Recent Posts

100

Catfighting / Re: Dorm Dynamics

« Last post by femfitefan on Yesterday at 12:27:20 AM »

Chapter 3: First Encounters

Lisa wakes with a jolt, one instant of sun slicing her eyelids and her heart pounding the way it did before swim meets. For a minute she thinks she’s late—then remembers, it’s Saturday, no classes, but today there’s something bigger: the first Renner match. The dorm is hushed and expectant. The hallway is empty except for the green and gold shimmer of the challenge roster taped to the wall. Someone’s written “FIGHT NIGHT” in neon marker across the top. Underneath:

Rodriguez vs. Chen, 10:00AM, Lounge.

She showers with deliberate slowness, keeps her robe on as she creeps toward the lounge, not wanting to be the first or the last. The air is thick with shampoo, body spray, and tension. When she enters, she nearly turns around and leaves: the room is full, every girl perched on a couch arm or beanbag or cross-legged on the thin mats spread like an arena at the center.

At the focal point stand the two combatants. Lisa knows Jenna Rodriguez only from whispers and a glimpse at orientation—a legend of the upperclass, all cheekbones and cutting eyes, ex-gymnast, now a sort of predator-in-residence. Tina Chen is quieter, an honors student and resident TA, but built with a core strength that makes even stillness look dangerous. They stand ten feet apart, both in Renner green, bare legs and arms smooth and ready. Neither smiles. Neither speaks.

Lisa ducks behind a battered corduroy couch and claims a spot on the floor. There’s a group of first-years to her left, whispering, giggling nervously. On her right, two seniors lounge with the ease of girls who’ve seen this before; one’s already popping the tab on a Red Bull. Lisa pretends to stretch, but really, she’s scouting for escape. She can’t leave now—not without looking like a coward.

Jenna is first to shed her robe. She drops it with a flick, revealing skin the color of brown sugar and a body cut from years of hard training. Every muscle is defined, but there’s no bulk—she’s compact, all spring and coil. She paces the mats, eyes locked on Tina, who simply unties her belt and lets her robe slide to the floor. Tina is paler, lean but with a swimmer’s build, and her nipples are already stiff in the cool morning air. Neither seems remotely embarrassed by their nudity.

Someone wolf-whistles, then catches a glare from Ms. Hughes, who sits in a plastic chair at the far wall, arms folded.

“Begin,” says Ms. Hughes. It’s not loud, but it silences the room.

Jenna moves instantly—two steps, a fake, then a low sweep at Tina’s ankles. Tina hops it and circles, arms up, almost lazy.

Jenna: “Let’s see if that brain can save you when you’re pinned.”

Tina: “Muscles aren’t everything.” Flat, clinical.

They circle, feint, test the range. Jenna makes the first real attack, a gymnast’s vault straight at Tina’s midsection, arms extended. They collide with a thud, chest to chest, then tumble as a tangle of arms and legs. Jenna’s hair whips into Tina’s face. Tina grabs a fistful and wrenches, forcing Jenna onto her back, then tries to mount her. Jenna bridges up, hips snapping, and they roll again—now Jenna on top, pinning Tina by the wrists.

It’s immediate, brutal, and there’s none of the fake sportsmanship Lisa remembers from school wrestling. Tina hisses, arches her back, and manages to twist one wrist free. She jabs at Jenna’s ribs, finds a grip on her hair, pulls back hard. Jenna lets out a bark of pain but bites it off, then retaliates—she yanks Tina’s wrist up, twisting until Tina’s arm is stretched over her own head, exposing her chest. Jenna uses her free hand to rake nails down Tina’s side. The sound makes Lisa flinch.

The first-years behind her gasp. One girl mutters, “Holy shit,” under her breath. Lisa’s pulse is a hummingbird; her palms are damp against her knees. She knows she should look away, that she’s not supposed to enjoy this, but she can’t.

They break apart, both breathing hard. Jenna paces, shaking out her arm. Tina cracks her knuckles, face unreadable.

Jenna: “That all you got?”

Tina doesn’t answer, just lunges—this time catching Jenna’s shoulder and spinning her into a half-nelson. Jenna fights it, twisting, but Tina’s got leverage and uses it, driving Jenna toward the ground. Jenna plants a foot and shoves backward; they crash into the mat together. Tina lands on top, legs scissoring Jenna’s midsection, squeezing. Jenna grits her teeth, face going red, but manages to slip her arm between Tina’s thighs and break the hold. For a split second, Jenna’s face is buried in Tina’s belly. She turns her head and sinks her teeth into the skin just above Tina’s hip. Not enough to break skin, but enough to shock.

Tina yelps and recoils. Jenna pushes up, breathing hard, eyes wild.

A new tactic: Jenna goes for the hair again, fisting it at the scalp and using the grip to steer Tina’s head. Tina tries to pry her hands free, but Jenna’s got both hands now, yanking side to side. Tina counters by going for the eyes, not clawing but pushing hard on Jenna’s brow ridge, trying to blind her. For a second, it’s just a snarl of arms, fingers, and gasping.

The audience has gone silent except for the breathing—theirs and the fighters. Lisa feels every sound: the slap of skin on mat, the hiss of breath, the tiny grunts of effort. Someone to her left is biting her lip, eyes wide, hand jammed between her own thighs.

They roll, and now Jenna is on top again, straddling Tina’s chest. Jenna grinds her hips down, pinning Tina’s arms under her knees. For a second, Jenna leans back and flexes, showing off. Tina uses the moment: she bucks her hips and twists, sending Jenna sprawling to the side. They scramble, but this time, Tina is faster; she hooks Jenna’s leg and pulls, flipping her onto her stomach.

Tina climbs onto Jenna’s back, looping her arms under Jenna’s armpits for a full nelson. She cranks up, arching Jenna’s back, and you can hear the strain in Jenna’s throat as she tries to shout but only manages a choking sound.

“Submit?” Tina asks, voice level.

Jenna shakes her head, wild-eyed.

So Tina clamps tighter, using her thighs to trap Jenna’s hips and her arms to torque Jenna’s shoulders. Jenna thrashes, then goes limp for a half second, lulling Tina into loosening up. Jenna whips her head back, smashing into Tina’s chin. Tina loses her grip. Jenna rolls, and now it’s a scramble for control—knees, elbows, sweat-slicked skin sliding over skin.

Somewhere in the melee, Jenna grabs for Tina’s breast and squeezes, hard. Tina yelps and tries to twist away, but Jenna keeps her grip, pinning Tina by the nipple. It’s brutal and mean, and the crowd responds with a mix of shocked gasps and low groans. Lisa feels a hot flush climb her neck, can’t tear her eyes away.

Tina retaliates by clawing at Jenna’s thigh, leaving red welts. They separate, both panting, faces flushed and wild.

Jenna: “Hurts, doesn’t it?”

Tina: “Not as much as losing will.”

They circle again, slower now. Sweat slicks both bodies, hair plastered to their faces. They close, clinch, and this time Tina goes for a trip, but Jenna’s ready; she reverses, wraps her arms around Tina’s waist, and lifts. For an instant, Tina is airborne—then Jenna slams her down, sprawling on top. Jenna hooks Tina’s legs with her own and starts to work her way up, inch by inch, until she’s fully mounted.

Tina twists, but Jenna grabs her hair and yanks her head up, then slaps her, open palm, across the face. Tina’s eyes flash, but she’s pinned—Jenna’s thighs clamped tight around her ribs, hands immobilizing her wrists.

“Submit,” Jenna pants, voice raw.

Tina bares her teeth. “No.”

Jenna shifts tactics. She leans down, mouth close to Tina’s ear, and whispers something no one can hear. Tina’s face goes blank for a second—then she bucks hard, but Jenna anticipates and rides it, never losing her grip.

This time, Jenna uses her full weight to pin Tina’s arms above her head, then slides up so she’s straddling Tina’s face, daring her to breathe, to fight. The move is obscene, and the crowd is dead silent. Lisa feels her own breath catch, thighs pressed tight together, unsure if she’s disgusted or desperately, humiliatingly turned on.

Tina holds out for a full thirty seconds, then, when Jenna shifts her weight, Tina tries a last-ditch escape—arch, twist, then clamp down with her teeth on the soft skin of Jenna’s inner thigh.

Jenna screams, jerks away, and in the chaos Tina manages to get free. They break, scramble, both slower now, legs shaking. Tina moves first, diving for Jenna’s knees, trying to force her down. Jenna lets herself fall backward, uses Tina’s momentum, and wraps her legs around Tina’s neck. She locks her ankles, squeezing. It’s a classic submission, but with a twist: Jenna grabs both of Tina’s hands, holds them tight, and forces Tina’s head deeper between her thighs.

Tina resists, face turning red, but the hold is perfect. There’s nothing to do but tap.

“Submit?” Jenna demands, voice sharp.

Tina hesitates, then slaps the mat, hard. “Submit.”

Jenna releases and rolls away, chest heaving, hair a halo of sweat. She stumbles to her feet and raises both fists, grinning like a maniac.

Ms. Hughes stands and nods, once. “Winner: Rodriguez.”

The room erupts—shouts, applause, laughter. Girls cluster around Jenna, slapping her back, some hugging her in the nude, not caring who sees. Tina sits up, rubs her neck, but smiles. The crowd parts to give her room, respect.

Lisa doesn’t move. She’s frozen, every muscle clenched, the heat between her legs impossible to ignore. She knows the others see it, that this is what they came for, but still. She can’t remember the last time she felt this alive.

Kelly appears at her side, breathless. “Holy shit, did you see that?”

Lisa nods, not trusting her voice.

Kelly grins. “You’d kill out there. Just saying.”

Lisa shakes her head, but she can’t help smiling. Her heart is still racing.

Jenna, now wrapped in her robe and holding court on the mat, locks eyes with Lisa across the room. For a second, there’s no one else. Jenna gives her a tiny, knowing nod, then returns to her admirers.

Lisa stands, legs weak, and edges out of the lounge. She makes it halfway to her room before she hears the next pair being called, voices echoing down the hall.

She knows she’ll be back.

-----

Lisa spends the rest of the morning orbiting her room. She showers again—hot, then cold—hoping to numb the afterglow of the fight. It doesn’t help. Her body is electric, skin hypersensitive, and the memory of the mat burns her mind in looping highlights: Jenna’s thighs, Tina’s blank surrender, the collective hush of sixty girls leaning in.

Kelly lounges on her bed, texting furiously. “Another match tonight,” she says, not looking up. “Apparently Amy’s up against Sarah. The psych grad versus the math machine. Could get ugly.”

Lisa’s stomach drops. “In the lounge?”

“Hallway,” Kelly grins. “Old-school. Word is, no rules except the basics. You want in?”

Lisa shakes her head, but doesn’t mean it. “Maybe.”

She tells herself she won’t go. That she’ll focus on homework, or maybe a walk outside the dorm. But when the first shout echoes down the hall, she’s already at the door, bare feet on linoleum, green robe knotted tight.

It starts at the far end, by the vending machines. Sarah Kim stands motionless, arms folded, back pressed to the cinderblock wall. She’s in her robe, hair up, face as blank as a chessboard. Amy Johnson approaches, barefoot and businesslike, a notepad in one hand and her robe askew. Amy is taller, pale, and moves like she’s late for a seminar.

The air is different than in the lounge. Tighter, closer, full of caffeine and the kind of anticipation that tastes like metal. Girls line the walls, shoulder to shoulder, the heat of bodies building until it’s humid as a locker room. Lisa keeps to the back at first, but every passing second draws her in, until she’s pressed between two upperclassmen who don’t seem to notice her at all.

Amy drops the notepad, lets her robe slide to her elbows, and smirks. “Interesting timing,” she says. “Testing my reflexes after study hours?”

Sarah doesn’t answer. She just steps forward, unties her sash, and lets the robe puddle at her feet. For a heartbeat, she’s statuesque: smooth skin, sinew, and perfect, geometric muscle. The crowd murmurs approval.

Amy shrugs her robe off. Her body is less defined, more willowy, but her green eyes burn with a private dare. She flexes her hands, cracks her knuckles, and then—they close the distance, silent.

The first contact is an afterthought. Sarah grabs Amy’s wrist, torques it, and spins her into the lockers. Amy hits with a clang, uses the rebound to pivot, and shoves Sarah back. Their arms tangle, hands like claws, and the sound of skin slapping skin ricochets down the hall.

Amy: “You telegraphed that grab. Left shoulder—always the left.”

Sarah says nothing, just sweeps Amy’s legs, sending her sprawling. Amy rolls, comes up crouched, and this time she feints—then dives for Sarah’s thighs, trying to force a takedown. Sarah sidesteps, grabs Amy by the hair, and yanks her off balance. Amy winces, but instead of pulling away, she hooks her arm behind Sarah’s knee, collapsing both to the floor. They tumble, then scramble, neither gaining a clear advantage.

There’s a ring of girls now, maybe twenty deep. Someone’s filming on a phone. Lisa, trapped at the edge, feels the air grow hotter, the press of hips and thighs and knees against her own. To her left, a girl is openly palming her breast through her shirt, breathing hard. To her right, two others are whispering bets, eyes glazed.

On the ground, Amy and Sarah are pure motion: hair, arms, nails, bare skin colliding. Sarah tries to pin, but Amy worms her way free, using her elbows and knees to gouge space. Amy manages to get behind Sarah, wraps her arm around Sarah’s neck, not quite choking but enough to turn her face red.

Sarah’s response is instant. She jams her thumb into the soft flesh of Amy’s inner arm, forcing the grip loose, then slams her elbow back into Amy’s ribs. Amy grunts, but tightens her grip, pulling Sarah down with her. It’s ugly and desperate, nothing like the gymnasts’ grace from before. This is ground-and-pound, grit and sweat, teeth bared.

Amy: “That’s more like it.”

Sarah responds by grabbing a handful of Amy’s breast, squeezing hard, twisting the nipple until Amy hisses in pain. There’s a ripple through the crowd—arousal, shock, or both. Lisa feels her own pulse in her fingertips. She’s never seen anything like this. No referees, no boundaries, just raw animal will.

Amy bites Sarah’s shoulder, hard. Not enough to draw blood, but enough to make Sarah’s whole body jolt. Sarah retaliates with a slap, open-handed, leaving a red print across Amy’s cheek. They break apart, both on their knees, gasping.

Amy: “You’re faster than I thought.”

Sarah: “You’re weaker than you pretend.” Voice flat, even.

Amy smirks. “Psychology isn’t about pretending. It’s about control.”

Sarah doesn’t respond, just launches forward, shoulder low. She drives Amy into the wall again, this time pinning her with an arm across the throat. Amy lunges for Sarah’s shoulder, fingers aiming to grip and twist, but Sarah anticipates the move. She ducks just in time, shifting her weight and countering with a swift elbow to Amy’s side. The crowd gasps as the impact sends a ripple through the two fighters, their bodies colliding with a force that echoes in the confined hallway. but Sarah weathers it, digging in, expression unchanged. Amy’s hands slide down Sarah’s body, searching for a soft spot. She finds it, between Sarah’s thighs, and rakes her nails upward. Sarah flinches, loses leverage, and Amy uses the opening to spin out, flipping Sarah over her own hip. They crash to the tile, Amy on top, straddling Sarah’s waist.

Amy goes for the pin, classic wrestling style, but Sarah is ready—she jams a finger into Amy’s armpit, then snakes her leg around Amy’s back. The move is so technical, so elegant, Lisa almost laughs. Instead, she moans, just softly, and hopes no one hears.

They roll again, now both slick with sweat. Amy’s hair hangs in her face, wild and red and beautiful; Sarah’s braid is coming undone, strands whipped out like a cat’s tail.

Amy: “You’re not going to win this, you know.”

Sarah: “I already am.”

Amy’s eyes narrow. She seizes Sarah’s face, fingers splaying across her jaw, then slides her hand down to Sarah’s collarbone, applying pressure just enough to elicit a gasp. The noise is raw, echoing through the charged air. Sarah retaliates, grabbing both of Amy’s wrists and wrenching them behind her back, then uses her legs to scissor Amy’s torso, compressing ribs. Amy gasps, arches, but can’t break free.

They’re moving down the hallway now, inch by inch, the crowd shifting with them. The corridor narrows by the bathroom door, the tile floor colder and harder. Lisa edges closer, pressed by the tide of bodies. She can smell sweat and shampoo and something darker—arousal, thick as fog.

Amy pulls a trick: she slams Sarah’s head against the tile, then bites her ear, savage and sudden. Sarah jerks, and for a split second Amy gets the upper hand. She twists, straddles Sarah’s chest, and shoves her head back, exposing her throat. Amy leans in, tongue flicking at the sweat-beaded skin, and whispers, “Submit?”

Sarah’s face is unreadable. She doesn’t answer. Instead, she twists her neck, slips out from under Amy’s grip, then grabs Amy’s hips and flips her—fast, almost violent. They hit the wall, bounce, and now Sarah is behind Amy, one arm across Amy’s chest, the other wrapped around her head. It’s not quite a choke, but it’s close.

Amy bucks, tries to grab Sarah’s hair, but Sarah tucks her chin and squeezes tighter. Amy’s feet scrabble for purchase, but the tile is too slick. She slams back with her head, hoping to stun Sarah, but Sarah rides it, unyielding. The silence is total; the entire dorm has stopped breathing.

Amy is fading, skin going pale, eyes wild.

Sarah: “Submit.”

Amy: “Not… yet.”

But her voice is fading. She tries one last maneuver—kicking back, catching Sarah’s shin, hoping to break the hold. It almost works. Sarah wobbles, loosens for a half second, and Amy slips down, landing hard on her tailbone. The impact is sharp enough to make Amy yelp, and for a second, both girls are still.

Then Sarah moves, cat-quick, pinning Amy’s arms to the ground. She leans over, hair falling across Amy’s face, lips almost touching Amy’s ear. “Now?”

Amy doesn’t answer. Instead, she clamps her teeth onto Sarah’s shoulder, biting deep. Sarah hisses, but doesn’t release. She tightens the pin, pressing her full weight onto Amy’s wrists, and slowly, inexorably, slides her body up, trapping Amy’s arms between their chests.

Amy struggles, but it’s over. She can’t move, can’t even twist. Sarah’s entire body is a vice.

Amy breathes, “Submit.”

Sarah releases, then rolls away, arms limp at her sides.

The crowd erupts—not with cheers, but with the sound of release: exhalations, laughter, the slap of skin against skin as several girls finish themselves in the aftermath. Lisa feels the orgasm in the air, a shudder running from her scalp to her toes. She wants to scream, to run, to fight someone herself.

Amy sits up, rubbing her wrists, and looks at Sarah with something like respect.

Amy: “Exceptional technique adaptation.”

Sarah, still breathing hard, just nods.

The hallway empties fast, girls scattering to their rooms, to the showers, to the next match. Lisa stays, knees trembling, hands shaking. She locks eyes with Sarah, who looks through her—no malice, just assessment. Amy walks past, brushing Lisa’s arm, her skin electric.

Back in her room, Kelly is already waiting, robe off, sprawled on the bed and smiling like a shark, pausing as she masturbates just long enough to ask, “Did you watch?”

Lisa doesn’t answer, but the flush on her face is enough.

Kelly grins. “You’ll be up next, you know. They’ll come for you.”

Lisa nods, heart pounding.

She’s ready.

News:

Recent Posts

Members Catfight Polls! / Medasterling24 vs princessava

General Discussion about Catfights / Re: Staged catfight

MMA, Martial Arts,Kickboxing and NHB / Re: Vanessa and the path to recovery

Live Action Clips / Michelle v Elizabeth crystal lingerie fight extended slow motion edit

Catfighting / Re: Dorm Dynamics

Producer Announcements / FOXY FIGHT NIGHT - Part 3: Kiara vs Sasha

Catfight Web Sites & Sources / Re: SuiteFights

Live Action Clips / Re: I am looking for an old we bring it video I can't find anywhere

Members Catfight Polls! / Re: Battle of Kougar Kaitlyn vs Milf maria

Catfighting / Re: Dorm Dynamics