91
Members Catfight Polls! / Re: Hotel Suite Catfight - Sinthia vs Bridget
« Last post by CuriousGent on Yesterday at 12:16:09 PM »This is a total domination
Recent Posts
92
General Discussion about Titfights & Sexfights / Re: Goth girl sexfight
« Last post by Boobee8008 on Yesterday at 12:10:05 PM »Would be fun if two goth girls had a sexfight. When they get sweaty towards the end and all that make up comes off. It could be a new experience. Them digging the painted nails into each others flesh. Somebody should so it.
I posted some artwork of two emo goth barmaids having a sexfight, on my Patreon.
Patreon.com/BooBee8008
93
MMA, Martial Arts,Kickboxing and NHB / Inferno
« Last post by bcw8 on Yesterday at 11:50:59 AM »That summer in Rome, I meant to pen poetry, but instead I sat at sidewalk cafes all day, smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee after coffee. At night I drank beer in the bars until I felt able to sleep. She worked in one of the bars, the one in the alley between the Pantheon and the Hotel Navona. She waited tables and tended bar and she was perhaps the most beautiful woman I had ever seen.
Renata was her name. Her hair was thick and lustrous and dark brown, and sometimes she would take it down and sweep it to one side and forward over her collarbone. Her cheekbones were regal with only a slight brush of rouge to heighten them. Her lips were full and smiled easily and brightly, the kind of smile that makes a man feel that he is capable of happiness. Her ears were delicate seashells pierced with hoops that dangled halfway to her shoulders. Her body beneath her light summer dress came to me in dreams.
In reality, her body belonged to brutish Giovanni, the owner of the bar. Their affair was mentioned only in whispers, how he fucked her as she writhed beneath him, how he made her cry out his name, instead of mine. And so her beauty became whorish to me. Her smile turned empty and false. Sin permeated her, and sin requires punishment.
I felt so detached as I told Giovanni’s wife, Juliana, of their affair. Juliana, normally sun-bronzed, was pale as I spoke. Her blue eyes sought escape from the lash of my tale. Her bosom heaved as she sobbed. She was young, barely older than Renata. Her own beauty was remarkable, her body both lithe and lush even when coiled and tense. I was like a priest in confession, but reversed to a cruel mirror: cold and without emotion, I was the confessor as she listened, I gave voice to the sin while she rejected forgiveness. I told her Renata had usurped her, that she bragged to the bar of how she sucked his massive cock and drained him so that he had nothing for his wife. I claimed that she strutted and said her skill in bed would lead Giovanni to divorce his wife and marry her.
And so I planted the seed of hatred and watched it bloom and flourish. I thought she would go to her husband and demand he end the affair.
I was wrong in my belief.
Juliana instead made a request of me. A devil’s bargain. To bear witness to vengeance.
I could not refuse her. She opened her blouse and lifted her skirt. I tried to imagine she was Renata as she took me inside her and I tasted the flesh of her full breasts, the rough texture of her jutting nipples. Her force overwhelmed me. She did not look back as she left.
I prevailed upon Renata to visit my flat Sunday afternoon upon the pretext of an artwork I had recently procured. She was a lover of painting and other fine arts, a discerning eye more mature than her tender years. Of course there was no painting; Juliana waited for her instead, her body trembling in her thin sundress. Renata saw her as the door closed. She glanced at me with knowing eyes as cold as the ice on the Tiber in winter. Her Judas.
Juliana slipped her shift from her shoulders and let it ripple down her magnificent body. This was her wordless challenge to her husband’s mistress.
Renata gathered her skirt in her grip and lifted her dress over her head. Her body was sleek and slender as a sword. This was her reply
The sun through the windows illuminated them, two Angels of hate. The glass was closed to keep their sounds from the street. The flat was thick with radiant heat and still air.
“Do you love him?” Juliana said. Renata nodded her head, only slightly. Juliana flinched.
“Does he…love you?”
“I don’t know. I do know this: I despise you.”
We believe the myths that Angels are symbols of love. Scripture tells us otherwise.
Juliana’s lips drew back from white teeth. Renata turned to me to award me her dress.
“Fight me,” Juliana said, her voice choked. Renata looked back to her.
“With pleasure,” she said.
The collision of their lithe young bodies was savage, nothing held back, a sound of a butcher’s shop. Renata was the heavier of the two, and I watched the hard flex of her ass as she turned Juliana and drove her into the back of my sofa. It is a solid piece; it slid from the impact but only a foot or so. Renata bent her backwards over it, one hand twisted full of hair, one hand a claw in the meat of her breast.
Juliana sobbed in pain. She pawed at Renata’s arm. She slashed nails at her face. Nails that caught. Renata stumbled back, her hand flying to her cheek.
“Bitch….” Renata snarled.
“You are a whore!” Juliana spat as she came back fully to her feet.
They clashed again and I moaned at the heavy thud of their breasts used as weapons. Their hands intertwined in mutual grip, their knuckles white, and they drew apart, only to slam their breasts together again. Juliana’s head lolled back in pain.
“He fucks my tits,” Renata hissed. “He smears his cum into my skin.” She drove her breasts into Juliana’s yet again, a savage thrust. Her nipples were rigid swords that stabbed into Juliana’s areolae. The firmness of her breasts was such that I could not see her fists doing much worse. Juliana’s breasts bulged outward as their centers flattened. She mewled as might a cat that was kicked with a heavy boot. Renata drove her knee up into her pussy and let her drop to her knees. Dark eyes gleaming, contemptuously she spat in Juliana’s golden hair.
“Did you think you would win back his cock?” she sneered at the fallen wife. “Fool! When he sees how I’ve ruined you he will leave you for certain then!”
Juliana’s blue eyes when she lifted them to Renata were mad with fury. From her knees she drove her tight small fist into her rival’s belly, low, into her womb not her guts. I was sure her aim was intentional. Renata buckled, her beautiful face transformed from arrogance to agony. She fell to her knees and as she landed Juliana’s hands plunged into her hair and flung her down, her cheekbone crunching first against the wooden plank of the floor.
As I watched, the wife mounted the bare back of the mistress, her pussy wet against her spine, and dragged back her head by her hair. Renata’s full breasts lifted off the floor, swaying like succulent fruit. Juliana twisted one hand with hair as a horsewoman would wrap the reins around her grip, and sank the nails of her freed hand into Renata’s right breast.
Oh, how Renata screamed - how she paid for her taunt about Giovanni’s cum on her chest! Juliana drew the mistress’s blood, scarlet trickles from slashes left by painted talons, paths that ran over the malformed curve of her breast and down her heaving ribs. Juliana pried at her rigid dark nipple. She twisted it like a stubborn key in a rusted lock. She demanded Renata’s surrender, her confession. Renata screamed and sobbed but shook her head in Juliana’s grip, saliva at the corners of her open lips.
A fight between such proud beauties can never end by such an easy submission. So much more is required.
Juliana smashed Renata’s face to the floor again and rose to her feet. The fingers of her right hand were streaked with blood; her pussy gleamed with lust for more. She bent for dark hair and used it to drag Renata crawling to my coffee table, knocking to the floor a cup and papers left there, draping her on her back across the heavy plank of oak. Renata’s head hung off the side, her hair flowing the floor, her breasts sloping slightly outward from her sternum. Juliana stood over her, breathing hard.
Then she dropped like a falcon, shrieking, her clenched fists doubled together to plunge into Renata’s lower belly again. Renata clutched at herself, hands pressed to her womb, her shoulders and knees lifted, then she sank back against the table as before as Juliana stood again. As Renata had spat on her, she now returned this humiliating favor, her spittle lacing Renata’s chest.
“So proud of your tits,” Juliana snarled. “He will never touch them again, whore!” Renata tried to roll to her side, to move, to escape, but the wife caught her hair again and wrenched her back to her back, twisting her neck cruelly. She dug her hand into the same breast that she had mauled - her strong fingers crushing it, kneading it, torturing it. She laughed with fierce mad glee as Renata writhed in agony.
Her laugh was cut off when the dark girl’s long leg lashed up into her face. She was flung sideways, grabbing at a chair upholstered in damask, blood from her torn lip spoiling the fabric’s elaborate pattern. Renata’s heel drove next into the back of her thigh. Juliana’s leg buckled badly, her body slumping forward over the arm of the chair. Renata landed on her back before she could escape, locking one arm around her throat. Her other hand shot between Juliana’s legs from behind.
Now in their masterpiece, the chiaroscuro of pain shifted and the dark tortured the light.
Savagely, Renata clawed Juliana’s pussy.
It is easy to see the wife as a wronged woman, but what of the mistress? She desires a man who goes home to another, another woman who makes love to him out of right rather than deceit. She envies the body that has taken so much more pleasure from him than she is allowed to take. She hates the person he lies next to, without checking his watch.
Hates her enough to violate her.
I watched Juliana’s pink-tipped breasts shudder as Renata’s fingernails slashed her labia and dug at her clit much as she had done to her rival’s dark nipple. I heard her strangled scream as Renata’s claw scored the walls of her vagina, seeking to scar the pleasure of her wedding night and every time since that she had laid with Giovanni. I watched Renata’s face, and I envisioned Hell.
With all her strength, Juliana cast her Demon aside. Renata hissed with unspent fury.
Were they human still? In form, yes; but in spirit?
They clashed again, slamming into the wall, staggering together into my small kitchen. My heart went to my mouth when Juliana’s flailing hand caught up the knife I had left on the counter, but Renata gripped her wrist and hammered it against the doorframe until Juliana’s fingers numbly opened and the blade clattered to the floor.
They locked together, face to face, breasts to breasts, arms wrapped around ribs. There was little difference in their strength, I think, but Renata had damaged Juliana’s wrist. She could not match the dark girl. She moaned as her husband’s lover crushed her breasts and bent her spine, as the arms that embraced him compressed her ribs. Renata panted, her breath in harsh ragged bursts. Juliana’s arms fell limp. Her head rolled back. Her blue eyes closed. I could not tell if she breathed at all.
Until her head lashed forward, her golden hair whipping, her forehead crunching into Renata’s face.
In my time in Rome, I had of course toured the Colosseum. I knew, while rare, that at times for the pleasure of the thirsty crowds women had been pitted there. My mind flitted to that time as they collapsed together in my claustrophobic kitchen, still skin to skin even though their embrace was broken. No gladiatrix of old could be more than them.
Juliana crawled away first, on one arm. She could not even put the weight of her torso on her injured wrist. Renata lay on her side. Blood from her nose pooled on the tile floor. Juliana stood, and stumbled to the bedroom. Renata’s dark hair veiled her face as she pulled herself up and shambled after her.
At the door, I saw the wife on my bed, her legs open in challenge to the mistress. “Call him,” she commanded me and when I thumbed my phone and held it out she slurred the words when it was answered. “Come to Dante’s now.” Thus was the prize summoned. Giovanni would see the end.
The mistress placed one knee on the bed and spat at her again, a gout of bloody saliva on her taut flat belly. The bed creaked under both their weight, a sound of sex but certainly not love.
Their hips scissored together. Their pussies sealed. Juliana moaned and I knew it was because her nail-slashed clit throbbed against her foe’s.
In my top drawer was a silken cord, as with willing partners I enjoy bondage. They were more than willing. I tied a slip knot in each end; I settled the loops over their heads; I pulled the knots tight at their throats. Juliana braced on her good wrist and pressed her forearm down on the cord midway. Renata mirrored her. They were bound together, physically now as well as emotionally, their breathing slow and shallow.
Their hips began to writhe. Their lips parted. Lower lips folded between teeth. Their bellies pulsed.
“Fuck me, whore,” Juliana rasped. “Fuck me like you fuck my husband. Let’s see who is the better woman.”
Blood from Renata’s nose ran over her mouth and down her throat. The cord dammed it briefly before it spilled over and ran in a rivulet between her breasts. “My clit will make yours shrivel, bitch.” She moaned this more than spoke it.
Their breathing was guttural, restricted by both the strangling cord and their desperate, grinding exertion. The hair fell across their faces, lank with the same sweat that slicked their naked bodies. Their chests heaved, their breasts swayed. Their rhythm was hypnotic in its viciousness. Their mixed juices spattered over their smooth-shaved mounds and their tensed thighs.
Both climaxed, more than once. I could tell each time, when their hips shuddered and their engorged nipples thickened even more. Neither relented.
The outer door opened and Giovanni’s footsteps matched the meter of their thrusts. His eyes swept the scene. His jaw tightened. He did not acknowledge me. Neither woman looked at him.
The bed creaked and shook like a small ship thrown to the rocks by a storm. Renata spoke, forcing her words through her noose. “Your wife’s…pussy…is losing…”
Juliana’s body rippled with the tremor of forced orgasm. Renata’s hips battered hers. Her head lolled against the cord’s hold. Had she been a boxer, she would be hanging on the ropes as her opponent beat her. But she was not finished. She fought back with savage thrusts. “Never,” she gasped. Giovanni took out his cock as his wife thrashed and his mistress moaned in erotic torment. Renata twisted in orgasm as Juliana’s body forced her once again to squirt.
Despite all I had witnessed, the savagery of their hand-to-hand fight paled next to this. They fought to breathe and they fucked beyond any dark corner of my imagination. I could not comprehend their endurance. Giovanni knelt on the bed next to them. He placed his hand on the cord to keep it taut and his two lovers’ freed hands both claimed his cock. I wondered at Juliana’s wrist but she was beyond pain now, as was her dark rival.
Together, they milked him until he came, his eruption like Vesuvius. The lava of his cum drove them both into a final spasm, a shared climax that ripped through them both.
One of them fell back.
She clawed at her noose. She sobbed for air.
She begged the other to stop in a broken voice.
The victress snarled her demand. The vanquished confessed, before God and witnesses.
“You win! You are better!” screamed Renata, as harsh as a crow’s cry.
Giovanni lifted Juliana, murmuring renewed vows as he carried her away.
I lingered as Renata sobbed, her face buried against the mattress, finally leaving her to stand at the windows to watch the unknowing street until darkness fell.
Eventually she stirred, and came to me, breathing softly, her nude body pressed against me. Her mouth sought mine. I understood that she needed this: to claim what shattered womanhood she could. She was still beautiful, even in defeat. Perhaps even more so. I held her all that night, both of us atoning for our sins.
Renata was her name. Her hair was thick and lustrous and dark brown, and sometimes she would take it down and sweep it to one side and forward over her collarbone. Her cheekbones were regal with only a slight brush of rouge to heighten them. Her lips were full and smiled easily and brightly, the kind of smile that makes a man feel that he is capable of happiness. Her ears were delicate seashells pierced with hoops that dangled halfway to her shoulders. Her body beneath her light summer dress came to me in dreams.
In reality, her body belonged to brutish Giovanni, the owner of the bar. Their affair was mentioned only in whispers, how he fucked her as she writhed beneath him, how he made her cry out his name, instead of mine. And so her beauty became whorish to me. Her smile turned empty and false. Sin permeated her, and sin requires punishment.
I felt so detached as I told Giovanni’s wife, Juliana, of their affair. Juliana, normally sun-bronzed, was pale as I spoke. Her blue eyes sought escape from the lash of my tale. Her bosom heaved as she sobbed. She was young, barely older than Renata. Her own beauty was remarkable, her body both lithe and lush even when coiled and tense. I was like a priest in confession, but reversed to a cruel mirror: cold and without emotion, I was the confessor as she listened, I gave voice to the sin while she rejected forgiveness. I told her Renata had usurped her, that she bragged to the bar of how she sucked his massive cock and drained him so that he had nothing for his wife. I claimed that she strutted and said her skill in bed would lead Giovanni to divorce his wife and marry her.
And so I planted the seed of hatred and watched it bloom and flourish. I thought she would go to her husband and demand he end the affair.
I was wrong in my belief.
Juliana instead made a request of me. A devil’s bargain. To bear witness to vengeance.
I could not refuse her. She opened her blouse and lifted her skirt. I tried to imagine she was Renata as she took me inside her and I tasted the flesh of her full breasts, the rough texture of her jutting nipples. Her force overwhelmed me. She did not look back as she left.
I prevailed upon Renata to visit my flat Sunday afternoon upon the pretext of an artwork I had recently procured. She was a lover of painting and other fine arts, a discerning eye more mature than her tender years. Of course there was no painting; Juliana waited for her instead, her body trembling in her thin sundress. Renata saw her as the door closed. She glanced at me with knowing eyes as cold as the ice on the Tiber in winter. Her Judas.
Juliana slipped her shift from her shoulders and let it ripple down her magnificent body. This was her wordless challenge to her husband’s mistress.
Renata gathered her skirt in her grip and lifted her dress over her head. Her body was sleek and slender as a sword. This was her reply
The sun through the windows illuminated them, two Angels of hate. The glass was closed to keep their sounds from the street. The flat was thick with radiant heat and still air.
“Do you love him?” Juliana said. Renata nodded her head, only slightly. Juliana flinched.
“Does he…love you?”
“I don’t know. I do know this: I despise you.”
We believe the myths that Angels are symbols of love. Scripture tells us otherwise.
Juliana’s lips drew back from white teeth. Renata turned to me to award me her dress.
“Fight me,” Juliana said, her voice choked. Renata looked back to her.
“With pleasure,” she said.
The collision of their lithe young bodies was savage, nothing held back, a sound of a butcher’s shop. Renata was the heavier of the two, and I watched the hard flex of her ass as she turned Juliana and drove her into the back of my sofa. It is a solid piece; it slid from the impact but only a foot or so. Renata bent her backwards over it, one hand twisted full of hair, one hand a claw in the meat of her breast.
Juliana sobbed in pain. She pawed at Renata’s arm. She slashed nails at her face. Nails that caught. Renata stumbled back, her hand flying to her cheek.
“Bitch….” Renata snarled.
“You are a whore!” Juliana spat as she came back fully to her feet.
They clashed again and I moaned at the heavy thud of their breasts used as weapons. Their hands intertwined in mutual grip, their knuckles white, and they drew apart, only to slam their breasts together again. Juliana’s head lolled back in pain.
“He fucks my tits,” Renata hissed. “He smears his cum into my skin.” She drove her breasts into Juliana’s yet again, a savage thrust. Her nipples were rigid swords that stabbed into Juliana’s areolae. The firmness of her breasts was such that I could not see her fists doing much worse. Juliana’s breasts bulged outward as their centers flattened. She mewled as might a cat that was kicked with a heavy boot. Renata drove her knee up into her pussy and let her drop to her knees. Dark eyes gleaming, contemptuously she spat in Juliana’s golden hair.
“Did you think you would win back his cock?” she sneered at the fallen wife. “Fool! When he sees how I’ve ruined you he will leave you for certain then!”
Juliana’s blue eyes when she lifted them to Renata were mad with fury. From her knees she drove her tight small fist into her rival’s belly, low, into her womb not her guts. I was sure her aim was intentional. Renata buckled, her beautiful face transformed from arrogance to agony. She fell to her knees and as she landed Juliana’s hands plunged into her hair and flung her down, her cheekbone crunching first against the wooden plank of the floor.
As I watched, the wife mounted the bare back of the mistress, her pussy wet against her spine, and dragged back her head by her hair. Renata’s full breasts lifted off the floor, swaying like succulent fruit. Juliana twisted one hand with hair as a horsewoman would wrap the reins around her grip, and sank the nails of her freed hand into Renata’s right breast.
Oh, how Renata screamed - how she paid for her taunt about Giovanni’s cum on her chest! Juliana drew the mistress’s blood, scarlet trickles from slashes left by painted talons, paths that ran over the malformed curve of her breast and down her heaving ribs. Juliana pried at her rigid dark nipple. She twisted it like a stubborn key in a rusted lock. She demanded Renata’s surrender, her confession. Renata screamed and sobbed but shook her head in Juliana’s grip, saliva at the corners of her open lips.
A fight between such proud beauties can never end by such an easy submission. So much more is required.
Juliana smashed Renata’s face to the floor again and rose to her feet. The fingers of her right hand were streaked with blood; her pussy gleamed with lust for more. She bent for dark hair and used it to drag Renata crawling to my coffee table, knocking to the floor a cup and papers left there, draping her on her back across the heavy plank of oak. Renata’s head hung off the side, her hair flowing the floor, her breasts sloping slightly outward from her sternum. Juliana stood over her, breathing hard.
Then she dropped like a falcon, shrieking, her clenched fists doubled together to plunge into Renata’s lower belly again. Renata clutched at herself, hands pressed to her womb, her shoulders and knees lifted, then she sank back against the table as before as Juliana stood again. As Renata had spat on her, she now returned this humiliating favor, her spittle lacing Renata’s chest.
“So proud of your tits,” Juliana snarled. “He will never touch them again, whore!” Renata tried to roll to her side, to move, to escape, but the wife caught her hair again and wrenched her back to her back, twisting her neck cruelly. She dug her hand into the same breast that she had mauled - her strong fingers crushing it, kneading it, torturing it. She laughed with fierce mad glee as Renata writhed in agony.
Her laugh was cut off when the dark girl’s long leg lashed up into her face. She was flung sideways, grabbing at a chair upholstered in damask, blood from her torn lip spoiling the fabric’s elaborate pattern. Renata’s heel drove next into the back of her thigh. Juliana’s leg buckled badly, her body slumping forward over the arm of the chair. Renata landed on her back before she could escape, locking one arm around her throat. Her other hand shot between Juliana’s legs from behind.
Now in their masterpiece, the chiaroscuro of pain shifted and the dark tortured the light.
Savagely, Renata clawed Juliana’s pussy.
It is easy to see the wife as a wronged woman, but what of the mistress? She desires a man who goes home to another, another woman who makes love to him out of right rather than deceit. She envies the body that has taken so much more pleasure from him than she is allowed to take. She hates the person he lies next to, without checking his watch.
Hates her enough to violate her.
I watched Juliana’s pink-tipped breasts shudder as Renata’s fingernails slashed her labia and dug at her clit much as she had done to her rival’s dark nipple. I heard her strangled scream as Renata’s claw scored the walls of her vagina, seeking to scar the pleasure of her wedding night and every time since that she had laid with Giovanni. I watched Renata’s face, and I envisioned Hell.
With all her strength, Juliana cast her Demon aside. Renata hissed with unspent fury.
Were they human still? In form, yes; but in spirit?
They clashed again, slamming into the wall, staggering together into my small kitchen. My heart went to my mouth when Juliana’s flailing hand caught up the knife I had left on the counter, but Renata gripped her wrist and hammered it against the doorframe until Juliana’s fingers numbly opened and the blade clattered to the floor.
They locked together, face to face, breasts to breasts, arms wrapped around ribs. There was little difference in their strength, I think, but Renata had damaged Juliana’s wrist. She could not match the dark girl. She moaned as her husband’s lover crushed her breasts and bent her spine, as the arms that embraced him compressed her ribs. Renata panted, her breath in harsh ragged bursts. Juliana’s arms fell limp. Her head rolled back. Her blue eyes closed. I could not tell if she breathed at all.
Until her head lashed forward, her golden hair whipping, her forehead crunching into Renata’s face.
In my time in Rome, I had of course toured the Colosseum. I knew, while rare, that at times for the pleasure of the thirsty crowds women had been pitted there. My mind flitted to that time as they collapsed together in my claustrophobic kitchen, still skin to skin even though their embrace was broken. No gladiatrix of old could be more than them.
Juliana crawled away first, on one arm. She could not even put the weight of her torso on her injured wrist. Renata lay on her side. Blood from her nose pooled on the tile floor. Juliana stood, and stumbled to the bedroom. Renata’s dark hair veiled her face as she pulled herself up and shambled after her.
At the door, I saw the wife on my bed, her legs open in challenge to the mistress. “Call him,” she commanded me and when I thumbed my phone and held it out she slurred the words when it was answered. “Come to Dante’s now.” Thus was the prize summoned. Giovanni would see the end.
The mistress placed one knee on the bed and spat at her again, a gout of bloody saliva on her taut flat belly. The bed creaked under both their weight, a sound of sex but certainly not love.
Their hips scissored together. Their pussies sealed. Juliana moaned and I knew it was because her nail-slashed clit throbbed against her foe’s.
In my top drawer was a silken cord, as with willing partners I enjoy bondage. They were more than willing. I tied a slip knot in each end; I settled the loops over their heads; I pulled the knots tight at their throats. Juliana braced on her good wrist and pressed her forearm down on the cord midway. Renata mirrored her. They were bound together, physically now as well as emotionally, their breathing slow and shallow.
Their hips began to writhe. Their lips parted. Lower lips folded between teeth. Their bellies pulsed.
“Fuck me, whore,” Juliana rasped. “Fuck me like you fuck my husband. Let’s see who is the better woman.”
Blood from Renata’s nose ran over her mouth and down her throat. The cord dammed it briefly before it spilled over and ran in a rivulet between her breasts. “My clit will make yours shrivel, bitch.” She moaned this more than spoke it.
Their breathing was guttural, restricted by both the strangling cord and their desperate, grinding exertion. The hair fell across their faces, lank with the same sweat that slicked their naked bodies. Their chests heaved, their breasts swayed. Their rhythm was hypnotic in its viciousness. Their mixed juices spattered over their smooth-shaved mounds and their tensed thighs.
Both climaxed, more than once. I could tell each time, when their hips shuddered and their engorged nipples thickened even more. Neither relented.
The outer door opened and Giovanni’s footsteps matched the meter of their thrusts. His eyes swept the scene. His jaw tightened. He did not acknowledge me. Neither woman looked at him.
The bed creaked and shook like a small ship thrown to the rocks by a storm. Renata spoke, forcing her words through her noose. “Your wife’s…pussy…is losing…”
Juliana’s body rippled with the tremor of forced orgasm. Renata’s hips battered hers. Her head lolled against the cord’s hold. Had she been a boxer, she would be hanging on the ropes as her opponent beat her. But she was not finished. She fought back with savage thrusts. “Never,” she gasped. Giovanni took out his cock as his wife thrashed and his mistress moaned in erotic torment. Renata twisted in orgasm as Juliana’s body forced her once again to squirt.
Despite all I had witnessed, the savagery of their hand-to-hand fight paled next to this. They fought to breathe and they fucked beyond any dark corner of my imagination. I could not comprehend their endurance. Giovanni knelt on the bed next to them. He placed his hand on the cord to keep it taut and his two lovers’ freed hands both claimed his cock. I wondered at Juliana’s wrist but she was beyond pain now, as was her dark rival.
Together, they milked him until he came, his eruption like Vesuvius. The lava of his cum drove them both into a final spasm, a shared climax that ripped through them both.
One of them fell back.
She clawed at her noose. She sobbed for air.
She begged the other to stop in a broken voice.
The victress snarled her demand. The vanquished confessed, before God and witnesses.
“You win! You are better!” screamed Renata, as harsh as a crow’s cry.
Giovanni lifted Juliana, murmuring renewed vows as he carried her away.
I lingered as Renata sobbed, her face buried against the mattress, finally leaving her to stand at the windows to watch the unknowing street until darkness fell.
Eventually she stirred, and came to me, breathing softly, her nude body pressed against me. Her mouth sought mine. I understood that she needed this: to claim what shattered womanhood she could. She was still beautiful, even in defeat. Perhaps even more so. I held her all that night, both of us atoning for our sins.
94
Sexfighting and Titfighting / Re: Malavika V. Mumaith - Busty Buxoms Battle (Bhabhi Wars)
« Last post by Surix on Yesterday at 11:48:03 AM »As an deep brown skinned Indian origin person and as a lover of Sexfight fiction ,i cant tell u enough how glad i am to see Indian south asian representation here and Mumaith is SUPER HOT.
The story is hot!
Cheers
I just would LOOOOOVE to see u write stories which r not based on celebrities though .
Would love to see you write a story with a hot busty deep brown/dark skinned Indian south asian woman who is a
entrepreneur but also a globe trotting secret spy /sexfighter who protects rainforests ,Mother Nature
The story is hot!
Cheers
I just would LOOOOOVE to see u write stories which r not based on celebrities though .
Would love to see you write a story with a hot busty deep brown/dark skinned Indian south asian woman who is a
entrepreneur but also a globe trotting secret spy /sexfighter who protects rainforests ,Mother Nature
95
Sexfighting and Titfighting / Re: The Gift
« Last post by Surix on Yesterday at 11:43:17 AM »Catharsis ,I cant tell you enough how close The Rowenna Hunter Series is to my heart cos of multiple reasons.
1. I am a voracious reader of mainstream fantasy with heavy doses of magix ,intrigue ,sorcery and quests
and a huge buff of anything to do with magix,sorcery elements in stories.
2. I am a passionate lover of detailed,superbly written sexfights and memorable characters .
I LOVED Rowenna ,her love for Kyle ,,her bisexuality ,her bisensuality ,her sexual awakening towards women and the hot sexfights she has .across both chapters ( The Gift +Consequences).
I cant tell you how much i have wished for you to build this universe further and further ..
There is HUUUUUGE potential here for a epic sexfight fantasy story.
1. I am a voracious reader of mainstream fantasy with heavy doses of magix ,intrigue ,sorcery and quests
and a huge buff of anything to do with magix,sorcery elements in stories.
2. I am a passionate lover of detailed,superbly written sexfights and memorable characters .
I LOVED Rowenna ,her love for Kyle ,,her bisexuality ,her bisensuality ,her sexual awakening towards women and the hot sexfights she has .across both chapters ( The Gift +Consequences).
I cant tell you how much i have wished for you to build this universe further and further ..
There is HUUUUUGE potential here for a epic sexfight fantasy story.
96
General Discussion about Catfights / Re: Do women like to talk about catfights?
« Last post by Jupiter on Yesterday at 11:41:20 AM »Original question...... Do women like to talk about catfights?
Catfights they've watched, talking to other women, a resounding yes.
Catfights they've watched, and talking to males, it depends on the male. If it's a good friend, or spouse, they probably will talk.
Catfights they've been in, talking to other women, mostly yes, especially if they've won.
Catfights they've been in, but lost not so much, that includes talking to women and men.
I've also found it depends on their age. Most young women, between 18 and 24, will generally talk both about catfights they've watched, and been in. From around 25 to 35, they're seem to be a bit more reluctant to talk. From around 36 upwards, most don't want to talk about it. Although it depends on the woman herself.
I well remember, back in the mid 1990s, mentioning something about a now closed place, that there had been a fight between two women there one afternoon. The woman I was talking to, suddenly exclaimed, "Two women fighting! Jeepers! I wish I was there!" She was in her mid forties, she then admitted she had an interest in seeing two women fighting. she spoke openly about it, and admitted she had been in a fight with a woman when she was 38 years old,
Catfights they've watched, talking to other women, a resounding yes.
Catfights they've watched, and talking to males, it depends on the male. If it's a good friend, or spouse, they probably will talk.
Catfights they've been in, talking to other women, mostly yes, especially if they've won.
Catfights they've been in, but lost not so much, that includes talking to women and men.
I've also found it depends on their age. Most young women, between 18 and 24, will generally talk both about catfights they've watched, and been in. From around 25 to 35, they're seem to be a bit more reluctant to talk. From around 36 upwards, most don't want to talk about it. Although it depends on the woman herself.
I well remember, back in the mid 1990s, mentioning something about a now closed place, that there had been a fight between two women there one afternoon. The woman I was talking to, suddenly exclaimed, "Two women fighting! Jeepers! I wish I was there!" She was in her mid forties, she then admitted she had an interest in seeing two women fighting. she spoke openly about it, and admitted she had been in a fight with a woman when she was 38 years old,
97
Members Catfight Polls! / Re: Annette Walters vs FieryHouseWife
« Last post by Sinthia B on Yesterday at 11:39:28 AM »Tough call, but I’ve got Annette. She’s gonna show that she’s more fiery than even TheFieryHouseWifeWho cares what you think, Bridget? You are in a poll but won’t even show up to fight. You are irrelevant.
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Members Catfight Polls! / Re: Nasty Brawl - Mia Vs Viktoria
« Last post by Melinda (Mia) Isabella on Yesterday at 11:34:55 AM »The initial collision and punches thrown from both of us have landed brutally on both of our faces as its sent both our bodies jolting backwards slightly but my left hand has still got a deep hold on the fabric as well as the bulging fatty flesh of your right cow tit when all of a sudden "Uuuuuughhh you fucking BITCH!" I feel the claws from your right hand raking down my exposed massive left breast as youve grabbed your on handful of my meaty breast flesh with your claws on your right hand as our bodies are jerked back together from the strength and deep stabbing grip we both have on one each others one huge breast and fabric from the one piece and as I glare into your eyes with utter disgust and hatred, it doesnt surpirse me that your glaring right back at me with the same disgust and hatred, when I quickly raise up my right arm and fist and almost at the same time as your left fist when it comes hooking around slamming hard into the side of my face not once, not twice but three hard times "Aaargghh! Aaargggh! Aaarggghh!" my own right fist that Ive sent crashing hard straight forward into your face also three hard vicious times "Bamm! Bamm! Bamm!!" Yt
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General Discussion about Catfights / Re: Weakest catfighters?
« Last post by Jupiter on Yesterday at 11:12:27 AM »i find this question a bit odd.
There are weak women, and strong women in all countries.
I have Indian women friends. While none of them have been in a catfight, one of them did say, "If I did get into a fight with another woman, she would know it."
Another of my Indian women friends, did say she could defend herself, but wouldn't last long in a prearranged catfight.
A Chinese woman I worked with, many years ago, said she wouldn't think twice about fighting another woman, if she had to,
I've only ever worked with two Muslim women, and that was many years ago, when i was quite young. I remember joking about how some women fight. One of the Muslim women called me aside, during our lunch break. This is what she told me. "It's frowned upon for us (Muslim) women to fight, it does happen. We fight the same way like other women do. Pulling hair, kicking, scratching with our fingernails, slapping and punching. Most fights, don't last long, we're usually parted. We have strong women, and weak women, just like everywhere else. I've never been in a fight with another woman, but I could fight if I had to." (I'm not sure which country they were originally from)
Strangely, it was a British woman who admitted she wouldn't know what to do if another woman wanted a fight with her.
Another woman, also British, and looked like a doll that would shatter, if she tripped over, was quite blatant. "If I had a fight with another woman, I could certainly stand my ground. even if she won, I would have made a mess on her, by the time it was over. I my look delicate, but don't judge me."
I don't believe there is a straight answer to this question.
There are weak women, and strong women in all countries.
I have Indian women friends. While none of them have been in a catfight, one of them did say, "If I did get into a fight with another woman, she would know it."
Another of my Indian women friends, did say she could defend herself, but wouldn't last long in a prearranged catfight.
A Chinese woman I worked with, many years ago, said she wouldn't think twice about fighting another woman, if she had to,
I've only ever worked with two Muslim women, and that was many years ago, when i was quite young. I remember joking about how some women fight. One of the Muslim women called me aside, during our lunch break. This is what she told me. "It's frowned upon for us (Muslim) women to fight, it does happen. We fight the same way like other women do. Pulling hair, kicking, scratching with our fingernails, slapping and punching. Most fights, don't last long, we're usually parted. We have strong women, and weak women, just like everywhere else. I've never been in a fight with another woman, but I could fight if I had to." (I'm not sure which country they were originally from)
Strangely, it was a British woman who admitted she wouldn't know what to do if another woman wanted a fight with her.
Another woman, also British, and looked like a doll that would shatter, if she tripped over, was quite blatant. "If I had a fight with another woman, I could certainly stand my ground. even if she won, I would have made a mess on her, by the time it was over. I my look delicate, but don't judge me."
I don't believe there is a straight answer to this question.
100
Sexfighting and Titfighting / Re: Teacher's Revenge
« Last post by Surix on Yesterday at 11:12:00 AM »I loved the sexfight element in the story .
I hope u pen a sequel.
I hope u pen a sequel.
