[Becca Blast!]

"Rebecca... you DO know why you're here, right?"

"First off... NO ONE calls me Rebecca, except for the IRS and my mother -- who is dead, and even when she WASN'T, would only do that when angry.  And I know you aren't the IRS... you're Sheila from HR, who had the brain-impaired idea of a team-building exercise out here in Bumfuck, East Egypt, or wherEVER the Hell we are!  How's that worked out for you?" as I lounge as much as I can in the green-pads-and-metal-frame chair opposite her faux rustic desk in the main cabin of this hellhole.

Two weeks... two FUCKING WEEKS of enforced camaraderie... this isn't the Navy, where we ride on top of enough weaponry to incinerate a sizable fraction of the planet, so we HAVE to get along.  We don't.  We sell things.  We tell OTHER people how to sell things, to be precise.  When I got here, I had wanted to kill Erin, that snotty little econ school graduate who could always be seen laughing with her friends off in some corner -- the kind of corner that was visible to everyone, but also tight enough to make it clear that no one else was welcome.

After four days, I had gotten over wanting to kill Erin.  I was actively planning it.  This was apparently in violation of corporate policy.  Who knew?  I had developed a pretty good imitation of her, though, right down to that condescending little giggle of hers.  Not to mention her insipid ideas, all of which had about as imagination as whatever textbook she had lifted them from.  GOD, the empty words that poured out of her empty brain....

Then Sheila actually says something useful -- sue me, I hadn't been listening to this point -- "you two need to resolve this HERE AND NOW.  If you don't, NEITHER  of you will be welcome in the offices on Monday."  "So, if I pound her into the dirt and make her submit, I get everything I want?  Including HER as my flunky?"  "We obviously cannot officially endorse that.  Whatever solution you two devise, though, will be accepted."

I smile as big a smile as I hadn't in years.  "Done."  I stand up and shake Sheila's hand.  "She'll be a greasy smear on my boots by nightfall."  "Rebe... Becca.  I can't know that.  But send her in as you leave.  If she agrees, I'll let you know."

I come out of the office.. and there she is, in the waiting room.  My body practically tingles at the thought of what I get to do to her, if she has the courage to accept it.  AND, I get to say the words I've said to so many other wannabes who were so certain they could outlast me....

"HR wants to see you.  In private."  With a grin as big as Glacier National Park.  And about as friendly.

[WindyRules]

How is it that these two aren't getting along? They seem so much alike, two peas in a pod, separated at birth.... Yin and, uh, yin.

[Becca Blast!]

I really can't believe she accepted this... but then, knowing her, she didn't do anything more than giggle and bat her eyes at Sheila -- with her usual ridiculous confidence that she is in control of a situation that is completely NOT her at all.

But that doesn't matter.  I've got her, here, and that's all I want.  They've roped off a 16-foot square -- four posts, one rope connecting each, at about waist height.  Yeah, you could slip out under one of them, but the rest of the group has a vested interest in seeing this ends here -- running is not going to be an option for her, even if her friends are gathered on one side.  I come out of the cabin where I was allowed some space to get ready for this, and they are all waiting for me as I open the door...  yelling, laughing flipping me off -- pretty much what you expect from the kind of tadpoles that would flock to Erin.  Windy from Accounting actually makes them back off, so I can get to the "ring"...

I slip under the one rope by a post and the first thing I notice is that the hard-packed dirt I had envisioned pounding her face into is now under about 3 inches of sand, held there by a wooden frame. 

Yeah, they put us in a big sandbox.  Subtle, those folks in HR.  Doesn't matter.  After I plant Erin, none of it will matter.  A thick brown braid comes down between my shoulders and flicks side to side as I loosen up a little. 

I may be in my early 40's, but my body doesn't betray that.  At 5' 4" 125 lbs, I'm in better shape than any of those clowns who think a workout outfit is a fashion statement.  My 34D 24 34 figure is contained by a Navy blue leotard with 3/4 sleeves and a pair of denim shorts that show off my own legs... my pale skin flashes in the light through the trees, and a glint of perspiration show.. good... I want to be ready for her... all the way down to something that an old friend suggested I wear, a pair of red Doc Martens.  Just to remind me how committed I need to be to burying her.

Yeah, I've had an interesting life.  And this little bimbette is about to find out just HOW interesting.  And every catcall by her gaggle is making my smile tighter at the thought of what I'm going to do to her.

Erin.  You have NO idea what's about to hit.

[Becca Blast!]

The crowd is certainly interested... the wannabes are in full voice, with their mindless prattle and hopefully snide comments.  Not that it matters... my fight is with HER, not them, and it's not like I don't have my own friends in the onlookers.

Which is good because when the gaggle suddenly goes silent, that means something has to be up.  What, I don't know, but it's not hard to figure Erin has planned an entrance.  It's kinda what to expect from her.  And, sure enough, Rachel from Product Testing yells, "LOOK OUT!"

The thing about yelling "LOOK OUT" doesn't really help anyone at all.  Not the person planning an attack, who loses their surprise.  And certainly NOT the person needing a warning, because the instinct is to stop moving and ... look.  Which gives the attacker a stationary target, and that is certainly what Erin wants here.

AAAGHHHHHHHHHHH... my left knee buckles and goes down into the sand... my left arm hooks onto the rope for support... which is an unexpected benefit, as those claws go for my braid to yank it back...  my scalp burning but my arm keeping me on my knee... and giving me room to jam my right elbow into the waistband of those silver shorts that an auto show girl would be embarrassed to wear. 

If I connect, my right arm is in the perfect position to wrap around your neck and pull your face towards the edge of the sandbox... won't THAT be fun? 

[LilMishyRocks]

   A bunch of us looked at each other as the speaker clicked off another PowerPoint slide, rolling our eyes as she droned on and on about how there's no I in TEAM, and then recited examples from other companies.  Cara nudged me and added, "No, but there's one in BORING?" in more than a stage whisper, which prompted Kat to add, "And there's two in COMA-INDUCING."  Mercifully, the workshop ended and as we filed out of the conference room, we were immediately drawn to the large windows looking down at the back of the retreat, where several of our colleagues had noses pressed to the glass.

   "Oh damn, I hope we didn?t miss too much!"  We knew this was coming?-the showdown between Becca and Erin.  There were side bets, of course, as to who might mop up the ring with whom, and I was eager to get downstairs and outside to watch it up close.

   It was a predictable rivalry.  Becca, the seasoned professional versus Erin, the talented and sexy upstart.  Recently, some had raised eyebrows about Becca, wondering if the old(er) girl was shedding some neurons, citing an example of a new frame she had placed on her desk, still containing the picture of the ?sample? girl from when she bought the frame. No one asked about it, but it did get tongues wagging.

   We get downstairs just in time to see Erin squirming in a headlock, her body already covered in a thin sheen of sweat, lots of exposed flesh flexing and tightening as she tries to fight against the choke hold, and then finally a punch at Becca's throat.  We cringe at that one as she fires it off, because if it lands, well let's just say it's one way of getting Becca to stop talking. 

[Becca Blast!]

I feel the gust of air out of you as I connect into your waistband -- "that's the smartest comment I've ever heard you make, Erin...."  and as much as I want to pound your head into the edge of the sandbox, I don't have the position or leverage to do that... so I squeeze tight and AHHHHHHH... my braid... yanked back... my chest thrusts out as my back arches and my own full girls are shown tight against my top .. need to .. get up.. try to make her work for this edge.. as I try to stand.. your fist.. swings up and UURRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGHHH... right into my larynx... I'm going to sound for a week like Mish's imitation of Sheila...but even more so... I let go of your head.. backing away as I cough and hold my throat... keeping my eyes on you as I stumble back in the sand and try to keep it so I can see you coming... make her chase you, Becks... and she'll do something stupid... but not before I get my throat to stop gagging on every breath...

I hope.

[ThePurpleVixen]

"FUUUUUUCK!" I yell in protest as I see that titsy little sorority cxnt manage to snake a sissy little punch into Becca's throat.

I've been here running IT for the sleep-away camp, keeping the computers and network projectors intact, getting rid of some of the more disturbing porn Mish has been surfing, and clearing away the malware that infests the retreat's computers every time Erin clicks on a pop-up ad promising her bigger tits or more orgasms.

Thankfully, I'm a fucking contractor so I don't have to go to the workshops or worry about office politics. Which is why I'm watching from the retreat's little server room, where I've piped through the security camera feeds. When I read the emails about this officially unsanctioned brawl being allowed and saw the requisitions for the "sandbox ring", I went ahead and ventured out int the real world to set up more cameras in the surrounding area for better angle coverage. Also some wireless mics. What the hell, we live in 1984 now, so I might as well use the incredibly-easy-to-procure surveillance gear to eyeball two hot chicks whomping the crap out of each other. So I can see every jiggle and hear every snarl.

And if Becca doesn't get that little bitch back hard, I'm gonna have to think about moving from my comfy rolling chair to go watch. Because it's a matter of honor. I LIKE Becca. A lot. Becca's feisty, and clever, and funny, and beautiful. And frankly too good for this place. Certainly I like her a truckload more than that empty-headed little brat that Becca needs to be beating senseless.

And Becca's wearing my lucky red Doc Martens to make sure she can kick Erin's twat up around her ears properly.

"GET HER, BECCA!" I yell to the server room. The computers hum complacently in agreement. "GET UP IN HER GOODIES!"

[Becca Blast!]

I'd like to thank everyone for being patient while Erin and I have both had to deal with family and health issues the past several days.  We're back, and we are going to ramp back up to speed.   

Thanks again!

[Becca Blast!]

She stalks me... cutting off the makeshift ring like a smart fighter would... and I actually smile at the thought.. good... I'm gonna get a workout with her... this isn't going to be just a beatdown... and the crazy Celt inside me relishes the chance to get at it and into it with someone worth the effort... I spit out into your path as you approach and your right doesn't launch... neither of us expected it to, and when you throw your left... I curve and try to blunt the punch as much as I can by giving you a bunched target to hit in my side... your arms come around my waist... oh honey... it's not gonna be that easy... as I hope to prove by driving the heels of my hands into your ears... if she has brains, they just got rattled.. which means I can jam my left knee up into your open shorts... just like Megan taught... pound those soft bits as hard as you can when you get the opening... let's see just how tough you are now, bitch...

[Becca Blast!]

My knee misses... not quite fast enough to nail her... she's smart enough to retreat with her bell rung....and my booted foot comes down into sand, bringing me forward as you swing... my left arm snaps up to try and block that right... but it;s the right knee into my thigh that hurts... I'm standing still, but I can see -- you've thrown right hand and knee at the same time... "out of balance, bitch..."

Which is when I smirk and drive my right fist forward at your left breast... twisting my fist just a bit, like they taught me, on impact.  It makes whatever is soft twist and tear a little when you do that.  Boxers can do it sharply enough to slice a cheek open.  Me?  I just want to pound and torture that girl of yours while you try to figure out how to stand on one leg... if you can... which will give me time to deal with the numb sensation in my left thigh... betting that a straight shot rather than a looping one will do the job of dropping you..

Gotta get her on her ass to kick her ass, as one of the workshop leaders would say, if they were really interested in doing anything here except collecting pay.

[Becca Blast!]

That expression on your face as your tit gets put in the wringer is priceless... I hope Megan got that on her cameras... and as your arms windmill, it's almost worthy of charging admission!  Down you go, and although instinct tells me to move, my aching leg and desire to see you topple keep me there... as your leg snaps up and into my .. UHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH... god... DAMN... don't take a snapshot until AFTER she's beaten, BECS!

Why does every lecture I give myself sound like it comes from a Glaswegian dive bar?  Right... because that's where I HEARD them for the first time... Gemma and Megan telling me over and over what I've done wrong... and then proving it by pounding the lessons into me.  Until I was able to pound back and give them their own lessons.

"Get your mind out of yer damn crotch and don't let her do that AGAIN!" the screaming rings in my ear... as I stagger back to the rope and slide to my left .. away from the cloud of sand that plumes up when you drop into it... I need to take advantage of those openings.. but first... I need to be able to breathe through it... so backing away as I keep an eye on the deflated bitch isn't a bad idea... a spasming thigh and aching sex don't give the best platform to trade shots... but at least I'M not the one on my back... "get up, whore... I checked the handbook... I get to knock you down as often as I WANT!"  I snarl as my own fans start applauding and roaring...

"Plant that bitch... plant that bitch... PLANT THAT BITCH...!"

[Becca Blast!]

OK, so she's not that easy to lure in...

One thing about sand; it makes your legs work.  A lot.  Another reason I really want you to chase me... but you're not mad enough to do that yet... that suddenly flaccid tit, though, means you might be closer to that than you want.. you beckon me... so I give you a bit of a show... fake giving you what you want ... as I see you bring your arms up and beckon me... those legs apart... I yell out and drive across the sandy ring... my hands out... as if I was going to lock up with you.. then as I close in, I plant my left foot forward and twist my hips.. tucking my left shoulder in..  to aim it for your cleavage.. that chest already sore.. let's see what happens when I go Playtex on it.. lift and separate those girls and try to drive you back.. my thighs bulging and legs churning....

"If you're gonna be thinking about them... HIT THEM!"  Best advice Megan ever gave me.. link thought to action as it were.. and action to whatever agony I can pound into YOU!

[Becca Blast!]

The other thing about sand...

It slows down even the quickest motion.  Try as I might to sell the rage and "uncontrollable" anger, she still has time to set a trap of her own...

And I run right into it.  I don't make the turn quick enough, I don't sell the fake hard enough, I don't take into account her ability to deceive enough... and, suddenly, she's not there.  Nor is the rope... but I feel that first, as I hit the cord that you've pulled down with my stomach and give myself an impact that takes some air away and, worse, stops my momentum... setting me up... as the laws of physics take control and I go to straighten up and step back... and then, nothing.

No.  Not nothing... a LOT of stuff that makes my brain nothing.  A long leg and a heavy foot whipping into the side of your head do that.  Lights flash and waves of pain blow from left to right on the inside of my skull, rebound on the far side, and then slam back into the left side with a dull, throbbing ache.  And because time fucking STOPS while my head reloads, all the sloshing around inside my noggin has me hanging on that rope while I hear screams and cheers and .. birds?   

What is this, a cartoon?  If it is, I'm about to drop into a little puff of smoke at the bottom of a canyon.  Or that's what it feels like. 

The problem I have is this roadrunner isn't gonna go, "Meep! Meep!" and dash off.  But I NEED a second to get my head back...  my eyes open and you're on your back.. under me... It's not hard to push off the rope and hope my knees land on your body... not hard at all... Becca wants to fall down... and use Erin for a mattress....

[Becca Blast!]

"Ain't that a kick in the head?" was one of an old, dear friend's favorite expressions for when the unexpected happened.   It carried with it the understanding that whatever had just occurred wasn't as bad, because you were still upright, aware, and able to respond to whatever had happened.

Because after a REAL kick in the head, that's not possible.  Now imagine TWO.  I get the soft landing I want, but since that entire motion was based on gravity doing what it wants with my otherwise unable to act body... you get to set me up for a foot up under my chin to drop onto to... knocking my head and body back off you onto the sand as I drop inelegantly sprawled on my back, even as I hear the grunt after I smack into you... I'd have loved for a chance to follow up on that impact... my flashing and spinning head occasionally saying.. ."she's hurt... she's down... " and all I can think is ... "Why am I using third person now?" as all I want to do is roll over and get away from her and get up...

"Bitch if you let her clean you out HERE... you'll be cleaning out your LIFE on MONDAY!"  cuts through the fog... and I groan and roll onto my right hip.. and over... my face and chest smack into the sand and a second billow puffs up... I slide my arms and knees under me and slowly push... up... body doesn't want to move... brain shorting out... but if she wants to make this about survival... I will... make her kill me... or come close to it... my throbbing head pulsing with every breath as I try to get up off all wobbly fours.. aware that whatever I do, it's taking long enough for her to do something, too... something bad...

[Becca Blast!]

Breasts.

Boobs, jugs, girls, hooters, bazongas, udders, speedbags, mammaries, melons... tits.  Or teats, if you want to get all Shakespearean about it.

They're some cosmic joke played on us by nature.  We have them, and they are designed perfectly for what they are supposed to do.  They're full of nerve endings, fat, and two very important glands that meant everything to making sure we survived as a species.  Ancient statues show that the original concept of a god was a woman with as many of them as possible.  Ancient man wasn't an idiot; unlike most men today, he knew he NEEDED that woman.  (And if the woman happened to prefer another woman, either on occasion or always, they adapted.  Look it up.)  So breasts were cherished and adored and desired.  Especially desired.  That, they still are.

But what they aren't... is very tough.  I proved that to Erin early, and now she proves it to me.  Because although my girls are firm, and well-supported even in this outfit, there's no muscle in them... never was.  Just like there was none in the blonde skank's tit when I drilled it.  When her punt mashes my right breast to my ribs, my eyes widen and whatever resistance I would have even THOUGHT about putting up to the blow disappears... sand pours out of the hanging collar of my top and I flip over onto my back.. my arms crossing over my THROBBING chest (no muscle, but a LOT of nerve endings -- part of the cosmic joke), and I crater a bit in the sand as my back hits... fuck, I'm in pain that just fucking SEARS... even when I breathe.

But here's where instinct takes over.. I've got a two-year-old at home that just finished eating off of these regularly, and a husband that knows how to make me shudder and moan by touching them just in the right manner... and I am gonna PROTECT that, and them... so I curl up tight by reflex... drawing my knees and shins up across the softer and tenderized parts of my body.. if she tries to drop on me.. she's gonna get a bony surprise, and I can only hope it's in a very sensitive part of HER...

A trade-off.  For the survival of the fittest.  Because this bitch is gonna LEARN.