[sinclairfan]

KELLY VS JANET--Hockey MILF Catfight

My name is Kelly.  I'm blonde, 5'7", 125, 36c-28-34--my figure is still holding up pretty well, and still no wrinkles, knock wood.  I'm 50 years old now; three years older and about twenty years wiser than the fall of 2015, when I started an inappropriate affair with a 19-year old boy.

Which led to vicious catfight with his mom, a woman about my age and a neighbor of mine.  But I'm getting ahead of myself.

I grew up an only child in the 1970s and 1980s in the suburbs of Detroit.  My parents both worked for AT&T, when it was the seemingly permanent institution known as Ma Bell.  It broke up, by court order, into seven different companies in 1985, giving its employees the chance to move if they so desired.  My dad especially saw the handwriting on the wall in the continuing de-population and deterioration of Detroit, and applied for a job in Denver, Colorado at U.S.West, one of the seven "Baby Bells" being formed. 

We moved just in time for me to begin applying for colleges.  I went to the University of Colorado in Boulder, with the vague idea of becoming a school teacher.  I had a deep sense of economic insecurity from being geographically uprooted in the middle of high school, and figured a school teaching job is more stable and predictable.

I also carried a deep loneliness from being an only child.  I craved being around little children, to compensate for the missing siblings who I sensed should have accompanied me thru high school, and halfway across the country.

At Boulder, I met my future husband.  We were in the same Psychology 101 class.  He wasn't "The One", not quite, when we set eyes on each other, although we were both attracted to each other, and communicated our aytraction to each other, and getting each others' permission when we dated other people when we went away for school breaks.  We were "Friends First"-- studying in each others' dorms, calling each other when I went home to Denver and he went home to New Mexico.  If anything, I wanted him to be more aggressive in "claiming" me--to just throw me on the bed and not ask for my consent.

But he was too much of a gentleman to do that to me, so our romance slowly and gradually bloomed into a genuine connection, which continued as he pursued his Finance degree, graduation (with me) from Boulder in 1992, two years of work while I student taught, an engagement on Christmas Eve 1995, an MBA from University of Nebraska in May 1997, and marriage in July 1997 in his hometown of Albuquerque.  And then off to his employer, then known as Dayton-Hudson, now known as Target, in Minneapolis.

I delivered a baby boy in December 1997, seven months after our marriage.  You do the math.

The on-again off-again sex of our 10 year courtship had helped form a deep bond of loyalty between my new husband and me.  But we had never learned how to approach each other for sex, how to demand it from each other.  We had sex pretty much every Saturday night ..... and that was about it.  We never talked much about sex either; our fantasies, our turnons. 

I think that's part of the reason I never did get pregnant again, even though I gradually stopped refilling my birth control.

I had doomed my son to the biggest drawback of MY childhood--no siblings.

Our son was athletic from the start.  In Minnesota, that meant ice hockey.  I became a hockey mom.  Rinks with 4:30am ice times, drives on snowy highways, washong laundry, lugging equipment.  My husband was semi-involved, too, when his job allowed.  Which wasn't often--retail is a 24/7 business.  I did most of the sports parenting work--so much so that by 2005, I had given up teaching.

I think I was sub-conciously resentful to my husband about that.  Sitting in the bleachers with husky hockey dads, 100 miles from home, led to flirting.

And kissing.

And, finally around 2013, to sex.

Leaving my husband was never in the cards.  I was never in love with any of the men I slept with.  And I only gavd in to one's I was genuinely attracted to.

But I crossed the line many times.  The validation of a man cumming inside of me helped get me thru the boredom of watching over 500 hockey games in 18 years.

I didn't just get to know hockey dads.  I got to know hockey moms.  One was named Janet--same size and build as me, but brunette.  We never cared for one another.  Our sons were friends, but played the same position--center--and wete in competition for ice time.

In a perfect world, Janet and I would have supported each other.

Instead, when our boys went away to college, Janet's son Connor and I were Snapchatting nude pictures to each other.

Janet found out, and confronted me about it.

To be continued......

[WriteThisWay]

Same ole format every single time. Can't wait for those author specific folders/threads so these go away from the main feed.

[ralbright2010]

I believe it is called background and character development. It adds interest to the story. Some readers actually like this type of story setup as it make the characters and their conflict more realistic!

[sinclairfan]

WOMEN'S INTUITION

Besides being hockey mom's, there was something else Janet and I had in common.  We had a keenly developed women's intuition for being able to "read" when another woman was having sex with someone.

I know exactly where I developed mine.  It had accumulated over the course of my decade-long (1987 to 1997) friends-first courtship with my future husband.  Let me explain.  Since we met in Boulder, Colorado, even though he was from New Mexico and went to business school in Nebraska, I was constantly meeting old friends, new friends, classmates, and roomates of his who wete female.  To keep our courtship going, I needed to be able to quickly ascertain which ones he was fooling around with or even bedding, and more importantly, what each one's long-term intentions were with him.  If they just wanted rolls in the hay with him--no problem.  But if they were seeking to dislodge him from me, I needed to be alert and act fast.  Including, if necessary, reading her the Riot Act. 

To this day, I can still vividly recall the 5 specific Threats to our future which materialized over the decade.  Truth be told, 3 of them are still on my radar to this day.  If they ever leave the relationships they're in now, I know they're going to try to relight the spark they had with my husband at some point prior to my 1997 marriage to him.

But I digress--those three bitches are a story for another time.  My point is that it was either pheremones or e.s.p. or just being a good reader of body language (perhaps all 3), but my women's intuition never led me astray in telling me when a woman was banging my future husband.

Janet, from 2013 to 2015, exhibited the identical 6th Sense when it came to my hockey dad affairs.  Anytime I targetted a hockey dad who I decided to allow to get into my pants on the road, even if we hadn't yet consummated the deal, Janet would start asking annoying questions about what I knew about him or thought about him or his relationship status.  When I wasn't hot to trot, she would ignore me in the bleachers.  But as soon as I decided to scratch my bad girl itch, she'd be on me like flies on honey in the stands.

It bothered me she was right every time.  She knew it bothered me.  She knew I knew she knew it bothered me.

She never physically busted me in delectio flagrante.

But she may as well have.  She busted me mentally.  And loved it.

I think that's part of what encouraged me, when our sons' have school graduations, and the end of travel hockey, came in May 2015, to allow myself to start Snapchatting nude pictures with Janet's son.

To be continued....

[sinclairfan]

SUMMER OF LOVE

In May of 2018, my son, Janet's son Connor, and many of their longtime hockey travel mates all graduated from high school.  It was one of those things you think you're prepared for, but never quite are once it arrives.  No more laundry.  No more hockey equipment.  No more weekends on the road.  And no more flirting with hockey dads in hotel rooms, cars in hockey rink parking lots, and under hockey rink bleachers. 

At summer 2018 high school graduation parties throughout various Twin City suburbs, we parents caught up on our sons' plans for college.  We fell into two distinct camps.  The first set of families, as I prefer to call them, The Realists, had come to terms with the notion that in hockey, if you haven't been invited to join a Junior Hockey Club by age 16 or so, the whole NHL career thing, or even an NCAA Division 1 career, ain't happening.  So when high school graduation comes, you move on to your post-hockey life.  Time to let something else define you.  My son, Rob, joined this camp by accepting admission to a D3 hockey scool in Wisconsin (specifically, Wisconsin-River Falls, which in theory accepted walk-on's for tryouts, but which my son had no intention of attempting), and following in the footsteps of his dad and becoming a Finance major, with MBA on the to-do list after that.

Janet, on the other hand, and her son Connor, still clung to the dream of an NHL signing bonus and career (thus, I called their camp The Dreamers).  Janet and I had frequent snits over the course of that summer's Graduation Party circuit.  She threw around fancy words like "sunk costs" and "total commitment" and "free ride" to describe why her son was staying local and attending Gustavus Adolphus College, another D3 hockey school, whrre her son was already skating and attending Captains' practices.  I especially didn't appreciate the digs Janet threw my way that my son's decision to back away from hockey was thrust upon him my me due to financial considerations.   My husband was making great money at Target--we could plow resources into his continuing with hockey if that was what he wanted.  We all just felt it was time to grow up.

Connor, I couldn't help but notice, was growing up as well.  When it was my turn to host a graduation party one Friday night, Connor was lingering around me a couple of times-- as I prepared appetizers, collected filled garbage bags, mingled with guests.  At first I was stand-off-ish (and paranoid), wrongly assuming that he was on a mission from his bitch-mother to collect gossip on me.  But as the evening progressed, I could see that Connor was genuinely attempting to engage me in adult conversations, asking what help I needed, what my summer plans were, how I was filling the time without hockey.  It was ....  lots of things:  flattering  ....  cute ......  nice   ....... genuine  ...   that's what it was most of all; Connor was genuinely trying to connect to me.  I finally loosened up and reciptocated, asking him about what HE was doing with HIS summer .... if he missed hockey .... if he was looking forward to GAC .... if he had a girlfriend ....  what area girls he was interested in ..... what he liked to do in bed.

I casually slipped in that last one late in the evening.  I don't know why.  Partly because it felt naughty.  Partly to see how far my son's generation was up to sexually (since my son was secretive and uncommunicative about his sex life).  Partly to see how he'd react.  Partly to see if his mom gossiped about me to him.

It was inappropriate.  But I did it anyways.

Connor didn't flinch.  He answered matter-of-factly, like it was any other question.  He was still learning what he liked, but so far "straight intercourse" and "blow jobs" seemed like things he'd like to try more of.  I admired his tact in not calling me on taking our conversation down a road that maybe he wasn't ready for, and quickly pivoted to more conventional topics.  The party wrapped up, as the boys starting forming car-pools to area bars.

I listened outside, trying to determine where my son was headed for the evening.  I heard shouts of "Where's Connor?? Connor, where are you??, " and then, "Last I saw him, he was hitting on Rob's mom."  and  "I know, I saw that too.  Horn dog"

For the first time since middle school, I blushed from head to toe, turning beet red and feeling my temperature spike to 104.  Was Connor hitting on me the whole party?  I ran do a mirror.  Was my hair and makeup a complete disaster?  Meh, acceptable.  Had I engaged sufficiently in conversation with Connor?  I wasn't too stuck up, was I?  Or snooty? 

Or old-fashioned?  Or just old?

I craved more alone time with Connor.  To what end, I hadn't figured out yet.  But I wanted to answer more of his questions, and to ask him some.  Many of the questions I had weren't sexual; but a lot were.  And I hoped lots of his were.

I normally would have sent Connor an email from the team email distribution list.  But I didn't was his gossipy bitch-mom Janet to see that he and I were talking.

In 2015, Silicon Valley had just the solution (or so I thought) to my problem.  Snapchat:  a texting app that self-deleted itself after being read.  My son used it all the time.  I knew Connor's Snapchat id from texts he had exchanged with my son.

I logged into Snapchat and registered myself as "Kelly_bj_givr_803".  (The one without the number at the end was already taken--ew!.)

I texted Connor.

Kelly_bj_givr_803:  Hey, Connor!  Guess who?  ;-p

I hit send.

Was that too forward?

Or not forward enough?

I'll find out shortly.

To be continued....

[sinclairfan]

SEXTING

Connor didn't immediately engage directly with my "bj_gvr" snapchat handle--even though I would have gladly and willingly given him one (and two and three and four) if he had returned to my house.

But he did take me up on my advances to start exchanges flirty, and then dirty, texts on Snapchat.  Over the course of weeks, we experimented with a few different themes, and then settled in on one particular pattern where we would inform the other that we were horny.  If the receiver was online and available, s/he would then encourage the sender to masturbate and to text back when it was over with a description of how intense it was, and more importantly, what s/he thought about to get her-/him-self "over the hump".

This gave the original writer artistic license to explore fantasies, which I fully exploited.  I told Connor sometimes that I had just thought about him fucking me.  Sometimes about giving him a blow job.  Sometimes about him fucking one of the pretty girls in town he said he was attracted to.

And Connor would reciprocate.  One day he said he had jacked off to the thought of me sucking him.  Another, to the thought of me riding him.  Another, to the thought of us laying side by side as we reached over and fingered each other.  All pretty standard sexting fare.

I grew accustomed to needing Connor's sexting as part of having a fulfilling day.  I would be perceptibly disappointed when he wouldn't immediately respond; or even worse, when he would respond, but state that he couldn't follow thru because he was "with people".

One day, we had sort of gotten started, to the point that I was highly aroused, and he informed me that he would need to drop because "someone" had walked in to his room.  I, half teasingly, half jealously, asked him if the "someone" was a girl.  He texted back, "Yes.  GTG.  Will talk later."  I asked, "Why, or she'll be mad?", and he replied, "Yes, pls, GTG now!!."

We did follow up on that conversation later.  I told him, teasingly, but probingly, that he needn't be so frightened of the girls he was hanging out with--that if any gave him issues, that "I'll handle them."

For the first time in our sexting affair, Connor said, "Tell me more."

We then began a long series of sexts where he would mention, one at a time, an area girl (one's I knew or knew of), and I would "rate" them based on my degree of confidence or trepidation in "handling" them if I incurred their anger by being competition for Connor's attentions.  I would answer, honestly, that many I thought were pushovers and wouldn't stand a chance agsinst me, while others were "tough bitches" who would be able to give-and-take and go toe-to-toe with me as equals.  Connor would often agree with my assessments, but just as often provide counterfactuals about certain fantasy adversaries which perhaps I had not considered.

I found the new theme of our discussions to be indescribably erotic.  I don't know if I was turned on by the thought of female competition, or of Connor wanting me and a rival tearing into each other with him as a prize.  But I treasured our note-comparing sexts, and was achieving mind-blowing orgasms everytime I masturbated to them.

And to the fantasies of the fights themselves.  What tactics I would employ against a worthy adversary.  Would we stand up and exchange punches like boxers?  Or would we wrestle each other to the ground in an entwined catball?  Like the outcome, it would probably depend on which girl I was fighting.

One day his mom came up.  A bitch I actually DID hate:  Janet.

To be continued.....

[sinclairfan]

SEXTING BOUNDARIES

Now, you may be asking, if Connor and I were sexting with each all summer, and we lived in the same town as each other, and we were totally crushing on each other, why hadn't our relationship turned physical at some point?  If only for 30 minutes, even?  Why was our relationship still just virtual?

I would spend a lot of time thinking about that during the Summer of 2015.  Especially mornings, afternoons, or night when I would text Connor, and he didn't immediately respond.  "What are you thinking, Kelly?", I would ask myself forlornly, "putting yourself 'out there', revealing deep dark secrets, to an emotionally immature recent high school grad who offers little in return."  I was about to quietly break things off, when I read a magazine article about young people, Millennials, and their online dating behavior.  I read that they used hookup websites and Apps like Tinder, that they would sext and then quickly hook up, and then the male would want to keep randomly sexting every so often, until the female would start "ghosting" him--just ignoring his sexts.

Suddenly, Connor's behavior all seemed very normal--he was just acting the way his whole generation did.  But more importantly, consummating our flirting relationship with an actual physical encounter would just hasten the demise of our affair.  As long as we kept things virtual, we were still in the flirting stage, and things could continue on as they were.

And I really, really dreaded the thought of the end of our relationship.  Because if Connor ditched me, I had no prospects for meeting a new boyfriend, same-age or any-age.  I had no job.  Travel hockey was over, so I no longer had access to any hockey dads.  My son had abandoned me to go to college in River Falls.  I didn't have any network of friends or acquaintances.  Connor was all I had.

So, I continued on sexting Connor on Snapchat.  Even as he left town after 4th of July to head to Gustavus Adolphus in his Quixotic quest to make its hockey team as a walk on.

Even though I was still getting myself off masturbating to our sexting sessions, I must have been subliminally frustrated, because I started stepping things up along two fronts:  the intercourse front, and the catfighting front.

On the intercourse front, Connor and I started Snapchatting each other nudes of ourselves.  I had sworn beforehand that texting a nude selfie was a line I would never cross, but I caved for two reasons.  First, the impermanent, disappearing nature of Snapchat gave me a false sense of security.  As I would find out a few weeks later, that was a technological loophole I had failed to consider--Snapchat pictures can be screenshotted by their recipient and saved.  But I, internet neophyte, was unaware of this in July 2015, and so Connor was treated to images of my bare breasts.  The second reason was, well, Connor pressured me, by starting the whole exchange by sending me selfies of his dick.  Even though the selfies, the "dick pics" were unsolicited, he used them to demand reciprocation from me, in the form of nude selfies of myself.  I held out for a few days, protesting by text, but eventually complied with his requests.

Those nude selfies were eventually discovered on Connor's cellphone by Connor's mom Janet, and precipitated our vicious September 2015 catfight.

Which now brings us full circle.  Catfighting, the most frequent conversation topic in my sexts with Connor. 

During one of our sexting sessions, he asked me if I had ever been in a real catfight.  I confessed that while I had been in psychological, emotional, and even verbal catfights with ex's of my future husband, while we were dating, from New Mexico, Colorado, and Nebraska, none of those fights had ever become physical.

Connor <<sigh>>'d and texted, "I would love for you to get into a catfight and tell me about it.  You're 47--isn't it time you got into a catfight??"

Those words echoed in my ears long after we sexted to it.  They became a personal challenge to myself.

Dammit, he's right.  Before August 31st, I'm going to get into a catfight with some bitch.

And I did.

To be continued.....

[sinclairfan]

A WORLD OF POSSIBILITIES

As I contemplated my self-imposed 8-week deadline for getting into a catfight before the summer of 2015 ended, a world of possibilities presented itself to me.  Should I challenge one of Connor's classmates, one of the girls he had just graduated high school with and had carried on a crush?  Or should I focus on my own generation, and challenge one of the school mom's I had seen either at school events or at hockey games for years?  I decided to try the latter first, since I was already drawing enough future potential heat on myself by crossing generations by sexting with Connor.

I considered whether to act impulsively and start something with someone without warning, or to "feel someone out" and set up an event with boundaries and rules.  Although at first glance the former seems the more exciting and primal, the innuendo and double entendres of the latter turned out being half the fun.

One last consideration:  stir the pot with a stranger, or an acquaintance.  Since the whole point was to describe a fight with somrone Connor knew snd could visualize, I decided to try for the latter, and to fall back on the former only as a last resort.

In the end, I decided that my subconcious planning for the fight event which transpired must have pre-dated my sexting affair with Connor, because everything fell into place so smoothly and seamlessly, as if what happened had been in the works for years, not weeks.

My opponent for my first catfight ended up being a divorced school mom named Christine, whose son had played hockey until about 9th grade and had then given it up.  I had missed chatting with Christine when she dtoppef coming to hockey, although I must say there was almost always something "off" in talking to her about personal things.  She was divorced from her husband, but still talked to him and even spent time with him and his new, younger, second wife.  It irked me how nonchalantly she would discuss going hiking or camping with them--I was tempted to ask her if the concept of "third wheel" was a foreign one to her.

Or maybe I was just jealous that she had a better relationship with her ex-husband than I did with my actual-husband.  And who could blame Christine's ex-husband for wanting to be around her.  She had thickly curled dark brunette hair, which Christine could somehow miraculously straighten with 24 hours notice (and the re-curl the next day).  She was maybe 2 inches shorter than me, with a rockhard body but a very feminine bust, 38c if I had to guess.  She was very active, and cursed aggressively if she had a beer inside of her.  She seemed like she would be "down" to catfight, and she became my target opponent.

I asked her by phone if she was around for the summer and wanted to hang out and shoot the shit about being empty nest parents (like me, her one son was her only child).  To my surprise, Christine had picked up a Sales career at a Minneapolis company (another source of jealousy--how does someone get back into the workforce after 8-10 years out of it??), but summer was her slow season, so she could maybe hang out at my place some afternoon or maybe we could do something.

Like, go to the waterpark.

One hot, sunny afternoon, Christine and I headed to the municipsl pool in our bikinis.  Christine looked totally cut.  We sensuously rubbed lotion on each other, making exaggerated moaning sounds and complimenting each other at the success, so far at least, of our bodies at defying Father Time.  We gossiped about the other women we saw at the pool that morning, including some young Russian nannies watching toddlers and infants of our town's elite Yuppie parents.  I told Christine which nanny I thought would be the most bad ass in a fight.

"I could take her," Christine responded without batting an eyelash.

I knew right then and there that Christine and I would be catfighting in my living room later that afternoon.

To be continued.....

[AngelaA]

Wonderful build-up!

[sinclairfan]

KELLY VS CHRISTINE

Around 2:30 in the afternoon, the municipal starts to fill up with teens and tweens, as a large area day camp lets out for the day.  Christine and I take that as our to put our white teri-cloth covering robes over our bikinis and to pack up our stuff.

> Back to the privacy of your place?, Christine asks, with just a hint of an edge.

> Why, I'd love to, dearie!, I reply back, half matter of factly and half sarcastically.

We stroll back to my car coolly.  But unlike when we strolled in three hours ago, we're not strolling side by side.  Christine is hanging back, walking eight to ten feet behind me, visually announcing to the people in the parking lot, "She's driving me home.  But, I'm not WITH her.  Don't be thinking that she and I are friends."  I realize that we never got around to eating lunch at the pool.  I'm hungry and crabby, and Christine must be, too.  Good.

I get in the sweltering hot car first.  Christine is taking her sweet time.  C'mon, c'mon bitch, get in.  I want to get you home alone behind closed doors and have it out with you.

Christine finally gets in the front passenger seat.  She slams the door behind her.

> Can you be careful with my car door, please?

> [Sarcastically] Oh .... I'm sssoorry.

> You should be.  [I start the car and jerk it forward before Christine has her seatbelt on.]

> Do you have a problem with me?

> I wouldn't call it a problem.  More of a pet peeve.

> So?  What is it??

> Christine ....  have you ever heard of the phrase .... 'third wheel'??.

> Of course.  What's your fucking point?

> Please don't curse at me when you're a guest in my car.  [This has escalated quicker than I expected.  I start to wonder if we'll even make it home.]

> Oh, I'm sorry, .... Kkkkkkelly.  What's your .... point??  Enlighten me.  A third wheel is an unwanted person on a date, I thought.  If I'm not mistaken, there was only you and I at the pool today.

> I'm not talking about today, sweetie.  I'm talking about .... your personal life.  Your ex .....  his new wife ....  you.

> Ok, so, not that you would know,  and not that it's any of your business, hhuuunnn .... but when two people get divorced, and are co-parenting a child, they talk, they hang out, they manage the finances.  What part of that can't you wrap your blonde head around?

[I'm watching the road right now, and it's a good thing, because if Christine and I made eye contact right now, trouble would start.]

> Christine .... pleeeeeassse .... your interactions with your ex go way beyond conversations about [air quotes, taking my hands off the wheel for emphasis] .... 'co-parenting' ....... don't try and bullshit me.

> Here's what I think your problem is, blondie.

> Oh, goodie.  Now YOU can enlighten ME.  [My bikini bottom is soaked, and I can't tell if it's from the pool, or from me being aroused by the verbal catfight simmering in the enclosed car.]

> You're always looking to poke your nose around in the marriages in this town.  Everyone sees it, Kel .... talks about it.  Especially your flirting in the bleachers at hockey games.  I think my marriage arrangement irks you ....  is your pet peeve .....  becsuse you're stumped about how to insert yourself when there's ALREADY three people .... and you'd be the fourth.  You can't crack that dynamic, can you sweetie?  That's REALLY, what your problem is, isn't it, bitch?

> Did you just call me a bitch?  [I'm actually glad she called a bitch, because she hit a nerve with her bleacher flirting jab.  Did she suspect my hockey dad affairs?  Or worse, did she hear something?  Is there gossip going around about me?]

> What if I did?

> If you called me a bitch, then you and I have a problem.

> Hmmmmm. [We're pulling up to my house now.]

> So?  Christine?  Did .... you .... call .... me .... a .... bitch??

> How long do we have your house to ourselves?

> About two more hours.

[I park the car in the driveway and turn off the engine.  We make eye contact.]

> 2 hours will work.  Bitch.

To be continued......

[sinclairfan]

"WANNA FIGHT??"

Christine and I step into my wood-floored living room, and clear space by moving a couple of chairs and ottomons to the side.  We drop our teri-cloth robes, and slowly circle each other counter-clockwise in only our bikinis, sizing each other up.  Ominous thoughs cross my mind about my opponent--what if her third-wheel presence in her ex's new marriage, is not accidental, is not welcomed, but has been physically enforced by Christine's physical dominance over her ex's new bride?  What if they have tried to push her away, literally and figuratively, and the effort was found wanting?

Christine, after all, wasted no time turning hostile on me in the car.  What if she has a "switch" thst I've not seen before?

Well, maybe I have one, too.  I had never had an affair before.  Until I had one.  Then two, then three.  Maybe fights will be the same.  I've never had one before.  Until now.

I'm good at affairs.  I'll be good at fighting, too.

I show my defiance to Christine, who is still circling with me, by dropping bikini bottom and tossing it aside, placing our earrings and bracelets and rings carefully on a nearby end table .  The idea crosses my mind only because I can remove it in a more deleiberate motion than I can my bikini top, but after it is off, I'm glad I did, as my thick blonde bush carpet matches the drapes, something that always seemed to delight--and excite--the hockey dads who got a first look.  At 47, the hair on my head still requires little in the way of artificial coloring, and the proof in the pudding is the close comparison to my all-natural, youthful bush.

Christine answers my wordless challenge by removing her bikini bottom as well.  Her bush is similarly thick, but in contrast to mine is dark and drift up towards her navel in a triangle pattern.  We are both mesmerized by the raw sexuality of each others' lower bodies, staring at each others' hips and legs.  I have until now been afraid to speak out of concern of my voice cracking and betraying fear to my new enemy, but I decide to break the spell now.

> You wanna fight?

> Yeah, I do.

> You don't look so bad ass to me.

> I look more of a woman down there than you do.

> Hmmmm ..... I don't think so.

> Look closer, bitch.

> Let me get closer, .... bitch.

Christine close to within arms' length of each other.  We place our left hand in each others' hair by our right ear, tugging just tight enough to keep our balance.  We then lower our right hands in jabbing pokes, touching each others' pussy hair.  We involuntaily retract our hips and retreat backwards when touched, exercising a reflexive fear of each others' claws.  When the other hand is then released, we thrust our hips back forward, and then reach for the other's pussy.  We awkwardly repeat the jabs and pokes for several minutes, all while tensely holding each other by the hair of our heads.

I realize that I've never touched another woman's bush.  Christine's is sharp and prickly--are all women's like this, or just hers? 

> I want to scratch you raw.

> Then why aren't you?  Scared of what I'll do to you?

> What will you do, bitch?

> Scratch you till you bleed, sweetie.

> Stop bending your ass backwards, cxnt.

> You stop bending yours back.  Is that how you let the hockey dad bend you over, slut?

We're both right.  Our hips are flinching involuntarily from the imminent threat they perceive, and it's preventing our fight from starting in earnest.  I think outside the box, and get a twisted idea.

> Are you woman enough to join me in the standup shower in the downstairs bathroom?  It's too tight in there to retreat.

Earlier today, Christine has gotten changed in my guest bathroom.  She must have noticed the 4x4 glass-enclosed standup shower.  It's a perfect place for the type of catfight we've just challenged each other to.

> Lead the way, Kel.

Her calling me Kel touches me more viscerally than if she had called me "bitch" or "cxnt".  She wants to hurt me, Kelly.

But that's ok, I want to hurt her, too.

Real bad.

To be continued.....

[sinclairfan]

SHOWER FIGHT

In the confined space of the 4x4 standup shower, enclosed by 2 tile walls and 2 plexiglass walls, the pace of my fight with Christine escalates rapidly.  Instead of just holding her hair with my left hand for balance, I've wrapped my entire left arm around her head, and am inserting my right hand directly into her pussy, seeking to scratch the inside.  Christine has latched onto my right ear with her left hand, mauling it by opening and closing her hand around it, and is using her 2 inch height disadvantage relative to me to throw uppercut low-blow punches at my pussy.  Both the earmauling and the low blows are excruciatingly painful,  since my clit is exposed and bulging from multiple sources of arousal from the close contact with my frenemy.

To start with, having my left hand and arm rubbing thru Christine's thick brunette curls is tactilely arousing to my fingers and my flesh.  I've always been self-conscious about the fineness and stringiness of my blonde hair if I grow it out too much, needing to constantly remember to get to the hairdresser before it gets even a quarter inch too long.  Christine's thickness is limitless, without getting tangled even during our extended catfight.  I suppress my jealousy to start pulling and tearing at her hair with both my fists, focussing on tactics instead which will do actual damage to her.

Secondly, our breasts are now pressed together thru our bikini tops.  My nipples protrude, bulging against the inside of the polyester top, craving but being denied contact with Christine's flesh.  My breast have always been highly erogenous; most so during my hockey dad affairs, as I allowed the men I was fucking to lick and cup my breasts, frequently cumming from the arousal I felt.  Christine breasts and mine are pressed tight together--I rub them together, trying to get our bikini tops displaced so the contact can be skin in skin.

But, the third and final source of my heightened arousal is my right hand inside of Christine.  I feel empowered, more of a woman than her, by the direct entrance into her body.  As I we're inside HER house right now, rather than mine.  When my finger slips outside of her during our jostling inside the shower, I quickly reinsert it, reluctant to surrender the position. 

But as my clit becomes ever more aroused and exposed, Christine's relentless punches exact a higher and higher price, in the form of pain to my crotch, as she lands patient and well-aimed uppercuts.  I am unable to suppress groans of agony with each successive blow.  I am also frustrated at having offerred a fight venue where my 2-inch reach advantage has been rendered completely useless.

> Can't take it, Kel?

> What?  You think you're hurting my, Christine?

> Oh?  you want some more, bitch?  But you're grunting so loud already.

> You don't sound so comfortable yourself, honey.

> Fuck you.  I've wanted to do this to you for years.

> And yet you didn't.  Knew you weren't woman enough for it, right, bitch?

> Fuck you, Kel.  I don't need womanhood lessons from you.

> Is this who you put your husband's new wife in her place, Crissy?  Cuz it's not working on me.

> She's a bimbo, Kel, but she's smart enough not to fuck with me.

> Well, I'm fucking with you now, Crissy, and I'm not impressed with what I see.

We've been talking to each other slowly, because our groaning and grunting make it difficult to enunciate more then three words or so consecutively, as we continue to torture each others' midsection with scratches and punches.

> You'll give before I do, Kel.

> Not a chance, Crissy.

To be continued......

[sinclairfan]

"GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY HOUSE"

As Christine and I continue our struggle inside my standup shower, I remember that after this fight is over, I'm going to have quite a Snapchat story to tell to Connor.  I remember him telling me once that Christine was one of the hockey moms he was attracted to.

Connor will want to sext about Chirstine and I catfighting.  But what is it Christine wants?

She had made a comment in the car about how long the two of us had alone in my house--two hours.  Our fight must now be in its second hour--my husband is probably already in his car on the way home.  What if Christine is purposely dragging out our fight until my husband gets home?  What if she's bored with being the Third Wheel in her ex-husband's marriage, and wants to be the Third Wheel in mine?

In our threats to each other during this fight, we haven't verbalized a desire to kill or maim each other--it's all been about being the better woman.  What if my sleeping with other hockey dads bothers her because she hasn't done it yet--and has my husband in her sights?  What if her proposition to him is my submitted and defeated self?  Whst man would say no to that?  What if her ex said yes to her when Christine submitted his new wife, showing him she still had a claim on him?

What if fighting in the shower right now is playing into her plan?

> Get the fuck out of my house, bitch.

> Make me get out, whore.

> I intend to, Crissy.

> You and what army, Kel?

During this entire fight, and my entire life, I've never formed a fist or thrown a punch.  But I form one now, and aim it at Chrstine's mouth.  I pull back my hand, and a long red smear of blood traces a path where my blow landed, from Christine's left cheek to her upper left lip to her upper front teeth, and then exiting her mouth to her lower right chin and her right shoulder. 

Christine is unable to see the blood on her own face, but she can see the half-horrified, half-panicked "Blood?  But where is it coming from?" look on my face,  as my eyes dart from side to side trying to determine the source of the bleeding.  We both look at my right hand, which is caked in blood.  But how?  Did I connect just right with Christine's mouth?

I remember that before striking my opponent, my hand had spent the prior several minutes inside of Christine, raking the inside of her pussy.  My eyes look down, and there are droplets of blood tracing a trail down Christine's left leg, a couple of them already having made their way to the shower drain.  Was I scratching Christine hard enough to actually draw blood?  If I was, why didn't I feel it until now?  Was I that focussed on our fight that I wouldn't notice something like ...   that?

Even now, there was a struggle inside my mind on what to concentrate on, which feelings to block out and which to act on.  "Practical Kelly" was telling me to keep Christine, and her bleeding, inside the shower, where there was at least a hope of getting it cleaned up with my husband being none the wiser about what had transpired inside my house this afternoon.  But "Bad Girl Kelly" was aroused by the sight of my rival's face and mouth coated in her own blood.  And "Competitive Kelly" was looking for someone to High Five, her investment of scratching at her enemy's lower body having paid higher dividends than Christine's low-blow punches. 

"Competitive Kelly' had control of my voice apparently, at least temporarily.

Christine are now nose to nose inside the shower, close enogh to smell each others' breath; our hands interlocked together, both of us able to feel the warm blood on my right hand.

> First blood, bitch.

> So what?  You punch like a girl.

> And I fuck like a woman.  [Why is THAT the only positive thing I can think to say about myself?!?]

> You fuck like a whore.

> Men like whores in bed.

> The like a woman who wins a fight for them more.

> My husband is never going to know this fight happened, bitch.  I'm throwing you out before he gets here.

> Then how are you going to explain THIS???

Christine unlocks her left hand from mine, and drags it thru the blonde hair in my head.  At first, I feel a gentle but annoying ripping sensation, and assume Christine is pulling my hair.  But I eventually realize she's spreading as much blood as she quickly can into my hair, and the pulling sensation is the dried-blood getting hair cought in Christine fingers as her hands traverse my scalp.

> Look in the mirror, bitch.  Blonde hair and blood look lovely together.

Competitive Kelly would have never left the shower, butwould have commenced thrashing Christine to a pulp.  But Practical Kelly wanted to assess the damage that hsd been done to my hair, and Bsd Girl Kelly broke the 1-1 tie and wanted to get a view of the mayhem.

So I exited the shower, and looked in the mirror.  I needed to grasp the counter to keep from passing out.  My blonde hair is caked in blood, like when I was growing up and our white husky dog got skunked and I had to give him a tomato paste bath.  But my legs, as well, are smeared with blood, apparently having been wrapped too tightly around Christine's.

Through the mirror, I can see that Christine has, without asking, helped herself to my nicest bathroom towel, and is holding it between her legs to stop her bleeding.  That towel will be completely ruined now.

Chrstine and I lock eyes thru the mirror, and she begins speaking to me.

> Told you you'd give first, bitch.

> I didn't give, and you know it, whore.

> Oh, so are we still fighting, Kel?  [Christine squares her shoilders challengingly.]

> That depends.  Are you still after my husband, slut?

> [Christine steps closer to the mirror, the two of us eyeing daggers at each other through it.]  You have a lot of damn nerve calling me a slut after all the hockey dads you slept with the past two years.

How does she know it's been two years since I crossed that line?  Who's been talking?  The dads?  The moms?

Or does she just ....  know?  Like Connor's mom Janet slways seemed to know?  Always seemed to know with who I was doing it .... and when.

I turn and face Christine.  She already knows what I'm thinking, I decide; I may as well say it.

> I called you a slut, because in my book, a woman who sleeps with her remarried ex is a slut.  Got that, slut.  [I press my nose to hers.]  Slut.  Slut.  Slut.

> Fine.  I'm a slut.  And ...   YOU ..  punch like a girl.

> You know what; you're right!

> About what?  That you punch like a girl?

> No.  That we're still fighting.

Christine and I push each other away at the chest, and raise out fists, murderous looks in our eyes.

To be continued......

[sinclairfan]

FISTFIGHTING

Christine is guardedly but patiently waiting for me to throw the first punch, justifiably skeptical that I've ever raised a hand in anger.  And her instincts are again correct--the only time I ever even formed a fist, never mind actually thrown one, was way back at college in Boulder.  A group of my female suitemates were awaiting the arrival of one of my future husband's high school ex's from New Mexico, and they were preparing me on how to handle any trouble which might arise.  They showed me how to make a fist without breaking my own thumb--thumb OVER the index finger, not under it--and coached me not to go for the single-punch K.O.--very few girls are strong enough to pull that off.  But don't gas myself after 15 seconds, either--if the other girl was invested in the fight, it would last longer than that.

The fight pace "sweet spot" was a steady barrage of committed, forceful, but controlled strikes--to the face, NOT to the forehead.  That strategy was about to be tested tonight, in my home, about a quarter century after it was originally given.

Before Christine could doubt my resolve, I was up in her face, my left hand alternating between hair pulling and face gauging, my right hand punching her face with quick, deliberate jabs.  She seemed stunned for about 10 valuable (to me) seconds, but regained her poise and began returning my blows in kind.  The bone-on-flesh rat-a-tat-tat sound was of a different tenor than our fight in the shower, and our bare feet stuck to the hardwood floor as our colliding bodies traversed thd open room.  I could feel welts already forming on my face, and had a burning desire to inflict bruises and swelling on the face of the rival for my husband's cock. 

We continued raining hard but consistent blows on each others' faces.  In the space of under 5 minutes, I had elevated myself from a fistfight virgin to a prolific and confident pugilist.

My hatred for Christine was sealed.

> Fucking bitch.

> I fucking hate you; I'm going to steal your husband AND your house, Kelly.

> You're never setting foot in this house again, whore.

> I'm going to tell him all the men you fuck, slut.

> I'm going to tell him you still fuck your ex.

> I'll fucking kick your teeth out if you tell him that, bitch.

> Here's your chance, sweetie.  Cuz I'll fucking do it.

Christine and I pause and make eye contact, sizing each other up, as well as the damage we've inflicted on each others's faces.  The 10-second head start Christine inadvertently gave me was invaluable--the welts on her face and mouth are too many to count.  She didn't count on me even being able to hold my own with her, never mind taking a round 10-9

She's underestimated her enemy.

I look down at Christine's bush.  I csn't resist.

I reinsert my right index finger, scratching and gsuging at the part Christine got to stop bleeding by ruining my best bath towel.  In under 10 seconds, it's bleeding again.

> You fucking bitch, Kelly.

> I'll never fucking give to you, Christine.  What don't you unsmderstand, slut?

To be continued....

[sinclairfan]

"I WANT TO DO THAT WITH YOU"

Either Christine understood that she was never going to get an "I give" out of my--at least not that afternoon--OR both of us understood that her bleeding in my standup shower was one matter, but her doing so all over my living room was another thing entirely, OR the lowering angle of the sun's summer rays coming thru the windows told us that our two hours' freedom before my husband came out from work was ending.

Or some combination of all three.

Either way, Christine gingerly put her bikini bottom and Teri Cloth robe back on, and made her way to the end table holding her myriad of bracelets, earrings, necklaces, rings, and her anklet.  I watched carefully to make sure she didn't swipe any of mine--a skill I had carefully honed in undressing and redressing in hotel rooms with hockey dads--and watched my new enemy exit my house.

I was thinking three things.

(1) Don't let the door hit you on the way out, bitch.

(2) I need to get cleaned up before my husband gets home.

(3) I can't wait to sext with Connor about this. 

In fact, I needed to preserve evidence of this afternoon's brawl for (3) before I destroyed it by doing (2).  I got my cellphone and went to the mirror in the bathroom, turning on every light.  Christine's blood was caked and congealed so thickly in my blonde hair as to give the appearance of an open head wound obtained in a car accident.  My face had over 5 swollen welts on it.  And my lower body was covered with low blow bruises.  I snapped a few selfies.

And Snapchatted them to Connor, telling him that Christine and I had gotten into a vicious, bloody catfight at my house.

I then cleaned up any blood droplets I found on the floor and counters, threw away the towel Christine had bled onto as well as my bathing suit top, and hopped in the shower.  When my husband got home from work, I explained my face welts by saying that the sand fleas at the municipal water park at been out biting.  And since it wasn't Saturday, he never noticed the bruises right below my waist.

Connor was at a summer hockey tryout at Gustavus Adolphus, and we sexted the next morning after my husband left for work.

> I'm impressed, Kelly.  How did things get so heated between Christine and you?

> We pushed each others' buttons.  I busted her for being a third wheel in her former marriage.

> And what hot button of yours did she touch?

> She said if I couldn't throw her out, she'd sleep with my husband.  [I was fudging the truth here and withholding the fact that I had been busted by Christine as the slut of the team's hockey mom's.]

> Do you think she'll try and sleep with him anyways?

> Not without going thru me again.  I think she and I have an understanding?

> So it might happen again?  You and her catfighting?

> It might.  She didn't beat me, but I didn't decisively beat her either.

> Do you want it to happen again?

> Do you?  ;-)

> You know it.  The thought of you and her fighting is hot as fuck.

> Hot enough to get you off when you masturbate?

> Hell ya.

> Are you masturbating to the thought of it right now?

> Hell ya.  Are you?

> Yes.  That and the thought of fucking you.

> I wish I had been masturbating in your house when you and her were fighting yesterday.  You're both hot MILFs.

I didn't want to ruin the mood, and I didn't want to lose Connor as a sexting buddy, so I didn't disclose to him my disappointment that Christine and I were BOTH milf's.  Connor, dude?  We both are??  This is the part you're supposed to tell me I'm hotter than her, not equal to her.  I actually hate this bitch, remember??

More importantly, tho:  WHEN ARE YOU ACTUALLY GOING TO FUCK??  You say you'd like to fuck me.  Well, why haven't we done it yet??  I know you're not home today--but you've been home all summer.  Why haven't you come over yet??  Do I need to beg??

The Millennial generation illiteracy in the language of love was starting to drive me crazy.  I started to suspect it explained a lot of the pent up fury I had unleashed on Christine yesterday.

And it explained a lot of the cooling of the sexting affair I had going with Connor.  It pissed me off one morning when he asked me if I had post-fight pictures of Christine.  NO, YOU DUMB-ASS-- WE WERE TO BUSY TRYING TO MAIM EACH OTHER TO POSE FOR GROUP SELFIES.  What do you think that day was??  Afternoon tea???  Isn't it enough that I put my fucking body on the line for you??  You want visual evidence as well??

Connor and I also had less time to sext as well.  Hockey at GAC started up.  And then he came up to get stuff to move into his dorm room for  classes.  And partying.  And girls his own age.

It started to sink in that that he and I weren't going to actually fuck.  Sexting with him was the furthest I was going to get.  And I wasn't brokenhearted.  I was starting to sense he wasn't that great in bed anyways.

At least no one can see the Snapchat photos I sent to him, right?

Wrong.

One morning, the Today show was talking about girls who were sending nude selfies to their boyfriends, assuming the texts would disappear after being read.  And they did.  Except the boys were taking screen shots as they viewed the selfies, and then saving them on their cellphones.

Connor hadn't done that on his cellphone, had he?  My heart sunk.

He had.

His bitch blinde mom Janet came over one morning in September, looking all bad ass in a tank top and mini-skirt.

> When Connor came home to get his clothes for his dorm, I looked on his cellphone.  I know you've been sending nudes of yourself.

> He's 18.  And I already know the grapevine thinks I was the team slut.  What's your point.

> I saw the bloody aftermath of your catfight with Christine.  You and I are going to do that.

> Fine by me.  I've always thought you were a bitch. When?

> Right now.

To be continued......