This was written by ChatGPT, I will occasionally post these in my free club on Mewe
https://mewe.com/join/kidmanskryptClose Friends
By ChatGPT
Mark adjusted the shoulder mount one last time, making sure the lens was focused on the center of the padded mat that took up most of the basement floor. The overhead lights hummed faintly, casting everything in a harsh glow that made skin look hot and slick even before the fight began. He had filmed dozens of these already, but his stomach still tightened when the girls stepped onto the mat in their string bikinis.
Kayla and Jasmine.
Kayla—his nineteen-year-old stepdaughter—wore her trademark crimson string bikini, tied deliberately loose so it could come off easy if someone grabbed it just right. She stood barefoot on the mat, her toned thighs flexing as she bounced lightly on her feet. Her long brown braid was coiled down her back like a whip, her green eyes locked on her opponent with pure focus.
Jasmine “Jazz” Brooks faced her, looking like she was carved from bronze. Her neon green bikini glowed under the lights, tight against her thick, powerful frame. She grinned, rolling her shoulders like she was about to square up in a boxing match, curly hair pulled into a high puff that still looked wild.
Mark swallowed, his throat dry.
“Hope you didn’t spend all week practicing excuses,” Jasmine said, voice low and taunting as she slowly stepped closer.
Kayla smirked. “Only thing I’m practicing is ripping that thong off your ass again. Still keeping it on your wall?”
The girls had a running gag—the winner got to keep the loser’s thong as a trophy—and Mark knew Jasmine still had Kayla’s pink one from last month pinned up like a flag in her bedroom.
Jasmine laughed. “You’ll be lucky to walk out of this with your tits covered, girl.”
Kayla’s smile thinned. “We’ll see.”
Mark clicked the red recording button, the soft electronic beep feeling almost illicit. He steadied the camera on its swivel.
“Ladies ready?” he asked out of habit.
They nodded, eyes locked, bodies poised. Then Jasmine lunged.
Mark still remembered the night this all began, six months ago. He’d been in the kitchen when he first heard it—the unmistakable sound of two girls crashing into furniture, grunting, laughing, cursing. He thought they were fighting for real, rushed to the basement, and found Kayla and Riley rolling around on the carpet, hair in fists, legs kicking wildly.
“Whoa, whoa—break it up!” he’d said, but then he noticed they were smiling. Laughing, even.
“It’s fine, Mark,” Kayla had said, still pinning Riley with a knee between her shoulder blades. “We do this all the time.”
Apparently, they had been having “fun catfights” for years. Sometimes for bragging rights, sometimes just because they were competitive as hell.
“You know,” Riley had said while adjusting her sports bra, “if we filmed these, people would pay for them.”
At first, he thought they were joking. But a week later, Kayla had shown him the number of OnlyFans accounts that posted nothing but catfight content were pulling in serious money.
Mark’s gut reaction had been no way. He wasn’t about to turn his stepdaughter’s basement into a soft-core fight club. But then she pitched it differently:
• No sex acts.
• No nudity past what happened naturally from fighting.
• No outsiders—just her and her friends.
They would wear bikinis, wrestle like they always had, and he’d be behind the camera.
“It’s not porn, Mark. It’s… it’s like sports entertainment. Just hotter.”
He remembered looking at her then—strong, driven, almost glowing with confidence—and feeling… conflicted. He shouldn’t have been proud, but he was. She wasn’t sneaking off to some creep’s apartment to shoot solo content. She was making something on her terms.
And she trusted him to run the camera.
Now, half a year later, this was their business—and Mark’s secret addiction.
Jasmine grabbed first, a handful of Kayla’s braid whipping her head sideways. Kayla hissed and slapped back hard, her palm cracking across Jasmine’s cheek with an audible smack that echoed in the basement.
Mark’s finger tightened on the zoom toggle, catching Jasmine’s grimace as she yanked harder, pulling Kayla’s head back like a lever. Kayla retaliated by clawing at the knot of Jasmine’s bikini top, fingers digging, pulling until one strap gave way and the top hung lopsided.
“Bitch!” Jasmine snarled, lunging forward and slamming her chest against Kayla’s, tits mashing together as they stumbled, twisting and turning like dancers in a violent waltz.
Mark’s mouth went dry again. He tried to ignore the growing tightness in his jeans. He kept telling himself he was a professional cameraman now, focused on angles, lighting, clarity… but every time Kayla yelped or Jasmine groaned in pain, it felt like someone was stroking the inside of his skull.
Jasmine tried to trip Kayla but ended up on her back, legs wrapped instinctively around Kayla’s waist. Kayla rained down clawing hands on Jasmine’s bikini bottoms, yanking at the neon fabric while Jasmine growled and slapped back, landing a shot right across Kayla’s breast.
“Ahhh—” Kayla’s scream was sharp, high-pitched, and Mark felt it in his spine. It was part pain, part raw eroticism, the kind of sound that made him zoom instinctively on the tangled knot of bodies.
The crowd sound in his head—the imaginary audience that would buy this video—was deafening.
Kayla jerked Jasmine’s thong hard enough that the side tie popped loose, one triangle of fabric sliding free to expose the smooth curve of her hip. Jasmine roared in fury, bucking up and grabbing two full handfuls of Kayla’s breasts, squeezing viciously.
Mark groaned under his breath, shifting his weight behind the camera as heat pooled low in his body.
The match had barely started, but the basement already echoed with screams and grunts. Mark stood behind the camera, hand steady even though his chest felt tight.
Kayla was in her red string bikini, her skin tan from summer, a single braid swinging behind her as she lunged. Her top rode high on her chest, showing how round and firm her C-cups were. She had a runner’s body—toned legs, flat abs—but her face still held that sweet-girl softness. It made every flash of anger on it hit harder.
Her opponent, Jasmine, towered over her slightly, 5’8” of muscle and curves, dark caramel skin slick under the lights. She had her natural curls pulled tight into a puff high on her head, and her neon green bikini left almost nothing to imagination, hugging a fuller bust and thick thighs. Her figure reminded Mark of Tessa Thompson, except heavier in the chest—a natural D-cup—and thicker in the hips.
“You’re going home naked today, Kayla!” Jasmine barked, voice full of arrogant glee as she reached out and grabbed Kayla’s braid, yanking her head sideways.
Kayla yelped, swinging a wild slap across Jasmine’s cheek. The sound cracked in the basement.
“You wish, bitch!” Kayla snarled, diving in and getting a double handful of Jasmine’s bikini bottoms, jerking them into a deep wedgie. Jasmine howled, stumbling forward as the green fabric buried itself into her ass.
“Ohhh, you dirty whore!” Jasmine hissed, twisting free and retaliating by yanking Kayla’s own bottoms straight up the front. Kayla’s scream pitched high as the red fabric disappeared into her folds.
Mark swallowed hard, keeping the camera low to catch the fight spilling onto the mat. He could hear the fabric stretch, the squeals, the raw anger—and it went straight to his groin.
Jasmine tackled Kayla down, climbing on top and pinning her wrists. She gave a cruel grin and hooked her fingers under Kayla’s bikini top, yanking until one strap slid down an arm. A quick twist, and the cup flipped aside, exposing Kayla’s left breast.
“There’s those soft little tits,” Jasmine mocked, pinching Kayla’s nipple between her fingers.
“Ahhh—fuck you!” Kayla shouted, wrenching a hand free to grab Jasmine’s curls, yanking her head down. She managed to roll them over, straddling Jasmine’s hips, her braid swinging wildly as she gave Jasmine a savage front wedgie in revenge.
Jasmine’s legs kicked frantically, her mouth open in a silent scream before she rasped out: “Ahhh! You bitch! That’s—ahhh—my pussy!”
“Tap out then!” Kayla snarled, still yanking hard until the neon fabric dug painfully deep.
Mark zoomed in on Jasmine’s flushed face, then slowly drifted to where the neon bottoms were stretched high between her thighs, just a hint of trimmed hair visible where the wedgie cut too deep. His jeans tightened. Jesus, he thought, it’s worse when I’m right here watching.
Jasmine’s strength surged, bridging her hips and throwing Kayla off balance. She rolled them again, now kneeling between Kayla’s spread legs. Jasmine gripped both sides of Kayla’s red top and ripped it clean off her chest, tossing it aside. Kayla’s breasts bounced free, nipples stiff from adrenaline.
“Say goodbye to that trophy rack,” Jasmine sneered, leaning in to bite at Kayla’s shoulder just hard enough to leave a mark.
Kayla cried out and clawed upward, grabbing Jasmine’s bikini top and twisting one cup sideways. A perfect brown breast spilled out, the nipple already stiff.
“Ha! Who’s topless now?” Kayla barked, yanking harder until the other cup gave way too, leaving Jasmine’s chest fully exposed.
Mark’s camera dipped low, focusing on the raw moment: both women topless now, bodies slick, hair wild, and eyes blazing. Kayla’s braid had half come undone, her face flushed and furious; Jasmine’s puff was unraveling, curls sticking to her damp forehead.
“You’re fucking done!” Kayla shouted, hooking a leg behind Jasmine’s and rolling again, this time ending in a body scissors around Jasmine’s waist. Kayla’s thighs flexed, squeezing tight, while one hand reached between them and grabbed Jasmine’s bare breast, twisting the nipple sharply.
Jasmine screamed, face contorted in pain, trying to pry Kayla’s legs apart. “Ahhhh—kay—ahhh—stop! Stop!”
“You giving up?” Kayla demanded, pulling harder.
“Never!” Jasmine rasped, reaching back in desperation and slamming a hand into Kayla’s bikini bottoms, ripping them fully down her thighs. The red fabric tore free and went flying. Kayla was now completely bottomless, wedgie marks still red on her hips from earlier.
Mark almost groaned out loud, his camera steady but his body betraying him. The sight of Kayla’s bare ass flexing as she squeezed Jasmine made his cock throb painfully. He could smell the sweat, hear the raw sounds of female bodies colliding, and it felt more primal than any porn he’d ever seen.
Kayla gasped as Jasmine clawed at her bare breast, leaving scratch marks, but she didn’t release the scissors. Instead, she leaned forward and grabbed Jasmine’s thong tie, yanking hard until the knot gave way. The neon bottoms slipped entirely down Jasmine’s legs.
Both women were now completely naked, bodies tangling as they fought over position, hair-pulling and breast-mauling like wildcats. Kayla managed to twist behind Jasmine, giving one last deep pussy wedgie with the loose thong just for humiliation before tossing it aside.
Jasmine shrieked and finally tapped the mat with both hands, chest heaving. “Okay! Okay! You win!”
Kayla collapsed back, panting, sweat rolling down between her breasts as she stood and held the thong like a trophy. “Told you, bitch,” she muttered, planting a foot on Jasmine’s thigh.
Mark lowered the camera slightly, pretending to check focus as he shifted his weight, hiding how hard he was. His mind flashed back to when Kayla first asked him to film these fights—“Better than OnlyFans, right, Mark? Less creepy?”—and he’d agreed thinking it’d be harmless.
Now, watching his nineteen-year-old stepdaughter dripping sweat, naked and victorious, thong in hand, he wasn’t so sure.
Jasmine lay on her back, gasping, one arm draped over her eyes. Her neon thong, now Kayla’s trophy, dangled from Kayla’s fingers as she stood over her, breasts rising and falling with each deep breath. Kayla’s face glistened with sweat, strands of her braid having completely come loose, sticking to her neck and cheeks.
“You said I was going home naked?” Kayla sneered, stepping over Jasmine. “Guess who’s naked now, bitch?” She bent and slapped Jasmine’s breast, just enough to make it jiggle as Jasmine winced.
Jasmine groaned, rolling slightly, but Kayla grabbed her by the hair and yanked her back flat on the mat. “Oh, no. You know the rules.”
Mark knew what was coming—they all did. Every match ended the same way: the winner sat on the loser’s face, rubbing it in until the beaten girl either pushed them off or, more often, just endured the humiliation. It was what made their clips sell like crazy online.
Kayla crouched low, straddling Jasmine’s shoulders, her bare ass hovering over Jasmine’s face. “Might wanna close that big mouth of yours,” she taunted. “You like to talk shit, but this is what you get.”
She dropped down with a satisfying smack of skin, planting herself directly over Jasmine’s mouth and nose. Jasmine’s muffled groan vibrated against her. Kayla’s thighs flexed, her ass grinding down as she put more weight on it.
“Mmmm, shut up and lick, loser,” Kayla said, reaching back to spread herself wider, grinding her shaved-smooth pussy against Jasmine’s nose and lips. She glanced at Mark’s camera with a wicked smile. “Make sure you’re getting this, Mark. Fans love this part.”
Mark swallowed hard and zoomed in, the lens tight on where Kayla’s bare folds smeared sweat across Jasmine’s flushed face. Jasmine’s arms weakly pushed at Kayla’s hips, but Kayla just laughed, reaching forward to grab Jasmine’s full D-cups and maul them like stress balls.
“Your tits are big but soft, Jaz,” Kayla mocked, twisting a nipple as she ground down harder. “Bet the fans are already asking me to take these for trophies too.”
Mark focused on Jasmine’s pubic area, catching a glimpse of her neatly trimmed landing strip between her legs as she squirmed. He made sure to pan up slowly, catching both women’s heaving chests before centering back on the humiliation hold.
Jasmine finally tapped weakly on Kayla’s thigh, signaling surrender. Kayla held the sit a few seconds longer, really rolling her hips for good measure, before lifting off. She stood, one foot planted on Jasmine’s breast, thong trophy raised high like a championship belt.
“That’s how it’s done,” Kayla barked, looking at Jasmine sprawled, hair wrecked, breasts flushed pink from rough handling, neon bikini scattered like confetti around her. “Don’t ever think you can outfight me, you thick-ass cow.”
Mark lowered the camera slightly, pretending to adjust focus. His eyes lingered on Kayla’s shaved, glistening mound and Jasmine’s sweat-shiny, spread thighs, her trimmed strip darkened with moisture from both exertion and humiliation. He quickly zoomed back in, telling himself it was for the fans, but his jeans told a different story.
Kayla blew him a kiss—she always did when she knew she won big—and stepped out of frame to grab her towel and water bottle. Jasmine lay still, covering her face, chest still rising rapidly from both exhaustion and embarrassment.
This had all started harmless enough—Kayla and her friends roughhousing like they had since middle school, always “catfighting” in the pool or at sleepovers. When Kayla said, “We should record this for money; it’s better than OnlyFans, Mark. At least it’s a sport,” he’d laughed. Now? It was something else entirely. Raw. Intimate. Erotic.
And he kept filming, because the demand was insane.
