Rivals by Chance Part 8

[falkoff]

Rivals by Chance Part 8

A couple of weeks after that night by the lake, Ann and Kat decided to live together.
Kat left her parents' house with one small sports bag. Her father yelled so loud the neighbors two floors down could hear him. Her mother cried and kept repeating the same thing: "With some girl... with some goddamn girl..." They couldn't accept that their ballerina, their clean little girl, was now sleeping in the same bed with a rough gymnast and wasn't even trying to hide it. Kat silently packed her training gear, a few pairs of underwear, a toothbrush, and walked out without looking back.
Ann's father didn't give a shit. He didn't even ask who the new roommate was. He just nodded when his daughter said she wouldn't be living alone anymore and went back to his TV.
The apartment was tiny -- one room, a microscopic kitchen, a shower stall so narrow they could barely stand in it together. But it was enough. In the mornings they trained right on the floor while the neighbors were still asleep. During the day they might lock up again -- not for technique this time, just to feel the other body underneath them, to hear the other person's breathing, to see who would give in first. And at night they made love as hard as they fought. They bit, scratched, left bruises and immediately kissed them. Kat finally felt alive again.
Almost.
Because at night, when Ann was already asleep with her hot forehead pressed to Kat's shoulder blade, something started scraping inside her head.
She hadn't beaten Mel on her own.
In that fight at the school Ann had stepped in. Kat had finished off an already exhausted, spent woman. The victory was someone else's. Dirty. Stolen. And the longer she lived with that knowledge, the more it ate her from the inside. She would wake up at three in the morning with her heart hammering, go to the kitchen, drink water and stare into the black window. She needed to prove -- to herself, not to anyone else -- that she could break Mel alone. That she was stronger. That the earlier win hadn't been an accident.
Mel, meanwhile, had not forgotten.
After the photographs, after the entire ballet world had seen her with panties stuffed in her mouth, she disappeared. For several weeks no one saw her. Then she started preparing. Coldly, methodically, with the special kind of rage that only comes to someone who has been publicly stripped of their face. She would stand in front of the mirror for hours and remember how Kat had sat on her face. How she had smelled. How she had trembled with victory. And every time she remembered, something dark and hot rose inside her. She needed that girl. She needed her pain. She needed the chance to settle the debt in person, without witnesses, without anyone else's help.
The note arrived on Wednesday.
It was delivered by a first-year -- thin, pale, with the eyes of a frightened animal. The girl held out the heavy cream cardstock folded in four as if it were a live grenade, then fled.
Kat unfolded the paper. The handwriting was sharp, angry, almost carved into the cardboard.
"Old parking lot next to the shoe factory.
Saturday, 21:00.
Hope you've actually got some balls of your own and won't hide behind your gymnast girlfriend's skirt.
Come alone. Or die a rat the way you are."
Kat read it twice. Her hands shook slightly -- not from fear. From hunger. From pure, poisonous desire to finally end this.
She said nothing to Ann.
On Saturday evening she left the apartment while Ann was in the shower. She left a short note on the table: "Went out on business. Back late. Don't wait up." And drove.
The parking lot by the old shoe factory looked like the end of the world. Cracked asphalt, rusted poles, piles of broken glass, the smell of engine oil and rotting leaves. The streetlights had been dead for years. Only a heavy, low moon lit everything in dull gray light.
Mel was already waiting.
She stood by her black sedan, smoking. When Kat walked up, both women silently shrugged off their outer clothes. Under the coats were identical thin black ballet training suits. The fabric clung so tightly that everything showed: the tension in the abdominal muscles, the shape of the breasts, the line of the hips. Mel was harder, leaner, older. Kat was younger, angrier, still carrying half-healed scratches from previous fights.
"So you actually showed up, you little cxnt," Mel said quietly and crushed the cigarette under her foot. "I was starting to think you'd hide behind your bitch again."
"And I was starting to think after those photos you'd stay home jerking off to your reflection in a puddle," Kat answered. Her voice was steady, but inside everything trembled with anticipation. "Glad to see you can still stand on your own feet."
They came together without a signal.
The first blow was a slap. Mel's open palm cracked across Kat's left cheek so hard her head snapped sideways. Kat didn't step back. She stepped forward and returned the same slap, only from below, twisting the jaw harder. For several seconds they simply stood and slapped each other's faces with open hands, not guarding, just rocking from the impacts. Skin burned, tears stood in their eyes, spit flew from their mouths. Every slap was personal.
Then Mel suddenly closed the distance and drove a knee into Kat's thigh. Kat folded, but immediately answered with an elbow to the solar plexus. Air left Mel in a whistle. They locked into a clinch, dug fingers into hair, yanked. Strands stayed in their hands. The training suits were already starting to tear -- first from nails, then from friction against the asphalt when they fell and rolled.
Kat ended up on top and tried to lock Mel's arm. Mel twisted out like a snake, smashed her forehead into the bridge of Kat's nose and rolled. Now she was on top. Knees dug into Kat's ribs, hands squeezed her throat. Kat choked, hammered her heels against the asphalt, then managed to bridge her hips and throw Mel off.
The suits hung in shreds. They tore at them with their hands, ripping fabric from shoulders, hips, breasts. At one point both of them simultaneously grabbed the other's panties and yanked in opposite directions. The silk tore with a nasty rip. Now they were completely naked -- only dirt, blood, asphalt dust and sweat on their skin.
They fought like animals. Bit shoulders, breasts, the insides of thighs. Scratched until they bled. Kat managed to roll Mel again and pin her shoulder blades to the asphalt that was still hot from the day. She sat on top, shifted higher and covered Mel's mouth with her crotch.
"Lick it, bitch," she hissed, pressing down harder. "Lick it the way I licked you that time. Come on. Show me what you're worth when you're pinned."
Mel jerked underneath her. Then suddenly relaxed. And smirked with wet lips right against the wet flesh.
"You're still in the wrong fucking league, girl."
Mel sharply drove her knees into Kat's back, forcing her to lean forward, lifting her ass and exposing her crotch. In the same second fingers folded into a hard cone slammed straight into her cxnt -- sharp, deep, up to the knuckles. Mel immediately ripped her hand back out, and the long, specially grown nails raked down the tender walls of the vagina, leaving burning, ragged scratches. Kat screamed -- short, hoarse, almost animal. Her body arched from the sudden, piercing pain. She instinctively tried to pull away, to rise.
And in that moment a dull, heavy blow landed from behind.
The baseball bat connected cleanly with the back of her head. The world flashed white, then went black instantly. Kat collapsed onto her side, stunned, eyes rolling back.
Mel sat up sharply, breathing hard, and turned. Trixie stood two steps away, the bat still in her hands, eyes wide.
"What the fuck did you just do?!" Mel roared so loud her voice cracked. "I told you -- only if it's completely fucked! I was already finishing her, you stupid cxnt! I wanted to break her myself! Myself, goddamn it! You ruined everything!"
She snatched the bat from her niece's hands so hard Trixie stumbled back.
"You're just the backup, not the hero, you get that?! I wanted to watch her crawl and lick my feet after I fucked her raw with my victory!"
Mel walked over to Kat, who was already trying to push up on her elbows, shaking her bloodied head and wheezing. Without another word she swung and brought the bat down with full force on the right shin.
The crack was dry, clear, almost ringing. The bone broke. Kat howled so hard her voice tore into a rasp. The leg jerked unnaturally and went limp.
Mel stood over her and looked. Inside there was a strange, heavy satisfaction. She didn't want this bitch to get up again. She didn't want Kat coming after her in a month or a year -- stronger, angrier, with the same obsession in her eyes. She didn't need a strong rival. She needed a broken one. One who would never again be able to stand on pointe shoes, let alone stand on her feet in a fight.
"Stay down," she said quietly. "And if you live -- remember every single day who left you here."
She and Trixie got into the car and drove off without even looking back. The headlights disappeared around the corner, leaving the parking lot in heavy, rotting darkness.
Kat lay on the asphalt.
She came to and blacked out again. The pain in her leg was so bad black circles and flashes swam in front of her eyes. She raved -- heard Ann's voice, saw the mirrors of the ballet studio, felt someone else's hands on her face, someone else's weight on her chest. She tried to crawl, but every attempt ended in a fresh wave of agony and unconsciousness. Her mouth tasted of blood and asphalt dust. The cold sank into her bones.
The last thing she heard before she sank into the dark again was the distant sound of an engine and the short, sharp noise of a car door opening.

[Horny-Jew]

The suits hung in shreds. They tore at them with their hands, ripping fabric from shoulders, hips, breasts. At one point both of them simultaneously grabbed the other's panties and yanked in opposite directions. The silk tore with a nasty rip.

Your story is way, way much too violent for my enjoyment, but this part got me sexually aroused.

[Horny-Jew]