I’m Dave, fifty-fuckin’-five, and this bar’s my cesspit—a dump where the lights hum, the floor’s a sticky mess, and the air’s thick with booze and desperation. I don’t call the cops when shit gets ugly—I stoke the fire, let the hellcats slug it out, and claim my prize. Loser’s mine first—free use, as they say now; pussy, ass, or mouth, my choice, as I say more plainly—then it’s a hundred bucks a pop for any horny prick in the room who wants a turn. Tonight’s a goddamn prizefight: Christine versus Anna, two broads tearin’ into each other over Tom’s debt to Adam. I’m behind the bar, slingin’ shots and sizin’ up the chaos.
The place is jammed—bikers, drunks, lowlifes, all droolin’ for the show. Word’s spread: Tom’s in deep to Adam, and Adam’s deal is Christine fights Anna, best of seven rounds. Christine wins, debt’s erased. Anna wins, Christine’s their fuck-slave till Tom pays—and Adam’s yappin’ about breedin’ her “childbearin’ hips.” The crowd’s buzzin’, bottles clankin’, tension so thick you could cut it with a rusty blade.
Christine stomps in with Tom, 40 years old, 5’6”, 190 pounds of brunette heft. Her gym shorts and tank top cling to 40DD tits, a belly roll that jiggles, and an ass that could smother a man. Hair’s tied back, face says “housewife,” but her eyes are steel—like this isn’t her first rodeo, like she’s cracked heads before. Tom’s 45, a fat slob with a gut spillin’ over his belt, red-faced and twitchy. Then Anna slides in with Adam—35, 5’6”, 155 pounds of lean redhead muscle. Tight leggings and sports bra show off 34C tits, a flat belly, and thighs like iron. Adam’s a 35-year-old sleaze—slick hair, gold chain, smirkin’ like he’s already won, mutterin’ about how Christine’s “gonna have his son before that fucker pays off his debt and gets her back.”
I climb the bar, boots scrapin’, and yell, “Shut the fuck up, you degenerates! Tonight’s Christine versus Anna, seven rounds, first to four wins. No weapons, no help, no rules—fight till one taps or drops. Christine wins, Tom’s debt’s gone. Anna wins, Christine’s their bitch—Adam’s plannin’ to knock her up. Loser’s mine first—wherever I damn well please—then a hundred a turn for you pigs. Agreed?”
Christine nods, fierce. Anna sneers, flexin’. Tom and Adam bark their “yeahs,” and the crowd roars, fists poundin’. I hop down, point to the pit by the pool table. “Strip, bitches. Let’s see the meat.”
Christine rips off her tank, those massive tits bouncin’—dark nipples stiff. Shorts hit the floor, showin’ thick thighs and a bushy snatch. Anna strips slow, teasin’—sports bra off, perky tits juttin’, leggings down to a shaved pussy. Naked, they glare, bodies primed, and the room’s a powder keg.
“Round one—go!” I shout, and they collide.
Christine swings a heavy fist, smashin’ Anna’s jaw—redhead staggers, spittin’. Anna ducks, snarls, “Flabby fuckin’ cow!” and slams a punch into Christine’s gut, makin’ that belly roll quake. Christine grabs Anna’s hair, yanks her head back, and drives a knee into her ribs—crunch. Anna gasps, twistin’ free, and kicks Christine’s thigh, sendin’ her stumblin’. Tom’s bellowin’, “Pound her, Chrissy! Show that prick Adam who’s boss!” Adam’s screamin’,
“Break that fat sow, Anna! Tom’s gonna cry when you win!”
Christine charges, tackles Anna to the floor, and straddles her—those 40DDs swayin’ as she hammers fists into Anna’s face. Anna bucks, claws rakin’ Christine’s tits—nails diggin’ into soft flesh, twistin’ nipples till they’re red and raw. “Gonna rip these udders off!” Anna screeches, squeezin’ a tit till Christine roars. Christine slams a fist into Anna’s left breast—flattens it, makin’ Anna yelp—and grabs both, clawin’ deep, nails scrapin’. Anna shrieks, kneein’ Christine’s ribs, but Christine shifts, lockin’ her in a headlock.
Tom’s roarin’, “Choke her out, Chrissy! Adam’s gonna watch his slut tap!” Adam’s yellin’, “Fight, Anna! Don’t let that pig beat you—Tom’s a fuckin’ loser!” Anna claws Christine’s arms, thrashin’, but Christine squeezes—face purple, eyes bulgin’. “Tap, you skinny bitch!” Christine growls. Anna’s hand slaps the floor, weak. Round one: Christine.
Christine stands, kickin’ Anna’s side. “Gonna watch Dave ream that ass,” she taunts. Tom’s grinnin’, shoutin’, “That’s my girl! Adam, your trophy’s trash!” Adam’s cursin’, “Get up, Anna! Don’t let that cow win!” Anna rolls over, clutchin’ her tits, glarin’.
“Round two!” Anna’s up quick, pissed, and catches Christine with a spinning kick to the head—Christine reels, blood tricklin’. Anna pounces, fists bustin’ Christine’s lip, blackenin’ an eye. “Saggy fuckin’ whore!” Anna screams, grabbin’ Christine’s tits and twistin’—nails sinkin’ in, nipples stretchin’. Christine shoves her off, swings a fist—misses. Anna ducks, slams a knee into Christine’s chest—those 40DDs bounce, bruised. Anna mounts her, clawin’ her tits—fingers diggin’, pullin’ till Christine howls.
Adam’s hollerin’, “Rip her apart, Anna! Tom’s gonna lose his bitch!” Tom’s screamin’, “Get up, Chrissy! Don’t let that twig beat you—Adam’s a punk!” Christine bucks, rolls, and catches Anna with a fist to the tit—smashes it flat, Anna gasps. Christine scrambles up, grabs Anna’s arms, and stomps her chest—heel mashin’ a breast, Anna screamin’. Anna twists free, locks Christine in a choke—arm tight, Christine’s face red, tits heavin’. “Say it, pig!” Anna snarls. Christine taps, gaspin’. Round two: Anna.
Anna stands, spittin’ on Christine. “Gonna watch ‘em fuck you stupid,” she hisses. Adam’s laughin’, “That’s my girl! Tom, your wife’s done!” Tom’s red-faced, yellin’, “She ain’t out, you prick! Chrissy’s gonna bury her!”
“Round three!” Anna rushes, smirkin’, but Christine sidesteps, grabs her arm, and slams a fist into her tit—nailin’ the nipple, makin’ it swell. Christine tackles her, pins her down, and mauls her breasts—fingers sinkin’ in, twistin’, pullin’ till Anna’s screamin’, “Fuckin’ sow!” Christine smirks, rakin’ nails over Anna’s chest, leavin’ red streaks. Anna bucks, kneein’ Christine’s tits—mashin’ ‘em, makin’ her grunt.
Tom’s shoutin’, “Crush her, Chrissy! Adam’s gonna eat shit!” Adam’s bellowin’, “Fight back, Anna! Don’t let that tub win!” They roll, Anna’s hands clawin’ Christine’s tits, squeezin’ till they’re purple, while Christine grabs Anna’s, twistin’ raw. Christine shifts, locks Anna’s arms, wrenchin’—shoulder pops, Anna shrieks, tappin’. Round three: Christine.
“Gonna love seein’ that cock in your throat,” Christine laughs, stompin’ Anna’s tit. Tom’s cheerin’, “That’s it, babe! Adam’s a fuckin’ fool!” Adam’s snarlin’, “Get up, Anna! Don’t let Tom gloat!”
“Round four!” Anna’s hurt but dodges Christine’s swing, kicks her knee—Christine buckles. Anna straddles her, claws her tits—nails diggin’ deep, blood beadin’. “Fat fuckin’ slut!” Anna yells, slammin’ a fist into Christine’s chest—tits flatten, Christine roars. Anna grabs her hair, smashes her face into a table—nose cracks, blood flows. She flips Christine, rakes her tits—nails scrapin’, nipples twistin’.
Adam’s screamin’, “Finish her, Anna! Tom’s gonna watch her break!” Tom’s yellin’, “Get up, Chrissy! Adam’s a dead man!” Christine claws Anna’s thighs, pulls her down, and they roll—Christine’s hand mauls Anna’s tits, twistin’, while Anna claws back, squeezin’ Christine’s raw. Anna locks Christine’s neck in a choke—Christine’s eyes bulge, tits floppin’ as she taps. Round four: Anna. Tied.
Anna kicks Christine’s ribs. “Gonna watch ‘em breed you,” she sneers. Adam’s grinnin’, “She’s mine, Tom! You’re fucked!” Tom’s roarin’, “Not yet, asshole! Chrissy’s comin’ back!”
“Round five!” Christine catches Anna’s punch, twists her arm, and smashes a fist into her tit—flattens it, Anna yelps. Christine tackles her, pins her face-down, and claws her breasts—nails rippin’ skin, twistin’. Anna screams, bucks, and knees Christine’s chest—tits bruise, Christine snarls. Christine grabs Anna’s arms, stomps her tits—heel grindin’, Anna sobbin’.
Tom’s hollerin’, “Break her, Chrissy! Adam’s gonna choke on it!” Adam’s yellin’, “Fight, Anna! Don’t let that hog win!” Christine’s hand twists Anna’s nipples, pullin’, while Anna claws Christine’s tits, squeezin’. Christine slams Anna’s head down—thud—locks a choke. Anna gags, taps. Round five: Christine.
“Round six!” Anna dodges Christine’s swing, kicks her ribs—Christine gasps. Anna mounts her, claws her tits—nails sinkin’, twistin’—then jams a hand at Christine’s chest, clawin’ nipples raw. “Take it, whore!” Anna yells. Christine roars, bucks her off, grabs Anna’s tits—twists ‘em purple, rips at skin.
Adam’s screamin’, “End her, Anna! Tom’s a bitch!” Tom’s yellin’, “Rip her, Chrissy! Adam’s toast!” They roll, Christine’s fist mashin’ Anna’s tit, Anna’s nails rakin’ Christine’s chest. Anna locks Christine’s arm—crack, elbow bends—Christine taps, howlin’. Round six: Anna. Three each.
“Final round!” Both are wrecks—Christine’s face swollen, tits mangled; Anna’s chest raw, shoulder fucked. They crash—fists smashin’ tits, knees slammin’ ribs. Christine claws Anna’s breasts, twistin’—Anna screams, rips at Christine’s. They hit the floor, Christine’s hand jammin’ at Anna’s tit—maulin’ it—Anna’s clawin’ Christine’s, both yellin’, “Fuckin’ break!” Tom’s roarin’, “Finish her, Chrissy! Adam’s done!” Adam’s screamin’, “Win, Anna! Tom’s a loser!”
Christine mounts Anna, slams her head—thud, thud—locks a choke. Anna thrashes, gags, out cold. Round seven: Christine wins.
Crowd explodes. Christine stands, kickin’ Anna one last time. “Debt’s done, bitch.” Tom’s cheerin’, “That’s my wife! Fuck you, Adam!” Adam’s fumin’, silent.
I step up, cock hard. “My turn, Anna.” She’s groanin’ as I drag her to a table, bend her over—crowd chantin’, “Fuck her!” Jeans drop, my cut eight inches plows home in one mean-spirited stroke. She groans, her feet shifting on the dirty floor, and I make a show of working her. My hands on her tight hips, thinking about whether I want to have another kid in this world. “Nah,” I say to myself, before pulling out and rammin’ my cock up her ass. Anna screams like she’s been…well, like she just got her ass fucked by a bar owner with the morals of a warlord, and I pound away like a savage, cum blastin’ deep as she hisses and screams, still bent over the table. “Sweet fuckin’ hole,” I grunt, pullin’ out.
Adam tosses a hundred, her own man paying to punish her, and he unzips and fucks her ass while she sobs. Tom watches, smug. Line forms—twenty guys, cash flyin’. Anna’s a wreck by the fifth, cum drippin’. Christine smirks, leanin’ on Tom. I light a smoke, countin’ my take. Another night at Dave’s, and I’m the goddamn king.
