and taking on the identity of Marc's stirrup-/crotchless-wearing girlfriend.] I'm Marc's new girlfriend. Pleased to meet you, wifey.
The conversation takes weeks to unfold, the author being constrained by 3 comic strip panels per day. But the slow burn inflames my ypung, naive imagination. Margo finds herself in the middle of a love triangle, Since it's 1983, the storyline resolves itself in a "Let's be mature adults, and handle this divorce in a sophisticated manner."
But the catfight possibities are lurking just beneath the surface.
What if the ex-wife decides it's "too soon" for Marc to be dating, never mind hosting overnight sleepover dates.
What if the sexy new girlfriend finds out that Margo has invaded her underwear drawer?
And impersonated her on the fucking telephone????
Margo wonders if she has accidentally set herself on a catfight collision course with Marc's girlfriend.
And if she has, who would win.
I masturbated everyday to the thought of a Margo catfight with Marc's stirrup-wearing girlfriend.
Each dressed in crotchless underwear.
I'm so fucking horny.
I pick up the phone.
I call Mr Harris's Rhode Island phone number.
Please answer, Mrs Harris.
Shit, no answer.
The answering machine beeps.
"Mrs Harris, it's Anne. I'm in Albany. I just fucked your husband's brains out. Fuck you, bitch."
I hang up.
To be continued.....
-
As I touch myslf in Mr Harris's bed and reflect on how Mrs Harris, Miss Fredrickson, Cara, Lisa, and Mr Harris have been behaving towards each other the past 4-8 weeks, I begin to wonder if the common denominator between us is our looks.
By which I mean.....
All six of us are 95th%ile, at least, in our physical appearance, body proportions, style, and our hair. Even poor little Donna is 90th%ile, I must grudgingly admit--she comes up short, but she's the only student in my class who can get chest-to-chest with me, literally and figuratively.
None of us have ever "struck out" on a sexual proposition.
Hell, we don't even need to ask 9 times out of 10. It just happens.
The sex.
The kissing.
The fucking.
The catfighting.
I think back to Economics class in school. A pretty Spanish girl who would flirt with the Math Club nerd and let her look at the answers on his test papers. I used to want to report her, and get her expelled for cheating.
And if she wanted to catfight me over it, so be it.
I get restless and begin snooping in Mr Harris's work briefcase. Brokerage statement. Lots of common stocks. Digital Equipment Corp, the company Mrs Harris got me fired from, before I was fired from Fleet. 800 share.
American Home Products, 300 share.
Manufacturers Hanover Bank, 600 share.
Bethlehem Steel, 200 shares.
Grumman Corp, 550 shares.
Warner-Lambert Corp., 300 shares.
BayBanks, 700 shares.
Shawmut Corp, 400 shares.
Bank of New England, 1700 shares.
Shit, Mr Harris is loaded.
Or is he?
I see comments about a "Trust for the Beneficial interest of" (FBO) Mrs Harris.
Is she a trust fund baby? Was she loaded going into her marriage to Mr Harris?
What a lying hypocrite to say she doesn't want to depend on a man. Easy to do, and say, when you're born with a silver spoon.
She's dependent on a man. Her fucking father.
I wish I could tell her.
Mr Harris's phone rings. I have a hunch it'll be her.
> Hello?
> [It's not. It's Cara.] You fucking backstabbing bitch. Did you forget I know what your fucking car looks like??
> Anything happens to it, I'm calling the cops on you, Italian slut.
> You can't seriously want to bring the cops into this, virgin. [Why the fuck does everyone call me that??]
> Try me, slut dancer. I bet they'd love to her about your unreporting stripping income.
> [I've found her weak slot, and she knows it.] Then tell me how I can help take down Mrs Harris.
> [Well played, Cara.] Call around Fleet Bank tomorrow about brokerage acciunt xxx-xxxxx7. It's hers.
-
Although I had spent the past 4 to 6 weeks on a sex-and-catfighting bender, the night ahead of me should have been special. For the first time, I was actually going to spend the night with someone. Back and forth from late night fucking to curling up in his arms (and, Mr Harris no less, the man I loved), to waking up in his arms in the morning with the mid-summer sun peaking thru the windows.
What was that like? To wake up to a man's morning wood and get fucked by it? I was about to find out.
Except I wasn't.
Without realizing it, my night of fucking was doomed not to happen.
I had ruined it by backstabbing Cara and taunting Mrs Harris. They were about to ruin my night, my year, and my life.
The trouble started when Mr Harris came back with my clothes, including clean underwear. I was so damn turned on that a man had bought me underwear. I unzipped his fly and began sucking his cock. He was turned on too.
Then the damn phone started ringing. 1980s telephone were such old-fashioned technology that you had to remember to unplug them if you didn't want to be interrupted during sex. And we hadn't remembered.
Because then you were stuck. It kept ringing. What if the other person didn't give up and hang up?
Or worse, what if they tried again.
And again.
And again.
Which is what happened. By which point, Mr Harris's hard-on was raging. He needed relief.
But I also knew he wanted to answer the damn phone. He probably thought it was work. Something important about the Fleet-Norstar merger.
So I told him something I hoped would help him finish.
> Fuck my face, Mr Harris. Please do it. Fuck my face hard.
Which proceeded to do, grabbing my hair and grinding his throbbing cock all over my face.
At first it was degrading in an erotic way. I did love him, after all.
But then it wasn't. It was degrading in a nonerotic way. And he came all over my face and answered to phone. I could hear on the other end of the line that it was the clueless doorman from the lobby.
> Mr Harris. There's a Cara here to see you. She says it's urgent.
> Let her up.
What????? Why her????
What about our night alone together????
Mr Harris went to the apartment door to undo the latch.
And the damn phone rang again.
Thinking the doorman was being an idiot again, I picked it up to tell him off.
> [It was Mrs Harris's voice.] Hello, slut. I told your mother where you are. She's driving there with your sister to bring you home.
> What???? Why????
> Because you're a virgin slut. And .... because it turns me on.
> You bitch.
> Damn right I'm a bitch. And don't you ever forget it honey.
I slamned down the phone. I heard kissing on the couch. I got up and looked.
Mr Harris and Cara were making out like horny teenagers.
I wanted to cry.
To be continued.....
-
INTERLUDE: THE NEW GIRL FROM SPAIN
As I watch Mr Harris and Cara make out on the apartment living room couch, my mind clicks as to why Cara triggers such feelings of jealousy in me.
I think back to what is chronologically just 10 months ago (September of my senior year of high school), but what emotionally and developmentally was half a lifetime ago. I had signed up for Accounting as an elective, not because I particularly wanted to learn the subject, but because I was supposed to be sitting next to a quiet, shy, serious senior I had been crushing on for years.
I knew he was going to Northeastern in Boston, where I was planning on going, and was going to commute there by train. I had visions of finally kissing my first boy (him, obviously), and then commuting to Northeastern with him for four years.
But my plan fell apart the first day of class, when a new student from Spain, an exotic beauty names Leanna, whose surname was just ahead of mine alphabetically, got seated next to him, pushing me back a row.
All of September, I heard their small talk progress from tentative introductions, to flirtatious-but-respectful propositions, to arrangements for after-school sex at either his or her place, depending on whose parents were going to be away after school.
To make matters worse, this continued even after Leanna began officially dating (and, between classes, making out with) a completely separate boy.
I wanted so bad to expose the cheating classmates. At night in bed, I would fantasize to Leanna confronting me for my spying, and challenging me to a vicious catfight. And me accepting, and impressing the future Northeastern commuter.
I had visions of Leanna participating in no holds barred catfights during her European upbringing, and wanting to test her girlfighting skills against an American, a Rhode Islander--having no idea the I had been building my skills for years in battles against my sister Lisa.
The way Leanna torpedoed my Northeastern dreams--is that why I had changed my plans to Rhode Island College, and then to nothing?
Had Mrs Harris noticed my seething hatred for Leanna? Why had she thought my catfighting Donna would be a better matchup than versus Leanna?
Cara and Leanna both had Southern Mediterranean jet black hair. Did I hate Cara so much because she reminded me of Leanna?
Half of me wants to go into the living room and tear Cara off of Mr Harris.
But the other half knows my mother is on the way here. To take me home.
Letting Mr Harris see my mother take me home is too mortifying to contemplate.
I take my clothes and head for my car.
Cara sees me out of the corner of my eye.
> Backstabbing bitch.
> I'm not done with you. But I need to go to Mrs Harris first.
> Pfft. Virgin.
Why does everyone call me that?
To be continued.....
-
I drove back east on the Mass Pike, lightheaded from the past half-week of subsisting on cheese pizza, not nearly enough to keep my energy level up.
I started to wonder how much of my erratic behavior, and poor choices, during the end of my senior year of high school and my first summer after graduation was caused by the decline in the volume and diversity of my caloric intake since my parents split up. Before their separation, my dad had consistently cooked steak, pork, and veal dinners, aling with beef tacos every Tueaday. Since then, my frazzled mom had reverted to Ramen and Kraft Mac and Cheese. My figure had doubtless improved from the diet change (is that why Mrs Harris started taking an interest in me?), but were my brain neurons deprived and making impulsive decisions?
I had only one impulse now. With my Mom and sister in the car to Albany, that meant I'd have completely free reign over our family home in Rhode Island. I craved badly having my sister's boyfriend's cock pounding my pussy. Lance cock was narrower but longer than Mr Harris's, and its sharpness gave me an exciting sensation of a pencil in a sharpener. (Is that why Lisa enjoyed fucking him so much, too? I hope she doesn't find out that she and I are cheating on her.)
I barely keep my eyes open for the entire drive. My legs are badly cramped, and I need a potty break, but I'm too anxious to get home, and hopefully fuck, to stop. I feel pee leaking out of my bladder onto my car seat. I grab one of the new flannel skirts Mr Harris bought me and use it as a towel, placing in between my legs. I feel a urinary tract infection coming on from all the fucking I've been doing the last few weeks.
Fuck, I loved that skirt. I could fucking kill Cara right now for making me leave Mr Harris. In fact, I shouldn't be in the car right now running from her and him. I should be in Albany fighting for him.
By the time I pull into my home driveway, I feel gross, frustrated, and famished. I hope Lance's phone number is written down somewhere in our house, so I can call hom for a booty call.
I remember watching Phil Donahue a few weeks ago. His whole hour-long show was on booty calls. All the cars I just passed on the drive home: how many of them were on booty calls? A quarter? Half? Most of them?
There's a light on in the house. My sister's bedroom. Is Lance staying here? Did my mom call him over to watch the house while she retrieved him me from Albany?
I run in, hoping it's him and that he'll fuck me hard.
Ir's not him. It's my sister Lisa, in bra and panties. And she's not happy to see me.
> Lisa? What's wrong?
> You lying backstabbing bitch.
> Excuse me? [I momentarily forget that Lance is her boyfriend, not mine.]
> He told me you seduced him, more than once. Double-crossing cxnt. [Lisa has a scowl on her face like I've never seen before.]
> Lisa, I'm sorry you found out. And sorry it happened. But it wasn't me..... not just me. It was mutual.
> You saying that makes it worse, slut. [She stands and approaches me. She's pissed, and ready to fight.] Because you're my sister. Sisters don't do that to each other. EVER.
> Lisa, I've been making a lot of bad choices. A lot, I'm sorry. [I genuinely am.]
> [Lisa slaps my face hard, and then backhands me. The backhand get my bool boiling, as it seems degrading, and I'm tired of getting stepped on by the world. Plus, I'm mad Lance and I will never fuck again. I kick my shoes off and backhand my sister's face.] Fuck you, Anne. We're going right now. And this time, we don't stop until there's a winner.
> [I know she's telling the truth. And I can't contemplate the humiliation of being beat by my younger sister.]
Ok with me. Bitch.
To be continued....
-
Lisa looks into my eyes with a look of raw hatred like I've never seen from her. Even when our previous sister-catfights were escalating over her slutty behavior, Lisa had always conceded to me a grudging nod of respect as the responsible older sister. Now her blonde hair was dishevelled in a disturbing I-don't-give-a-fuck wave that showed total indifference to her own personal safety--Lisa's entire focus was on hurting me.
Lisa came at my head, digging her claws into my thick unkempt brown hair, and yanking entire chunks of it out of my scalp. She twisted and pulled my entire head, torquing my neck into painful angles and giving me the sensation of crashing in a sled after a New England blizzard. My hands reached for any piece of my sister that they could find--her blonde hair, her pretty face, her huge boobs--and landed instead on her athletic thighs.
I latched onto the fleshy part of Lisa's inner legs and, out of pure desperation, dug my nails in. I felt as her leg hair transitioned into her blonde bush, and started pulling hairs back and forth, trying to separate them from her flesh. We tumbled onto the throw rug on the floor, my shoulders pinched onto the crown molding against the wall. I felt our skulls denting the drywall, providing irrefutable evidence later to our mother that we had destroyed each other, as well as the house we had grown up in together.
We temporarily stalemated into a 69 position on the ground, with me using my hips to cover my sister's face and forehead, but her strong, athletic hands and arms still in firm control of my hair.
I started grinding my hips into my sister's face in a desperate attempt to smother her nose and mouth and cut off the air she was breathing. But I could also feel my exposed pussy directly touching flesh on her nose and face. The arousal was irresistable and distracting, but I feared to release the only leverage I had on my sister's body.
My sister's hands still had a vice-like grip on long ropes of my brown hair, and were tearing away mercilessly. The pressure and pain on my scalp were sapping my strength, but increasing my anger at her. We were testing each others' wills, and both of us were willing, at least so far, to go to new heights of pain and punishment.
Both of us were now barefotted, and started aiming the balls of our feet at each others' skulls. My sister was a runner and had a more innate sense of distance and aim with her legs, and was landing direct strikes onto my shoulder blades and then my kidneys, causing me to grunt primally and animalistically, which only energized and encouraged her more.
But she was also missing frequently, and hitting drywall, first denting and then entirely cracking entire sections of wall, as if her feet were sledgehammers.
I realize how when I was fighting Mrs Harris in her house, I had taken great care not to break anything. Because I viewed Mrs Harris's house as my own property, but not my own childhood home.
> You broke the wall, you stupid slut, I shrieked at her. Mom and Dad's wall, not mine!
> You broke their heart, dumb bitch!
Our desire to have at each other verbally overcomes, momentrarily, our desire to clash physically. We release our the deathgrips our hands and hips have on each others' head and face. We sit up and are nose to nose. I smell sweat and pre-cum.
> How did I break their heart??
> By all the fights you've been getting into the few months.
> Mom doesn't know about those!! [Does she?]
> Anne!?!?! That's all this town talks about.
> Who's "this town"?!?!?
> Neighbors. Everuone in the grocery store. Anne, you're in the fucking Yearbook for wanting to fight Donna.
> [Dammit, Mrs Harris is a fucking bitch for doing that to me. For ruining my reputation for her fucking sexual pleasure. I look at my sister desperately. I don't want to escalate further with her.] I fought Donna because you were dating het boyfriend.
> I know. Thank you.
My sister and I are talking moth to mouth know. We feel each others' breath on our lips.
We start tongue kissing each other hard.
Almost as hard as we were just fighting.
And, in less than a minute, she's making me grunt animalistically again.
But this time it's because I'm cumming.
And this time, I don't want it to stop.
And neither does she.
To be continued......
-
After 10 or 15 more minutes of rough play-wrestling on the floor, Lisa and I cuddle in her bed in a spooning position, with me behind her, sliding my clit on her hard butt cheeks, and wrapping my hands around her and cupping her firm tits.
I have an irresistable urge to talk into my sister's ear, and to listen to her voice.
> I missed you when I was in New York, Lisa.
> I know, I missed you too Anne. It sucked here without you.
> We have to stop catfighting like this, Lisa. We're gonna fucking kill each other....
> ..... and knock the house down.
> Lisa .... I can't beat you in a catfight. You're a fucking hellcat.
> I can't beat you either, Anne. No matter how mad you get me sometimes.
> Then, Lisa??? .... how? .... this is so hard to say ....
> Just say it.
> Lisa.... how did Donna beat the shit out of you???? .... thst day she came here? .... after she found out about you and Lance ...
> You mean after you narc'd on me, bitch [somewhat playfully, but somewhat not]?
> I know .... don't get off topic .... seriously she jumped me at the school front door, but I still got her on the ground .... how did she beat you up?
> I know. It sucks. But, Anne ..... I couldn't believe the bitch had the balls to come to my house ...... SHE'S AT MY DAMN HOUSE, I kept saying to myself. I even said it to her. I said, "We're gonna fucking do .... THIS?? .... HERE??? .... NOW??? .I guess I was just in denial the whole thing was going down, .... the way it was. She just got on top of me .... and wouldn't quit.
> I'm ssssooooooo sory I wasn't here to protect you. [I kiss, well .... lick, really .... my sister's ears. My clit is rock hard. I hump her with it]
> It was my fight. I shoulda beat her.
> [[I get a sexy idea.] Wanna get her back??
> Someday.
> How about today? Now?
> What are you dmsaying, Anne?
> Donna's at Mrs Harris's house. I drive you there. You have it out with Donna. I'll keep Harris from interfering.
> I want to.
> Now???
> In five minutes. Finger me till I cum, first.
> I wanna do that for more than 5 minutes.
> Ok. But not much longer.
> Fine.
> Fine.
> I love you.
To be continued.....
-
As my sister and I sped down Interstate 95 to Mrs Harris's house in Rhode Island, I realized it was my second trip there this summer. The first trip there, I assumed I was going there to kick Mrs Harris out of the house, instigate a separation and divorce between her and Mr Harris, and to replace Mrs Harris as the new woman-of-the-house.
Part of my plan had worked.
Mrs and Mr Harris were indeed on the Road to Divorce. But not in the way I wanted it to happen.
Instead of my Grand Plan, Mr Harris had struck it rich with his company deferred comp plan when Fleet Bank and Norstar Bank merged. Mr Harris had set up the paperwork so that he got 90% of the spoils ... and now he could afford to separate from her and move to Albany.
Whereas Mrs Harris was trapped in Rhode Island. She had accumulated credits in the state teachers retirement plan, and would be starting over if she moved out of state.
I had "given it my best shot", literally and figuratively, by trying to scoop up the soon-to-be-single Mr Harris.
But he had chosen a Providence stripper, Cara, over me.
Cara had gotten to him, months ago, at the Fleet office while I was in still in school. I tried my best to separate them, but it was futile.
I couldn't blame Mr Harris. Cara was hot as fuck.
So now I was pissed.
I was ready to kick someone's ass. And to hurt her bad.
Mrs Harris's ass.
To be continued....
-
As I drove thru Mrs Harris's neighborhood, I felt a strange attachment to the roads, the sidewalk, the neighboring houses. The lawns, with the neighbors out mowing and weeding. I felt that I belonged here, that I had earned the right to live here.
I felt a craving, a YEARNING, for this to be my permanent home. To have a two-story house, not a raised ranch. With cental air, not window units; to have cental heating, not registers.
I envied Mrs Harris's suburban lifestyle; not my parents' homestead dug into plowed-over farmland last used in the 1830s.
And I was going to take it from her.
My sister and I parked in the driveway, and my sister was out of the car even faster than me. She wanted to catch Donna surprise to give herself maximum advantage in their revenge fight over Lance. She banged on the door. Donna answered without checking the porthole in the door (something else Mrs Harris's house had that mine didn't), saw Lisa and me, tried to quickly slam the door, but my sister's athletic feet blocked the door before it could latch shut, and my sister's shoulders pushed the door in.
Lisa and Donna were in a catball on the floor within seconds, pummelling each other in a whirlwind of fists, elbows, knees and feet.
I wanted to watch. But upstairs, I could hear the shower on.
It must be Mrs Harris.
I knew what I needed to do.
I started stripping, top first, dropping my clothes on the floor as I went up the stairs. I got to the bathroom, taking off my bra and panties.
I could see Mrs Harris's nude body in the standup shower. She could see through the steam, and nude body entering.
> Donna?
> Guess again, bitch?
> Anne?
> May I come in. You and I have unfinished business.
> Then get in here, sweetie. Let's finish.
> [I step into the shower. Mrs Harris's toned sweaty body looks statuesque. Her wet hair is nearly down to her butt.] We're not done till you're out of my house, hun.
> No one throws me out of my own house, unless it's in a body bad, kunt.
> So be it. I don't have a problem with that.
I grab Mrs Harris's soaked hair and slam it into the shower tile as hard as I can. Somehow, she already has her claws into my scalp, and rebounds off the tile and reciprocates by slamming by head into the glass door, shattering it and ejecting steam and hot water into the entire bathroom. Mrs Harrs then throws both of us out of the shower, onto the tile floor and matt, both of us falling onto shards of glass.
I feel myself sustaining cuts in over twenty places, on my back, legs, and shoulders. I throw Mrs Harris in a headlock, desperately trying to avoid her mounting me.
We roll around on the glass on the bathroom floor, getting cut on every square inch of flesh.
Downstairs, I can here banging on the walls. Lisa's and Donna's fight must be at least as violent as Mrs Harris's and mine.
Mrs Harris surveys my cuts.
> I've masturbated to the sight of you bleeding since the first day you were in my Yearbook Club, honey.
> Was it worth it?
> Worth every day I waited, you stuck-up bitch.
> Enjoy it while you can. I'm about to fulfill a fantasy, too.
> What would that be, babe?
> Throwing you down your own stairs.
I stand up, grabbing Mrs Harris by her soaked hair. Blood is dripping from both of our bodies in small rivulets.
I pull her out of the bathroom, and into the hallway. We take turns slamming each other into the hallway wall as we go. I push Mrs Harris into the wall, face her, and slam my knee into her lower belly over and over in a fit of rage. I'm angry at her betrayal of me for an entire school year.
> I'm throwing you down the stairs now, Mrs Harris.
> I'm throwing YOU down, calling the cops, and having you put in jail forever.
Mrs Harris's threat, all too valid and realistic, only refuels my rage. I need to do this now ..... or never.
I stick my hip into Mrs Harris's side, and throw her over my hip.
She goes flying, almost literally, over my right side, and straight down the stairs, not tounching ground until the 8th or 9th stair.
She lands with a sick thud, bounces, and falls to the landing.
Someone comes over to look at her body.
It's Donna. She must have won her fight with Lisa.
Donna looks up at me. Her mouth is bloody.
> C'mon down, Annie. Let's see if the Yearbook was right.
What she means is: were she and I indeed the "Best Catfight Matchup"?
I gingerly step down the stairs, picking glass out of my feet.
I discreetly hold some shards in my clenched fists.
> I'm gonna fuck you up, Donna.
> Show me, bitch. Before you pass out.
To be continued.....
-
That is not sexy or erotic its really a gross out. Why on earth would you have them fight like men on broken glass and dripping blood? What a waist to a good build up.
-
It was a little over-the-top for me as well. But I still found it exciting and I'm sure many others will agree. It's a fetish my friend. Naked women violently fighting like men draws many of us to this forum. And to me, the buildup of multiple fights between these characters in the story thread leads very logically to this last brawl.
Sinclairfan, you continue to be one of my favorite authors. I'm enjoying this story a lot. Please continue.
-
If Mrs Harris and I had fought in the shower in 2013 instead of 1983, we probably would have still broken the door, but the plexiglass itself would have been shatterproof, and we would have been much more in danger from the metal framing than the door itself, either from rolling onto the sharp, blunt edges of the stainless material, or realizing what a handy weapon the broken pieces made.
Weapons. During our entire months-long war, both Mrs Harris and I had refrained from bringing any weapons onto the battlefield--her house, the woods, the school. We remained intent on engaging in hand-to-hand combat. This war was woman-on-woman, who's the alpha and who's the beta. Only one of us could win. Only one of us could have her life, her house, her career.
I needed to displace her.
She needed to fight me off.
Donna, on the other hand, was content being Mrs Harris's consort, her partner, sharing her house with her. Mrs Harris felt attraction for and, in her own sick way, love for Donna.
That's why Mrs Harris had been fantasizing about Donna and me catfighting.
To watch Donna hurt and defeat me. Then to make love to Mrs Harris.
Mrs Harris sat up in the corner, watching that battle about to commence. In her own living room.
The glass cuts on my flesh and Mrs Harris's were surface wounds only--mine were already drying off.
I was naked, and Donna was wearing only scraps of clothes. Donna may have defeated my sister, but my sister had gotten in a generous share of punches, scratches, and chest and face rakes.
It was obvious Donna had just been in a helluva fight.
But she and I were ready for the Main Attraction--her and me.
Mrs Harris was already masturbating to orgasm, just from the sight of Donna and squaring up. We exchanged jabs, the sharp shards of glass hiding between my hands cutting my fingers and palms.
My plan was to get Doona and a headlock and threaten to dusfigure her if Mrs Harris didn't agree to vacate her house.
I was desperate.
The only alternative was to have Mrs Harris call the cops on my sister and me for breaking and entering, assault, and damaging their house--the upstairs shower was still running.
That would ruin my life. And my sister's.
I had already given up college. I couldn't stand the tought of Mrs Harris doing the same to my sister.
If anyone's future needed to get ruined, it was Mrs Harris's.
> Fuck her up, Donna, then I'll call 9-1-1.
> Hurt her, Anne. Then gdt these bitches out of Rhode Island. [My sister was masturbating as well.]
The battle lines were drawn. The stakes were clear.
Now it was up to Donna and me.
We continued to punch, trying to land a KO to each others' jaw.
I threw a right, and my arm got locked around Donna's head. Our mouths pressed together.
I allowed her tongue to find mine.
We needed to finish our fight.
But neither of us had celebrated our undercard victories.
It wasn't fair that Mrs Harris and my sister got to cum, while Donna and I sustained punches to the face.
We deserved to cum, too.
We fell to the floor, kissing harder than I had ever kissed. Or been kissed.
I mounted her, and we rocked until we came together.
> C'mon Donna, fight, don't fuck.
Donna punched me in the jaw, and the fight was back on.
To be continued.....
-
Donna seemed to know, from having lost three fights to me, that she couldn't beat me if we grappled. So she kept me at a distance by jabbing me with her left hand, and keeping me back with fierce leg kicks.
All those years I had watched Donna at smoke break and had pictured us fighting, this was how I had envisioned it--stand up, toe to toe, foot to foot, left-left-right-left, ducking and swinging and retreating.
This living room was too big for me to get her into a hold and take her down. There was too much room to retreat.
Mrs Harris would having a grand old time sitting in the corner, fingering herself. Was she "playing possum" after I threw her down the stairs?--really not hurt much at all. Was she in the mood to be a catfight spectator this afternoon, not a combatant?
Raised ranch living rooms are way too small. Especially when your mother is too busy working to keep it tidy. I could do so much with a living room like this.
No wonder Donna likes it so much here.
No wonder Donna kicked my sister's ass when my sister came to her house to fight. But my sister offered no resistance when Donna came to her house.
Donna loves her own house. My sister, not so much.
No wonder they stopped building raised ranches around 1978.
They're not worth fighting over.
But Mrs Harris's 3-story Colonial is. It's worth a fistfight.
Donna and I are proving that now.
To be continued....
-
One summer growing up, when my Mother got tired of the constabt bickering between my sister in me, I was exiled to my grandparents' house just outside of Boston. The subscribed to Sports Illustrated, and always had several editions of it out on the coffee table.
One boring, languid summer morning (they had no air conditining in their house, just a loud fan that blew the hot air around), there were two out on the table that I started leafing thru. There was a long story in one about Carlos Monzon, the Latin world middleweight boxing champion. His bronzed six pack abs get my hormones racing, having spent my entire childhood exposed only to suburban white boys. I fantasized about watching him box for 15 long, sweaty rounds.
The other edition was a swimsuit issue with Christie Brinkley in page after page of poses. I fantasized about her topless boxing with the UCLA women's basketball star Ann Meyers, neither woman backing down because of their endless cardio capacity from being so athletic, bashing each others' faces, kidneys, and bellies for hour after hour.
Just as my women's boxing obsession was leading to nightly masturbation sessions in my temporary bedroom, Evening Magazine came on my grandparents' TV one evening. Robin Young, an impossibly attractive blonde, was the host. They had a story about a real woman boxer, and even showed footage of her in action. They interviewed her about what a novelty women's boxing was in 1978. At the end of the story, Robin Young threw in an aside about how much she would love to step in the ring and go toe-to-toe with the boxer featured in the story. About how exciting it would be to fight a woman.
I masturbated in bed from 9pm until 2am that night, falling asleep to the sound of my grandparents watching Johnny Carson.
As I continued my standup fight with Donna in Mrs Harris's living room, I realized I was finally living out my fantasy of a women's boxing match. I stopped trying to swing for a knockout punch, and instead settled in for a long 15-round marathon.
I started switching from just punching Donna's face, to swapping between face and body blows.
But Donna reciprocated, jabbing at my breasts with her rock-hard left fist.
Mrs Harris and my sister cheered us on.
> Fuck up her boobs, Donna.
> Rabbit punch her, Anne.
> Kidney punch her, Donna.
The dirty tactics were how Christie Brinkley and Anne Meyers had fought each other in my marathon masturbation session that summer night at my grandparents'.
I found it erotic then. And it was even more erotic to be actually doing it.
To be continued.....
-
I never did see at the time, nor do I have any recollection of today in 2022, coming up 39 years after our fight in Mrs Harris's living room, the left hook from Donna that completely knocked me cold, and sent my sister and I back home from Mrs Harris's with our tails between our legs.
No sooner did we get back to the semi-safety of our bedrooms than our Mom got back from Albany, madder than nest of hornets. Mr Harris couldn't afford to let the scandal of he and Mrs Harris taking Donna into their home and having nightly (and daily) threesomes with her get out into the public -- that would have put an ignominious end to the Fleet-Norstar merger, and cost him and both banks' management and shareholders hundreds of millions of dollars.
So Mr Harris agreed to cooperate with the police, and the School Committee of Mrs Harris's district, on providing details or her manipulation of my life and Donna's while we were still under her authority the final semester of high school. Today, her story would have been all over the internet and television. But back in 1983, newspapers controlled what the public heard and saw, and our school district decided they couldn't handle the reputational damage of Mrs Harris's case. So, Mrs Harris agreed to exit the education profession, and separately settled with my family in return for a nondisclosure agreement from all of us.
Since Mr and Mrs Harris were getting divorced, they couldn't afford to settle with us in cash. So they paid off the mortgage on their huge Colonial Revival house, (and repaired the master shower door), and gave the keys to my mother. My mom, my sister, and I sold our rapidly-dilipidating raised ranch, and moved into Mrs Harris's old house.
The house I'd been wanting as my own.
And which became mine, with my sister, when my Mom retired to Melbourne, Florida 6 months later. She married a new man and never looked back. She didn't care to continue a relationship with my sister or me after Cara (soon to become Cara Harris) told her all the details about my (our) spring (and summer) of sexual depravity.
Which was just as well for everyone.
Because I wasn't ready, just yet, to give up my new-found lifestyle with my sister. We cut back our 1on1 time with each other--after one or two more months of mutual exploration--but we continued, and stepped into overdrive, our 2on1 relationship with a man we began sharing our house with, a tough Rhode Island biker named Jonah. Jonah was always ready to do it--his veins must have run on Viagra, not blood--and had never been able to find a woman to keep up with him.
So he found two. My sister and me.
And once my sister got her high school degree the next spring, with neither of us having .... or needing .... a job (we lived off of Mr Harris's Fleet Norstar stock and Jonah's money dealing drugs), we just had sex all the time. Over and over, Anne-Jonah, Lisa-Jonah, Anne-Jonah-Lisa.
And, when that got boring, Jonah would bring home a biker chick for Lisa or me to catfight, depending on who she matched up better with.
I can thank you for that, Mrs Harris, you bitch, if you're out there reading this.
You taught me that it's all about the matchup.
But you did get one thing wrong in the yearbook that year.
The best catfight matchup in our school in 1982-83 wasn't Anne vs Donna.
It was Anne vs Mrs Harris.
But I think you already know that.
Don't you, bitch?
THE END