News:

PRODUCERS & OTHER FORUMS SITES: Please note - you MUST HAVE A RECIPROCAL LINK back to this site is you wish to ADVERTISE your site on this forum. If you do not have a link back to us, we will remove your posts with immiediate effect - 25th April 2010

Camilla vs Steffi, a Tale of 1914 Memel

  • 17 Replies
  • 4758 Views
*

Offline sinclairfan

  • God Member
  • *****
  • 4636
Camilla vs Steffi, a Tale of 1914 Memel
« on: June 30, 2018, 10:45:29 PM »
MEMELLAND

My name is Camilla.  My life, the best years of it at least, was disrupted by 35 years of non-stop World Wars and Civil Wars from 1914 to 1949.  I was born in Memel, a remote Baltic seaport on the eastern fringes of the German Empire in 1896.  The First World War broke out the summer after I turned 18 years old, and by the time peace returned to my life thirty-five years later, I was a broken, prematurely elderly 53-year old widow.  I won't bore you with the lurid detalis of the war years--millions of other had it worse and lost more than me. 

No, what I'm bitter about in my old age is not the lost years and repose of my youth.  It's a German girl I fought right before all heck broke loose in Europe.  My fight with her was bitter but necessary, and my only regret is that the chaos and displacement of the wars to follow caused me to lose track, forever, of what happened to her after our fight.  I can say that I hope fate did not allow her the favor of a rapid death during the wars, and that her participation in humanity's suffering for the next 30+ years was at least as great as mine, or even greater.

Let me give you some background about Memelland first.  In the Middle Ages, German merchants and Crusaders based in Hamburg and Lubeck sailed the Baltic Sea searching for markets to sell to and pagans to convert.  One place they landed was Memel, populated by Poles and Lithuanians--I'm Lithuanian, Steffi was German.  As the years passed and national boundaries soldified, the Russian Empire took over the countryside around Memel, but the German Empire carved out the port of Memel itself and the immediate city, and Memelland became a hybrid multi-cultural enclave, part German speaking, part Polish speaking, part Lithuanian speaking, even a little bit of Russian.  Religiously, we were part Lutheran, part Catholic, and part Orthodox.  Memel was wealthy and booming, and anyone who was good with book learning and languages and could keep multiple ideas in their head could thrive in Memelland, even if they were a girl.  I was a natural with languages, and I was on a fast track to success in 1914.  I was working as a tutor and governess in the home of one of Memel's wealthiest German merchants.

The German merchants lorded it over all the Poles, Lithuanians, and Russians in Memel.  The early twentieth century was a time of all sorts of horrible, pseudo-scientific racial inferiority ideas, many of which would be put to use over the next three decades to justify the mass civilian uprootings and then killings which destroyed the world I grew up in.  And the most important idea pervading Memelland was the the Germans were, well, Germans, and all the rest of us were Slavs.  The word Slav is where the English word slave comes from--we Slavs were plucked from the Eurasian countryside from about 800 to 1250 or so, and routinely sold in all the world's large cities as slaves.  Formal slavery no longer existed by 1914, but the memory of it was still fresh in the minds of all the German and non-Germans in Memelland.  We non-Germans assumed the Germans would turn back the clock to the year 1000 if they could.

So, Steffi and I never stood much of a chance.  She was German.  And I was Lithuanian.

Although, in my defense, with the single exception of Steffi, I got along personally well with every German I worked and lived with.  My direct employer, the wealthy merchant Herr von Leeb, and his wife, would talk with me formally for hours about the education of their two girls, and then informally about affairs of the day--culture, literature, opera.  Heer von Leeb's many years of travels across the continent had left him wanting for friends in his own home city, and the northern latitude of Memel made for long, dark, lonely nights.  To educated and curious souls like myself and the von Leeb's, in the days before television or even radio, intellectual conversation was something to be treasured and craved--it superceded all social divisions and taboos.

And spring was craved as well.  It unfroze the Memel ice and snow from the long winters, and it unfroze our sexual Victorianism as well.  As a port city, Memel was exposed to outside influences, sailors, and ladies of ill repute.  Mind you, we were nothing like larger Baltic ports like Danzig or Goteborg or Copenhagen, and even further in miles and morals from Amsterdam and Liverpool.  And, of course, compared to what was to come in the 1960s, we were downright chaste and modest.  But while we were always discreet about it, we experimental, first in our minds, than with our bodies, with sex.  Yes, even the women.

When the spring of 1914 came, I made the acquaintance of an 18 year old Jewish boy named Jared.  Marriage to Jared was of course completely out of the question, due to our ethnicity and religion.  Which is what made our flirtation so sexualized.  Learning about sex, and then bidding each other farewell forever, was the only possible outcome of our spring and summer fling.  Nothing is more enticing when you're 18 than an affair guaranteed not to end in heartbreak, so we both dove in head first.

And so did Steffi.  Steffi was of the rich German merchant families, and had a whiff of scandal about her.  At 18, she should have already been married or at worst engaged to a rich German merchant or Russian prince.  And, in fact, rumor had it that three years ago she had been.  But it had fallen thru for reasons which never were disclosed, and so she hung around her Memel apartment all day.  And flirted with Jared at night.

Steffi and I never did see eye to eye about who saw Jared first.  But to Steffi, it wasn't even relevant.  She was German, I was Lithuanian, ergo she had dibs on Jared.  Her attitude was what pissed me off most about the Memel Germans--they wanted it both ways.  Jews were socially inferior and were shunned in business and culture, and yet in mistress-lover situations, they were property to be claimed and utilized when desired.  Jared was loving the summer entertainment options unexpectedly opening to him at the dawn of his adulthood, and didn't even try Steffi from me nor I from her.  It was 2 women, 1 man, and Steffi and my choices were either to swallow our pride or persuade the other to leave the field.

In 1914 Memel, the phrase "Three's a crowd" didn't exist yet, not in any of our four native langages.  But we instinctively understood and felt it, al least Steffi and I did.

If we were gentlemen, we would have fought a duel, pistols at dawn.  But we were girls, didn't own pistols, and wanted more than to graze each others' shoulders.  We were 18, crazy in love, and insanely jealous of each other.

We were on a collision course.

To be continued.....

*

Offline sinclairfan

  • God Member
  • *****
  • 4636
Re: Camilla vs Steffi, a Tale of 1914 Memel
« Reply #1 on: July 01, 2018, 03:25:49 AM »
WHORE FIGHTS

As you may have noticed by now, I was a bundle of contradictions in April 1914.  Lower class, but living in the upper class.  Lithuanian, but living with Germans.  Having sex, but not looking to marry.  Ready and willing to fight, but never having been in an actual fight.

And another one--although I had never been in a fight, I considered myself an experienced fighter.  For two reasons; one silly, in hindsight, but one legitimate.

The silly reason had to do with my adolescent immersion in books.  At my Catholic all-girls prep school, we had an insatiable appetite for novels, any language, original or translated.  A copy of the English novel by Tom Hughes, Tom Brown's School Days, made the rounds.  The book was about a nineteenth century English prep school, and during outdoor breaks, the schoolboys would stage standup fist fights over both serious and imagined slights.  Our all-girls class thrilled to the thoughtvof both participating in and watching such battles with our classmates, and held a couple of poor imitations just to get a flavor.  I never was one of the combatants (although I very much wanted to be), and even though our pugilistic skills were highly amateurish, my first masturbatory experiences were at night after a girlongirl battle had occured outside school.

My second set of experiences witnessing girlfights were more revelatory.  I mentioned before that Memel had its fair share of "streetwalkers" trolling the docks.  When the fleet wasn't in town, business would slow to a crawl, and the unlucky ladies would need to supplement their incomes by other means, one of which was by fighting, Marquess of Queensbury Rules, in warehouses.  I quickly learned the merchant fleet schedule, and which nights were best suited to catching a show between two of the brave, pretty girls.  (I remember the sailors calling these battles "Whore Fights".)  By watching, I learned how to make a fist, throw a jab, and how to knock out a girl.

Now, back to the contradictions.  There's a worlds of difference between watching two girls fights, and actually being in a fight with a girl.  I know that now.  But my 18 year old self was blissfully ignorant of this truth.

There's also a difference, a world's of difference, between two girls, used to selling their bodies for money, fighting for a crowd's amusement; versus two horny teenagers fighting for control of a summer boyfriend.  This difference was something I needed to be taught through painful experience.  I wouldn't have believed it no matter who would have told me in April 1914, any more than I would have believed the lovely world I was living in was about to be torn apart by war.

Some things a girls just needs to see, and experience, to believe.

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

Steffi and I fought on Good Friday, April 12, 1914.  Good Friday was a time in that pre-war world that we all retreated to our religious tribes.  Jared was getting ready for the Sabbath and Passover.  Catholics like me fasted and contemplated Cavalry.  And Protestants like Steffi, and the von Leeb's, went to worship.  By 4pm that evening, the streets of Memel were empty.  Steffi and I knew it was our best chance to sneak away from our families and meet somewhere.  We both knew the taverns by the docks would be closed, and we could meet by the warehouses up against the railroad tracks.  I considered the outcome of a streetwise Lithuanian girl versus a German princess to be a foregone conclusion, and hoped only that Steffi would show up to take her beating.

The actual outcome was a bit more complicated.

To be continued.....

*

Offline catfightlover40

  • God Member
  • *****
  • 440
  • Life is like a boxing chocolate
Re: Camilla vs Steffi, a Tale of 1914 Memel
« Reply #2 on: July 01, 2018, 10:55:14 AM »
That's what I like to call well-researched entertainment, even if it is a bit (a lot) sanitized. One remark though, about duels. Unlike its Western counterpart (despite the whole shebang coming from the French), eastern duels were almost always to the death, not first blood. At least in one country, the institution of dueling with either pistols and swords were only outlawed in 1931. As a matter of fact, Prussian proud (and today's Kaliningrad Oblast was also Prussia) was so prevalent, when the tide of war turned in 1943, two high ranking Nazi officials wished to duel out their differences, that only didn't happen because Hitler whose approval decided it was against the idea.

The long-lasting effects of grooming people to simply despise/hate/dislike a member of a neighboring nation for very old past grievances is nothing I need an introduction to, you could practically write thousands of stories like these today.

In any case, I've highly enjoyed this introduction and look forward to more.
The  home of my multi-part work: https://www.patreon.com/powelltothepeople

*

Offline sinclairfan

  • God Member
  • *****
  • 4636
Re: Camilla vs Steffi, a Tale of 1914 Memel
« Reply #3 on: July 01, 2018, 05:32:29 PM »
THE FIGHT

In hindsight, it might seem odd that the most consequential, violent act of my life was entered into with so little deliberation.  But there are two reasons why it was actually not as impulsive as it appears.

The first reason was that I fell into my fling with Jared by, as England's Samuel Johnson advised in the 1760s, given less energy to what should be done with one's life and more giving more energy to just doing.  "What is the be done?" was the famous refrain of the Russian writers in the nineteenth century--and so, they just wrote about the autocratic, backwards Romanov's, while three years later Lenin and Trotsky would actually do something.  My affair with Jared, and my fight with Steffi, was the same.  I didn't plan either--I just acted.

But there was a second reason I fought Steffi that particular night.  In 1914, before television and before radio, Good Friday was something we Christians, and we Catholics in particular, didn't just observe.  We FELT it.  We would go to Passion Play services and actually FEEL the crown of thorns in Jesus's scalp, the nails in his palms, the sword in his side, the water gushing from his Sacred Heart.  It was frightening, mesmerizing, and cathartic.  We were taught, and believed, that Jesus's death was the worst torture any human being had ever suffered, ironic in light of the mechanized torture millions would suffer in the three decades to come.  And then we would pray for the conversion of the Jews, for their recognizing Jesus as their Lord and their King.  Jesus was the Savior of us Catholics, but he was the successor of David to the Jews.  The Jews.  I knew a Jew.  Jared.  Maybe if I spent the summer with him, he would believe and convert.  Conversion of the Jews was abstract to everyone else in the church in Memel, but concrete to me.  Only Steffi was preventing it.  If only I had the courage to fight her.

Memel was dead silent that April evening.  The church bells didn't ring on the hour after 4 on Good Friday, or all day Holy Saturday, out of respect of the execution of God's only son.  The trains didn't run, ships didn't dock, the taverns didn't close, the street walkers hid in genuine shame.  It was the eeriest night of the year.

A perfect night to fight.

To be continued.....

*

Offline sinclairfan

  • God Member
  • *****
  • 4636
Re: Camilla vs Steffi, a Tale of 1914 Memel
« Reply #4 on: July 01, 2018, 10:37:21 PM »
"REMOVE YOUR TOP, POLSKA"

Steffi and I sighted each other on one of the Memel piers, and followed the railroad tracks into one of the warehouses, keeping a way distance from each other.  I thought of the passage in Tolstoy's "War and Peace" where the French and Russian armies came into sight of each other, but still had an hour's or so marching to do before the first shots were fired.  The anticipation was killing me. 

We wordlessly marched into a large unlocked counting office, with adding machines on tables and a padded floor.  This is where we would fight.  Steffi placed her purse on the floor against a wall, and removed a casket of water and took a long sip.  Shit, how did she think to bring that--has she been in fights before?  I remember in whore fights which went beyond a couple of rounds, both combatants becoming ravenously thirsty.  Then again, if I win the fight with Steffi, what difference does it make?--I can just steal her water.

Steal her water, steal her man.  And he's my man, anyways--Steffi needs to sleep with people in her own class.

She is acutely aware of our respective classes, I realize, when she spits at the floor and says in Lithuanian, "Remove your top, Polska," as she strips off her blouse.  "Polska" is an all-purpose by both the Germans and Russians of the Poles  and Lithuanians of Memel, as if the distinctions between Poles and Lithuanians are as nothing compared to the superior, ruling Germans and Russians.  By removing our tops, Steffi has signalled that this is a lovers' rival's duel--if we were men, or if we were of the nobility, we would be having this fight with swords, and removing out tops would minimize the chances of post-fight infection from silk or cloth in an open wound.  But since neither of us are nobility (not even Steffi--merchants are not nobles), we will fight with our hands.

Steffi's topless body is muscular and statuesque.  I rage in jealousy at the size and proportions of her nakes breasts, a worthy competitor for Venus, Juno, and Minerva in the Rubens painting I've seen in books.  I can picture Steffi revealing them to Jared as willingly as she has to me.  I never had reason to feel insecure about mine until this moment.

Steffi lets down her long blonde hair, and motions for me to do the same to mine.  I let my blonde hair cover my breasts, as if Steffi has not already seen enough to make the comparison I just did.

I question for a moment why we have let our hair down--every whore fight I witnessed in Memel was with hair pinned up at the start, and repinned if necessary between rounds.  I note for not the last time this evening that this will be a different style fight.

Steffi came direct at me and grabbed two fistfuls of hair.  She threw me to the ground and wasted no time in climbing on top of me.  Although I was confused at the blatant violations of numerous Marquess of Queensbury rules and protocol, I adapted quickly and didn't wait for order to be restored.  I don't know where I got the inspiration for the image that came into my head, but I immediately recalled a frightening episode from my youth in the Lithuanian countryside of two filly horses fighting over mathing territory, viciously kicking each other with their rear hooves.  Through my already-mangled mane of hair I spotted Steffi's beautiful bare breasts, and I imitated in ferocity and frequency the horse kicks I witnessed on that wheat field.  I spun my feet as if I was riding a bicycle, and re-aimed and re-kicked at Steffi's chest whether my last blow had missed or been true.  Steffi grunted like a horse, a sound which brought me near complete happiness.

Steffi and I were now on our backs, our waists even but facing in opposite directions.  Our feet struggled now to find each others' faces, me at least knowing from Whore Fights the decisive ending to a girlfight possible from a direct blow to the right spot of the jaw.  After several minutes of such inconclusive sparring, however, we become tangled in a stalemated not, both with each others' legs in an armlock, afraid to release the hold.

We roll on the floor, our fronts now beginning to face each other.  My breasts feel dangerously exposed, as I sense Steffi is thirsting for revenge as the kicks I delivered to hers.  I tighten my armlock on her thick, strong thighs.  Steffi is not the soft, spoiled merchants' daughter I thought I was facing tonight.

We are both sweating profusely, one aspect of our fight which does resemble the standup Whore Fights I grew up witnessing.  Steffi may have brought water, but she can't drink it if she can't escape my hold.

We stubbornly remain on the ground, occassionally rotating up to 45 or 60 degrees in a barrel roll.  But each of us calculates we have more to risk by releasing our grip than by continuing in our clinch.  I begin to recognize the smell of Steffi's sweat--there were nights I smelled it on Jared when he was with me.  He was seeing both of us on the same night sometimes.  I'm 18, so I get angry at Steffi for this revelation, not at Jared.  I scratch and claw at Steffi's thighs, and she scratches and claws at mine.  We work our way up all the way to our crotch.  I'm shocked to not feel hair anywhere on Steffi.  If she naturally hairless there?  Does she cut it?  Which does Jared prefer?  Is my hair there the reason he won't kiss me there?  Does he kiss Steffi there?

I'm mesmerized by how Steffi feels..  there.  My clawing and scratching turns to massaging.  She stops clawing and scratching me.  She caresses the hair between my legs.  Is it thicker of thinner than hers before she cuts it? 

"Polska bitch."

"Stuck up German princess."

"Spinster."

"Why'd your engagement get broken, Steffi?"

"Mind your business, Camilla."

Our rubbing and massaging is rhythmic and becomes rougher.

Our breathing becomes sycopated, keeping an alternating 4/4 time.

We are both going to cum.

"Polska bitch."

"German whore."

We explode in a wave of orgasms.

We don't notice the room is full of 6 gendarmes, until they tell us to put our tops back on.

"You're under arrest, ladies.  Shit, and on Good Friday."

To be continued......

*

Offline sinclairfan

  • God Member
  • *****
  • 4636
Re: Camilla vs Steffi, a Tale of 1914 Memel
« Reply #5 on: July 03, 2018, 03:26:41 AM »
WHORE FIGHT VS A BRAZILIAN

Memel was a tolerant city compared to most of the world in 1914, and my hosts the von Leeb's were very solicitous with me, but Steffi and I had broken more than one taboo that Good Friday night in the pier warehouse counting office.  We were in a compromising position from a Sapphic perspective, we were mixing religions, we were mixing social classes, we were mixing ethnicities, and it was after 4pm on Good Friday.  The Memel gendarmes would have forgiven us two of these trangressions, and the von Leeb's would have forgiven me three or even four, but 5 broken taboo's cost me my tutoring job, and 5 broken taboo's plus a broken engagement cost Steffi her home with her parents.

We were at the mercy of religious homes for young wayward women in Memel, I with the Catholic sisters and Steffi with the Lutherans.

As you can imagine, living with wayward young women is just about the worst way for a fallen 18 year old to get back on her feet.  I was rubbing shoulders with Memel's ladies of ill repute, many of whom were regulars in the Whore Fights I had seen, and now saw much more of.

And became a combatant in.

Since I was unwilling to become an actual prostitute, I hsd to somehow earn my room and board fees at the Catholic home, and I chose to do so by participating in Whore Fights.  Memel in April, May, and June was host to German Diaspora seasonal hostess girls from German-speaking communities in Argentina, Brazil, and Paraguay (they spent the October to April Memel winters in the Southern Hemispere, entertaining German beef gauchos, and Msy to September in Memel).  Sailors and merchantmen liked watching the contrast of a Baltic blonde Whore Fighting a Latin American mixed race, or simply sun-bronzed, ex-German, and would pay extra for those fights.

So I spent thst late spring and early summer in female bare knuckle boxing fights with Latin beauties.

I fucking kicked ass at it.

Part of it was thst my blonde babyface caused me to be repeatedly underestimated.  The Latin Amazons had been in cowgirl brawls on bare pampa ranches for the pleasure of drunken hooting ranchers with no hospital or doctor for 150 miles in every direction, and expected no challenge from the Memel Catholic schoolgirl.

Shit, were they wrong.  I broke at least 4 noses that spring with my left jab and right cross, and developed a taste, and reputation, for blood-soaked donnybrooks.  In no time, people paid premium prices to watch me fight.

Steffi was deveoping her own little following as well.

We were probably about to fight each other in a bout.

When, on June 28, 1914, Archduke Francis Ferdinand was assassinated in Bosnia.

Business immediately took a dip in Memel.  A dip in business is the one thing a port city cannot withstand.

War was declared 5 weeks later.

The Russians marched into East Prussia, but left Memel alone.

The German army defeated the Russians at Tannenburg and drove them back East, deep into Russia.

Memel was saved.

But it would never be the same.

The British blockaded the Baltic.  We continued to trade with the Swedes, but with almost no one else.

Money dried up.

The Whore Fights weren't for extra money anympore, they were for survival money.

By summer of 1915, they weren't even for audiences anymore.  We fought for each other.  Then with no one even watching at all.

Just for survival.

It was raw.  Barbaric.  Animalistic.

Steffi and I were in our element.  We were two alphas, where there would soon be room for only one.

To be continued.....

*

Offline sinclairfan

  • God Member
  • *****
  • 4636
Re: Camilla vs Steffi, a Tale of 1914 Memel
« Reply #6 on: July 03, 2018, 02:41:48 PM »
GANG LEADER

In 1918, as the war was winding down, and regular food supplies long forgotten, the Spanish Flu epidemic hit Memel.  Pretty much anyone whose health was at all compromised died.  As the German authorities fled west back to their homeland, and as the Russisn authorities fled east to deal with the arrest of Tsar Nicholas and the Bolshevik Revolution, near total lawlessness and anarchy gripped Memel.  I led a gang of women who took control of our Catholic home.

On top of that, those of us who were Lithuanian thirsted to kick the Germans out of Memel, and to make it part of our own independent nation of Lithuania.  The American President, Woodrow Wilson, had unwisely promised self-determination of peoples, writing a check his butt couldn't cash to smaller ethnic groups like Lithuanians, Latvians, and Estonians, but also conveniently overlooking the Germans still residing in Memel, who felt they were just as entitled to self-determination as anyone else.  We Lithuanians started calling Memel by a new name, Klaipeda, and started roaming the streets harrassing Germans, trying to make their lives so miserable that we Lithuanians could make the city our own.

When my gang would go out on these expeditions, I was looking for one German in particular.

Steffi.

She led a German girl gang who roamed the city protecting the German merchants who had lost their chance to flee with their possessions while the getting was good.  As the war ended and the League of Nations, in 1920, 1921, and 1922, sent an international peace keeping force to restore order, the gangs could see our window for throwing our weight around the city closing rapidly.

So my search for Steffi become more bold, then reckless, with me venturing deeper and deeper into German neighborhoods.  Word got around that I was looking for Steffi, and eventually that she was also looking for me.

By 1922, we were both 26 years old.  No longer marriage material, at least not a traditional marriage with kids, which was actually fine with me.  I had seen enough cruelty and suffering first hand to know this wasn't a world I wanted to raise children in.

My focus now was on inflicting some cruelty and suffereing.  On one person in particular.  On Steffi.

I got my opportunity one day in July 1922.  Steffi's estranged family had evacuated the priceless family furniture from the home Steffi grew up in, and decamped to Hamburg, the memories of Steffi's broken engagement and the losses in the war too much for them to bear, and Steffi had access to the home, caretaking it, in a sense, until a new permanent owner, presumably a German merchant family not totally ruined by the war, could be found.  I felt confident Steffi wouldn't allow her gang into the home, and therefore she and I could fight in private.

Being in Steffi's childhood bedroom had an intoxicatingly erotic effect on me.  The atmosphere in the room oozed sexual tension between her and me.  We craved to mash our bodies together violently.

We stripped our tops, just like 1914, and stripped our bodies as well.

"You don't shave your pussy anymore, German bitch?"

"War causes the sacrifices of certain luxuries, doesn't it, Polska?"

"I never had luxuries before the war, whore.  That's why I won our first fight."

"That fight was interrupted before it ended, Polska.  This one won't be."

"Good."

"Good."

To be continued.....

*

Offline sinclairfan

  • God Member
  • *****
  • 4636
Re: Camilla vs Steffi, a Tale of 1914 Memel
« Reply #7 on: July 03, 2018, 11:01:31 PM »
"CALL ME CAMILLA"

Steffi and I get nose to nose, our catfight war ready to erupt at any moment.

"How will we know when this fight is over, Polska?"

"I'm tired of you calling me 'Polska', bitch.  My name is Camilla.  If I can force you to call me by my name, I win."

"Fine, Polska.  And how do I win?"

"If.... ....you can force me to call Klaipeda by its bastard German name .... you win."

"Memel is Memel.  It was called that 600 years before you were born, whore, and it will be called that 600 years after I kill you, Polska."

"Oh, you're going to kill me, now, are you, Steffi?"

"Don't tell me you haven't fantasized about it, Polska."

"I have ....  and then I realize I'll have to spend eternity in hell with you."

"You Polska Catholics and your obsession with hell.  As if suffering the past eight years in this city could be surpassed."

<<<Steffi's erect breasts are rubbing and poking into mine.  Our bodies are tight and taut from eight years of borderline malnourishment.  The sexual tension is thick as January Memel fog.>>>>

"You stuck up merchants lose your wealth and privileges and call it suffering."

"We lost more than that, Polska, and you Slavic trash will figure that out when the Russians get their act together and come to take back their land.... and rape and fuck up all you Pilska bitches."

"Why don't you fuck me up, Steffi?  Because you can't?"

"I'm 5 times the woman you are Polska."

"Show me, Steffi."

"Hurt me first, Polska.  Anywhere you want."

"Where do you want me to, Steffi?"

"Lady's choice, Polska."

I'm angered that Steffi has tricked me into tipping my hand psychologically.  I want to tear into her pussy, but would need to admit by my actions that I've been thinking about the spring of 1914 when she offered her shaved pussy to Jared, and he no doubt indulged himself, and Steffi. 

I instead knead Steffi's breasts, clawing and gouging them with all 10 fingers.  I recall kicking them repeatedly in our Good Friday fight.  But now I'm angered I didn't reach back and swing and break Steffi's nose, like I did to at least 4 girls in organized Whore Fights, and countless others in 1918/1919/1920 gang fights on the streets of Memel.  But it's too late now;  Steffi's fingers have dug into my breasts, and we push and shove around the room.

"When does it start yo hurt, Polska?"

"Fuck you, your eyes are tearing, Steffi."

"Ragweed in April makes my eyes tear, Polska, but doesn't make me hurt."

Angered at hearing the word 'Polska' for the dozenth time this afternoon, I bow my face down and bite Steffi's left breast.  And I twist my teeth.  I feel Steffi nose, then mouth, then teeth on my left shoulder, and then feel a trickle of blood down my left breast.

I release my bite, and look my enemy in the eye.  "When does it start to hurt, Steffi?"

"I haven't even tried to hurt you yet, Polska."

"Try.  Now."

To be continued.....

*

Offline catfightlover40

  • God Member
  • *****
  • 440
  • Life is like a boxing chocolate
Re: Camilla vs Steffi, a Tale of 1914 Memel
« Reply #8 on: July 04, 2018, 01:27:16 AM »
Great stuff as always, but I do have two remarks: for one, it should be Pole, not Polska. The country did not exist for centuries, so the contemporary acceptance of Poland as a country and a nation should not apply to a century ago. The other thing is, that Klaipèda is its Lithuanian name with a German exonym and not a German designation. A large part in the necessity to make the clause about partitioning Poland (again) was a secret came about from the Balts and the Polish mutually threaten each other and look to League of Nations or any other support to gain those territories for themselves, until the Soviets and the Nazis chimed in.

Coincidentally I just watched a documentary today about the then super-secret harbor on the East German coast that transported goods and military personnel to and from Klaipeda, all in order to circumvent Poland which made a good income on taxing her neighbors for transit, so the conflict you use as a backdrop (and cleverly so, I might add) has never ceased to be a problem, only banners changed.
The  home of my multi-part work: https://www.patreon.com/powelltothepeople

*

Offline JT Edson

  • God Member
  • *****
  • 4289
Re: Camilla vs Steffi, a Tale of 1914 Memel
« Reply #9 on: July 04, 2018, 03:12:21 PM »
As usual the writing is superb. Great story so far with a background that pulls you into it.

*

Offline sinclairfan

  • God Member
  • *****
  • 4636
Re: Camilla vs Steffi, a Tale of 1914 Memel
« Reply #10 on: July 07, 2018, 02:53:51 AM »
"COME ONTO MY BED, POLSKA"

When two evenly matched women would square off in a bareknuckled boxing Whore Fight, the end result would come down to endurance.  Both Steffi and I had so much at stake in this fight that such sn outcome would have been at least a little unsatisfying.  We were testing who was the better woman, and wanted the outcome to be based on grit and determination.

Or maybe.... just maybe Steffi was playing a psychologicsl trick on me.  Those pre-war Memel Germans were steeped in Freud, writing in their native tongue (and not yet widely translated) from Fin de Siecle Vienna.  Maybe she had witnessed enough of my Whore Fight victories to know not to tangle with me in a standup brawl. 

She invited me to join her on her bed for the remainder of the fight.  One of those canopied, king-sized beds all the upper class German bitches slept in while I slept in straw.  We would fight kneeling, rolling, laying on the bed.  Buck naked.  With no rules.

I jumped at the chance.

Steffi and I wasted no time.  We sat facing each other, and instinctively scissored our legs.  The next few minutes were .... confusing ... overwhelming.  The raw sexual energy between Steffi and me manifested itself in immediate and climactic rubbing of our engorged pussies and erect clits, our clits feeling like they were making direct contact, and I came as freely as if I was having sex with a lesbian lover.

Simultaneously, our upper bodies were engaged into a different kind of contact.  With a rotating parade of clenched fists, jutting claws, and open hsnds, Steffi and I were exchanging punches, scratches, and slaps on our fully exposed upper torsos.  We engaged in hugging clinches, the better to drive deep, well-aimed kidney punches, full-length back gashes, and face- and breast-slaps.  Our claws dug into the opening salvo shoulder- and breast-cuts we had inflicted on each other, reopening any scab which managed to form over the cut.

Our noises were dual--orgasmic screaming from the pleasure our lower bodies were delighting in, painful girl-screeches at the pain endured by our upper bodies.

Any sexual release our lower bodies would have normally experienced so that we could focus fully on fighting was neutralized and overcomd by the visual stimulation of each others' flowing, toussled blonde hair, sweating faces, and wounded flesh.

The Good Friday thing again.  The battered, scraped, scratched, cut, suffering flesh of the Agnus Dei, the Lamb of God.  The Suffering Servant prophesied by Isaiah 800 years earlier.  "By his wounds we were healed."  The blood and water gushing from the Sacred Heart.  The long, lonely hour of struggle, of torture.  The Cross at Cavalry, abondoned by all the "great" men like Judas and Peter, and the two disciples walking back to Emmaus; only the women, Mary, Mary Magdalene, and others who remain nameless, remaining till dusk at the base of the Cross.

Only a Catholic girl raised in pre-1914 Memel can understand how real, how visceral, how raw, how primal these sensations were.  These sensations when I fought the Protestant Steffi. 

Of all the things I lost, that the world lost, from 1914 to 1945, I will always most regret that no 18 year old Catholic girl will ever again attend Good Friday Mass and feel what I felt on Good Friday, April 12, 1914.

The transcendence of the Mass, of the Passion.  Then walking to the pier fight with Steffi in the warehouse counting house.  Getting topless.  And fighting her.

This fight had a long way to go.

To be continued.....

*

Offline sinclairfan

  • God Member
  • *****
  • 4636
Re: Camilla vs Steffi, a Tale of 1914 Memel
« Reply #11 on: July 11, 2018, 03:30:00 AM »
"RUB THIS ON, POLSKA"

Steffi's upper body and mine rub together like a pair of alligator-skin purses.  Not that I ever owned an alligator-skin purse.  Madame von Leeb did, back before the War.  And alligator-skin boots.  She used to have me wipe them down when she was out on a dusty carriage ride in Memel or in the country.  I was jealous of the modern conveniences the Germans enjoyed but the Lithuanians didn't, our lives scarcely different than when the Germans arrived in the 1250s, just a decade after the Poles and the Lithuanians fought off the Mongols in 1242.

Steffi interrupts our catfight on her bed.  She goes into the bathroom, and grabs a glass bottle.  "Rub this oil in, Polska."  I hesitate, thinking of the horrible gasses and chemicals the Germans unleashed in the War, especially on the more densely-soldiered Western Front.  I assume Steffi is playing a dirty trick on me, and she notices my hesitation.  She pours the clear, viscous oil all over her bruised, scratched tits, and invites me to do the same.  The oil is shockingly cool, but soothing to my scratches and cuts.

Steffi and I have an irresistable urge to rub and grind our newly-oiled breasts together aggressively.  We stand at the side of Steffi's canopied bed, basking in her Memel German merchant decadence; a canopied bed from Paris, skin oil from the Germanphone immigrants from Milwaukee.  The German Diaspora across the world suffering the effects of the 1918 defeat:  German-American beer brewers suffering from the newly-imposed Prohibition of alcohol, German-South Americans in the La Plata delta suffering from Latina nationalism in Brazil-Argentina-Uruguay-Paraguay, the Volga Germans in the Ukraine having their farms collectivized by the Bolshevist Soviets.  And the Baltic Germans in the port cities of Tallinn, Riga, Danzig, and Memel losing their colonies over the Estonians, the Latvians, the Poles, and the Lithuanians.

I dream of the next generation of Lithuanian girls having canopied bed instead of straw beds.  Of engaging European royalty, like Steffi did when she was a teen.  And of having skin oil like Steffi and I are catfighting in right now.  In cities like Danzig, but calling it Gdansk, like the Poles do.  And in Memel, but calling it Klaipeda, like we Lithuanians do.

> Call it Klaipeda, bitch.

> Never, Polska.  It's Memel.  It will be Memel when you die, Polska.

> I'm Camilla, German bitch.  Not 'Polska'.

> You are always 'Polska' to me.

> You'll be calling me 'Camilla' before this fight is over.

> Show me.

> I intend to.

Steffi and I rub our oiled-up aroused breasts together faster and harder.  This will never work.

I punch Steffi in the mouth with a right cross.  She counters with a left hook to my nose, drawing blood.

My kind of fight.  A Memel Whore Fight.

Correction.

A Klaipeda Whore Fight.

It's on.

Bitch.

To be continued.....

*

Offline sinclairfan

  • God Member
  • *****
  • 4636
Re: Camilla vs Steffi, a Tale of 1914 Memel
« Reply #12 on: July 13, 2018, 03:05:45 AM »
FEAST DAY OF ST MARY MAGDALENE

As Steffi and I square off for a bare-fisted Whore Fight, it occurs to me that today is July 22nd.  The Feast Day of Saint Mary Magdalene.  The woman who remained loyal of Good Friday, staying at the foot of The Cross until the expiration of The Lord.  Long after all the disciples had fled, even Peter, Matthew and John, the disciple the Lord loved. Not flinching even during the eclipse of the sun at 3 in the afternoon; the tearing of the veil of the Temple down the middle; the Lamb speaking, "Father, into your hands I commend my Spirit" (Matthew and John would later record different last words-because, perhaps, they weren't there?); the centurion declaring, "This man was innocent beyond doubt."

The tearing of the veil.  Of the Temple.  I remember shuddering every Passion Sunday of my childhood, hearing these words. 

When we Lithuanians are in charge, when the League of Nations gives us our own country ....  when Memel is Klaipeda .... then, and forever, every Catholic family will attend Mass on Passion Sunday  and hear about the tearing of the veil.

On Good Friday, they'll hear of Isaiah's Suffering Servant.  They'll feel the thorns in the forehead.  The nails in the palms. The piecing in the side.  The flow of water from the Sacred Heart.

Generations of Lithuanian girls.  Hearing the Lord's Word.  Feeling the Lord's wounds.  Standing up to German Lutheran oppression, to Russian Orthodox oppression.  Celebrating Mary Magdalene's feast of July 22.  Saint Bonaventure's feast on July 15.  Saint Ignatius Loyola's feast on July 31.  St Thomas's feast on July 3.  St Thomas, the Doubting Apostle.  So maligned for doubting the Lord's rising.  But he was hurting.  He had lost the Lord.  Of course he doubted--he didn't want to lose the Lord again.

I'm hurting.  The Baltic is hurting.  Memel is hurting--the port trade still hasn't returned to its 1914 prime, even 3-and-a-half years after the war ended.  We Lithuanians call it Klaipeda, but we envy the Memel the German built 670 years ago (but who's counting?).  The Memel Steffi's family lorded over.  Rubbing the faces of generations of Lithuanians in it.

I tear the fabric in Steffi's canopied bed.  The tearing of the veil in the Temple.  The Temple--home to the Ark of the Covenant.  Until the Ark left.  We call Memel 'Klaipeda' now--but does the name matter if the 'Ark'--the Baltic Trade-- has left?  Who will we trade with?  Will Lubeck/Hamburg trade with us if we'rd not German?  Will Amsterdam and London trade with us if we're not Protestant?  Will the Russians return if they're Bolshevik?

Steffi and I punch each other direct in the nose.  I feel cartilege crunching -- my own, through my sinuses; hers, through my fingers.

Blood cover our faces.

Oil covers our hair.  Steffi's hair looks ... brown.

"Do you color your hair blonde, bitch??  Are you a brunette??"

"What if I do?"

"Steffi..   are you a .... Jew??"

<<<<silence>>>>

"Is that why your engagement broke off??".....

<<<<silence>>>>

"Is that why you ...  fucked . .  Jared??"

<<<<silence>>>>

The silence answers my questions.

To be continued....

*

Offline sinclairfan

  • God Member
  • *****
  • 4636
Re: Camilla vs Steffi, a Tale of 1914 Memel
« Reply #13 on: July 13, 2018, 03:47:54 PM »
LIBAU

Just as the name "Memel" holds a magic to those of us alive and aware before 1914, a magic which it will never hold again after the destruction of 1914-1945; so, too, is there a certain meaning, and feeling, to the name "Libau".

Libau was a Russian port in Courland, the next port northeast up the Baltic from Memel.  Libau was a competitor of Memel, the English and the Russians using it to pinch the Germans.  Libau imported English goods into Russia, and exported Russian goods to England, Scotland, and South Africa.  Libau also exported something else.  Jews.  Russian Jews.  Jews from the heartland of Russia, desperate to escape poverty and the pogroms of Tsar Nicholas.  They made their way to Libau, where they attempted to secure passage to London, to Glasgow, to Cape Town.  Anywhere better than Russia.  The ones that got out before 1914 were the lucky ones--any Jew still in Libau in September 1914, and their descendants, were almost certainly killed in their homes (by bullets, bombs, disease, or starvation) or in concentration camps by 1943.

Steffi and I stand toe to toe in her bedroom, exchanging roundhouse fists to our faces.  The oil and sweat and blood drenching our faces and hair has revealed her true color--dark brown, not blonde.

She dyed her hair blonde since before the war to hide her dark brown hair.  She shaved her pussy to hide it as well.  Taking on an exaggerated German Memel merchant appearance and identity to pass as German.

How had she gotten to Memel?  Whether she was a bastard half-German half-Jew of her German Memel parents, or a house governess like me who all attempted to pass as German for reasons of securing marriage to the European aristocracy, or whether Steffi had simple stowed away one day in passage from Libau to the short route to Memel mattered not to me.

What mattered to me was my basking in the horror Steffi's Grand Duke fiancee must have felt when he discovered she was a Jew.  And Steffi's pain at the engagement being broken off.

I drive my fists into Steffi's face.  I triumph at the thoughts Steffi must have had when Steffi realized she was sharing Jared with me, a Gentile, a non-Jew.  I now wish Steffi and I hadn't fought in 1914--sharing her Jewish boyfriend all summer long with a blonde Lithuanian Catholic would have been worse to her than us fighting to decide who had him.

Steffi and I come together in a fistfight clinch and fall to the floor in a catball.  We scissor each others' faces.  I taunt her, "Smell my blonde pussy hair, Steffi.  My rrrreeeaaallll blonde hair.  Which you'll never have.  Tell me you wish you had it."

"I wish I had blonde hair, Camilla."

Not, "Polska".  "Camilla".  Steffi called me Camilla.

I've won the fight.  We both know it.

I punch her twice more in the face. 

That felt good.  "Good fight, Steffi.  You know where to find me when you're ready for a rematch."

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

We never had that rematch.

From 1923 to 1939, the country of Lithuania was created.

Memel became Klaipeda, but was not allowed to join with Lithuania.

During 1938 and 1939, the Germans took over again and renamed it Memel.

In 1941, the Germans invaded Russia.  They rounded up the Jews, likely including Steffi.

In 1944, the Russians returned, finding less thsn 100 people still in the formerly great city of Memel.

The Russians took over Lithuania, ending our indepedence.

I've waited 27 years now for Steffi to contact me for that rematch.

I now accept that it will never happen.

THE END

*

Offline grimlok

  • God Member
  • *****
  • 126
  • Hi Been fan of women fights long as i can remember
Re: Camilla vs Steffi, a Tale of 1914 Memel
« Reply #14 on: July 13, 2018, 05:53:45 PM »
Great story and Background.Still a mature rematch won't Go amiss ????
Mature women wrestling /catfights rule ????