GRITTY REALITY
In the days and weeks leading up to my fight with Danielle, I had masturbated frequently to an idealized fantasy of Danielle and I calmly and coolly striding into the furniture-less second bedroom of my condo, eyeing each other as we unbuttoned and tossed aside our blouses, revealing lacey bras supporting engorged, sexually aroused breasts. We would square up like 19th century Marquess of Queenesbury Rules prize fighters, and calmly but efficiently exchange bare-knuckled fists to the nose and mouth, drawing blood and inducing swelling that, after minutes, began to hamper our vision. We would stand ever closer, sickening bone-on-flesh sounds echoing through the room. From time to time, one of our blows would knock the other down, giving the striker a jolt of pride snd pleasure at seeing her opponent fall and struggle to retain her footing. As our strength waned under the punishment of the sustained mutual beating, our blows would start to miss their targets, glancing the cheek of our enemy, and the hand following through into the opponent's sweaty dishevelled hair. Eventually, after one such double-miss, our sore, battered hands would grab on to the hair to steady and balance our wobbly knees and legs. Our torsos would draw together, and our rock-hard breasts would touch, and then begin grinding together. Moans of pain which we had stifled from mere face punches were now emanating uncontrolled from the depths of our throats, encouraging us to sustain and strengthen the grinding, causing our legs to tangle and crash to the floor in a heap. We would roll in a heap on the floor, trying to mount the other and knead each others' vulnerable breasts, clawing each others' bras off, our battered faces pressed together. I would unfailingly cum at this point, both in the fantasy fight and in my masturbation sessions, finding sweet release and deep gratification from breaking free from the restrictions of civilized life and embracing a violent resolution to my dispute(s) with Danielle, overwhelmed at the eroticsm of my rivalry with her, and yearning for the day it would be experienced as a flesh-and-blood (literally) reality.
That day has arrived, and the gritty reality bears not one scintilla of resemblance to my sexy anticipations. I have a vulnerable sense of my privacy having been deeply violated and invaded. Danielle has entered by condo, logged onto my internet, and (literally) fouled my nest. I tear her out of the kitchen chair, my body in an uncontrollable, mad rage, seeking to transfer Danielle's body into the damp spot of pee carpet. Danielle yields to my throw until the last second, tricking me with a judo self-defense matador trick, as I'm the one who, using my strength against myself, pratfalls face first into the pee, my sinuses burning from the acidic smell.
The sweet sights and smells from this morning are already departed. The buttons of my sheer, sleeveless powder blue dress have torn, rendering the $300 top into little more than a light smock. My ponytail pin has popped off in the donnybrook, and my hair is now and uncontrolled, unstyled net trying to annoyingly fall into my face and eyes and obstruct my view of my surroundings and my frustratingly unpredictable enemy. The mini skirt has fallen down my waist, and rather than repair it, I kick it aside. On my pantyhose remain covering my flesh from my toes to my waist, although small runs are already forming in them. My body smells of sweat and pee.
I take temporary comfort in Danielle's formal wear having sustained our initial barrel-roll no better. The fabric of top has torn like tissue at the V of the neckline, and is loosely flapping like a storm-battered flag. Her skirt bottom, too, has rolled over the hips and down to the knees, Danielle's legs instinctively kicking away the obstruction to the mobility of her knees, and revealing the underwear Danielle has worn to our battle--a set of crotchless panties similar to the ones which I had bought two hours ago at Victoria's Secret and which are still in their original box in my bag because I haven't had a chance to change into them because when I got home this rude, classless, insane, demented, perverted bitch Danielle had already parked in my spot, invited herself in, made herself comfortable, sand peed on my carpet.
When her panties reveal themselves, she and I lock eyes, both of us already fully knowing what her intention is to do next. Danielle falls on top on me, pinning my shoulders with her hands, and straddles me with her knees. She begins slapping my face, all the while upright and shimmying herself up my prone body. I initially am able to retaliate by kicking my knees up and driving them desperately into Danielle's back, connecting solidly with loud thumping sounds and eliciting anguished cries of pain from my tormentor. Still mounting me and shimmying ever-higher, Danielle pauses at my breasts and punishes them with successive rounds of punches, then glancing slaps, then pinches and twists. The sordid unsexiness of our encounter so far actually works to my benefit at this point, since my breasts are so flabby and unaroused that they absorb Danielle's torture more stoically than either of us expect. Realizing this, Danielle shimmies up my neck, and then mounts my face, her pee-soaked pussy locking firmly onto my mouth. I attempt to respond with knees to Danielle's back, but hef kidneys are safely out of range.
From lack of breath, and from disgust at Danielle's body violating mine, I quickly become light-headed. But even that pales at the humiliation of the realization that Danielle had this outcome scripted from the start. Arranging for the fight to happen at my house. Getting in my head by surprising me by being inside. Shocking me by peeing on my floor. Wearing crotchless to be able to pee anywhere, and then to sit on my face.
This wasn't even a fight. It was a beatdown.
I begin to weep. Danielle senses my flagging will, and begins grinding harder. Her pussy gets wetter, and is quickly soaked. She is going to cum on my face. Only my passing out spares me the unerasable images, smells, and sounds of my enemy's victorious climax.
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I wake up around 6 that night. Danielle is gone. She has peed in every room in the condo, although whether she did that before or after beating me up and cumming on my face, I will never know, and don't care to find out.
Ripping out the carpet ends up costing me $12,000. I told the workers an old dog have done it--they knew I was lying. Replacing it with hardwood another $18,000.
I paid for it with my settlement package from Liberty when I resigned.
I put the newly-refurbished condo on the market in January 2017. It sold in 3 days.
My dad was still depressed from my mom dying, so I moved in with him in North Easton.
North Easton. I wonder.....if Julie still lives here. No listing under her high school name--but I'm sure she's been married at least once. I log onto Facebook. It takes a few days, but I find an OA '84 group.
"Julie? Yes, I know her--she her last name is E_____s now. She's divorced, living in Mansfield. Doing all right for herself, I think. Sure, I'll tell her you were asking about her."
We exchange numbers.
"Julie? Hi. Thanks for taking my call. Yes, I remember how you always started shit with me. I didn't fight you because, well, honestly, I was afraid. Then stayed afraid for 32 years before I finally did fight someone. It went pretty much as badly as, well, as badly as I should have expected it to. And, yes, I'm humiliated, and want to make it right. I'm humiliated, but not afraid anymore. I'm ready to fight you now. You in?........Good."
To be continued......
