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Members Catfight Polls! / Re: Battle of Kougar Kaitlyn vs Milf maria
« Last post by JademilksU on Today at 07:35:58 AM »Come on Kaitlyn, you can finish her off
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Members Catfight Polls! / Re: Battle of Kougar Kaitlyn vs Milf maria
« Last post by carolsingapore76 on Today at 07:10:28 AM »wow still even
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Members Catfight Polls! / Re: Busty Showdown Titstrongest VS Thiccabeth40gg
« Last post by Mia_Milkers on Today at 05:22:18 AM »Great poll you two!!
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Catfighting / Re: Dorm Dynamics
« Last post by femfitefan on Today at 04:31:13 AM »Chapter 5: The Re-Match
Lisa wakes up in stages. First the ache, the special soreness deep in her triceps and thighs, a mosaic of tiny bruises on her hips and ribs. Next, the sun, sharp enough to laser through her eyelids and paint patterns across her vision. And last, the memory: Kelly, naked, twisted beneath her, breath hot on Lisa’s neck, the sharp sweet afterburn of coming so hard it left her boneless.
She lies there, savoring it, for as long as she can.
The clock reads 7:06. It’s Sunday. Outside, the dorm is dead quiet, but inside, every inch of Lisa hums.
Across the room, Kelly is a lump under the covers. At some point in the night, she migrated to the far side of her bed, one arm dangling to the floor, the other tucked under her pillow. The sheet is tangled around her waist, leaving her back and legs exposed—white lines crisscrossing where Lisa’s nails dug in, faint purple at the base of Kelly’s spine. Lisa stares at her for a long minute. Even asleep, Kelly radiates restless energy.
Lisa stretches, feeling each bruise. She runs her hands over her own ribs, finds a ridge of tender flesh just below her right breast. A souvenir from the last fall, she guesses. She smiles, wide and unguarded, then glances again at Kelly’s back, at the ridged calves and the lean, elastic muscle in the thighs. Swimmer’s build versus gymnast’s. The thought makes her pulse skip.
Kelly stirs, groans, then peels herself up on one elbow. Her face is a wreck—hair stuck to her cheek, mascara smeared to the edges of her eyes, but she grins when she sees Lisa. For a second, neither says a word.
Then: “You hit harder than you look,” Kelly says. Her voice is soft but clear, just above a whisper.
Lisa shrugs, sits up in bed. She makes no move to cover herself, and neither does Kelly. The air is cold, nipples hard, but Lisa welcomes it. She’s not hiding anymore.
They hold the silence, a standoff that’s more challenge than greeting. Lisa watches the way Kelly studies her, eyes tracing the length of her arms, the slope of her shoulders, the faint shadow between her legs. There’s no embarrassment—just hunger, and maybe a little respect.
Kelly swings her legs off the mattress, stretches. The motion pulls the sheet away, exposing the rest of her body. Even at rest, Kelly is coiled tight, every muscle visible under the skin. There’s a scar on her left knee—old, silvery, puckered—and Lisa wonders if that’s where the ACL gave out. Kelly catches her staring, lifts her chin.
“You want a rematch?” Kelly asks, casual but direct. She plants both feet on the carpet, leans forward. The morning light is unkind—there’s nothing left to hide. Lisa feels her own cheeks flush, but she doesn’t back down.
“Maybe I just want to see if it was a fluke,” Lisa says.
Kelly laughs, low. “You think you got lucky?”
Lisa doesn’t answer, just stands. She’s naked, goosebumped, hands balled at her sides.
Kelly stands too, and now they’re both on the carpet, maybe six feet apart. The room is a mess—sheets on the floor, two bottles of water, someone’s phone face down and probably dead. The only clear space is the four-by-six rug in the center. It’s all the ring they need.
Kelly moves first, a slow, circling step. Lisa mirrors. They size each other up, the way girls do in the water before a sprint: arms loose, knees bent, both waiting for the other to make the first mistake.
This time, Lisa goes first. She fakes a lunge at Kelly’s left shoulder, then shifts and reaches for the wrist. Kelly anticipates, snaps her arm away, and they circle again. Lisa feels sweat starting on her palms, the pulse in her throat, the raw animal thrill of anticipation.
“You’re not going to win the same way twice,” Kelly says. Her voice is sharp, but her eyes are bright, almost giddy.
Lisa grins, and in one fast movement, she closes the distance, gets both hands on Kelly’s shoulders. The contact is electric—skin on skin, heat and tension. Kelly is slippery, but Lisa’s grip is strong. She plants her feet, digs in, and for a second, they’re locked.
Kelly doesn’t hesitate. She slips one hand under Lisa’s elbow, leverages up, tries to break the grip. It almost works, but Lisa tightens, fingers digging in, and they stand there, straining, each girl trying to muscle the other off balance.
Lisa’s stronger, but Kelly is quick. She pivots, drops her weight, and Lisa’s right hand slides up to Kelly’s neck, thumb pressed against the line of her jaw. Kelly hisses, then uses the opening to hook her foot behind Lisa’s calf. Lisa feels the move coming, but it’s too late: Kelly sweeps the leg, and they both go down, hitting the rug with a soft, wet thud.
They land tangled, Lisa on top, but Kelly already moving, twisting, wriggling out from underneath. The carpet scrapes Lisa’s knees, but she ignores it. She scrambles for leverage, gets an arm around Kelly’s waist, but Kelly bends double, rolling them both across the rug.
Lisa laughs, breathless, the ache in her thighs instantly forgotten. The room disappears; it’s just her and Kelly, skin and sweat and the heat of the fight.
Kelly grins up at her, teeth bared, eyes wild. “You sure you’re awake enough for this?”
Lisa pins her wrists, leans in, and answers with her body.
The rematch is on.
-----
The first few seconds are pure instinct. Lisa and Kelly wrestle for grip, neither wanting to overcommit, both hoping the other will blink. Lisa goes for control, pinning Kelly’s wrists to the carpet. Kelly twists, tries to break free, but Lisa’s heavier, more used to the grind.
But Kelly has tricks.
She brings her knees up, tucks tight, and in a single flex, pops both wrists loose. Lisa grabs again, but Kelly’s already out, wriggling backward, feet digging into the rug for leverage. They reset, hands up, circling.
Lisa lunges, grabs for a shoulder, gets a hand full of smooth, sweat-slick skin. Kelly meets her, forehead to forehead, both straining. They’re close enough to smell each other—shampoo, sleep, and the tang of old adrenaline.
“Not bad for a freshman,” Kelly says, lips curling.
Lisa grins. “Good enough to kick your ass.”
Kelly drops low, tries to shoot for the hips, but Lisa sprawls, brings her weight down, and forces Kelly to the rug. It should be over. Lisa’s got top position, one knee jammed into Kelly’s ribs, arms tight around her waist. But Kelly doesn’t give. She squirms, shoves, tries to lever Lisa off with her forearm.
Lisa adjusts, goes for a chokehold. Kelly blocks it, writhes again, and Lisa’s left arm slips up, exposing her side. Kelly takes it, catches Lisa’s wrist, twists hard, and nearly reverses.
They struggle, sweat already running in the shallow valley of Lisa’s lower back. The carpet scours her knees, burns across her shins. Every time she moves, her skin drags raw. She loves it.
They break, roll apart. Both are gasping.
Lisa tries to laugh, but it comes out half-growl. “That all you got?”
Kelly spits hair from her mouth. “Just getting started.”
Lisa goes on the offensive. She rushes, fakes left, then switches and wraps her arms around Kelly’s torso. It’s a bear hug, tight and mean. She lifts, just a couple inches, then drops Kelly onto the rug. The impact shakes the room.
But Kelly’s already moving. She tucks and rolls, wraps her legs around Lisa’s thigh, and yanks. Lisa’s balance goes, and she hits the ground hard, shoulder first. Her vision goes white for a split second.
Then Kelly is on her, clamped to Lisa’s back like a limpet. She hooks her ankles around Lisa’s waist, hands searching for a choke. Lisa tucks her chin, fights off the grip, then claws Kelly’s arms, digging for a fingerhold.
She finds one, peels Kelly’s hand back, and throws an elbow. Kelly dodges, gets her face pressed into Lisa’s shoulder blade, and bites—not hard enough to break skin, but enough to leave a mark.
Lisa twists, gets her hips under, and bucks, trying to shake Kelly off. Kelly’s grip is vice-tight, but Lisa is strong, and after three hard shakes she manages to pry Kelly’s legs open. She scrambles up, spins, and faces Kelly on her hands and knees.
They stare each other down, both panting, both grinning like idiots.
Lisa tries another attack, but Kelly sidesteps, grabs Lisa’s ankle, and sweeps. Lisa loses her footing and slams to the rug, flat on her back. Kelly dives, pins Lisa’s shoulders with both hands, straddles her hips, and sits, hard.
“Pinned,” Kelly says, eyes sparkling.
Lisa arches, tries to buck her off, but Kelly shifts her weight, stays locked. For a second, Lisa is genuinely trapped. Her heart hammers.
Kelly leans down, mouth to Lisa’s ear. “Submit?”
Lisa shakes her head, laughs, then uses both arms to push up, tries to roll Kelly off. Kelly holds her ground, but Lisa isn’t giving up. She bridges again, rocks her hips, and the motion nearly unseats Kelly.
Kelly grabs Lisa’s wrists, pins them above her head. With both arms stretched out, Lisa is vulnerable. Kelly leans forward, presses her chest to Lisa’s, and for a second it’s less fight, more something else.
“Give up?” Kelly teases, but her voice trembles.
Lisa grits her teeth, waits for the right second, then bucks as hard as she can. Kelly’s grip slips, and Lisa twists, brings her knees up, and reverses. Now Lisa is on top, pressing down with everything she’s got.
Kelly’s legs wrap around Lisa’s waist. She tries to pull Lisa down, but Lisa braces, holds steady.
“Better,” Kelly says, smiling through her sweat.
“Watch this,” Lisa says.
She slides up, pins Kelly’s arms with her knees, and leans in, hands free to do whatever she wants. She grabs Kelly’s wrists, then lets go, knowing she doesn’t need them. For the first time, Lisa feels totally in control.
But Kelly’s not finished. She arches her back, flexes her abs, and in a wild, gymnastic move, bridges up, throwing Lisa off balance. Lisa’s hands hit the carpet, and Kelly rolls out from underneath, ending up behind Lisa, legs scissored around Lisa’s torso.
The pressure is intense, crushing. Lisa gasps, tries to twist free, but Kelly’s thighs are like steel bands. Lisa grabs at Kelly’s calves, but the more she pulls, the tighter Kelly holds.
Lisa’s head starts to spin. She grits her teeth, plants her hands, and shoves backward, hoping to smash Kelly into the floor. The impact works—Kelly loosens just enough for Lisa to roll over and break the hold.
They separate, both lying on the rug, chests heaving, bodies shining with sweat. Kelly’s hair is a rat’s nest; Lisa’s is plastered to her forehead. Neither girl is even close to quitting.
“You’re stronger than you look,” Kelly pants.
“You’re slipperier than you look,” Lisa replies.
They laugh, and the tension cracks for a second. But only a second.
Kelly lunges, grabs a handful of Lisa’s hair, and yanks. Lisa yelps, but retaliates by grabbing Kelly’s left breast and squeezing, hard. Kelly gasps, lets go of the hair, and tries to pry Lisa’s hand off her chest. Lisa clamps down harder, and Kelly’s eyes go wide.
It turns dirty, fast. Kelly slaps Lisa’s side, then grabs a fistful of Lisa’s ass, digging her nails in. Lisa bites her lip, doesn’t let go. They roll, knees and elbows scraping the rug, hands searching for anything to hold or hurt.
At one point, Lisa gets her fingers between Kelly’s legs, grabs, and pulls. Kelly shrieks, grabs Lisa’s wrist, but Lisa holds tight, using it as leverage to flip Kelly onto her stomach. Kelly kicks, catches Lisa’s shin, but Lisa doesn’t let go. She uses the grip to twist Kelly’s hips, then climbs onto her back.
Kelly’s face is mashed to the rug, but she’s still laughing. “You’re evil,” she says, voice muffled.
Lisa laughs too. “You started it.”
She tries to pin Kelly’s wrists again, but Kelly tucks her arms under, making them impossible to grab. Lisa improvises—she wraps her arm around Kelly’s neck, not a choke, but enough to control her head.
Kelly kicks again, and this time the heel catches Lisa between the legs. Not hard, but enough to shock. Lisa yelps, loses focus, and Kelly spins, reverses, and now they’re face to face, both on their knees.
They freeze, breathing hard, sweat dripping down their bodies, every muscle on fire.
“You want to call it a draw?” Kelly asks, but she’s grinning, daring Lisa to say yes.
Lisa shakes her head, smiling. “Not until one of us taps.”
Kelly nods, respects that. “Fine.”
She pounces.
They collide, arms locked, legs tangled. This time, there’s no technique, just brute force. Lisa grabs Kelly’s hair again, yanks her head back. Kelly claws at Lisa’s ribs, then grabs both of Lisa’s breasts, twisting the nipples until Lisa screams.
Lisa fights back with a slap to Kelly’s face, and the sound is shockingly loud. Kelly’s cheek blooms red, but she only laughs, then grabs Lisa’s wrist and bites down on the web of skin between thumb and forefinger.
They tumble, crash to the carpet, roll to the base of the bed. The motion knocks over a water bottle, which rolls away unnoticed.
Kelly gets Lisa in a headlock, squeezes, but Lisa slides her hand between Kelly’s thighs and hooks her fingers inside, pulling. Kelly howls, the headlock loosens, and Lisa wriggles free, then tackles Kelly around the waist.
They hit the floor, roll again, then land with Lisa on her back and Kelly straddling her chest. Both are shaking with effort, hair in their faces, bodies covered in sweat.
Neither lets up.
Kelly pins Lisa’s wrists, then uses her knees to clamp Lisa’s arms to the floor. Lisa thrashes, trying to throw Kelly off, but the leverage is perfect.
“Submit?” Kelly pants, voice rough.
Lisa grins up at her, then bucks, trying to dislodge. Kelly holds, tight as ever.
Lisa tries another trick: she slides her knees up, hooks Kelly’s back with her feet, and bridges, nearly throwing Kelly forward onto her face. But Kelly rides it, keeps her balance, and shifts her weight back.
For a second, they’re locked. Both trembling, both desperate to win.
Lisa sees the moment in Kelly’s eyes: she’s going to try something, one last push.
So Lisa does too.
She brings her hands up, slips a finger between Kelly’s legs, and pinches, hard.
Kelly gasps, her grip goes slack, and Lisa shoves upward, freeing one arm. She brings it up, wraps it around Kelly’s back, and flips her, the move rough and sudden. Kelly lands on her side, the air knocked from her lungs.
Lisa follows, lands on top, pins Kelly’s arms to her chest.
They freeze, staring at each other, bodies shivering with adrenaline and effort.
Neither says a word.
The fight isn’t over, but it’s close.
-----
Kelly makes her move first.
She baits Lisa with a lazy wrist, lets Lisa think she has it, then snaps her hips, wraps her leg around Lisa’s, and twists. The leverage is perfect—one second Lisa is on top, the next she’s flat on her back, Kelly perched above, knees on either side of Lisa’s ribs.
Lisa bucks, desperate, but Kelly rides it, shifts her weight, and pins Lisa’s wrists to the mat.
For a second, Lisa is still. The shock is total—how did Kelly reverse so fast?
Then comes the frustration, the white-hot surge of panic. She bridges, tries to throw Kelly over her head, but Kelly leans back, shifting her center of gravity, and Lisa’s power fizzles out. She tries to twist her hips, but Kelly clamps her thighs, locking Lisa in place.
“Give up?” Kelly asks, barely winded.
Lisa bares her teeth, tries to wrench an arm free, but the grip is too strong. Her shoulder strains, the muscles in her neck scream, but nothing moves. She tries to get a leg under Kelly, maybe to sweep, but Kelly blocks every angle.
Lisa hears her own breathing, ragged, the sweat pooling at her temples. She hates this—hates losing—but at the same time, she respects it. Kelly is good.
She tries a final move, tucking her chin and bucking hard, hoping to unseat Kelly’s balance. But Kelly was ready. She leans in, uses her full weight, and now Lisa’s wrists are pinned above her head, her own chest forced up and back. It’s humiliating—she’s exposed, vulnerable, powerless.
And, god help her, it turns her on.
Kelly drops her voice, just for Lisa: “Ready to say uncle?”
Lisa fights, grits her teeth, and gives it one last, furious attempt. She bridges, twists, arches her back. For half a second, she feels something shift—but Kelly is a rock. She doesn’t move. She just tightens the hold, pins Lisa’s wrists even harder, and presses her hips down, grinding Lisa into the carpet.
The panic crests, then crashes. Lisa goes limp, chest heaving, vision swimming in the fluorescent light.
She nods, barely, but it’s enough.
Kelly holds her for a second longer, just to make it sting. Then, gently, she lets go, rolls off, and flops to her back on the rug.
They both just lie there, side by side, arms splayed, sweat cooling in the air. Neither says anything for a long time.
Lisa blinks at the ceiling, every nerve in her body lit up, half in pain, half in pleasure. She’s never felt so defeated—and never wanted to win so badly.
Finally, Kelly props herself on one elbow, grins down at Lisa.
“Not bad for round two,” she says.
Lisa doesn’t trust herself to speak, so she just nods. Her whole body aches, but the pain is good—earned, even.
Kelly extends a hand. “Rematch?”
Lisa laughs, takes it, lets Kelly pull her upright. She’s still shaky, but alive in a way she’s never been before.
“Same time tomorrow?” Kelly asks, brushing a strand of hair from her face.
Lisa nods, then grins. “Next time, I’m not going easy on you.”
Kelly barks a laugh, sharp and pure. “That’s the spirit.”
They sit in silence, side by side on the rug. The sun climbs higher, painting harsh angles across the mess of sheets and bottles and bodies.
Lisa thinks about the other rooms in the building, the girls waking up, the fights already underway or waiting to start. She wonders how many of them are like her and Kelly—hungry, competitive, unable to let it go.
She decides it doesn’t matter.
All she wants is to be ready for the next round.
She glances at Kelly, who’s already looking back, eyes bright and wild and unafraid.
Lisa grins.
She can’t wait.
Lisa wakes up in stages. First the ache, the special soreness deep in her triceps and thighs, a mosaic of tiny bruises on her hips and ribs. Next, the sun, sharp enough to laser through her eyelids and paint patterns across her vision. And last, the memory: Kelly, naked, twisted beneath her, breath hot on Lisa’s neck, the sharp sweet afterburn of coming so hard it left her boneless.
She lies there, savoring it, for as long as she can.
The clock reads 7:06. It’s Sunday. Outside, the dorm is dead quiet, but inside, every inch of Lisa hums.
Across the room, Kelly is a lump under the covers. At some point in the night, she migrated to the far side of her bed, one arm dangling to the floor, the other tucked under her pillow. The sheet is tangled around her waist, leaving her back and legs exposed—white lines crisscrossing where Lisa’s nails dug in, faint purple at the base of Kelly’s spine. Lisa stares at her for a long minute. Even asleep, Kelly radiates restless energy.
Lisa stretches, feeling each bruise. She runs her hands over her own ribs, finds a ridge of tender flesh just below her right breast. A souvenir from the last fall, she guesses. She smiles, wide and unguarded, then glances again at Kelly’s back, at the ridged calves and the lean, elastic muscle in the thighs. Swimmer’s build versus gymnast’s. The thought makes her pulse skip.
Kelly stirs, groans, then peels herself up on one elbow. Her face is a wreck—hair stuck to her cheek, mascara smeared to the edges of her eyes, but she grins when she sees Lisa. For a second, neither says a word.
Then: “You hit harder than you look,” Kelly says. Her voice is soft but clear, just above a whisper.
Lisa shrugs, sits up in bed. She makes no move to cover herself, and neither does Kelly. The air is cold, nipples hard, but Lisa welcomes it. She’s not hiding anymore.
They hold the silence, a standoff that’s more challenge than greeting. Lisa watches the way Kelly studies her, eyes tracing the length of her arms, the slope of her shoulders, the faint shadow between her legs. There’s no embarrassment—just hunger, and maybe a little respect.
Kelly swings her legs off the mattress, stretches. The motion pulls the sheet away, exposing the rest of her body. Even at rest, Kelly is coiled tight, every muscle visible under the skin. There’s a scar on her left knee—old, silvery, puckered—and Lisa wonders if that’s where the ACL gave out. Kelly catches her staring, lifts her chin.
“You want a rematch?” Kelly asks, casual but direct. She plants both feet on the carpet, leans forward. The morning light is unkind—there’s nothing left to hide. Lisa feels her own cheeks flush, but she doesn’t back down.
“Maybe I just want to see if it was a fluke,” Lisa says.
Kelly laughs, low. “You think you got lucky?”
Lisa doesn’t answer, just stands. She’s naked, goosebumped, hands balled at her sides.
Kelly stands too, and now they’re both on the carpet, maybe six feet apart. The room is a mess—sheets on the floor, two bottles of water, someone’s phone face down and probably dead. The only clear space is the four-by-six rug in the center. It’s all the ring they need.
Kelly moves first, a slow, circling step. Lisa mirrors. They size each other up, the way girls do in the water before a sprint: arms loose, knees bent, both waiting for the other to make the first mistake.
This time, Lisa goes first. She fakes a lunge at Kelly’s left shoulder, then shifts and reaches for the wrist. Kelly anticipates, snaps her arm away, and they circle again. Lisa feels sweat starting on her palms, the pulse in her throat, the raw animal thrill of anticipation.
“You’re not going to win the same way twice,” Kelly says. Her voice is sharp, but her eyes are bright, almost giddy.
Lisa grins, and in one fast movement, she closes the distance, gets both hands on Kelly’s shoulders. The contact is electric—skin on skin, heat and tension. Kelly is slippery, but Lisa’s grip is strong. She plants her feet, digs in, and for a second, they’re locked.
Kelly doesn’t hesitate. She slips one hand under Lisa’s elbow, leverages up, tries to break the grip. It almost works, but Lisa tightens, fingers digging in, and they stand there, straining, each girl trying to muscle the other off balance.
Lisa’s stronger, but Kelly is quick. She pivots, drops her weight, and Lisa’s right hand slides up to Kelly’s neck, thumb pressed against the line of her jaw. Kelly hisses, then uses the opening to hook her foot behind Lisa’s calf. Lisa feels the move coming, but it’s too late: Kelly sweeps the leg, and they both go down, hitting the rug with a soft, wet thud.
They land tangled, Lisa on top, but Kelly already moving, twisting, wriggling out from underneath. The carpet scrapes Lisa’s knees, but she ignores it. She scrambles for leverage, gets an arm around Kelly’s waist, but Kelly bends double, rolling them both across the rug.
Lisa laughs, breathless, the ache in her thighs instantly forgotten. The room disappears; it’s just her and Kelly, skin and sweat and the heat of the fight.
Kelly grins up at her, teeth bared, eyes wild. “You sure you’re awake enough for this?”
Lisa pins her wrists, leans in, and answers with her body.
The rematch is on.
-----
The first few seconds are pure instinct. Lisa and Kelly wrestle for grip, neither wanting to overcommit, both hoping the other will blink. Lisa goes for control, pinning Kelly’s wrists to the carpet. Kelly twists, tries to break free, but Lisa’s heavier, more used to the grind.
But Kelly has tricks.
She brings her knees up, tucks tight, and in a single flex, pops both wrists loose. Lisa grabs again, but Kelly’s already out, wriggling backward, feet digging into the rug for leverage. They reset, hands up, circling.
Lisa lunges, grabs for a shoulder, gets a hand full of smooth, sweat-slick skin. Kelly meets her, forehead to forehead, both straining. They’re close enough to smell each other—shampoo, sleep, and the tang of old adrenaline.
“Not bad for a freshman,” Kelly says, lips curling.
Lisa grins. “Good enough to kick your ass.”
Kelly drops low, tries to shoot for the hips, but Lisa sprawls, brings her weight down, and forces Kelly to the rug. It should be over. Lisa’s got top position, one knee jammed into Kelly’s ribs, arms tight around her waist. But Kelly doesn’t give. She squirms, shoves, tries to lever Lisa off with her forearm.
Lisa adjusts, goes for a chokehold. Kelly blocks it, writhes again, and Lisa’s left arm slips up, exposing her side. Kelly takes it, catches Lisa’s wrist, twists hard, and nearly reverses.
They struggle, sweat already running in the shallow valley of Lisa’s lower back. The carpet scours her knees, burns across her shins. Every time she moves, her skin drags raw. She loves it.
They break, roll apart. Both are gasping.
Lisa tries to laugh, but it comes out half-growl. “That all you got?”
Kelly spits hair from her mouth. “Just getting started.”
Lisa goes on the offensive. She rushes, fakes left, then switches and wraps her arms around Kelly’s torso. It’s a bear hug, tight and mean. She lifts, just a couple inches, then drops Kelly onto the rug. The impact shakes the room.
But Kelly’s already moving. She tucks and rolls, wraps her legs around Lisa’s thigh, and yanks. Lisa’s balance goes, and she hits the ground hard, shoulder first. Her vision goes white for a split second.
Then Kelly is on her, clamped to Lisa’s back like a limpet. She hooks her ankles around Lisa’s waist, hands searching for a choke. Lisa tucks her chin, fights off the grip, then claws Kelly’s arms, digging for a fingerhold.
She finds one, peels Kelly’s hand back, and throws an elbow. Kelly dodges, gets her face pressed into Lisa’s shoulder blade, and bites—not hard enough to break skin, but enough to leave a mark.
Lisa twists, gets her hips under, and bucks, trying to shake Kelly off. Kelly’s grip is vice-tight, but Lisa is strong, and after three hard shakes she manages to pry Kelly’s legs open. She scrambles up, spins, and faces Kelly on her hands and knees.
They stare each other down, both panting, both grinning like idiots.
Lisa tries another attack, but Kelly sidesteps, grabs Lisa’s ankle, and sweeps. Lisa loses her footing and slams to the rug, flat on her back. Kelly dives, pins Lisa’s shoulders with both hands, straddles her hips, and sits, hard.
“Pinned,” Kelly says, eyes sparkling.
Lisa arches, tries to buck her off, but Kelly shifts her weight, stays locked. For a second, Lisa is genuinely trapped. Her heart hammers.
Kelly leans down, mouth to Lisa’s ear. “Submit?”
Lisa shakes her head, laughs, then uses both arms to push up, tries to roll Kelly off. Kelly holds her ground, but Lisa isn’t giving up. She bridges again, rocks her hips, and the motion nearly unseats Kelly.
Kelly grabs Lisa’s wrists, pins them above her head. With both arms stretched out, Lisa is vulnerable. Kelly leans forward, presses her chest to Lisa’s, and for a second it’s less fight, more something else.
“Give up?” Kelly teases, but her voice trembles.
Lisa grits her teeth, waits for the right second, then bucks as hard as she can. Kelly’s grip slips, and Lisa twists, brings her knees up, and reverses. Now Lisa is on top, pressing down with everything she’s got.
Kelly’s legs wrap around Lisa’s waist. She tries to pull Lisa down, but Lisa braces, holds steady.
“Better,” Kelly says, smiling through her sweat.
“Watch this,” Lisa says.
She slides up, pins Kelly’s arms with her knees, and leans in, hands free to do whatever she wants. She grabs Kelly’s wrists, then lets go, knowing she doesn’t need them. For the first time, Lisa feels totally in control.
But Kelly’s not finished. She arches her back, flexes her abs, and in a wild, gymnastic move, bridges up, throwing Lisa off balance. Lisa’s hands hit the carpet, and Kelly rolls out from underneath, ending up behind Lisa, legs scissored around Lisa’s torso.
The pressure is intense, crushing. Lisa gasps, tries to twist free, but Kelly’s thighs are like steel bands. Lisa grabs at Kelly’s calves, but the more she pulls, the tighter Kelly holds.
Lisa’s head starts to spin. She grits her teeth, plants her hands, and shoves backward, hoping to smash Kelly into the floor. The impact works—Kelly loosens just enough for Lisa to roll over and break the hold.
They separate, both lying on the rug, chests heaving, bodies shining with sweat. Kelly’s hair is a rat’s nest; Lisa’s is plastered to her forehead. Neither girl is even close to quitting.
“You’re stronger than you look,” Kelly pants.
“You’re slipperier than you look,” Lisa replies.
They laugh, and the tension cracks for a second. But only a second.
Kelly lunges, grabs a handful of Lisa’s hair, and yanks. Lisa yelps, but retaliates by grabbing Kelly’s left breast and squeezing, hard. Kelly gasps, lets go of the hair, and tries to pry Lisa’s hand off her chest. Lisa clamps down harder, and Kelly’s eyes go wide.
It turns dirty, fast. Kelly slaps Lisa’s side, then grabs a fistful of Lisa’s ass, digging her nails in. Lisa bites her lip, doesn’t let go. They roll, knees and elbows scraping the rug, hands searching for anything to hold or hurt.
At one point, Lisa gets her fingers between Kelly’s legs, grabs, and pulls. Kelly shrieks, grabs Lisa’s wrist, but Lisa holds tight, using it as leverage to flip Kelly onto her stomach. Kelly kicks, catches Lisa’s shin, but Lisa doesn’t let go. She uses the grip to twist Kelly’s hips, then climbs onto her back.
Kelly’s face is mashed to the rug, but she’s still laughing. “You’re evil,” she says, voice muffled.
Lisa laughs too. “You started it.”
She tries to pin Kelly’s wrists again, but Kelly tucks her arms under, making them impossible to grab. Lisa improvises—she wraps her arm around Kelly’s neck, not a choke, but enough to control her head.
Kelly kicks again, and this time the heel catches Lisa between the legs. Not hard, but enough to shock. Lisa yelps, loses focus, and Kelly spins, reverses, and now they’re face to face, both on their knees.
They freeze, breathing hard, sweat dripping down their bodies, every muscle on fire.
“You want to call it a draw?” Kelly asks, but she’s grinning, daring Lisa to say yes.
Lisa shakes her head, smiling. “Not until one of us taps.”
Kelly nods, respects that. “Fine.”
She pounces.
They collide, arms locked, legs tangled. This time, there’s no technique, just brute force. Lisa grabs Kelly’s hair again, yanks her head back. Kelly claws at Lisa’s ribs, then grabs both of Lisa’s breasts, twisting the nipples until Lisa screams.
Lisa fights back with a slap to Kelly’s face, and the sound is shockingly loud. Kelly’s cheek blooms red, but she only laughs, then grabs Lisa’s wrist and bites down on the web of skin between thumb and forefinger.
They tumble, crash to the carpet, roll to the base of the bed. The motion knocks over a water bottle, which rolls away unnoticed.
Kelly gets Lisa in a headlock, squeezes, but Lisa slides her hand between Kelly’s thighs and hooks her fingers inside, pulling. Kelly howls, the headlock loosens, and Lisa wriggles free, then tackles Kelly around the waist.
They hit the floor, roll again, then land with Lisa on her back and Kelly straddling her chest. Both are shaking with effort, hair in their faces, bodies covered in sweat.
Neither lets up.
Kelly pins Lisa’s wrists, then uses her knees to clamp Lisa’s arms to the floor. Lisa thrashes, trying to throw Kelly off, but the leverage is perfect.
“Submit?” Kelly pants, voice rough.
Lisa grins up at her, then bucks, trying to dislodge. Kelly holds, tight as ever.
Lisa tries another trick: she slides her knees up, hooks Kelly’s back with her feet, and bridges, nearly throwing Kelly forward onto her face. But Kelly rides it, keeps her balance, and shifts her weight back.
For a second, they’re locked. Both trembling, both desperate to win.
Lisa sees the moment in Kelly’s eyes: she’s going to try something, one last push.
So Lisa does too.
She brings her hands up, slips a finger between Kelly’s legs, and pinches, hard.
Kelly gasps, her grip goes slack, and Lisa shoves upward, freeing one arm. She brings it up, wraps it around Kelly’s back, and flips her, the move rough and sudden. Kelly lands on her side, the air knocked from her lungs.
Lisa follows, lands on top, pins Kelly’s arms to her chest.
They freeze, staring at each other, bodies shivering with adrenaline and effort.
Neither says a word.
The fight isn’t over, but it’s close.
-----
Kelly makes her move first.
She baits Lisa with a lazy wrist, lets Lisa think she has it, then snaps her hips, wraps her leg around Lisa’s, and twists. The leverage is perfect—one second Lisa is on top, the next she’s flat on her back, Kelly perched above, knees on either side of Lisa’s ribs.
Lisa bucks, desperate, but Kelly rides it, shifts her weight, and pins Lisa’s wrists to the mat.
For a second, Lisa is still. The shock is total—how did Kelly reverse so fast?
Then comes the frustration, the white-hot surge of panic. She bridges, tries to throw Kelly over her head, but Kelly leans back, shifting her center of gravity, and Lisa’s power fizzles out. She tries to twist her hips, but Kelly clamps her thighs, locking Lisa in place.
“Give up?” Kelly asks, barely winded.
Lisa bares her teeth, tries to wrench an arm free, but the grip is too strong. Her shoulder strains, the muscles in her neck scream, but nothing moves. She tries to get a leg under Kelly, maybe to sweep, but Kelly blocks every angle.
Lisa hears her own breathing, ragged, the sweat pooling at her temples. She hates this—hates losing—but at the same time, she respects it. Kelly is good.
She tries a final move, tucking her chin and bucking hard, hoping to unseat Kelly’s balance. But Kelly was ready. She leans in, uses her full weight, and now Lisa’s wrists are pinned above her head, her own chest forced up and back. It’s humiliating—she’s exposed, vulnerable, powerless.
And, god help her, it turns her on.
Kelly drops her voice, just for Lisa: “Ready to say uncle?”
Lisa fights, grits her teeth, and gives it one last, furious attempt. She bridges, twists, arches her back. For half a second, she feels something shift—but Kelly is a rock. She doesn’t move. She just tightens the hold, pins Lisa’s wrists even harder, and presses her hips down, grinding Lisa into the carpet.
The panic crests, then crashes. Lisa goes limp, chest heaving, vision swimming in the fluorescent light.
She nods, barely, but it’s enough.
Kelly holds her for a second longer, just to make it sting. Then, gently, she lets go, rolls off, and flops to her back on the rug.
They both just lie there, side by side, arms splayed, sweat cooling in the air. Neither says anything for a long time.
Lisa blinks at the ceiling, every nerve in her body lit up, half in pain, half in pleasure. She’s never felt so defeated—and never wanted to win so badly.
Finally, Kelly props herself on one elbow, grins down at Lisa.
“Not bad for round two,” she says.
Lisa doesn’t trust herself to speak, so she just nods. Her whole body aches, but the pain is good—earned, even.
Kelly extends a hand. “Rematch?”
Lisa laughs, takes it, lets Kelly pull her upright. She’s still shaky, but alive in a way she’s never been before.
“Same time tomorrow?” Kelly asks, brushing a strand of hair from her face.
Lisa nods, then grins. “Next time, I’m not going easy on you.”
Kelly barks a laugh, sharp and pure. “That’s the spirit.”
They sit in silence, side by side on the rug. The sun climbs higher, painting harsh angles across the mess of sheets and bottles and bodies.
Lisa thinks about the other rooms in the building, the girls waking up, the fights already underway or waiting to start. She wonders how many of them are like her and Kelly—hungry, competitive, unable to let it go.
She decides it doesn’t matter.
All she wants is to be ready for the next round.
She glances at Kelly, who’s already looking back, eyes bright and wild and unafraid.
Lisa grins.
She can’t wait.
55
Live Action Clips / Re: Michelle v Elizabeth crystal lingerie fight extended slow motion edit
« Last post by Oilman on Today at 03:25:13 AM »All good stand down homeys
someone found it so VMT for that
for anyone curious about this contest
message me
as for me it is what a real wife v mistress would look like dark and nasty in lingerie for effect
Trouble is when I watch I can't decide which minx is wife and which mistress?
Michelle confident and mean or nervous Liz looking magificent in her battledress
someone found it so VMT for that
for anyone curious about this contest
message me
as for me it is what a real wife v mistress would look like dark and nasty in lingerie for effect
Trouble is when I watch I can't decide which minx is wife and which mistress?
Michelle confident and mean or nervous Liz looking magificent in her battledress
56
Live Action Clips / Re: Catfight Confessions 01 | AI
« Last post by The Arabian on Today at 01:58:23 AM »Man that's awesome you are a genius, plz we need the blonde husband POV to know who is telling the truth
Thank yx56 and The Arabian!
I'm not going to make a video on the husband's POV since I'd rather use my limited credits to have women talk about their catfights... However, I spent an hour (or two?) coming up with the husband's POV just for you - hope you enjoy it. You can use the workflow I've detailed in the 3rd post to create your own video of the husband - and if you do - please do share it here.
______
Cassie's Husband - Richard (?) is narrating it:
“I wasn’t even in the room when it started. I was in the study, scrolling emails, when I heard it — shouting. Sharp, cutting. My wife’s voice clashing with Sophie’s. Not unusual. They’ve sniped at each other before. But then I heard it — the slap. That distinct, skin-on-skin crack that makes the hairs stand on your neck.
I froze for a second, listening. Then came the thud, the crash of something tipping over, followed by screaming. Not arguing — screaming. My gut knew exactly what was happening. Cassie and Sophie weren’t just yelling this time. They were fighting.
I crept out of the study, quiet, heart pounding. Through the crack of the foyer door, I saw them — two women I’d secretly imagined tearing into each other for months, finally doing it for real. Cassie in her yoga pants, Sophie in that tight blouse, fighting like hellcats. Cassie had Sophie’s hair in both hands, yanking her head back like a whip. Sophie’s face was twisted with rage as she screamed, ‘Jealous flat-ass cxnt!’ before she sank her nails into Cassie’s tits. My wife howled, but didn’t let go — she jerked Sophie down with her, and they crashed onto the floor in a tangle of limbs and hair.
And Jesus Christ, my cock swelled the second I saw this.
Cassie’s got the bigger tits, no question. Full, round, always bouncing under her sports bras. But Sophie? There’s something about her. That sharp tongue, her bitchy pride, those smaller but perfect little handfuls she hides under her dresses. Hell, I’d fantasized about what it’d be like if the two of them finally went at it. And here it was — my fantasy come alive on the damn foyer floor.
It wasn’t a fight. It was a fucking war.
They rolled, hair yanked in bloody fistfuls. Sophie ripped a clump of Cassie’s blonde curls right out, holding it like a trophy before Cassie shrieked and slammed Sophie's head into the floor. Cassie screamed, ‘I’ll scalp you, bitch!’ and tore at Sophie’s dark locks until strands snapped between her fingers. Sophie spat in her face, warm and glistening — Cassie responded by clawing her nails down Sophie’s face, leaving angry red welts that made Sophie scream.
Clothes tore within seconds. Cassie’s sports bra was yanked halfway down, her tits spilling out, nipples hard from the adrenaline. Sophie’s blouse split open at the buttons, baring her smaller breasts, pale and trembling as Cassie’s claws raked across them. The sounds — nails scratching flesh, fabric ripping, both of them snarling ‘Bitch!’ and ‘Slut!’ with spit flying — it was pure, animalistic.
Every sound, every insult made me harder. My breathing was ragged, shallow, like I’d just sprinted a mile.
I should’ve stepped in. But instead, I stayed hidden, frozen in the doorway, my cock pressing so hard against my pants it hurt. I’ve fantasized about this for months. Every time I saw Sophie toss Cassie a dirty look, every time I ogled at Sophie bending in her garden while Cassie glared… I imagined them tearing each other apart. And now? It was happening.
They weren’t holding back. Cassie’s nails were sunk deep into Sophie’s tits, twisting and pulling. Sophie was clawing back, ripping Cassie’s bra down, mauling her breasts like she wanted to tear them off at the root. They were shrieking threats — ‘I’ll rip your fucking tits off!’ — hair flying, teeth flashing, clothes shredding. I should’ve stepped in, but instead? I leaned against the doorway, hard as a rock, just watching.
It was primal, violent, and erotic all at once. I’d never seen a catfight before, not like this, and it was… let's just say I couldn’t ignore the way my cock pulsed, straining my zipper.. I told myself I’d step in after a few seconds, but I couldn’t. My eyes were glued. Every time Cassie bucked her hips to flip Sophie, every time Sophie sank her nails deeper into my wife’s chest, my cock throbbed harder.
Sophie surprised me — she wasn’t backing down. Smaller tits or not, she fought like a demon. Cassie screamed, but came back twice as hard. Both of them, tits out, locked in a savage maul, breasts mashed together as they rolled. I swear, it was like watching porn shot in my own house.
I don’t know how long I watched. A minute? Two? Long enough that I was throbbing in my pants, one hand pressed against the doorframe to keep myself from stepping in and ruining it.
The trigger that broke me? When Cassie’s hand slid down between Sophie’s legs. I saw her claws hook into Sophie’s panties, yanking, scratching, raking right at her pussy. The sound Sophie made — half scream, half sob — was so raw I felt it in my spine. For a second I thought Cassie might actually… ruin her.
I shoved the door open, stormed in, and both their eyes flicked to me — wild, furious, tits exposed, chests heaving. But what they both saw instantly was my erection. No hiding it. My cock was a tentpole in my pants, throbbing, obvious. Cassie’s eyes darted down, Sophie’s too, and for a moment both of them just froze, snarling, panting, their claws still sunk into each other’s flesh while they registered how fucking hard it made me.
I pulled Cassie off Sophie not because I wanted to, but because I honestly thought Cassie might tear Sophie’s pussy open if I didn’t. I pulled her off, Sophie collapsing onto her side, hair in clumps, tits scratched purple, panties shredded. Cassie wasn’t much better — blood streaking her chest, hair torn, sports bra dangling off one tit, her face flushed with fury and triumph. Both of them glared at each other over my shoulder, still snarling, still wanting more. I was the one who asked Sophie to leave.
So who won? Truth is… there wasn’t a winner. Not yet. Sure - Cassie had the upper hand when I stepped in, but Sophie wasn’t finished. It was a draw because I made it one.
But here’s the truth I’ll never admit to them: I didn’t want to stop it. Not really. I wanted to keep watching. To see them rip each other raw, tits shredded, hair gone, biting, writhing on the foyer floor, one finally broken under the other. I still jerk off to the thought of it — my wife and my neighbor, clawing, spitting, screaming ‘Bitch!’ with their tits and pussies torn open. That day, I lived every man’s dirtiest fantasy.
I should’ve been ashamed, but fuck that. I loved it.
I’ll be honest. The only reason I stopped that fight was the door.
The goddamn front door was wide open, Sophie’s shrieks echoing through the cul-de-sac. Neighbors peek out quick when they hear something like that. One phone call and we’d have cops in the driveway, two half-naked women clawing each other like animals on my foyer floor. Assault charges, restraining orders, lawsuits — it would’ve been a nightmare.
So yeah, I stepped in. I broke it up.
I’ve thought about it every day since. How to make it happen again. How to get Cassie and Sophie in the same space, no interruptions, no open doors, no chance of cops. Just the two of them, stripped down, nowhere to run, forced to fight until one is broken under the other.
And here’s the thing: I know they want it too. The way Cassie still mutters ‘flat-chested whore’ every time Sophie’s name comes up. The way Sophie sneers ‘big-titted cow’ under her breath when she sees Cassie outside. Neither of them feels finished. They’ve got unfinished business simmering just under the surface, and I’m the only one who can bring it to a boil.
I imagine it all the time. I ‘forget’ to lock the basement door, casually mention to Sophie that Cassie’s been trash-talking her again. Or maybe I plan a barbecue, plenty of booze, let them needle each other until it explodes. Except this time, I lead them into the garage or basement — door shut, no windows, no neighbors to hear. When the claws come out, I let it ride. No stopping, no breaking it up.
I’ll sit back in the shadows, cock in my hand, watching them rip at tits and hair, spitting in each other’s faces, rolling in sweat and blood until one of them finally quits.
And I’ll make it clear: I won’t interfere. I won’t play referee. I’ll let them fight until it’s undeniable who the queen of this cul-de-sac really is.
Cassie thinks she’s already proven herself. Sophie thinks Cassie’s tits are nothing but targets. They both hate each other enough to go the distance. And I need to see it — the finish, the true end.
Because Round 1 was foreplay. Next time? I’ll make sure there’s a Round 2. Door shut. No interruptions. No cops. Just two enraged women tearing each other apart until one is left sobbing on the floor, tits shredded, pussy mauled, begging the other to stop.
And me? I won’t be conflicted this time. I’ll be stroking, watching, memorizing every second. Because I’m done with draws. I want a winner. And I’ll make damn sure I get one.
___
Hope that was good for you.
Thx it is awesome and great effort, my prediction was correct that cassie is the winner (nearly) and Sophie was lying, waiting for your upcoming videos
57
Catfight Art / I have a question for you
« Last post by pdmreturn on Today at 01:41:24 AM »Hey guys, I have a question for you: What do you think defines a strong and iconic female character in 2025?
I’m working on a comic project based on my image.
I would love to hear your opinions on what works and what’s become cliché.
Can you tell me if the artist I’m working with is doing a good job? Do you think the character’s drawing resembles me?
I look forward to your comments.
Kisses... Sensei Alexa...
www.alexaotis.com
PD: Please let me know if you can see the image. Thank you.
I’m working on a comic project based on my image.
I would love to hear your opinions on what works and what’s become cliché.
Can you tell me if the artist I’m working with is doing a good job? Do you think the character’s drawing resembles me?
I look forward to your comments.
Kisses... Sensei Alexa...
www.alexaotis.com
PD: Please let me know if you can see the image. Thank you.
58
Members Catfight Polls! / Re: Battle of Kougar Kaitlyn vs Milf maria
« Last post by Rock on Today at 12:13:41 AM »This matchup is amazing. I voted Maria. Just mesmerized by her.
59
General Discussion about Catfights / Re: Spankbang registration
« Last post by HumanPerson on Yesterday at 11:19:51 PM »VPNs exist.
60
Live Action Clips / Re: Michelle v Elizabeth crystal lingerie fight extended slow motion edit
« Last post by Seve2U on Yesterday at 10:49:18 PM »I have a request from anyone who has link to Michelle v Elizabeth Chrystal clasic lingerie fight somebody made an extended edit with slow motion and repeated edits was very intense but I lost it?
If anyone wantng to reminisce about this fight or chat about it message me or comment ( cant load short clip I have too large grrrr)
Cheers
Are you sure about this 'Elizabeth"? I have TWELVE archived Crystal Fights with Michelle in them, and none come back with an opponent named Elizabeth.
S.
