The First Time
A story by DCDave
It was the summer of 1999, and Washington, D.C., carried on as it always did—hot, sticky, and indifferent. The dot-com bubble had me pulling decent hours as a mid-level developer for a startup in Rosslyn, debugging code that promised to revolutionize something nobody quite needed yet. The paychecks cleared, the stock options felt like lottery tickets, but it left me restless. Single, in my late twenties, with a one-bedroom in Pentagon City that overlooked the Potomac on good days and felt like a glass cage on bad ones. That's when the Harley Dyna came into play, a '97 Super Glide I'd picked up used, black and low-slung, perfect for shedding the khakis and polo after hours. It let me cut through the city without looking like just another tech bro in traffic.
Nights off, I'd fire up the dial-up modem and slip into Barb's Ladies Corner, that corner of the early web where the real draw wasn't the code or the corner offices. It was the forums, the threads dissecting every angle of the fetish: the rules for a clean catfight versus a no-holds-barred apartment scrap, the breakdowns of hair-pulling as foreplay or finisher, the anonymous posts tallying up the screams, the pleas, the way a good twist could turn begging into something electric. I'd lurk for hours, pulse quickening at the details—the way one user swore by the "milkmaid grip" on a ponytail, another ranked the best venues from motel parking lots to back-alley stoops. It was as much about the buildup, the tension coiling like a spring, as it was the release. And always that nagging wonder: were any of these stories real? Did the arrangements ever actually happen, or was it all just talk to chase the high?
That's how I connected with Carlos. His handle was CarlosTheKing, and he popped up in a thread about "DC-area showdowns that almost were." We slid into privates, the conversation easy and familiar, like swapping war stories with a guy you'd just met at a bar. No pretenses, just two dudes feeding the itch, testing the edges of what might be fantasy and what might not.
CarlosTheKing: Dave, you been on here long? Loving the breakdowns on those club slaps—nothing like a quick palm across the face to drop a girl flat. My Keisha? She's got that down cold. Last month at this spot off U Street, some chick in stilettos got mouthy over a spilled drink. Keisha winds up, cracks her right across the cheek: bam, heels fly off, the girl's on her ass in the corner, skirt hiked up, bawling like a baby while the whole bar whoops. Keisha just straightens her top, walks out with that smirk. You got any like that?
I leaned back on the futon, the glow of the CRT screen casting shadows across the empty pizza box on the coffee table. Keisha. The name alone pulled up those classic tropes, tall, curvaceous, unapologetic. I typed back, letting the details unspool slow, savoring the rhythm.
IronFistDave: Oh yeah, been lurking since '98. Those club stories are gold, the way it starts with a shove and ends in tears. Dina's got a move that'll twist your head around: couple weeks back at a house party in Old Town, this one gets in her face about some guy. Dina grabs hold, twists her tits like she's kneading dough—slow at first, then hard. Girls tries to return the favor, but it’s a first timer against a hard-core wife. The screaming starts low, turns to these sharp yelps, then full-on begging, "Stop, oh God, please!" while tears streak her mascara. Dina holds it till the girl's sobbing on the floor, hands cupped over herself, whimpering apologies. Crowd's half-horrified, half-mesmerized. I walked away with the guy's number, and Dina demanded a fresh manicure. She’d lost a nail in some titflesh.
He fired back fast, the messages pinging like a heartbeat under the modem's whine. We traded like that for weeks, late nights bleeding into the small hours, each story layering on the sensory rush: the sharp crack of a slap echoing off cinderblock walls, the wet hitch of breath when fingers tangled in hair and yanked back, exposing a throat for nails to rake. Carlos painted Keisha's scenes in vivid strokes—the way she'd pin a rival against a bathroom sink, trading open-hand smacks until the loser was a puddle of hiccuping cries, skirt twisted around her waist, begging for mercy in front of the mirror. I'd counter with Dina's edges: how she'd lock arms in a hallway clinch, twisting and grinding until the other woman's protests dissolved into mewling whimpers, body arching in defeat, the air thick with perfume and sweat. It was sexual, yeah—raw, intimate, the violence twisting into something that left you breathless. But we kept it light in the chat, probing: "Ever seen one go all the way?" "You think yours would show?" Always circling that line between brag and bait.
One muggy Thursday in August, after a thread on "arranging the real thing," Carlos dropped it casual, like he'd been holding back.
CarlosTheKing: Man, these tales got me thinking. Keisha's primed for more than stories, a tall drink of fire, curves that demand attention. Yours sounds like she could match. We're both in the DMV, right? What if we skip the keyboard and let 'em settle it? Back lot at the Starlite Motel on Penn Ave. Quiet spot, long-term crowd that minds their own. Dusk Saturday. Beers on the loser's dime.
My thumb hovered over the enter key, the apartment silent except for the hum of the fridge. Pentagon City felt a world away from the Starlite's grit, but close enough. Fifteen minutes on the bike if traffic cooperated. Part of me wrote it off as more talk, the eternal tease of the forum. But the itch won out. This could be one that stuck.
IronFistDave: Hell, why not? Dina'll eat your girl for breakfast. You get the room. No crowds, just the four of us and whatever plays out. And beer? Fuck that. Bring your cash. I’m betting on my woman.
Logged off with a grin, but the next day, cruising past the motel on the Dyna to scope it, peeling paint on the facade, a guy in a lawn chair who matched Carlos's description from his avatar, a woman beside him tall and built just like the tales, I felt the hook set. She'd been lounging in cutoffs, legs stretched out, everything about her promising the full show. Stress hit then, quiet and steady. I'd locked Dina in blind.
She lived across the river in a rough pocket of Alexandria—crumbling brick rowhouses off Duke Street, where the air smelled of asphalt and takeout, and you double-checked your locks. We'd been hooking up steady for months: her crashing my place after shifts at the diner, me picking her up on the bike for midnight rides that ended tangled in sheets. Dina was a live wire—five-foot-ten, with that deep, burnished red hair that fell to mid-back in waves I swore couldn't be natural until I learned it was all hers, roots and all. Complemented those 36FFs like they were sculpted to match, full and unmissable. She'd grown up dodging the system's edges: rough home, Child Services visits that left her scrappy and self-reliant, skin sun-kissed from too many days running wild. Crazy? Sure, in the best way. Sex with her was a storm, clawing, urgent, kinky, hot, leaving marks that faded into stories.
I rolled up to her sister's place that evening, a narrow duplex with chain-link out back and laundry strung across the tiny porch. She was out front when I pulled in, leaning against the railing in cutoff shorts and a faded band tee, that hair catching the last of the sun. I killed the engine, the Dyna's rumble fading into the street noise, and she sauntered over with that half-smile, like she already knew I was up to something.
"Dave," she said, voice low and teasing as she swung a leg over to straddle the seat behind me. "You got that look. Like you're selling me on a bad idea. What's cooking?"
I twisted to face her, keeping it easy, one hand on her knee. Started simple: the forum, the endless threads that hooked me, how I'd stumbled into Carlos and his stories about Keisha: the slaps that echoed, the breakdowns in tears. Made it sound like harmless fun at first, two strangers jawing online, then the dare: a meet-up, a face-off, nothing scripted, just them hashing out the hype in a neutral spot. "It's the rush, Dina. Like those nights we push it— the tension, the release. You drop her quick, we ride out laughing, with a tale that'll top anything on Barb's. And hell, the buildup? It'll be half the thrill."
She pulled back a fraction, eyes narrowing, but I could see the spark, curiosity flickering under the skepticism. I leaned in, voice dropping, painting the details without the hard sell: the motel's back lot at dusk, no audience, just shadows and the four of us; how it'd prove what we both felt in those heated moments, her strength, her edge. Skirted the online exaggerations, the "wife" label that was way beyond the “barely girlfriend” reality. Sold it as our kind of chaos, adventurous, intimate, with that undercurrent that made everything sharper.
Dina chewed her lip, fingers drumming on my thigh, then broke into a slow grin. "You and your forums, always chasing the ghost. Some tall black Amazon in a parking lot? Fine, but only 'cause I know you'd beg if I said no." She slid off the bike, hips swaying as she headed inside. "Saturday, then. But we're doing it right."
She’d said yes. I honestly had no idea how it would change my feelings about the fetish. With a few brief words, the world shifted from “hey, this is hot to watch” to “this woman of mine if going to do something beyond amazing for me.” It was like the volume had been turned up to 11.
Come the day, she emerged like she'd been plotting it herself, tight jeans hugging every curve, tucked into knee-high biker boots that laced up like armor, scuffed from real miles. Over it all, the thinnest top in her drawer: a white crop that skimmed her ribs and strained against those 36FFs, lace edges peeking like a dare. She'd gone all out—makeup sharp with winged liner and blood-red lips, perfume heavy with jasmine that hit like a promise, nails freshly done in long, glossy crimson, hair blown out in loose waves that cascaded like a challenge. She knew the game: first round was the stare-down, the slow circle, outfits and attitude setting the stakes before hands flew. Straddled the Dyna behind me, arms locked around my waist, breath warm on my neck. "Tacos after," she murmured. "Win or whatever. And don't crash us before the fun starts."
As we rumbled toward the Starlite, the city lights blurring past, that knot in my gut tightened just a touch. The stories were spilling into the street now, and whatever unspooled next, screams, slaps, the sweet edge of surrender, it'd be ours for real.
We pulled into the Starlite's lot just as the last smear of daylight bled out over the rooftops, leaving the place wrapped in that heavy August dark. The motel's neon sign buzzed faintly overhead, half the letters fried out, casting a sickly pink glow on the cracked asphalt. My single headlight cut a narrow beam ahead, not much help against the shadows pooling between the parked cars and overflowing dumpsters. But there it was: Room 12, door propped open with a cinderblock, spilling a wedge of yellow light onto the stoop. Two figures stood silhouetted against it, waiting. I killed the engine, the Dyna's growl dying to a tick as it cooled, and the quiet rushed in like water, thick, expectant, broken only by the distant thump of bass from some open window down the row.
Dina swung off first, that long leg arcing high in a motion that was all grace and threat, her biker boots thudding soft against the gravel. The tight jeans clung to her like a second skin, the crop top riding up just enough to flash a strip of midriff under the faint light. She straightened slow, rolling her shoulders, that burnished red hair shifting like a banner in the humid breeze. I followed, swinging my leg over and planting my boots beside hers, the four of us lining up face-to-face in the dim. No one spoke. Words felt clumsy, like they'd shatter the whole fragile setup. Carlos shifted from foot to foot, his hands twitching at his sides, fingers flexing and unclenching like he couldn't decide whether to ball them into fists or shove them in his pockets. Nervous energy rolled off him in waves; I couldn't pin it down. Excitement? Anxiety? Or the flat-out terror of realizing we'd crossed from pixels to pavement?
Keisha had gotten the memo on dressing the part, no question. She loomed there in a black mini that barely skimmed her thighs, hugging hips that flared out wide and proud, paired with strappy heels that added another inch to her already towering frame—had to be pushing six-foot easy. Her top was this slinky red number, off-the-shoulder and scooped low, straining over a chest that matched the hype: full, heavy, demanding every eye in the lot. Dark skin gleamed under the bug-zapped bulb above the door, her hair pulled back in a high afro puff that swung like a whip when she tilted her head. She crossed her arms under her bust, lifting it just so, and met Dina's gaze head-on. Both of them were breathing heavier than the heat called for, chests rising and falling in sync, like coiled springs testing the air between them. Agitated didn't cover it. This wasn't some spur-of-the-moment club scuffle, all heat and impulse. This was arranged, deliberate, the kind of thing we'd all circled in those forum threads but never quite believed could land real.
I cleared my throat first, the sound too loud in the hush. "Carlos."
Keisha snorted, a sharp little bark that cut the tension like a knife. Guess that wasn't his name after all. He shot her a quick glance, then forced a nod my way. "Dave." His voice came out thinner than I'd pictured from the chats, and suddenly anonymity felt like a thin shield. Should've used handles in person, maybe. Too late now.
We stumbled through intros, words clipped and awkward. "This is Keisha." "And Dina." The women didn't break their stare, just nodded once each, lips pressed tight. Their eyes traced each other up and down—hair to boots, curves to stance—like they were already mapping weak spots, the silence humming with it.
Carlos jerked his chin toward the open door. "Inside. Better than standing out here like targets."
The front room of the two-room unit was a hollowed-out shell, cleared down to basics. Carpet worn thin and stained in patches where furniture had once scarred it, walls papered in faded florals peeling at the seams. No bed in sight; that must've been shoved into the back. Just two armchairs—charity-shop relics with sagging cushions and frayed arms, a step up from the lawn chairs out front but not by much. Carlos dropped into one, Keisha perching on the arm beside him, her thigh pressed against his like she was anchoring him. Dina and I mirrored it on the other chair, her weight warm against my side, that jasmine scent curling up close. The air in the room hung stale, laced with old smoke and cheap cleaner, the single bulb overhead buzzing like a trapped fly.
Carlos leaned forward, elbows on knees, hands still dancing—rubbing palms together, then drumming fingers on his thigh. "So. How do we do this?"
Fuck. Heat crawled up my neck. We'd never nailed down rules, just traded shit-talk and that vague "bring a wad of cash" line I'd thrown in to make it feel like stakes. My mind blanked for a beat, then Barb's forums flooded back: the threads on structured bouts, the "series of contests" setups that kept things from exploding into chaos too quick. I straightened, pitching my voice steady, like I owned the room. No clue if I did. "Let's do a series of contests. See who really brings the tougher wife." The word slipped out, echo of the chats, and I winced inside. Dina went rigid beside me, a quick intake of breath. Keisha's head snapped toward Carlos, eyes narrowing like she'd just pieced together a puzzle. But no one called it. The moment stretched, then snapped, everyone letting it slide like a bad bluff in poker.
Carlos latched onto it, though, his twitchy energy channeling into a rush of words. "Alright, alright. Starting simple, then. Saw your girl's rack online... well, you talked it up big. Keisha's no slouch either. Face-to-face, hands-on titfight? Test the goods proper."
We nodded quick, agreement settling like dust, no debate, just the pull of the inevitable. The ladies still hadn't uttered a word, but they rose in tandem, shedding the awkward perch like it burned. Dina flicked a glance my way, that spark in her eyes saying she was all in now, then turned to Keisha. "Pop out the girls," she said, voice even, almost casual. "No point in fabric getting in the way."
Keisha's lips curved, a predator's flash of teeth. "Your lead, red." And just like that, tops came off—Dina peeling her crop over her head in one fluid tug, the lace bra following with a shrug of straps; Keisha shimmying out of that red number, unhooking her own with a flick that spoke practice. They tossed the clothes aside, forgotten on the carpet, and stepped close, bare from the waist up, inches apart in the room's dead center.
Jesus. Those were some big fucking tits. Full, heavy, swaying with every breath: Dina's pale and freckled at the tops, spilling over in that natural 36FF heft, nipples thick and dusky pink, already pebbled tight. Keisha's darker, richer curves matched pound for pound, maybe more, but her nipples stretched longer, dark and prominent, jutting out like they were built for the fight ahead. They squared off chest-to-chest, hands rising slow, palms cupping under, fingers splaying wide to grip and lift. The first press was tentative, testing—flesh yielding soft, then compressing firm, a shared inhale hissing through teeth. Then the squeeze hit, deliberate, and the room filled with it: the low creak of skin on skin, breaths turning ragged, eyes locking fierce as they leaned in harder. No screams yet, just the building strain, the electric promise of what came next. Cash forgotten on the side table, beers sweating in a cooler by the door. This was round one, and the air already tasted like electricity.
The air in that cramped room thickened the instant their chests mashed together, a wall of heat and give that sucked the oxygen right out of the space. Sweat beaded quick on their skin, the kind that springs up unbidden under pressure, carrying the sharp tang of jasmine clashing with whatever coconut oil Keisha had slicked on. Their breaths synced into this ragged duet—huffs turning to grunts as fingers dug deeper, nails biting crescents into the soft undersides, the flesh compressing and bulging like overripe fruit tested for bruises. Every shift sent a ripple through the contact, a low, wet slap of skin on skin that echoed off the bare walls, louder than the traffic humming faint outside.
Keisha had the height on paper, sure, from the shoes. But those strappy kitten heels, barely two inches of wobbly lift, betrayed her from the jump. They clicked uncertain on the threadbare carpet, toes curling for grip, while Dina's biker boots planted like roots, scuffed leather grinding into the fibers for leverage. It was no contest in the stance; Dina's extra inches in those knee-highs let her angle down and in, using gravity like a cheat code, her weight bearing forward while Keisha teetered, calves flexing to compensate.
I couldn't sit still for it. Hand shot up, fanning out a crisp fifty from my wallet, the bill fluttering like a flag in the stale breeze from the cracked window. "My girl's got this," I said, voice rougher than I meant, the words hanging heavy between us guys. Carlos's eyes bulged, whites flashing wide as he pawed at his pocket one-handed, the other vanishing below his beltline—I'd bet my own cash he was palming himself through the denim, chasing the pulse we were all riding. He matched me with his own fifty, slapping it down on the arm of his chair, the smack punctuating the women's first real push. "Fuck yeah," he rasped, and that was it. No poetry, no bullshit. Just four animals in a cage, bets down and blood up.
Dina broke the quiet first, her voice a low grumble through clenched teeth, face inches from Keisha's, that burnished red hair swinging forward like a curtain. "Goddamn, these things are heavy. Like fucking sandbags hanging off you." It came out half-complaint, half-awe, the grudging nod to the sheer mass compressing against her palms. Keisha fired back with a grunt, deep and throaty, her ponytail bobbing as she shoved in return, heels scraping an inch back before she caught herself. "Yours ain't light either, bitch. Dense as rocks. Fuck, how you even walk straight?" Sweat trickled now, a sheen glossing their collarbones, dripping slow into the valley between their locked fronts. The cussing layered on, sharp and personal: "Shit. Easy with the nails," from Keisha, met by Dina's hiss, "Then quit squirming like a punk." Respect threaded through it, though, in the way their grips adjusted, testing yields instead of just crushing, acknowledging the fight in the other's hold, even as the strain pulled their faces tight, lips peeling back over teeth.
They poured it on then, really committed, shoulders rolling forward in unison, the room filling with the creak of taut muscle and the slick slide of sweat-slicked skin. Dina's boots gave her the edge; she drove low and steady, forcing Keisha back one step, the carpet bunching under those heels like it was fighting the retreat too. Keisha twisted hard to counter, hips cocking sideways, her long nipples dragging trails of friction that made Dina's breath hitch audible. They shuffled over those same two steps, back, forward, back, like a brutal tango, swearing under every heave: "cxnt," "Whore," hissed through gritted jaws, the words dissolving into animal hisses as the pressure built, veins standing out on their necks.
Then it cracked. Keisha's howl ripped out first, high and raw, splitting the air like feedback from a busted amp—pure, unfiltered agony that hit me square in the chest. Dina crowed over it, voice triumphant and vicious, her thick nipples scraping victory against Keisha's longer ones. "Oh, I bet that fucking hurt, didn't it?" No clue what she'd done, maybe a vicious thumb dig into the root, or a twist that locked the whole globe in torque, but Keisha's cafe au lait skin drained to a sickly grey, eyes bugging wide as saucers, mouth working soundless for a beat before the wail followed: "Fuck, she's hurting my tiiiittttttts!" That line landed like a gut punch, drawn out and desperate, the vowels breaking on a sob, her hands spasming open just a fraction before clamping back down in denial. Those words—hers, then Dina's taunt—burned into me, replaying on loop even now, the raw edge of it coiling tight in my gut. Didn't give a shit about the fifty anymore; it could've been Monopoly money. I was front row to the pinnacle, the moment where fantasy fractured into flesh and fury, my pulse thundering louder than their grunts.
Keisha buckled next, heels giving out on the third shuffle back, her knees dipping as the fight drained out in a shuddering exhale. Hands fell limp, palms sliding free with a final, reluctant drag, leaving red welts blooming like fingerprints on both sides. She cupped herself then, ginger, breaths coming in wet hitches, while Dina stood tall, chest heaving, those 36FFs flushed and triumphant, a thin sheen of sweat tracing the freckles down to her ribs. "Those big fuckers aren't that tough now, are they?" Dina growled, low and possessive, rolling her shoulders to shake out the ache, but her eyes, locked on Keisha's bowed head, held that same grudging spark. Round one in the books, the cash mine without a tally, the room reeking of salt and spent fire. Carlos slumped back, hand withdrawing slow, face slack with the aftershock. Me? I just grinned, the high settling in like smoke, knowing we'd barely cracked the seal.
Dina sauntered back from Carlos's chair with a sway that pulled every eye in the room, the two fifties pinched between her thumb and forefinger like a trophy she'd earned with blood and bravado. Her bare chest still flushed pink from the crush, those 36FFs rising and falling with the easy rhythm of a winner, faint red imprints fading slow across the undersides like badges. She dropped into my lap on the armchair, heavier than usual with the adrenaline still humming through her, one arm looping casual around my neck while she pressed the cash into my free hand. "Yours," she murmured, close enough that her jasmine breath ghosted my ear, her skin hot and salt-slick against my shirt. I pocketed it without a word, the bills crackling soft, but my focus stayed locked on her—on the way she owned the space now, unashamed, the burnished red hair sticking in damp tendrils to her shoulder blades.
Across the room, Keisha slumped into her perch on the arm beside Carlos, one hand cradling her chest ginger, fingers tracing the tender swells with a wince that pulled her full lips into a thin line. Color crept back into her face, that rich cafe au lait warming under the bulb's glare, but so did the anger—eyes narrowing to slits, jaw set like she was chewing on the loss, replaying whatever twist Dina had sunk into her. She shifted, the mini riding up her thighs, and let out a low huff that wasn't defeat, just fuel. Carlos shot her a quick glance, thumb rubbing circles on her knee, but his face held that slack-jawed afterglow, like he'd handed me exactly what I'd craved: proof that the tit-twist tale from the forums wasn't smoke. Dina's rack had backed it up, dense and unyielding, turning brag to bedrock.
I felt the give then, the urge to even the scales, keep the night rolling without a hard stall. Leaned forward a touch, voice pitched low over the women's heavy breaths. "Your turn to shine, man. Let's see some face work. Trade slaps—straight to the cheek, full swing. First to drop the other cold wins it." Carlos's head snapped up, eyes lighting with that twitchy spark, and he nodded quick, too quick, like he'd been waiting for the green light. Keisha's gaze flicked to him, then me, a smirk tugging despite the ache, her long nipples still peaked from the strain.
She wasn't playing green, though. Pushed off the arm with a grace that belied the hurt, bare soles slapping the carpet as she straightened. "Bare feet first," she said, flat and firm, toes flexing wide against the grit. "These damn heels? They'd throw my balance like shit. Fair's fair." Smart as hell, stripped the height edge she had, but leveled the ground. I waved it off easy, no heat; truth was, it worked for me. Dina's feet? Killer setup. I'd shelled out for the pedi that morning at this hole-in-the-wall salon off King Street—deep crimson polish gleaming wet on toes that stretched long and elegant, size nine and a half, the kind of big that always hit me sideways, sexy in that unpolished, take-no-prisoners way. Arches high, skin smooth from the soak, nails filed sharp enough to leave a mark if she wanted.
They knelt then, side by side in the room's dead center, the carpet whispering under their knees as they worked the straps and laces. Boobs swayed free with every tug—Dina's freckled globes brushing her thighs as she unzipped a boot, the red welts from the squeeze catching the light like war paint; Keisha's darker curves jiggling soft, a low groan slipping out when the motion pulled at the soreness. Sweat lingered in the creases, the air turning thicker with it, mixed now with the faint rubber tang of shed footwear piled aside. Carlos and I leaned in from our chairs, hashing the bones of it quick, voices overlapping in the hush: one slap per turn, clean to the face, no blocking, no pulling. Draw if neither kissed carpet. Win if your side sent the other sprawling solo. Double drop in the same round? Stalemate, reset. Simple. Brutal. The kind of setup that turned a smack into a symphony of sting. Thank god for Barb’s, as this was one of the rulesets I remembered.
Keisha rose first, rubbing her palms on her mini, then fixed Dina with a cool once-over. "Heels after, though. Bare'll drag this out forever—tiptoe slaps like bitches. Real stakes need lift." She paused, head tilting, that ponytail swinging. "I'm a nine and a half in these. You?"
Dina paused mid-lace, boot half-off, one pale foot arched bare and gleaming. Looked up slow, lips quirking. "Same. Nine and a half." Holy fuck. Matched to the digit, like the universe had scripted the standoff. Keisha didn't miss a beat—dug into a duffel slumped by the cooler, hauled out a pair of strappy black numbers, sleek and wicked: six-inch spikes, no platform bullshit, just pure, needle-thin stems wrapped in thin leather cords that crisscrossed like bondage play. Ellie heels, the kind that screamed stage lights and pole work. Stripper? Had to be; nobody packed spares like that for a motel scrap unless it was Tuesday and rent was due. "Try 'em," she said, tossing them over easy, like loaning lipstick.
Dina caught them one-handed, testing the weight, then shot me a look that was all heat—knowing, teasing. Planted her right foot square on my crotch without a word, the ball pressing firm against the rock-hard bulge straining my jeans, toes curling just enough to send a jolt straight up my spine. "Help a girl out," she said, voice velvet over gravel, holding the heel dangling from her fingers. I swallowed thick, pulse slamming, and slid it on slow—thumb tracing the arch as the strap bit in, the fit snapping perfect, like it'd been molded for her. Fuck. A stranger's shoe, warm from Keisha's bag, now hugging Dina's painted toes, the spike hovering inches off the carpet, her weight grinding subtle against me through the denim. I adjusted, breath shallow, the pressure coiling tight low in my gut.
Caught Carlos across the way, same drill: Keisha's thigh hiked over his lap, his fingers fumbling the buckles, face flushed deeper than the room's heat warranted. Distracted didn't cover it—eyes glazed, lips parted, like the sight of her long legs flexing into those killers had shorted his wiring. But they shod up quick, rising together in a rustle of straps and clicks, the heels transforming them. Two twenty-five-year-olds, topless and towering now, spikes adding that predatory lift—Dina's tight jeans like liquid sin, Keisha's mini barely containing the flare of her hips, thighs taut under the strain. Boobs out and proud, marked from round one, swaying hypnotic as they rolled ankles, testing the grip. Knuckles cracked in stereo, sharp pops cutting the tension, nails flashing crimson against Keisha's bare polish.
We stood then, Carlos and I, easing up behind our women like sentries, offset a step to the side for the clear view. I planted myself at Dina's shoulder, close enough to catch the fresh wave of her sweat, the jasmine turning feral under it. Stared straight at Keisha's profile—top-heavy black goddess in hooker heels, chest thrust forward, jaw locked, looking every inch like she'd pop Dina's head clean off her shoulders if given the inch. It hit like the kinkiest fever dream: rock 'em sock 'em robots gone feral, all curves and cruelty, the air humming with the promise of cracks and cries. No refs, no mercy, just skin meeting skin in the lamplight, bets already blurring into the haze.
Dina rolled her neck, ponytail loosening a strand to stick to her damp collarbone, and flicked a glance at Keisha. "Ladies' choice?" Keisha nodded once, terse, eyes never leaving Dina's. "You first, red. Swing wide." The room held its breath, heels digging divots in the carpet, the cooler by the door sweating beads that mirrored the ones trickling down their spines. First crack hung there, electric, waiting for the wind-up.
The wind-up started slow, deliberate, like the pull of a bowstring in the humid hush, Dina's arm coiling back, shoulder blades pinching under that cascade of burnished red, her bare breasts lifting with the breath she drew deep into her lungs. The room's stale air thickened, laced now with the sharp, metallic edge of anticipation, every inhale pulling in the mingled scents of their sweat: jasmine soured to musk on Dina's skin, coconut oil turning sticky and feral on Keisha's curves. Those Ellie heels dug in like talons, six-inch spikes carving twin divots in the carpet fibers, forcing their bodies into that unnatural arch: asses clenching, calves taut as bowstrings, the minis and jeans riding high to expose the flex of thighs that trembled just a hair from the strain. Erotic as hell, the way it thrust their chests forward, nipples still raw and peaked from round one, brushing air that felt too close, too charged.
Her palm cracked across Keisha's cheek like a thunderclap in a bottle, wet, resounding, the impact blooming instant heat that flushed the cafe au lait skin to crimson, a handprint rising slow like ink under water. Keisha's head snapped sideways, ponytail whipping wild, those long lashes fluttering as her eyes watered on reflex, a sharp inhale hissing through teeth that bared in a snarl. But she didn't buckle. Held her ground, heels grinding deeper, the sting coiling low in her gut like a lover's bite turned punishing. Then her turn: arm slicing back in a mirror arc, the wind of it stirring the damp strands at Dina's temple, her big hand whistling through the lamplight to land flush on that freckled cheekbone. Smack—flesh yielding with a meaty give, Dina's head rocking, red hair flaring like flame, a bloom of fire racing down her neck to pool hot between her heaving tits. She staggered half a step, boot heels scraping, but locked her knees, breath exploding out in a guttural moan that was half-pain, half-thrill. Draw. They straightened in tandem, cheeks glowing twin brands, breaths syncing ragged as they traced the welts with tongues—salty, swollen, the erotic pulse of it lingering in the way their eyes locked, promising escalation. Carlos and I exhaled in unison, cocks straining forgotten against our flies, the air humming with the aftershock.
I couldn't let it stall. Fished another fifty from my pocket, slapping it on the arm of the chair, voice gravel-rough. "Dina drops her this round. Fifty says it." Carlos matched the nod, eyes glassy, but the crack came harder—Dina's swing loaded with the winner's edge, palm cupping air before flattening Keisha's profile in a burst of stars, the force rippling through her frame like a quake. Keisha's knees dipped, heels betraying the wobble, and she went down—ass hitting carpet with a thud that jiggled her bare curves under that mini, thighs splaying wide in defeat, a low keen escaping her throat as she clutched her face, the heat there throbbing erotic and vicious. No panties flashed in the spill, just smooth, slick skin begging the eye, her breaths coming in hitches that arched her back off the floor. Dina loomed, chest thrusting triumphant, the violence curling into something primal, her own cheek still singing from the draw.
Hooked now, the bets climbing like the welts on their skin. I peeled off a hundred, tossing it loose. "She's got the momentum—hundred on Dina." Keisha rose snarling, wiping spit from her lip, but her return swing carried payback: a vicious forehand that corkscrewed through the air, nails grazing Dina's jaw on the follow-through, the slap exploding like a ripe fruit burst. Dina's world tilted—heels skidding, thick white ass planting hard, jeans grinding carpet as she sprawled, a gasp ripping free that dissolved into a throaty curse, her thighs parting instinctive, the denim seam pressing cruel against her heat. Keisha towered, lip curled, the erotic charge spiking violent as she flexed her palm, red from the impact, breaths heaving her marked tits like war drums.
Carlos surprised me then, voice cracking as he dug deep. "Hundred on Keisha—my girl's turning it." Round four blurred into a frenzy, but five, six—they knew the stance now, heels braced wide, hips cocked for torque, swinging like monsters forged in the lamplight. Each crack layered on the sensory storm: the wet smack of palm on swollen flesh, building to bruises that purpled slow; the salty sting blooming across cheekbones, drawing beads of sweat that traced erotic paths down necks to pool in cleavage; grunts evolving to yelps, the violence threading through with moans that hitched low, bodies arching into the pain like it was foreplay gone feral. Draws stacked—neither yielding floor, just staggering back with fire in their eyes, faces flushing deeper, the air thick with the copper tang of split skin waiting to happen, cocks throbbing untouched as we watched them trade hell like goddesses at war.
Seven cracked the dam. Keisha's wind-up telegraphed a hair—too eager—and Dina's palm met her lower lip mid-snarl, the impact splitting it open in a spray of red that flecked the carpet like erotic confetti. Keisha howled, heels buckling full this time, her big, sexy ass slamming down with a jiggle that exposed everything under that mini—slick folds parting in the fall, thighs quivering as she curled fetal, blood trickling warm and coppery over her chin, mixing with sweat to drip hot between her thighs. The violence peaked erotic, her sobs hitching into shudders that arched her spine, one hand cupping the gash while the other trailed instinctive down her belly. Dina crowed, gloating low and filthy—"Taste that, bitch? That's my hundred"—and for the first time, her hand dove bold, wrapping my cock through the denim in a squeeze that milked a groan from my throat, her grip rough and possessive, nails scraping denim like a promise of later brutality.
Keisha hauled up spitting crimson, fire undimmed, and Carlos—ballsier than I'd clocked—slapped two bills down, voice hoarse. "Two hundred on the comeback. After that ass-plant? She's hungry." But Dina cost me, her swing glancing off Keisha's duck, letting the counter land flush—palm carving a welt across Dina's swollen cheek, sending her crashing thick and white-assed to the floor, jeans wedged deep in the cleft as she sprawled, a drool bridge stretching from her parted lips to the carpet, chin slick and shiny with spit and sweat. The fall hit erotic-violent apex: her body quaking on impact, breaths exploding wet, thighs clenching around the denim's bite as she writhed, the drool snapping when she gasped, leaving her cheek gleaming like glossed sin.
She rose wiping her mouth, tied at two apiece, eyes blazing through the puff. I went all in, four crisp hundreds fanned out. "Dina ends it here." Carlos handed them over silent when Keisha ate carpet next—Dina's monster swing pulping her good cheek, dropping her hard in a tangle of limbs and heels, mini flipping to bare the full curve of her ass, slick and marked from the night, a whimper bubbling up as she squeezed her thighs, the violence dissolving into erotic defeat, bloodied lip parting on pleas that went unsaid. Keisha staggered up, straight-up palming Carlos's cock through his jeans in a vise grip that bowed him forward, her voice a rasp against his ear: "I can win this, baby—watch me fuck her up." He nodded, betting four hundred back, eyes feral.
And fuck, they faced off for ten, the room a haze of salt and blood, the cooler long forgotten as beads of condensation traced mirrors to their ruin. Dina drooled still, a thin bridge glistening from her slack lower lip, snapping wet when she licked it away, her chin and right cheek slick-shiny under the bulb, swollen tight like overripe fruit begging the bruise. Cheeks puffed twin moons, red hair matted to the damp hollows. Keisha's cut lip throbbed, big and full, the split weeping lazy crimson that begged for a suck or a sting, her cheekbones dusky-purpled blooms framing eyes that burned coal-black. Faces battered canvases—erotic wreckage, violent promise—but fuck, they were ready, heels clicking forward in sync, arms cocking slow, breaths heaving those marked tits like bellows stoking the fire. Palms flexed, nails glinting, the air crackling electric with the tenth swing's vow: crack, cry, collapse, the erotic storm breaking full into thunder.
Carlos scraped the bottom of his wallet after that last handoff, fingers trembling as he peeled out his final two hundreds, the bills creased and damp from his grip. "All in on Keisha," he muttered, voice thick with the night's haze, slapping them down like a dare. The room reeked now—sweat-soaked carpet mingling with the sharp, musky undercurrent of arousal, the cooler by the door long since tipped over in some forgotten shuffle, its melt pooling sticky underfoot. We all leaned in, breaths shallow, the Ellie heels clicking faint as the women reset their stances, faces a map of erotic carnage: Dina's right cheek ballooned tight and glossy with drying spit, her drool-slick chin catching the bulb's glare like wet varnish; Keisha's split lip puffed double its size, the gash weeping fresh crimson that smeared her teeth when she grinned, her cheekbones bruised dusky purple under the sweat-sheened skin.
The tenth swing uncoiled like a serpent strike—Dina's arm whipping first, palm slicing the thick air with a whistle that raised the hairs on my neck, landing flush on Keisha's jaw with a crack that echoed meaty and final, the force snapping her head back, ponytail lashing like a whipcord. Keisha reeled, heels skidding divots deep enough to scar the fibers, her marked tits heaving wild as stars burst behind her eyelids, a guttural moan ripping from her throat that twisted pain into something throatier, more intimate. But she absorbed it, knees locking with a quiver that rippled up her thighs, the mini's hem flipping to tease the slick heat between them. Her counter came feral—forehand loaded with payback, nails raking air before the heel of her palm pulped Dina's swollen cheek, the slap blooming violent fire that buckled Dina's legs mid-stride. She dropped like a felled oak, thick white ass slamming carpet with a thud that ground her jeans deeper into the cleft, thighs splaying wide as a spit bridge stretched from her parted lips to the floor, snapping wet when she gasped, the drool flecking her freckled cleavage in erotic surrender. Tied at five apiece after ten rounds of hell, the air electric with the promise of breaking.
Keisha didn't waste the momentum. She loomed over the sprawl, chest thrusting like a victor's banner, those long nipples peaked triumphant amid the welts, and hauled Carlos's zipper down with her free hand—fishing his dick out into the open, thick and straining, veins pulsing under her crimson-smeared fingers. She pumped him slow at first, then firm, a handjob that deserved a goddamn medal: twisting at the crown with a thumb-swipe that drew a hiss from his throat, her grip slick from the night's sweat and her own spit, working him in lazy strokes that matched the rhythm of her gloat. Her voice came muffled through the fat lip, slurred around the swelling that turned her words to a husky purr, face bloated and battered but eyes blazing coal-hot. "Told you, baby... giving you what you wanted. Watch her ass bounce—your red bitch can't hang." The shit-talk rolled filthy and personal, laced with the wet schlick of her fist on his shaft, his hips bucking involuntary into the vise, pre-cum beading glossy at the tip. Erotic as the violence that birthed it, her free hand cradling her own throbbing cheek like a trophy, blood trickling warm down her chin to drip onto her curves.
Dina pushed up slow, wiping the drool from her mouth with the back of her hand, leaving a shiny smear across her knuckles, her swollen cheeks puffing her breaths into sharp huffs that arched her back off the carpet. She locked eyes with me over the sprawl, that spark undimmed—fierce, feral—and rose on unsteady heels, jeans wedged cruel between her thighs, the denim's seam biting into her heat with every shift. Fuck if I didn't chase the high, digging into my pocket for the four hundred I'd just won, fanning them out like a flush. "Dina takes eleven. Empties you clean." Carlos nodded numb, already spent in more ways than one, Keisha's strokes keeping him pinned to the chair, his face slack with the overload.
They faced off one last slap-exchange, heels grinding fresh holds in the ruined carpet, bodies glistening under the bulb—sweat tracing erotic rivulets down spines to pool in the smalls of backs, tits swaying heavy with the weight of exhaustion and want. Keisha swung first this time, her arm a blur of dusky muscle, palm cracking Dina's profile with a wet explosion that split the air, the impact jolting through her frame like a live wire, cheek blooming fresh purple under the old swell. Dina stumbled, swayed wild on those spikes, knees dipping deep as the world tilted, fire lancing down her neck to coil hot in her core—a moan escaping throaty, half-defeat, half-defiance, her thighs clenching around the denim's grind. But she stayed up, barely, boots—wait, heels now—scraping for purchase, breath exploding in a ragged cry that hung erotic and raw. We'd drained him. Carlos's wallet hit empty, the last bills fluttering to the floor like confetti in the reek of kink and lust.
Except we hadn't—not fully. Keisha crumpled next, her own swing's recoil catching up, dizziness crashing in waves that turned the room to a whirl. She hit knees first, then ass, the mini flipping full to bare the slick, swollen folds between her thighs, heels splaying awkward as she clutched her temples, breaths hitching into whimpers that arched her spine off the carpet. Concussed, probably—eyes unfocused, lip bleeding fresh, the violence cresting into vulnerable haze, her marked curves quivering in the spill. Dina, not one to be outdone in that sweat-stinking box of a room, sauntered back to me with a predator's roll, her hand diving straight for my fly. Zipper rasped down, cock springing free into her palm—still warm and tacky from the night's fury—and she worked me with a vengeance: long strokes that twisted at the base, nails scraping light up the underside, thumb circling the head in slick circles that pulled a groan from my gut. "My turn to show off," she rasped, voice thick around her swollen jaw, the erotic retaliation spiking as her grip tightened, milking me in time with Keisha's dazed hitches across the room.
Keisha stirred then, pushing up on elbows, blood-streaked chin lifted defiant, her free hand trailing possessive down Carlos's thigh as she steadied. "Another," she slurred, muffled and fierce, eyes clearing just enough to lock on Dina's. "Put something real up." The room went pin-drop still, our cocks throbbing in their fists, the air heavy with the promise of escalation. Dina's strokes faltered a beat, then resumed harder, her voice cutting sharp over the wet sounds. "Two hundred from you. I'll cover the rest." Keisha laughed, a wet, bloody bark, shaking her head as she rose unsteadier than before, mini settling crooked to tease the curve of her ass. "Four hundred. And my pussy on it—winner takes." Carlos and I went slack-jawed, breaths syncing ragged, the wager hanging like smoke: cash for flesh, stakes twisting the night's violence into pure, feral lust. Dina's eyes narrowed, grip flexing on me till I bucked, then she nodded slow. "Deal. But if I drop you... Carlos watches Dave fuck you raw."
That's how it unspooled—round twelve a blur of staggering swings, Keisha's palm glancing wild off Dina's guard, but Dina's landing true: a vicious hook that caved her good side, sending Keisha crashing final, heels flying free in the tangle, her body splaying open on the carpet, thighs parting wide to bare the slick, swollen heat she'd just wagered. Concussion haze or no, she didn't fight the fall, breaths heaving in surrender, bloodied lips parting on a moan that dissolved into shudders. Dina claimed the pot—my four hundred back, plus Carlos's gaze pinned helpless as I crossed the room, shedding jeans in the reek, cock leading the way. Keisha's eyes fluttered up, coal-dark and glazed, her curves arching instinctive as I knelt between her legs, the mini shoved aside like wrapping. Slid in slow, hot and velvet-tight, her walls clenching around the invasion with a gasp that hitched violent-erotic, nails raking my shoulders as I thrust deep, the room filling with the wet slap of skin on skin. Carlos watched from his chair, Keisha's hand limp in his lap now, his face a mask of slack torment and thrill; Dina loomed beside, her own strokes resuming on herself, eyes locked on the join, gloating low: "Look at your girl take it, baby. That's what winning buys." Keisha bucked under me, moans muffled around her split lip, the wager sealing in sweat and cries, the night's kink cresting full into thunderous release.
And that's how I ended up fucking a hot black girl in front of her "husband" while my "wife" looked on. And the arc of my life was fixed.
