[sinclairfan]

"SON OF A BITCH"

As when I first squared up against Christine the afternoon I fought her, I found myself in my living room sizing up Janet.  Janet had maybe a half- or full-inch on me, and seemed to be in shape.  As with Christine, every reservoir of my strength would be tested in putting myself on the line physically against her.

When Christine and I had squared off, my "Third Wheel" dig against her had seemed to strike a nerve.  I needed to come up with similarly effective, but accurate, shade at my new enemy.  My "Spidey Senses" told me that there was something "up" with Janet checking her son's cell phone.  I somehow doubted that she was surprised to see images of me on there.  Surprised, perhaps, by the graphic nature--but not by me.  Just like a trial lawyer never asks a question he doesn't already know the answer to, a woman doesn't go searching on her man's cellphone without knowing what she'll find, at least generally.

So the first word that I thought of to fling at Janet was that Connor was a "motherfucker"; or, the urban dictionary shorthand, mo-fo.  The target of the insult wasn't, of course, Connor, but Janet.  But I bit my lip, for several reasons.  In no particular order:  I didn't know if Janet would "get" the mo-fo shorthand, and even if she did, I didn't want to narc out Connor if there was even a sliver of truth to thr accusation.  My issues were with Janet--no need for me to make the son pay for the bitchiness of his mother.

And that was my core problem with Janet, anyways.  That she was a bitch.  Regardless of how graphic her sick fantasies or actions were with her son, I didn't care for the cut of her jib.  I had always thought she was just a bitch.  B-I-T-C-H.  So I said to her:

> Your son is an s.o.b.

> Then what does it say about you that you exchange pics with him?

> It says he has a Mrs Robinson itch to scratch, honey.  [Fuck!  I assume Janet won't "get" 'mo-fo', but will get 'Mrs Robinson'??  I suck at this trash talk.]

> Mrs Robinson got rejected.  Did Connor reject YOU, dried up hag??

> [Connor's failure to attempt to physically consummate our flirtation makes Janet's jab sting.  I slap her hard on the face.]  cxnt.

To be continued.......

[sinclairfan]

JANET VS ME

Rather than wrap up our awkward and lame trashtalk, and before setting up ground rules for our fight as Christine and I had done, Janet's hands and mine were drawn into each others' blonde hair, and a face-scratching, hair-pulling stand-up catfight was in progress before either of us knew what hit us.  The spacing in the living room was generous enough that there were only a couple of sectional couches, end tables, and lamps for us to worry about bumping into.  But our catballed bodies were traversing all four walls and bookcases of the entire room, throwing each others' heads and backs into whatever hard surface we could use to injure the other.

Janet's freshly-filed nails sank deep into my scalp, cheeks, and ears; I could already feel trickles of warm fluid dripping down my flesh.  When I had fought Christine, it was her blood which had gotten on my hands and hair--the feeling of my own was an entirely different sensation, and the feeling of being violated without my consent caused my throat to become sour with rage.  I clawed at Janet's eyes, lips, and jaw with nails still recuperating and jagged from my five-weeks-ago fight with Christine, seeking to tear long, deep, permanent gashes into her face.  We hiss hate-filled threats into each others' faces.

> You'll be lucky if I don't kill you, Jan.

> Fuck you, bitch, you can't hurt me.

> [I reach my hand under her skirt, feeling her inner legs soaked with sweat, pre-cum, or both.] You get into getting hurt, that's why you came here and challenged me.

> I came here to hurt you, not for the challenge.

> I've hated you for eight years, why'd you wait so long??

> I shouldn't have; but I'll make up for lost time now, count on it sweetie.

A couple of times, Janet and I get the other down on one knee, and I expect our fight to go to the ground.  And a regular streetfight probably would have by now.  But Janet and I are singledmindedly focussed on tearing hair and skin from each others' head and face, so we fail to wrap a hold on the the others' supine body, and the fallen fighter regains her footing and we resume a standup clinch.

Janet and I remain clothed in our informal skirts and sleeved tops, neither of which are easily torn or removed, despite our titanic desperate struggle.  Blood has now smeared on our hair, faces, tops, and walls of my living room.  I am angry with myself that Janet has no obvious scars or cuts, so all of the blood might be my own, still flowing freshly from at least two cuts on my face and one in my scalp.

> Fuck you, bitch, you're not leaving my house unless it's on a stretcher.

> Big words , tough girl; I knew you were all bark and no bite.

The word "bite" triggers me.

I pull Janet's left cheek close to my mouth.

> I'm leaving you with something to remember this fight by, bitch.

I sink my teeth into Janet's left cheek, tasting salt and sweat.

To be continued.....

[sinclairfan]

KEY FIGHT

As I release my teeth from Janet's left cheek, I anticipate, in no particular order, two unpleasant sensations to overtake my consciousness--one being a gag reflex from having the salty taste of my rival's flesh, sweat, and bloid inside my mouth; the other being guilt from having bitten another person for the first time in at least 45 years or so.  I brace for both, but they are blocked out in lightning fast by a third, as unexpected as it was painful--a gashing, tearing pressure on my left shoulder, as Janet's teeth break skin and gnaw deeply into skin and tendons, sending waves on pain and paralyzing stinging into my left elbow and hand, causing me to lose my tight grip on her hair and my entire left upper body to droop helplessly. 

I'm instinctively and instantly angered at the readiness with which Janet struck such a vulnerable target on my almost-fully clothed body.  Our catfight until now was strictly amateur-ish from a tactical perspective, but Janet has been concealing a pre-meditated attack, which I brought upon myself by biting her first.  Raging with anger at both of our roles in escalating our battle, and verbalizing my feelings in a desperate attempt to maintain consciousness, I screech "YYOOUUUU FFUCCKKKKINGGG BBBIITTCHHH", and push myself back from what had until now been a continuous catball.

Despite bracing myself for the worst of visuals, I'm appalled and shaken by the amount of blood covering Janet's hair, face, and tank top, and tracked on the floor and walls of my living room.  I immediately recognize the impossibility of amateurs to clean up an enclosed murder scene, as Janet and I have each inflected only 2 or 3 superficial wounds on each others' faces, and have been struggling in only a six foot by 15 foot rectangular area, but we have already smeared what seems like two paint cans' worth of congealing red liquid on each other and the room, and time hasn't even allowed for our worst love tap yet, our bites, to empty their contents.  I try and slow my pulse to prevent my gaping shoulder wound to spew more blood onto my family home.

We both catch our breaths and stare at each other.  I want to finish this fight, but not on my home turf.  I reach for Janet's car keys, which she has left on an endtable nearest my house's side door. 

> You have a lot of fucking nerve, bitch, letting yourself in and fucking up my house like this.

> You flirting with my son is letting YOURself into MY house, slut.  At least I didn't do it behind your back.

> Don't lie to me or to yourself, WHORE.  It's my interacting with YOUR SON that has you acting like a FUCKING WILD BEAST, not YOUR HOME.  [I feel blood continuing to flow out of my shoulder, and get angry at myself that I can't keep my poise.]  You want to fucking FINISH THIS?!?!?  Then we're fucking up your living room as we do it, NOT MINE!!!

Janet lunges for her keys, grabbing my wrists with her nails and sinking them in, drawing more blood from a new, fresh flesh-wound.  I retaliate by angrily and desperately swinging the keys at her face and shoulder in a purposeful slashing motion, successfully raking her cheeks and shoulders and neck with deep scratches.  Janet lowers her slashed face into my belly and bullrushes me onto the floor in a textbook wrestling takedown. 

She pries at at my hands, peeling my fingers away from the keys one by one in intimate finger holds.  Everything about our second catball is involuntarily intimate.  The blood coated our faces mixes and smears into each others' hair and eyelids.  The sweat on our bodies generates an intense b.o. scent.  Our teeth grind and snap at every hint of exposed flesh within reach, guiltlessly biting at every opportunity. 

Janet's keys changes possession and are re-pried loose in thirty second cycles.  The temporary owner makes use of every second by jamming them deeply into the others' flesh, opening jagged puncture wounds on face and shoulders.  Our bodies are now coated with cuts and gashes that can be aged in seconds- and minutes-old by the tint of read--the lighter, the more recent.

> I'm gonna fucking maim you, bitch.

> My son won't ever look at you again after I'm done, slut.

To be continued....

[sinclairfan]

"COME GET ME WHEN YOU'RE READY TO FINISH THIS"

I survey Janet's bloodied and blonde hair, but am frustrasted by the contrast of her relatively unscathed body below the neck with my gouged-at-the-clavicle left shoulder, still dripping with blood.  Our tank tops have remained tightly bound onto our bodies, as have our skirts, preventing either of us from damaging the most vulnerable parts of our womanhood.  I hiss at her threateningly, spitting blood and bile:

> Your son can look at me anytime he wants on his cellphone, you hag.  That's not what has you all hot and bothered.  You're worried we'll consummate our flirtation.

> What's your point, Kel?  [Christine started calling me 'Kel' as our fight escalated.  I wonder what that means.]

> Let's take these clothes off and see who can destroy the other.

> [Janet tears her car keys out of my hands.]  Kel, do not doubt for a minute that I've dreeeeeeaaammmeed .... for fucking years, for the record .... of scratching your tits and pussy to mush.  But I want you to go into it willingly when it happens, like your fucking affairs.  [She removes a key from her key ring.]  You think about what you're asking.  And what we did to each other this morning.  And how intense it will gedt if we catfight naked.

> And.. ?

> And, .... [she hands me the key] .... when you've thought about it .... IF you still want to do it, .... you come and get me.

> And if I don't?

> Then just drop the key in my mailbox.  I'll know it's from you.

> How long do I get to think about it.

> I need 1 week to heal..... and looks like you need 2. And .... [she gives me a business card to a cleaning service] ..... these people will clean the living room, no questions asked.

> So 2 weeks from today?

> That's not quite what I said ....

> [I pull my calendar out of the end table we're talking near] .... [I speak as I write] ... September 19 ..... kick .. .  Janet's ..... ass...  rip .... her .... tits .... off ...  slit .... her ... pussy.... [ I slam the date book shut, and stare daggers at her ] .... Now get the fuck out, bitch.

> If you come in the 19th, you better be 100% sure.

> Fuck you.

> Back at ya, slut.

To be continued......

[sinclairfan]

THREE UNEXPECTED ACTIVITIES

I spend the remainder of the September day of my unexpected catfight with Janet engaged in three unexpected activities.

Unexpected Activity #1:  The cleaning service which was on the business card which Janet flicked at me after our fight is as advertised.  They're a group of Middle Eastern middle-aged adults of both genders, Lebanese I will later learn, who discreetly wash the blood off my floor, walls, and book cases.  The lead gentleman is fluent in broken English, and engages me in banter about the cause of the mayhem he has been called to clean.  But I value discretion, especially with my husband due home in under six hours, over learning more about how Janet learned of the unique service offered by this crew, that I elect to not pursue the matter further.  Plus, I like how they make my living room look clean.

Unexpected Activity #2:  My living room isn't my only possession needing cleaning.  My body is a mess, and a simple bath won't do.  I have cuts, scratches, and gashes on my shoulder and face, and "Whoops, I slipped and fell," needs to look plausible before my husband lays eyes on my at 7pm.  On a hunch, I call the trainer on my son's (and Connor's) hockey club.  He comes over immediately.  He asks me if I was the cheater or the cuckold.  Wow--there's a word I haven't heard since Shakespeare class at Boulder.  I tell him, "Would you believe--the deed wasn't even consummated yet?".  He gives me his emergency text ...  "for when it is."   He makes me presentable ... and gives me 4 days of anti-infectants.  Good to go.

Unexpected activity #3:  When I'm finally alone, I lay back, and think about what's happened today.

And think.

And think.

And get horny.

And masturbate.

And not a little bit. 

So much that I can't stop.  Not for 15 minutes.  Not for 30 minutes.  Not for 60 minutes.  Not for 90 minutes.

My husband is running late--it's 7pm, and he's not home yet.

Good thing.  I'm still masturbating furiously.

I fall asleep.

My husband wakes me up at 4am.

> Baby?  Are you ok?  There's splotches of blood on the bed.

> Oh?  That?  I cut my shoulder falling yesterday.

> But ....  it's coming from between your legs, too.

> Oh?  It is?  Can you grab a tampon?

Fuck.  How am I going to stop masturbating between now and my next fight with Janet in two weeks?

To be continued.....

[sinclairfan]

MINNESOTA MILF FIGHT CLUB

By the next morning, when my husband had left for work, a lot of uncomfortable facts were staring me in the face.

1.  Through Janet, I had stumbled onto a Hockey Moms' Fight Club; complete with mom's willing and able to fight, a team of paramedics willing to discreetly treat injuries, and a cleanup crew to repair home damage and wipe down post-fight blood stains.  All those years I had been canoodling with hockey dads, their wives were back home beating the shit out of each other.

2.  My fights with Christine and Janet had each been bracingly violent encounters.  But, in hindsight, neither of my opponents were strangers to such battles; to the contrary, THEY had separately initiated ME to a new level of brutality.

3.  There was no turning back for me; no putting the toothpaste back in the tube.  Physically, emotionally, psychologically, and sexually, my appetite had been whetted, could not be satiated, and could only by appeased by more such confrontations. 

4.  Probably Christine, and certainly Janet, felt the same.  Janet had confessed as much by challenging me to a rematch in 14 days; now 13 days and counting.  She knew there was no way I would refuse.  I coundn't, even if I wanted to.  I was hooked.

5.  I couldn't stop masturbating.  I barely made it out of bed, so long did I linger that morning, stopped only by the need to pee.  Then, in the shower, I immediately removed the shower head, pointing it directly between my legs, and setting the knob to the hardest jet spray available.  Even after that, without getting dressed or even completely dry, I returned to my bed and pulled out my sexual First Aid Kit:  my vibrator. 

I prayed for the batteries to be working, so long had it been since I resorted to using it for satisfaction.  I penetrated myself the entire length of it, something I hsd never dared to do, no matter how burning my desire.  I twisted and torqued it inside of myself as hard as my shaking hands and arms would allow, getting lightheaded with pleasure and desire.  I came in waves.

And still, it wasn't enough.  What's going on with me??  The batteries started to fail.  Fuck, don't this to me.

I grab my cellphone is desperation.  I text Connor.

> S.O.S.  It's Kelly.

> Wassup?

> Talk dirty to me.

> You're a horny slut.

> Keep going.

> I'm jacking my cock.

> Is it erect?

> It is now.

> Put it anywhere.

> I'd smack it on your face.

> Because I'm a slut whore?

> Yes, around me you are.

> And you like it?

> A lot.

> Why haven't we fucked yet?

> You could have come over to my place.

> If your mother caught us, either her or I would hurt each other.  Bad, too.

> Being with me wouldn't have been worth it?

> You're right.  I bet you came already.  Am I right?

> Is that a turnoff?

> If we were together right now?  Yes.  But since we're not?  No.

> Maybe that's another reason we didn't do it yet?

> Liar. 

> I lie.  And you're a slut.

> Good answer.  I can't stop today.

> How can I help?

> By calling me names.

> Whore Kelly.

> I've cum .... so many times this morning.

> I wish I could see it.

> :-)

> You were typing.  Then stopped.

> What do you think I was going to say?

> Something about my mom.

> You're smarter than I give you credit for.

> I think it's hot you and her don't like each other.

> Really?

> Really.

> If something happens between me and her, do you want to know?

> It depends what that "something" is.

> I know what you mean.

> You're going to keep masturbating, aren't you, slut?

> Yes, oh yes.

> Think of me.

> I will.

> Thank you, slut.

> Thank you, Janet's son.

> ;-p

I return to the shower.  I disconnect the jet again.

Fuck, how do I make this stop?

I know who to text.  I text Janet.

> How do I make it stop?

> You can't.  Don't even try.

> Fuck.

To be continued.......

[sinclairfan]

ANTICIPATION

My hockey dad hotel hookups were turning out to be better preparation for my catfight rematch with my enemy Janet than I could have ever imagined.

Even though I had Janet's house key in my possession and wanted nothing more than for the two of us to resume scratching each other raw, I instinctively knew, from analogizing to my flirtatious dances with married hockey dads.  Once a hockey dad had propositioned me, or accepted my advance to him, and we had an understanding of the arrangements where we would "do the deed", it would have been unspeakably gauche for me to alter the setting or time of our assignation--for me to either "close the deal" sooner than we agreed, or to seek to continue our affair back home after we had our fun, no matter how intense or real the experience was.

Similarly, Janet and I had reached an understanding.  Two weeks to the day after our first fight, IF I was still game, and IF I was prepared for the consequences, I was to go to her house during the work day, use the key, and test my skill against hers a second time.

But grasping and understanding the analogy was one thing; coping with the anticipation was quite another.  Two weeks, when you want it to pass, can seem like five months.

And there was also the matter of my ongoing sexting with Janet's son Connor to deal with.  How much had Janet shared with him?  About the completed Fight No. 1?  About the building Fight No. 2?  He claimed to find the rivalry and hatred between his mom and his sext partner sexy--but would the same be true of an actual physical altercation?  After all, Janet was still his mom--he wouldn't want to hear details of her getting hurt, would he?

> Does your Mom talk about me?

> Occasionally.

> What does she say?

> That you're a bitch.

> Well, ya obviously.  But what about my looks?

> That your boobs are small and your hair is a bleached brillo pad.

> But you don't let her get away with that, right?

> I tell her she sounds jealous of your tits and hair to be bringing them up.

> I bet that pisses her off.

> It does.  How did you know?

> Because women always bring up the topics that make them jealous first.

> Did you bring up my talking to her because that's what makes YOU jealous??  ;-)

> That was smart, Connor.  And wipe that grin off your face.

> The grin is because I just came in my hand.

> Good.  (So did I, btw.)  But when are you going to cum in ME?

> Next time I'm home.

> Promise?

> How could I NOT???

> I know what you mean.

To be continued......

[sinclairfan]

SEX--REAL, ACTUAL SEX--WITH CONNOR

The next Monday was Columbus Day--a work day for my husband, but a day off school for Connor.  Without my asking, entirely on his own initiative, he drove from school and knocked on my door at 9:30am.  After months of beating around the bush, he was actually going to get into my bush.  I felt 25 years younger, instantly.  I also wanted to get busy fucking.

Connor and I didn't spend much time talking that morning--we both knew what we were there to do, and that we had a sufficient, but fixed, amount of time to do it in.  We started on my couch, tongue kissing each other tenderly .... and the desperately.  Our kisses were less wet than I had pictured in my fantasies, and our tongues got in each others' way, moreso than when I would tongue kiss hockey dads who I had fucked.  Not that I entirely minded--I wanted my morning with Connor to have an inter-generational vibe to it--both for the novelty, but to also reinforce that I was "doing it" with the son of my enemy Janet.  She would be beside herself with rage knowing that I had been with her son.

As Connor's hands began to strip himself, and then me, I began to think of what location in my house Connor and I should retire to.  I didn't want to bring us to my husband's and my marriage bed--call it selective ethics on my part, but that venue for my adultery was a bridge I was't ready to cross.  My own son also had a made bed in the house, but there was something a little to Oedipal about me sleeping with someone else in that bed.  As much as by default as anything, I led Connor downstairs into our semi-finished basement, which had a short couch, numerous throw-pillows which we could stack if necessary, and a soft, leather beanbag chair.  I wouldn't have guessed it even as we giggled flirtatiously and went down the stairs, but I planted my naked butt in the deep in the beanbag chair  opened my legs wide, and invited Connor to penetrate me.

This decision was more impulsive than I had realized until Connor was thrusting deep inside of me.  The hockey dads I had been with had all had vasectomies (unless they had lied to me about it, which I suppose is possible), just as my husband had.  Connor was presumably fully fertile; as was I, menopause not having yet fully worked its magic on me.  What if Connor actually impregnated me?  This thought, or should I say my reflection on the risk I was willing to take, weighed on me as Connor came in me before I was fully aroused.

Connor was mildly sheepish about his ejaculation--not obscenely premature, but not exactly fully ripe either.  But he was gentlemanly enough to realize he was now obligated to "help me finish", without me needing to verbalize my need.  Via eye contact, I directed Connor's face down between my legs, where he began licking the outside and inside of my pussy.  My husband still gave me oral, but only on Valentine's Day and my birthday, so I savored every minute of Connor's pleasuring me, running my fingers thru his hair and tuggging it to signal him how hard or soft to lick.  My arousal built like a cresting wave, and then realsed itself in a thundering orgasm as I rubbed Connor's face on my inner thighs and screamed in delight.

By now, Connor's cock had rebooted itself and was ready for a second round of performance.  To my surprise, Connor aggressively pulled his body up and mounted my face, thrusting his excited cock in my hair, nose, and surface of my mouth.  I couldn't tell if Connor was trying to insert himself in my mouth, as he would periodically adjust his position and point his erect member straight into my blonde hair. 

Connor began calling me a "bitch", which would have offended me if not for our sext conversations about his mom and I disdainfully applying such a label, and others, to each other.  My mind travelled ahead in time to my impending rematch with Janet, where she and I would be angrily thrusting our nude bodies onto each other.  I relaxed my body and allowed it to feel the excitement in Connor's, and was surprised by cresting waves of delight releasing themselves from between my legs.  I began fingering myself to orgasm as Connor rode my face and came in my hair.

To be continued.....

[sinclairfan]

PILLOW TALK WITH CONNOR

Connor's youthful over-eagerness in bed is charming, yet also physically unsatisfying, so I seek to slow things down by engaging him in a little pillow talk.  Lying naked in the beanbag chair, we face each other and wrap our arms around each others' naked bodies, touching noses and looking each other in the eyes.  I speak first.

> Was it everything you expected?

> For sure.  I liked when you came.  I liked cumming inside of you.

> You also came in my hair.  If you don't mind my asking ....  do you have a hair fetish?

> Maybe .... a little bit .... or, when someone has hair like yours, I do for that ....

> And .... might I ask .... what kind of hair do I have?

> Well .... and please take this as a compliment .... it's, well, you know, artificially colored ...  it's like, this perfect shade of blonde .... that I've always loved .... but that you don't see naturally ....

> You mean that you don't see naturally in girls YOUR age? ....

> Well ....  I didn't mean .....

> It's ok ....  I feel complimented .... I'll stop busting your balls about my hair color ....  back to girls your own age .. . what do you fantasize about with THEIR hair ?? ....

> Well, they don't let me CUM in their hair, if that's what you mean....

> Don't take it personally.  They're just worried about it washing out later .....

> Oh, umm, are YOU worried....

> Never mind.  I'll cut it if I need to.  It was still worth it.  What I mean is ....  tell me about a fantasy about hair .... and girls your age ...  that yoy've had.

> <<<<Connor blushes>>>>

> C'mon, don't hold back on me.  I just let you cum in my hair.

> Well..... obvuiously .... 2 girls pulling hair in a catfiiii.....

> Have you ever had 2 girls catfight over you??

> Well, ...   , this is embarrassing ... , close, kinda .... first, it was 2 college girls .... it gets confusing ....

> I'm patient.  And ...  impressive.  Two college girls fighting over a high school boy, eh?

> Well...  a Twitter fight ....  do you know what that is?

> I'm 47.  Of course not.  Enlighten me.

> Around 2014 ..... when Twitter was different than it was now .... it was less well-known .... and more Wild West .... Well, people would "follow" each other .. . and"like"-ing posts--dirty jokes and shit .... and a girl might start crushing on a guy .... a Twittercrush it was actually called .... and if two Twittercrushes got jealous they might call each other out .... telling each other to back off ........ and if they both refused, they might start insulting each other ... like, threatening each other even .... this is where Twitter is different today, they'd kick you off if you started shit like that today ....

> So basically you had two college girls fighting over you on Twitter?

> Basically.

> And you pictured the fight going from Twitter to an actual hairpulling catfight.

> Basically.

> What if I told you that .... about a week and a half ago .... I was in a real .... actual ... hairpulling .... facescratching .... catfight .... with your mom?

> What caused the fight?

> Her finding my sexts with you on your cellphone.

> Shit ... I'm sorry ... I should be more careful....

> Don't be.  I wanted to fight her.

> Because??..... you don't like her??

> I don't like her.  But also .... because .... I love to fight.

> <<<<Connor's signature blushing kicks in again.>>>>>

> Some women ... not all, but some .... love .... fighting.  <<<I begin stroking Connor's cock.>>>>>  I'm one of them.   <<<<Connor's overeagerness is taming itself.  He's pacing himself>>> Now .... fuck me like you've always wanted to fuck a woman who fights.

> I pictured .... the two Twitter girls ... and you ... on top.

> On top it is.  <<<<I mount Connor and ride him. >>>> Thank you for telling me.

> Thank you for telling me.

> That I love to fight?

> Yes ...   yes ..... yes .....

To be continued......

[sinclairfan]

AFTERMATH

Connor drove back to his college dorm that evening.  I had asked him to call me yo let me know he was back safely, and he pleasantly surprised me by doing so.  I stepped outside so I could talk away from my husband.

> Thank you for calling.  And thank you for fucking me today.  You were wonderful.

> Oh, good.  Glad you enjoyed it.  It took so long to happen because I was intimidated by you .... because you're so experienced, and all.

> Experienced?!?  Are you saying I'm a slut??  <<<<If he only knew that I really am!>>

> I'm sorry, Kelly, I didn't mean to imply....

> I'M JUST JOKING, Connor, chill out.  And I think that's the first time you've called me 'Kelly'.  Thank you.

> Thank YOU.  And, umm, sorry about letting my mom see my cellphone.

> Yes, umm, about that.  You'll delete our texts, right?  This is gonna sound weird .... you can keep pics of me, just don't forward them or post them, ok?  But no texts.  And delete this phone call from you Call Log.  You know how to do that, right?

> Yes, I promise.  I don't want to get you in trouble.  And I want to see you again.  Holidays and summers.

> Even if you have a girlfriend my then?

> Who says I don't have one now??

> Oooo.  Me likey.  Is she pretty.

> Of course.  But that's not what you really want to know about her, is it?

> Connor, you dog.  You're able to read me like a book.

> I know. 

> So what's the answer?

> I like it better when you ask the question.  Out loud.

> Fine.  Connor, does your new girlfriend like to fight?

> My new girlfriend likes to fight.

> Well, well.  Look at you.  Fucking a single girl your own age and a married older woman.  Who both like to fight.  Living out that Twitter fantasy from 2014, huh?

> Appears that way.

> Then defintely save one pic of me.  You have my permission to share it with her .....  IIIFFFFF .... you send me a pic of her.

> Let me check with her first, k?

> Of course.  Very ..... chivalric .... of you.  And .... my husband is getting .... curious.  I should go.

> Night night.

> Kisses.

To be continued.....

[Wondering48]

It is time to really get serious. Kelly has to take on Janet, but with Connor watching without either of them knowing that he is watching the whole fight. It is time to make sure that Kelly is the better woman.

All in, no clothes, sharpen nails and a defined winner.

Excellent story and keep it going to the ultimate end. We all desire this end.

[sinclairfan]

KELLY VS SHELBY

My first foray into intergenerational catfighting proved to be as awkward as my first attempt at an intergenerational affair had been. With the hockey dads, arranging sex, even adulterous sex, had invariably been relatively effortless.  We spoke the same language, both verbal and unspoken gestures, we both wanted the same things in bed, we had both had the same life experiences.  And we knew had to communicate face to face, with no damn cellphones.

With Connor, for sex, and with his "girlfriend", whose name turned out to be Shelby, for a catfight, it was a totally different story.  Connor and Shelby were functional mutes without their cellphones; and that's an insult to mutes, who can at least gesture and make eye contact, which I noticed Connor rarely did with me.  I weep for the future of the human race forty years from now, when the Millennials and the Snapchat generation after them are running things.  Who will change my bedpan in the nursing home?

I also am still unsure how serious of a girlfriend Shelby was to Connor.  Shelby had a blue-hair semi-goth look going on, where whatever social-cultural identity message she was trying to convey was completely lost on me.  Was she straight/bi-curious?  Gender fluid?  Questioning?  Was Connor into that look?  Was our long failure to consummate our flirtation caused by my traditional blonde hair style being unenticing to him?  Was SHE into Connor?  Or any men?

And, finally, the texting trashtalk I was itching to get it on with against Shelby.  We exchanged selfies with each other, insulted each other accordingly, issued some verbal namecalling and threats ..... then nothing ....   then some "Fuck u, bitch" 's, which would get me all hot and bothered ..... then nothing, for days ....  then some "I'd love to kick your ass" ....  then nothing, gain.

Connor told me this sort of sporadic radio silence was par for the course in his generation, and was called "ghosting".  He said they did it in all sorts of contexts and settings-- dating, job interviews, parties, signing up for apartments .... and, now, apparently, catfighting. 

I found myself wanting to fight Shelby, for Connor's pleasure, and my excitement.  But, more often than that ....  MUCH more often, I found myself sad and used by Shelby, sitting at my cellphone for a text that would never come.  Or, worse, that would come in 4 days, after I had moved on, and start the cycle all over.

I needed to fight, and knew who I needed to do it against. 

Halloween was coming up.  And the arranged catfight appointment I had with Connor's mom.

The seasonal Halloween costume store in our town was open for business.

I texted Connor.  "Can you get away from school for a day?  Wanna help me pick out a costume to fight Shelby in?"

"I'm in--no classes Friday.  Siya then!"

We would get a costume.  But Shelby would never see it.

It was for Janet.

To be continued.....

[sinclairfan]

COSTUME SHOPPING

As I walked around the seasonal Halloween costume store with Connor, I became nostalgic for the years gone by--can it really have been over a decade now??--when my own son would become excited in choosing which costume to wear for a single night of trick or treating.

Were those suppressed feelings what was driving my fascination with Janet's 19 year old son?  Was I using Connor to fight the emptiness of the empty nest in my own home, with my own son away at college for the first time?  Even the hockey dads I had shared really great sex with had never given me a desire to hang out with them on a Saturday afternoon.  Or to fight their wives for the right to sleep with them even more.

And, hell yes, I really wanted to fight Janet some more, even though she and I had had it out, no holds barred, once already.  She was feeling it too, even before the blood was dry from our first fight.  That was why she had proposed a place and time for a rematch; a proposition she knew full well I would accept. 

But which was the chicken and which was the egg?  Was my flirtation with Connor fueling my hatred for Janet?  Or was I acting recklessly with Connor, even to the point of jeopardizing my marriage,  as a form of trolling his mom, Janet?  Or were both symbiotically causing the other?

Either way, our Saturday mid-day trip to the Halloween costume store was entirely something else:  it was "fun".  The innocent kind of fun.  Maybe that was my problem--after 15 years of early mornings in ice rinks and long night on the Interstate, I had forgotten what it was like to just have fun on a Saturday morning.  Maybe that's why my son had decided to discontinue his hockey career. 

Maybe that's what I was to Connor and Shelby.  A diversion.  Maybe that's why they could sext with me passionately for three days, and then ghost me for three weeks.

Maybe that's what my affairs with the hockey dads were all about.  The sex was good--but it was the flirtation with each other that was fun.  Chatting with each other in the bleachers, letting the conversation turn a little bit dirty, then outright nasty.  Having the "your hotel room or mine" talk.  Getting naked in bed together, asking what each other enjoyed.  Seeing what each other had under their clothes--me hoping his cock would be large, or at least long; them hoping my tits would be bigger than their wives', that they didn't sag as much as their wives', that my nipples were .... different; anything was fine, just some variety from their wives'.  What the thickness of my bush was.

All of that was fun.

And the most fun of all:  the informal Fight Club the hockey moms had formed.  Not just Janet, but Christine, and whatever other moms were in it who had been holding out on me for 15 years, or however long it had been around and I had been too busy and too oblivious to notice it.

Catfighting another woman, no hold barred, was dangerous, exciting, painful, exhilarating.  It was many things.

But above all, it was fun.

Once you had been in 2 such fights, there was no turning back.  You were hooked.  It was like the heroin in Breaking Bad--once you injected with a needle that first time, you crossed a threshold that could never be reversed.

Christine had, at some point in her past, crossed that threshold.

Janet had.

And now I had. 

I wanted to fight them both again.  Janet first.

Connor and I walk up to the naught French Maid costumes, cleavage spilling out of the pretty model's bust.  We both now that his mom and I need to fight in those.

"Kiss me, Connor," I shamelessly beg.

He does.

To be continued.....

[sinclairfan]

FIGHT DAY

By the time the day came for my arranged catfight with Janet, I was itching for a fight, and fully grasped the meaning and import of that idiom.  Every inch of my body craved collision and grinding against Janet's.  I wanted to make the "Neighborhood MILF Fight Club Cleanup Crew" (as I had started to think of them) put in a full day's work cleaning up Janet's living quarters after she and I had completed our battle.  And I wanted Janet to feel what it was like to lose a fight to me.

Ahhh, it's good to be the King.

As soon as my husband left for lunch, I hopped in the shower, shaving my bush short so that Janet had less hair to target.  She and I would be going after each others' tits and pussies during this fight, giving my face a needed respite relative to our first fight.  I was happy any scars from this fight would be invisible to the public--but available for me to show off to Connor the next time he and I made love.

I get out of the shower, dry off, and apply my most expensive perfumes.  I hope that Janet smelled these on Connor's clothes the night after he and I finally consummated our flirtation and sexting.  I hope she'll remember that night this morning, and fights me even more viciously.

That's what I really want.  More than anything.  A rough, raw, vicious catfight.

I put on the French Maid costume.  I throw about the package, on mine and on Janet's.  These two costumes will never be worn again.  They'll be shredded by lunchtime.

Shit.

I somehow forgot to masturbate in the shower.  I was going too fast. 

Dammit.  My pussy lips are swollen wide open.  They'll be an inviting target to Janet.

Plus, I'll probably cum during the fight.

Shit.

But too late now.

To be continued.....

[sinclairfan]

KELLY VS JANET, ROUND TWO

I ring Janet's doorbell, grateful that she answers it before any cars drive by and see me dressed in the French Maid costume.  We lock eyes as she opens the door, but doesn't ask me in, either via spoken word or gesture, so I just drop my shoulder and invite myself in.  I momentarily think our bumping will be enough to trigger a brawl between us, but we contain ourselves and draw back as Janet latches the door behind us.

Shit, is it a good thing or a bad thing that we're both so cool and calm? 

I hand Janet the plastic container holding her French Maid costume.  She seizes it from me, and strips in front of me.  She has a small buttocks, just like mine.  I always was turned on by her son's small butt--now I can see where he got it.  I had felt inadequate in the late 1990s and early 2000s, when big-butt-equals-sexiness was in fashion--I had asked my husband if he would have preferred that my ass was, I don't know, bigger or at least rounder or whatever.  He insisted, no, he found mine 100% fulfilling.  But now I'm jealous that mine and Janet's match.  I think back to all the times over the years I caught my husband's gaze lingering on Janet's behind.  I used to think he was hoping for a glimpse of upskirt, that maybe he was hoping to see her underwear.  But now I get angry that he was checking out the shape of her figure, comparing it with mine, noting how similar it was.

I walk over to Janet in the foyer as she finishes changing.  She and I stand straight up and face each other, going nose to nose.  I keep waiting for a slap or punch to signal the commencement of hostilities, but she just press our noses and foreheads together in a gesture of hatred and defiance.

We both want to be even closer to each other, to convince each other, and ourselves, of our fearlessness at what needs to occur for the next 30-60 minutes, at which point both of us, even the victor, is likely to be exhausted and injured.  Janet has her back to a vertical railing, and I grab it with my hands to avoid slapping or scratching her face.  We had agreed the targets for the fight would be breasts and pussies.

I squeeze the railing, like an unanathesized surgery patient biting down on a towel.  We stare into each others' eyes, blinking slowly from the tension, but knowing full well the seriousness and danger of our enemy.  We both want this fight.

My inner arms brush up against Janet's clean, combed hair.  Her hands are on my butt cheeks, calibrating their reach for when the moment comes to grab me.  Our throbbing breasts are visible right below our eyes, and are touching and grinding each other.  We savor the final moments of not feeling each others' nails digging into each other.

I smell mint on Janet's breath, either from brushing or rinsing or both.  It reminds me of the hockey dads I fucked, always so conscious and hygenic of their breath, even if their guts or hair or ass crack or balls or dick were unkempt or even nasty.  I'm as turned on now as I ever was before, during, or after hockey dad sex.

My forgetfulness about masturbating this morning is more glaring than ever.  Pre-cum streams down my inner legs.  I can feel it--but can Janet smell it?  Our distance is so close, there's no secrets between us scent-wise.

Our bodies are grinding rhymically, out tits now pushing into each other.  The first sensations of pain arrive--our grinding has most certainly ceased being anything but hostile.  I use the railing to my advantage, our faces now pressed together. 

> Why the moaning, big baby?

> You're talking because you want to moan, too, bitch.

> Then I'll be quiet.

In a test of wills, we attempt to supress our moans of pain, as our grinding become more intense.  I look down Janet's side and back.  Damn, her butt looks good.  I'm conscious of her entire figure.  Both of us are sexy for our age, for any age. 

When Connor is home, does he "check out" Janet when she walks around half-nude?  Does she "accidentally" let him get glimpses of her?

> When does the bleeding start?

> Anytime you want, sugar.

> Not yet.  I want to hear you moan first.

> You can try.

To be continued....