[sinclairfan]

AFTERMATH

Thursday February 15 is my hangover day from my impulsive action to drive Andrea to a catfight-slash-streetfight with Kelsey.  There's a small but not negligible chance that I have jeopardized Andrea's academic future.  If Andrea is expelled from high school in February, there's no chance of her receiving college acceptances on April 1.  She'll finish high school somehow somewhere in the summer or fall, but she won't be starting college with her class.  I need to hope her high school doesn't hear about the Andrea-Kelsey fight in the next few days and weeks.

I also need to have it out with Joan for what happened between her and my son, and between Andrea and me.  Our only way of communicating anymore is bedfighting--the next time she and I are in bed, I suspect the topic will come up.  Things could get ugly.

Finally, I need to deal with the elephant in the room--my raging, irresistable girlcrush on Andrea.  Ever since Andrea came at me in the school hallway at parent conferences, then Joan and I watched Andrea fight Samantha on New Year's Eve, then I moved into Joan's place, I've been crushing on Andrea and everything about her.  I know see that my becoming Joan's lover was nothing more than a way for me to get close to Andrea.

I obsess about everything about Andrea.  Her shiny auburn hair.  The clothes she wears.  The way she smells.  Her social life.  Her feud with Kelsey.  I'm grateful that Samantha cock-blocked my son from hooking up with Andrea--now Andrea can sleep together without the awkwardness of knowing she's been with my son.

I confront a frightening thought.  Did I have Andrea fight Kelsey last night because I really do want to get her expelled, to sabotage the start of her college career.  If Andrea goes away to school in August, not only will she and I be physically separated--she'll lose interest in me compared to all the other sexual options, male and female, presented to her there.  I won't stand a chance.

I can't wait till this afternoon to pick her up from her play rehearsal.  I spend the day scrolling through Andrea's Instagram page, masturbating to the pics in it.  I fantasize that there's an R-rated Instagram app, say, called, Hootergram, with topless and nude pics of Andrea.

Or pics of her fighting Samantha.  Then Kelsey.  I could stare af those all day long.

Another reason I know I'm obsessed with Andrea:  even though I was in a catfight last night myself, and an inconclusive one at that, with Kelsey's Polish nanny or whoever the mystery companion was, I have no interest in pursuing a rematch.  My fight with Colleen was to a decisive finish, and even my 1996 St Louis Big 12 Championship Game confrontation with Texas Traci didn't end until Traci disappeared off of the nascent 1997 prehistoric grid.  The pre-Andrea version of myself would be in my car, right now, back at Kelsey's, looking for the blonde Polish ice queen who scratched up my face last night.

But I have a 5:15pm pickup.  Will Andrea and I talk about what happened last night?  Will we kiss?

What actually occurs surpasses my wildest expectations.

Andrea gets in my car.  We lock eyes, and she speaks first.  "Let's do this right.  One of the girls in my class gave me this--it's a key to a furnished apartment in downtown Arlington Heights.  We just need to leave it the way we found it.  The sheets might not be totally clean, but other than that it's fine.  Wanna?".  "Yes, Yes, Andrea.  God, yes."

Between rush hour traffic and commuter train crossings, it takes forever to get to the apartment.  Well, not forever, it just seems like it. 

"Have you ever been with a woman?"

"Not beyond kissing, no.  Well, you know, until last night.  And even thst wasn't naked."

"Anything in particular you'd like to do?"

"Everything."  <<<<Holy shit, I practically explode in the front seat of the car.>>>>>

Andrea are on each other in seconds flat as soon as we get the apartment door open, stripping as rapidly as humanly possible.  I become self-aware of every imperfection and sign of age on my body as I soak in the look and feel of Andrea's 18 year old flesh.  Something is off on our kissing--last night's was so tender, so rhythmic.  We can't find that groove, at least not yet.  We realize that today is not for kissing, it's for fucking each other.

We sit on the bed and face each other, and scissor our legs together.  We pull each other close, and grind our pussies, desperately in need of release.  Andrea has inherited Joan's massive bush area, but Andrea's is still soft, thin, and not completely filled in.

My cellphone starts to buzz frequently.  I ignore it.  I'd ignore the goddamned Zombie Apocalypse if it was underway right now.  All I wnt is Andrea.

"Is this what tribbing is?"

"Yes.  Do you like it?"

"I love it."

Andrea is confident in bed, which in turn gives me confidence. 

"I want us to cum together.  Tell me, 1 thru 10 how close you are."

"4"

"Good, me too.  Well, not 2.  I'm a 4 also."

"5"

"Mmmmmmm.  Me too"

"6"

"Mmmmm......oooooooo"

"8"

"You skipped 7, you bitch"

"I know, I can't help it, catch up.....ooooooooo"

"8"

"9"

"9"

We lock eyes and tongue kiss.

"Cum with me.....mmmmmmmmmm?

"Oooo.......ooooo....ooooooo.....ohhhhhhhbb.....aaahhhbh"

"oooooo.......aaaahhhhhhhhh"

"Show me how to 69"

Andrea and I suck each other off to countless more orgasms, my cellphone buzzing the whole time.

Andrea gets up to shower.

I check my phone.  Shit, it's my son.  I call.

"Everything ok?

"Yes...ummm....mom, this is embarrassing, but.....Joan was getting a little too....ummmm, affectionate......and didn't take it too well when I said no......anyways, I'm spending the night at my friend Dan's.  Is that ok?"

"Yes of course.  His mom's fine with that, right?"

"Yes.  Sorry, Mom."

"No, I'm proud of you.  You did the right thing.  I'm the one who should be sorry."

To be continued......

[Vanessa]

Mmmmmmmmmmm.....keeps getting hotter

[sinclairfan]

RUBBING JOAN'S FACE IN IT

As Andrea and I wash up, get dressed, and eat dinner at an Irish pub in downtown Arlington Heights, I bask in the triumph of my romantic conquest over Joan.  Both of us had clumsy Valentine's encounters with each others' 18 year old offspring.  But I parlayed mine into a full-on followup lovemaking session the next evening, while Joan faced humiliating rejection from her paramour.  Pffft--how awkward--who gets turned down by math nerd 60 days removed from losing his virginity?  Joan must be seething right now.  Hashtag-WomanScorned.

I enjoy that she's seething.  And I dread it--I will no doubt be the one to pay the price, in the form of a brutal bedfight, or worse.  If this was a fairy tail, I would pack 4 days of clean clothes in my car and the cashiers' check from the sale of my house and head South or West with Andrea and never look back.  She and I would cruise around the backroads of Smalltown Middle America, picking fights with women in country-music-playin' redneck bars and learning about each others' bodies in Motel 6's and Hampton Inn's.  For the next 20 years, till she was my age.  In other words:  Heaven.

But this isn't Heaven, it's Earth.  And this ain't no Fairy Tale, it's real life.  Andrea is 5 weeks away from college acceptances arriving in the mail.  I can't jeopardize her future--well, at least no more than I already have by driving her to a streetfight last night with her internet enemy Kelsey.  And then there's my son--he's safe for tonight with his friend, but I can't bank on their hospitality indefinitely.  I have to give him a stable base close to the school to pursue his studies, at which he's finally excelling after a thoroughly frustrating grade school and middle school career.

Shit.  Figures.  I finally find.....is it love?.....do I actually love Andrea?....again, and I don't know how I'm going to make it work.

I have to have it out with Joan tonight.  Tomorrow is Friday, a school day.  Andrea needs to spend tonight in her home to properly prepare for school.  There's no way for me to avoid Joan.

As Andrea and I wrap up dinner, I decide to get a feel for her mood by texting an offer to bring her home some take-out.

> Andrea and I will be home in 30 minutes.  Can we bring you home anything?

> Really, Barb?  Really?

> Ummm, ya, really.  I'll really bring you home something.  Do you really want something?

> I regret inviting you into my house.

> <<<<So, you're going to play the victim, bitch?  Fine by me.>>>>>  Don't whine.  You got what you wanted, I got what I wanted.

> There's still one thing you need.  Face me and I'll give it to you.

> Do I seem afraid to face you?

I'm startled by Andrea's voice:  "Who are you texting with?"

"Oh, just your mom.  I....ummmm....was asking if she wanted us to bring her home dinner."

"Does she?"

"No......She's pouting."

"I.....didn't.....the last 2 days.....I didn't mess things up between you and her, did I?"

<<<<Nothing Joan and I would have ever had would have topped the last two days, Andrea.  I would tell you that, if I could know it wouldn't scare you off.>>>> "She and I just need to....talk things out.  Don't worry."

Andrea and I step into the cold, dark night and get into the car.  Talk things out with Joan.  But....what exactly is it we're trying to talk out.  To go back to the way things were between Joan and me.  To break the news to her that I like Andrea better.  Am I trying to work out a way to be with.....both of them.....at the same time?  Well, not in the same bed at the same time...that would be gross.  I just mean....to be with Joan sometimes and with Andrea sometimes.  I think.  Is that sick?  I didn't think this thru, at all, I now realize.  I just.....let the last 2 days happen.  I never thought about the morning after.

It's here now.  And I don't know what to do.

What is it Andrea wants?  What is it Joan wants?  Why is no one taking control of this situation?

Well, not Andrea.  She's 18.  She can't take control.  Or certainly shouldn't be expected to.  No.  It's up to me and Joan.

We're home.  Andrea heads to bed.

Joan is in bed, waiting for me.  Naked.

"You and I need to talk," she hisses.

"Let's do that," giving her attitude right back.

I strip and join her in bed.  We sink our claws into each others' biceps immediately.  Like we've been doing to each other for at least 3 or 4 weeks now.  Apparently tonight will be more of the same.  Just nastier.

"Heard you struck out with my son."

"Interesting choice, Barb, going there.  Stirring the pot."

"You seemed a little down earlier.  Wouldn't want you the say later this fight wasn't fair."

"Oh, what do you say we forget about fair and just go for it, sweetie"

<<<<<Our nails move up each others' biceps to each others' shoulders.  Our bare breasts press together.  I've never heard this tone in Joan's voice.  But if she was hoping I would fear it, she hoped wrong.  It only makes me angry.  And determined.  Our claws dig into each others' shoulder blades, and down each others' backs, slicing like blades.>>>>>

"Fine by me, honey."

Our faces press together, and our mouths commence their familiar tongue fighting.  We've been doing it so often the last few weeks, the motion and the rhythm has become familiar.  And the way it turns me on has, too.  And I sense Joan getting aroused as well.  Shit, I wouldn't have thought it possible, but no matter how hard Joan and I try to have an all-out bitchfight, no matter how.....cruel.....we are to each other....in words, in actions, in our foreplay....we always end up....tongue kissing each other to a climax. 

Joan's tongue kissing.....I've never felt anything like it, even with Andrea.  Andrea's kisses were too.....she was too conscious of trying to match my kiss, my motion, my intensity....Joan's mouth doesn't care--it just plunges into mine. ...and mine into hers.  The hungry, desparate sounds of Joan and I kissing each other are....seductive.....naughty......forbidden, even. 

"I missed kissing you so bad, Joan," I hear myself involuntarily say.

"I know....but.....don't mess it up.....don't tell me that."

Joan is right.  My arousal backslides.  We each try to recover the passionate intensity of moments ago.

"Bitch."

"cxnt."

"Liar."

"Cheater."

Our claws sink deep into each others' butt cheeks.  Our mouths desperately writhe against each others'.  And then we release our kiss.  We wordlessly know what this means.

We both need to cum.  And fast.  We begin struggling to mount each others' faces.  Slaps ring out thru the bedroom, and we tear into each others' hair.  Each of us briefly mounts the other's face, and begin to hump to a climax, but the are thrown off by the even more desperate bucking of the woman underneath.  We twist and buck and mount repeatedly, locking up in a mutual 69.  We slap and now punch each others' torso's, and grind our hips, in desperate need of release.  I lose control, and hear Joan lose control as well.

"Aaaaaaarrrhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh"

"Eeeeeeiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii"

"Aaavggggggggggggggggghhhhhh"

"Eeeeiiiiiioooooooooohhhhhhhhh"

I come down slowly from my dizzying buildup and release, reorienting myself steadily.

I look under the crack of the bedroom door.

I see someone's feet moving away.

Andrea's.  She was listening to Joan and me.

Joan and I remain in our 69, kissing each others' thighs.

I hear Andrea close her bedroom door.

Joan and I continue kissing.  I taste Joan getting wet again.  I listen into Andrea's bedroom.  I hear her moaning.  I get wet, and Joan moves her tongue from my thighs to my crotch.

I hear Andrea, muffled through the two closed doors, moaning louder and faster.  I position Joan's tongue to be inside of me.

Andrea cums.  I cum onto Joan's tongue.

I want go cuddle with Andrea. 

I try and get up.  Joan's legs pin me down.  I instinctively kick at her.  She kicks back.  Joan and I are on our backs, holding ourselves up by our elbows kicking each other in the dark with our feet.  I feel the balls of Joan's feet connecting with my jaw, my nose my forehead. 

Losing our battle with these tactics, or at least sustaining unrelenting blows, I begin scratching at her thighs, indicating by touch that my nails are ready to move up her body if she refuses to stop.

"Truce?", I question my adversary.

"Stay out of her bedroom," Joan counteroffers.

I consider my options.

"No guarantees tomorrow night, bitch."

We fall asleep.

To be continued......

[sinclairfan]

INTERLUDE:  FEAST OF SAINT JOHN, ONE YEAR LATER

I still owe you a resolution to the Joan-Andrea-me triangle.  Don't worry, it had one, a I'll get to it. 

But, as I sit down to write this morning, the calendar speaks to me.  It's December 27th, the Feast of Saint John, one year to the day after Joan and I were gladiators in Bout 2 of three memorable fights, three fights which, frankly, injected new life into the fundraising institution.  I'm not a part of the school anymore--more on that later--but Fiona is, and filled me in on the deatils when she and I caught up in early December.

Prior to a year ago, the night of Fiona's victory over ber opponent and mine over Joan, attendance at the December 27 event and, more importantly, cash commitments to it, had been in a bit of a slump.  In the 1980s and 1990s, opportunities to see two motivated winner box topless to a knockout finish were, well, non-existant, outside of the annual spectacle on offer during Christmas Break.  So, sell-out attendance and generous giving were the norm. 

But this is 2017.  Any woman with the topless foxy boxing itch can scratch it 24/7/365 on Pornhub, or even YouTube.  The dropoff in contributions was small at first, but was on the precipice of becoming an avalanche.  Fiona filled me in on the backstory to last year's first bout--the one where 2 school mom's with a real-life beef--their 2 daughters were involved in an academic cheating she-said-she-said--were paired off in a Saint John's bout, at which their boxing gloves "accidentally" tore, so the women finished their brawl hand-to-hand.  Predictably, the brawl escalated into a no holds barred bloodbath, with the victor biting the loser in the neck.  I had been in the audience for the event, and my involuntary vomiting onto my seat spoke, more than any words can, to the primal, unfiltered reality of what my eyes had witnessed.

That stunt, by whoever had conceived and arranged it, had almost killed the Saint John's tradition forever.  In this age of viral news and instantaneous worldwide dissemination of scandal, the distribution of a story of middle-aged woman gathering annually and raising money off the sweat and blood, literally, of single mothers trying to get an education for their children, and feeling pressured by circumstances to bite and scratch each other for the viewing pleasure of wealthy Real Houewives--well, needless to say, the Fight Night tradition, if not the entire school, would have been toast.

But, both of the women in the famed "Jugular Fight" survived, and so did the Feast of St John's event, if in a slightly modified format.  Like any institution which survives the ravages of time, the organizers of the St John fights understood and followed the rule, "For things to stay the same, they need to change."  The two changes for this year's fight night were:  One, both women needed to, at all times, with no exception, be wearing boxing gloves.  Last year's bare knuckle brawls would not be allowed to recur in the future--the risks of unrestrained female fury were deemed to be unacceptable.  And, Two, instead of combatants being restricted to single moms, ANY mom at the school could issue a challenge to ANY (female) faculty member at the school.  If the mom won the fight, she would get complete forgiveness of service hours.  If the teacher won, she would get a cash bonus out of the proceeds of the funds raised.  Since the teachers at the school worked for below-market salaries, these stakes would be sure to be appreciated by their recipient.

When challenges were issued, votes were tallied, and results announced the Friday after Thanksgiving, the winning bout was between the sexist mom at the school, versus the sexiest teacher.  The mom was a married blonde with two children at the school--the teacher was a young athletic brunette, and an aluma of the school.  Fiona and I both excitedly viewed the promotional pictures, with Fiona promising to attend the fight and tell me about the outcome--Fiona being still a school parent and eligible to attend; myself, not and thus not.  Fiona and I both wish we could be fight participants ourselves on Dec 27.  We recall our crash-course training this time last year, mine with the sexy blonde Samantha.  The surreal neervousness the night of the fight.  The thrill of competition.  And then, for each of us, victory.  Glory Days.

The Saint John tradition will live another year.  We think back to the 1972 bout which has survived by word of mouth.  Two school mom's slugging it out for thirty-four brutal rounds, each stubbornly refusing to give.  Both of their eyes swollen shut.  We think of the first, original St John's fight--the aggrieved mom standing up for her bullied daughter.  I think back to my small part in the long, proud tradition of St John's fights.  Will women 30 years from now be talking about the fights Joan and I had--first, in the ring, over service hours; and, then, out of the ring, over Andrea?

I guess now I should tell you about that fight.  The out of the ring one.

To be continued......

[Vanessa]

Don?t keep us waiting too long

[sinclairfan]

HAPPY ST JOHN'S DAY

Today is December 27.  The Feast of St John.  For any female parent, alumna, faculty member, trustee, or benefactof of our boarding school, today means only teo things--fundraising, and fighting.  It's a day to reminisce and catch up.  But it's also a day of great seriousness--there's plenty of proud, respected private boarding schools, in the Rust Belt, who have gone the way of the horse and buggy, for one reason only:  lack of funds.  To the bitter end, they had the enrollment, they had the reputation, they had the academic and quality to keep their doors open.  But without the generous giving of private donors, ever-rising tuition is a fool's game which saps vitality out of any school.

So, the Saint John's fights must be compelling, to prime the pump of giving for at least another 12 months.

And, I'm proud to report success for this year.  On both the fighting front, and the fundraising front.  Congress did us a favor in the latter category.  Due to changes in the tax code enacted for next January 1st, especially for residents of high tax states like California, New York, New Jersey, Connecticut, and Illinois, it's advantageous to move charitable giving forward to the current calendsr year.  So, between tax considerations and the insanely high 2017 stock market, donors "brought their checkbooks" to this year's fight.

And, the 2 fighters, a beautiful mom named Michelle and a striking mathematics teacher named Sarah, brought the action.  I didn't attend, but my friend and fellow prior year fight victor did.  She told me the details of a splendid 7 round foxy boxing battle between the two rivals.  In order to restore sanity, but not too much, to the prior year's near disastrous mayhem, this year's event included timed 5-minute rounds, with a special celebrity guest referee.  I'm not allowed to say who it was, but let's play the 3 hints game and stipulate that she's from yhe Windy City, is blonde, and once dated Jim Carrey, ok?

Micelle and Sarah went toe to toe, counting intermissions anf pre-match lapdancing (an important, essential component of Foxy Boxing which was wisely revised for this year's festivities) , for almost exactly an hour.  They both got knocked down, mounted, and pummelled by their opponent, only to regain their wind and return the favor.  Until Round 7, when Sarah the teacher secured the KO, pounding Micelle into unconsciouness and securing for herself a 2017-18 salary actually representative of what her STEM skills and background would draw in the marketplace.  Good for her.  Hopefully her faculty peers are already in training for the December 27, 2018 parent-teacher boxing match. 

A new tradition is born.  Or, an ancient and venerable one gets new life.  Depending on your perspective.  The school survives.

Something didn't survive 2017.  My relationship wiyh Joan.  On February 16, she and I had a girlfight to end all girlfights.  It was over money, living arrangements, a breakup, and her daughter.  It was over which of us was the better woman.  Better looking, better parrnt, better fighter.  Every reason two women can clash was put into a giant pot and mixed all together.  It was vicious, ferocious, and raw. 

I've avoided thinking about it until today.  But today is the Feast of St John.  I suppose I've been in avoidance mode long enough.  Time to come to terms with my final showdown with Joan. 

Here goes.

To be continued......

[Vanessa]

WHAT? Don?t you fucking dare tease us this way! We are all waiting for this epic fight.

[sinclairfan]

"I'M ENDING THIS RELATIONSHIP"

On the night of the 16th, the Thursday night before a Friday before a 3-day Presidents' Day weekend, I climbed into bed for the last time with Joan.  She was angrier than a swarm of hornets.  While performing her Thursday service hours at school, Joan had heard rumors of the Andrea-Kelsey fight in Kelsey's development on Valentine's Night, and knew right away that it was me who had driven Andrea there.  She knew Andrea and I had begun getting physical.  And, worst of all for me, Joan was a woman scorned, having gotten lucky with (on the 14th), then getting rejected by (on the 15th) my son. 

Joan knew she needed to end things between Andrea and me before the 3-day weekend got rolling--there was way too much time and opportunity for trouble.  And since she couldn't console herself in the arms of my son, all bets were off.  She was going to take her daughter back.  She was also going to prove to herself, and to me, that she had let me win our St John's fight 7 weeks ago. 

I apprehensively climbed into bed, naked, that night for what I knew was going to be a vicious bedfight.  Perhaps if I had been scorned by Andrea that week, the outcome would have been different.  Perhaps I could have met Joan's anger with some of my own.  Instead,  Joan kissed me right away, hissing, "I'm ending this relationship."  I answered, not entirely sarcasticslly, "Me and you?  Or me and Andrea?".

"You fucking bitch," responded Joan, as I felt her right hand descend in my nose and right cheek.  In the darkened bedroom, Joan and I faced each other on our knees, and began wildly swinging with right and left fists and slaps.  The fists were directed at each others' faces.  The slaps were directed af each others' breasts, and included painful pulls and malicious twists after locating their target.  I couldn't tell if Andrea was listening at the door like she had the night before, but it hardly mattered--this fight was loud enough to be audible from anywhere in Joan's house.

Unfortunately for me (and my body), I was the slower woman to adjust to fighting in the dark.  Not being able to see if it's a face-punch or a tit-twist coming your way until after it lands is frightening and disorienting.  And Joan was giving me the opposite of what I had braced for, it seemed, with every blow, catching me clean.  My retaliating strike, each time, seemed to be mitigated by her upraised elbows.

I immediately wondered, and still do to this day, if the hotel room fight with her ex-husband's work lover had taken place in the dark.  If, on that night, Joan had mastered to art of beating someone up who couldn't see you.  If she had, after 4 weeks of tongue-kissing bedfights with me, been saving this one in reserve for the night she would need to put me in my place.  Or, was she just letting her Mama Bear instinct do its thing ehen she sensed Andrea slipping out of her orbit and into mine?

Losing strength from what was turning into what was becoming an increasingly one-sided beating, Joan tore at my hair and mounted my face.  After pleasuring herself via grinding and rolling for torturous minutes which seemed like they would never end, Joan began to try to smother me.  In her puposeful anger, I desperately tried to maintain consciousness, fearing what Joan would do to me once I was completely at her mercy.

Because I know what I would have done to her if the tables were turned.

*********************************

I woke up at dawn the next morning, fully clothed, my belongings in suitcases with me in my car, my car parked in an Arlington Heights municipal parking garage.  Joan must have had help getting my unconscious body out of her house last night, and Andrea was the only person who could have helped her?

How could you, Andrea?  I wanted to ask her.  I thought we had gotten so close that evening in the furnished apartment.  Did you pick Joan because she's your mom?  Because she won our last fight?  Did I let you down by losing?   

I never did contact Andrea afterwards.  Nor Joan.  I guess I didn't want go see how far our fight could escalate, if we could match or exceed the Kim-biting-the-carotid-artery episode of the first St John's bout. 

My son dropped out of school in May to attend a math and science academy.  Andrea got into the University of Michigan to study physical therapy.  I saw her post that on Instagram.

I'm pretty sure I'll never see Joan again.  Although.....you never know.

THE END