Everything She Wanted

[bcw8]

She walked through the darkened house, as silent and alone as a ghost.  She felt like one; unreal, out of phase, lost in an alternate dimension.  She wore the nightgown she had worn on her wedding night, silver satin.  She was tall and so the short negligee barely covered her ass; if she were to lift her arms, to put something on a high shelf, it would ride up her hips.  She thought of all the times her husband had slid his hands under the hem, how many times he had cupped her ass and lifted her, her long legs naturally encircling his waist.  She thought of the pressure of his erection, his throb against her thong until she pulled it aside and welcomed him inside her, how with his teeth he would tug her plunging neckline until both her breasts were free and bared.   

That first year of marriage, they made love almost every day.  We fucked, her mind whispered, because she was alone and so there was no need for niceties. 

Now, he fucked a different woman.  One with dark hair and caramel skin and legs as long as hers.  The photographs from the private investigator lay discarded on the coffee table.  Some of them were almost artistic. Some captured the dark woman's passion, her back arched, her eyes closed, her nipples swollen.  As she climaxed from him fucking her, her, not me.

Photos, and a name. She had asked for a name, and a phone number. She had called earlier that night.  She hadn't known what to expect.  She certainly didn't receive contrition. The dark woman had laughed, had mocked her, had told her no, she wouldn't stay away from him, fuck you, bitch. 

I'm his wife.

So what.

The dark woman was coming, coming here, coming to the house.  She had invited her, with words of rage. 

I won't let you have him. 

I've fucking taken him. 

Fuck you - fuck you!  Not without a fight, you whore 

Now she stood at the bedroom window, looking down. She saw the car headlights.   She slipped her fingers into her panties, her breath catching as she felt her wetness and the throb of her clit.  She had left the front door ajar for the dark woman; now she heard its familiar squeak, its solid closing, the deadbolt.  Footsteps. 

She slid her panties down her legs and put them aside, on the chair where she sat, her legs curled under her, to read on a winter day.  She was shaven, because he liked that, for her to be silky smooth.   She lifted her negligee over her head, her back arched.  The light from the street on her body.  Her blonde hair was loose. 

The other woman stood at the bedroom door.   She stepped out of her shoes and undid the loose belt at her waist.  She shrugged off her coat.   She was naked, too.   The two women looked at each other for a long, silent, trembling moment.  Comparing herself to the other.  Each saw how attractive the other was.   Each measured the other in her mind. Each turned over in her thoughts, again and again, the shared question they shared.

Why did he go to her/Why won't he leave her?

Why am I not enough for him?

The wife moved to the bed, her fingers trailing along the duvet.  "Did you fuck him here?" she asked softly.  There was no affect to her voice. 

The mistress nodded. 

The wife nodded too. She had known the answer already. It was the mistress's scent that had started her on the journey of investigation and discovery.  She breathed deeply. The scent was in the room with her now.  She mounted the bed, one knee, then the other.  Her shoulders back.  She sank to her haunches and turned her body to the other woman, her thighs open. 

"Come fuck me, now," she said. 

The mistress walked to the bed, and crawled across its expanse.  Her breasts hung down, swaying.  Her hair fell across one eye.  She turned her body and the two fitted to each other, light and dark, right leg arched over left.  Their pussies met with a soft wet sound.   Their flat hard stomachs flexed.  Their hips came to life. 

They both moaned at the intensity.  The intimacy.  Woman to woman.  Their eyes never looked away.   They slowly ground together, their clits hardened and pulsing.   Both felt deep pleasure and deep pain. Neither let it show in her face. Not now. Not yet. But they could not stop the sheen of sweat on their bodies, the dips that coalesced between their breasts and trickled down their centerlines to their navels.   

Their contest built slowly, like thunderclouds piling to the sky on the horizon.  They twisted and writhed.   Their juices soaked the sheet beneath them, spattered their thighs and stomachs.   The wife's eyes dropped to the mistress's nipples, dark and engorged, the flesh of her areolae puckered and raised. 

She's close. 

Her own clitoris was inflamed.  Throbbing.  The dark woman relentlessly ground against it.  She fought against the rising tide of her own orgasm, forced by her rival closer and closer to the edge each second.  They were both moaning, if one can call it that; mutual animal sounds of hate and arousal. 

Then: the mistress screamed and bucked, a violent, involuntary spasm, as she came.  The wife could claim no advantage as her lithe pale body was dragged off the cliff into her own shattering mutual orgasm. It was a frenzy of thrusting hips.  They both came again, and again, the second and third time drenching them in sweat. Their chests heaved. They gripped the sheet under them, no longer looking each other in the eyes.  They slammed cxnt against cxnt, furious and desperate.  For a fourth, savage time they climaxed together, a shared convulsion that went on and on. 

They fell apart, sobbing, eyes closed. Both lifted hands to their hypersensitive breasts, massaging aching nipples.  Both searched for a reason to claim victory but neither could.  The mistress rose to one hip, then her knees. The bed creaked. The wife opened her eyes.  One above, one below.  Each sank her fingers into the other's full breasts.  This was a different contest, a new war.  They dug deep into each other, twisting and kneading.  They found with their fingers the milk glands deep within the other.  Thumbnails dug into nipples, gouging and prying.  They stretched and crushed each other, whispering curses and insults and taunts.

Your tits don't compare, bitch.

The pain they shared was intense yet still erotic.  They orgasmed again when the milk burst from their distended nipples, thin and oily at first, then thicker, and pink-tinged with blood. 

I crushed something inside you, cxnt. 

The wife rolled suddenly and gained the top. The mistress's head lay at the edge of the bed, her ebony hair cascading down the side.  Each kept one hand buried in a pulsing breast. Each reached with the other for her rival's throat.  Their milk mixed on the dark woman's chest.  Their grips shifted and settled deep under jawlines.  Lips parted, airless.  They released their holds on bruised and swelling titmeat and stabbed fingers viciously deep into each other's pussy as they choked each other. 

The wife jerked hard when the mistress found her g-spot, jerked hard but silently, her eyes wild.  She spurted milk and cum simultaneously, a sudden and vicious climax.  Her hands slipped away, suddenly boneless.  The mistress drew a deep ragged breath and threw the wife down, her head tilted back.  The wife convulsed again as fingernails dug into the sponge of her spot, as electric pain shot through her clitoris, as her breast sagged flaccid and empty, as the woman who had taken her man strangled her and forced her to cum.

Again and again and again. 

The mistress let the wife breathe, at last, because she was beaten, destroyed, her eyes tearful and submissive. 

Milked dry. Fucked raw.  I'm better than you. He knows it. I know it. Now you know it too. 

The mistress slid over the naked body of her vanquished rival. She held her hair as she settled on her face.  She only needed a few seconds, because nothing is more erotic than power.  Her orgasm painted the wife's slack and submissive face, triumphant juices mixed with tears of defeat.  She hadn't choked her unconscious but now she brutally rode her face, ferally took her own pleasure, until the other fainted. 

The mistress wandered through the darkened house, as silent as a ghost.  Pictures of the wife were filed on her phone, her destroyed breast, her inadequate pussy, her face with closed eyes, lashes gummed with dried cum.  She found the photos left on the coffee table, of her fucking the husband.  She took those as well. Oh, and the silver satin negligee.  She took nothing else. She had everything she wanted.

[Devon]

Instant CLASSIC

[Rocko23]

Super sexy catfight. Loved it! Thank you and loving your return to prose.

[YH5050]

Excellent story!

[YH5050]