[sinclairfan]

October 5, 2005
Dear Christine,

Tom slipped up and let me know about the broken thumb you're rehabbing from.  And that he's paying for because you were a dumbass and quit your job,  You fucking whore.  Literally.  You have sex for money--that's a whore.

I call it a slip-up because he tried to feed me a line of b.s. about you having carpal tunnel from years and years of typing (poor Christine!).  But then he started talking about x-rays and osteoperosis, and none of that goes along with carpal tunnel. 

He never outright said it, but I could tell right away when he changed the topic that you broke your hand or wrist or something, a broken bone is the point, in a catfight.

You fucking loser.  When you and I finally fight, I'm going to break more than your fucking hand.  I'm going to put you in a full body cast and make you eat with a straw.  I'm not fucking exaggerating.  I'll do it.  And I'll enjoy it.

I had a practice fight this weekend in Middlefield.  A bunch of drunk sorority girls were doing the hayrides at Lyman Meadows where you can pick pumpkins and apples.  I don't know why I went--just a hunch, I guess.  That there would be another woman there looking for a catfight.  There was.

One of the sorority girls --a bitchy lookung brunette-- caught my eye on the hayride.  Or I caught hers, whatever.  We went into the cornmaze and got separated from her friends.  On purpose.

Then we just buried our nails in each others' hair and started pulling and tearing.  We couldn't go completely to the ground--the cornstalks were to dense and strong.  Sharp, too-- I could feel husks of dried stalks scratching my arms and neck and face.  We were both getting more and more pissed as the fight progressed.

No broken bones to report on either her or me--whatever girl did that to you still gets bragging rights, there.  But it was a nasty fight.  She told her friends on the hayride back that she slipped in a hole in the ground.

I'm getting better at staying focussed during a fight.  How to fight thru the pain, channel the adrenaline rush.

So get well soon.  So we can fight.

xoxo,
Lisa

[sinclairfan]

January 26, 2007
Dear Lisa,

New Year, new faces and places bitch.  Not you, of course.  You're still the same snob Mercy Catholic schoolgirl spinster who needs an ass-kicking from me in the worst way.  Maybe 2007 will finally bd the year you get it, slut.

No, I'm talking about the two dynamic members in our little triangle--me, and Tom.

Me, first.  I'm not in Stamford anymore.  Tom moved me three stops up Metro North to Fairfield.  More to do here.  It's a college town--Sacred Heart and Fairfield are both here.  Just like the good ole days in Middletown--one Catholic school for the status-obsessed wannabe's, and then a real school for people that want to get things done.  Stamford empties out after 6pm--Tom could tell I was unhappy there.  He really does care about me and my feelings.  We're friends first, lovers second.  It's always been that way.  YOU're the side chick.

Tom's movin-on-up, too.  He left Morgan Stanley after all his years there to go to Bear Stearns, to take a job in one of their hedge funds trading subprime mortgages.  It's a totally new asset class, and he's getting in on the ground floor.  Great things are going to come out of this--I can totally feel it.  He's setting me up with an account to fund my retirement someday--I already know he doesn't do that for you.

I think that speaks volumes about who's better in bed between you and me, honey.  Money talks and bullshit walks.

Speaking of money:  before Tom gave his notice at Morgan Stanley, he waiting for his 2006 bonus check to clear.  It was an obscene amount, of course, even after taxes.  He gave his wife and kids a lot of it.  Then he and I partied.  He sent a "party girl"--an Oxycontin'd up pretty blonde stripper on the train ahead of him to Fairfield.  Then he arrived.

Then he had the stripper and me catfight.  Since she was blonde, we called her Lisa.  In honor of you, of course.  The catfight was mean and gritty and nasty.  There was no way I wanted Tom to get into his head an image of me losing a catfight to a blonde--that would have been way too Freudian everytime he makes love to me, and everytime he fucks you.  I needed to hardwire into his brain that between you and me, I'm the alpha and you're the beta.  So even though the blonde was 10 years younger than me and fucking fit as hell, I fought her with all my heart, tearing at her breasts and between her legs.  Tom was masturbating the whole time her and me were fighting, no matter how mean and nasty the fight got.  He encouraged us to take breaks to get drinks of water everytime our fighting would slow down from how exhausted we would get.  Neither of us would give, no matter how hard we would start beating each other up.  At the start of the fight, I thought her being strung out and not totally "with it" would work to my advantage--that she and I would roll around on the floor for 5 minutes and she'd be like "enough of this shit" and give.  But the exact opposite was happening--she'd come back from every break we took refreshed and jacked up for more fighting, and all I could see was Tom in the corner, watchng me get slapped around by a blonde (shit, why did he have to pick a blonde stripper??), and me knowing he was fantasizing about you beating me up.

Which, you and I both know, would never fucking happen.

So, long story short, I finally got on top of the blonde bimbo and subdued her.  So, sorry if I got your hopes up.  The image Tom has seared into his head is me dominating a blonde rival, not the other way around.

Brunettes rule.  In bed, and in brawls.

Suck it, bitch.

xoxo,
Christine


January 26, 2007
Dear Christine,

I couldn't take it anymore.  Maybe it's the gloominess of this endless winter, but I entered your Stamford address into my Garmin, got in my car, and went to finally have it out with you.

I was shaking the whole way.  Partly out of anticipation.  Partly out of fear--nor fear OF you, but fear of how much we hate each other.  But there was no way I was turning back.

I walked up to your floor, not believing that it was finally going to happen.  You and I were finally going to catfight.

I knocked on the door.

Someone else answered.  Not you.  And older women explained that you had recently moved.  She probably had your forwarding address, but after I explained I had come there to fight you, she was reluctant to share it.  I guess she could tell in my eyes what I'm going to do to you if I ever get my hands on you, and didn't want to be an accomplice to that.

Perhaps she was in a love triangle once in her past, and knew how serious they can get.

So...... I'll need to ask Tom where you've moved to. 

I know how to get him to talk.

xoxoxoxo,
Lisa

[sinclairfan]

September 21, 2007
Dear Christine,

You fucking bitch.

I blame you for this.  For Tom getting fired at Bear Stearns.  For his subprime mortgage securities hedge fund getting shut down.

Bitch, it's one thing to be a mistress.  I admit I distract Tom's attention from his frigid wife, from his growing kids.  Marriage is hard work that requires constant nurturing, which is something Tom has had a blind spot on for awhile now.

But, Christine--I'm a self-sufficient career woman.  I own my own place.  When gifts exchange hands between Tom and me, it's a 2-way street--we give to each other.  You, on the other hand, are a one-woman money pit.  You gave up your career at MassMutual.  Computer technology changes so fast, you'll never get a job now, sweetie.  You're a dinosaur.  And the apartments Tom's been putting you up in the past few years?  Stamford -- Fairfield -- right off the MetroNorth line??  Those cost a fortune.  Spending all that cash -- and hiding it from his wife??  THAT's why he left his secure job to go to Bear Stearns.

And look what that got him.  Fired.  If he doesn't get another job, and fast, his wife will leave him.  She'll get out while the getting is good.

What will you do THEN, bitch?

You're just a gigantic, deadweight anchor dragging Tom down.

There's no way I'm going to stand back and watch that happen.

Lisa



Thanksgiving 2007
Dear Lisa,

I used to worry about turning 40.

But the year I turned 40 was the best one of my life!!!

All my patience with Tom is paying off!!  His wife and him are finally separated!!  And he's staying overnight with me back-to-back night for the frst time!!  And the sex is better than ever.  Suck on THAT, Lisa.

And I'm not going to make the mistake his wife .... his FIRST wife .... made.  I'm not going to tolerate him catting around with YOU in Colchester.  I know he's still doing it -- I'm not as dumb as you think I am.  In fact, I'm smart enough to know Tom won't voluntarily end it with you.  That I'm the one that's going to need to end it with you.  And that I'll need to do that face-to-face.  And that it's a meeting that's long overdue--if I had handled it years ago, he would be mine 7 days a week already by now.

The fact that it hasn't happened yet--it's not that I'm afraid of you.  It's that I'm giving you the chance to come to your senses.  It's an act of mercy.  I know you have a career--I know you have a house to keep up.  It's going to be hard for you to do that after I finish with you.  Why would you keep seeing Tom after what happened to his career and marriage and family this year??  Don't you see who he ran to for consolation??  It was to ME.

This WOULD be the note I finally send to you.  To get this over with between you and me.  But Tom wants me under the radar while the divorce gets negotiated.  Well, the divorce that's going to happen after the separation.  He's putting me up in Litchfield.  But you don't need to know that ..... and his wife and her lawyers don't need to know that.

But as soon as all that paperwork is over with, you and I can finally have our little chat.  I've been thinking about it a lot.  I doubt we'll chat much with words.  I think we'll chat with our claws, our fists, our feet, our knees.  Shit, why does writing this make me so horny?

Mmmmmmm.

Seriously, I'm not even joking.  I need to stop writing this now. 

When I get like this, it takes me hours to satisfy myself.  Who says female libido peaks at 35?

xoxo,
Christine

[sinclairfan]

May 14, 2008
Dear Christine,

You're so financially illiterate that I doubt you comprehend how much you've fucked up Tom's career and his life.  Supporting you in an "apartment" (really a love shack, a whore's nest, grrrr, whatever you want to call it) pressured him into giving up a perfectly secure job at a perfectly secure bank, Morgan Stanley.  Then you force him to go to Bear Stearns, so of course when they failed and go bought out by Chase, Tom had zero seniority or contacts or mentors, and got canned.  So he's finished on Wall Street.  All because of you, bitch.  YOU.

I'd have already put my fist through your teeth by now, except I know Tom will need to throw you on on the street as soon as the lease on the Lovers' Nest is up.  And you've been out of the workforce for so long (the legit workforce), what'll you do then?  I already know no one at MassMutual will take you back--your reputation is trash here.  I know--I asked around.

Just get married to some Middletown trailer trash already, will ya??  Like you should have in 1984.  Right out of high school.

xoxo,
Lisa


June 1, 2008
Dear Lisa,

Well, if your stupid plan was to wait for Tom's kids to grow up and leave the house and for him to divorce his nag wife and to propose to you, destiny messed up your plans.  His wife can't afford to divorce him now, with his career up in the air.  I'm sure she's just waiting for his next big 7-figure bonus, but that could be awhile, maybe another 2 or 3 years, until the subprime mortgage stabilizes.  Which it will--it always has in the past when it hits turbulence.  The world wants securitized loans--that'll never change.

All that changes is that you get another year older.  And your tits get saggier.  I saw the nude pic you sent to Tom on his iPhone.  Pfffft.  Not impressed.  Mine are so much firmer than yours.  I would sssoo take you in a fight.

Fuck you,
Christine

[sinclairfan]

May 16, 2009
Dear Lisa,

Mmmmmmmmm.  Since Tom left banking (and works fewer hours and travels less), he and I have more time in bed together.  And when we're in bed, it's not because we're eating crackers, I can tell you that.  He says my sexual appetite is much larger than yours, so eat your heart out, bitch.

Actually, between our lovemaking, there IS one thing he does in bed.  He's been betting on baseball games.  He makes good money at it--enough to renew my lease another year.  MassMutual is begging me to come back, one executive in Enfield and another in Springfield.  I have no idea how you're still hanging on there--haven't they offered you a package yet?

When Tom is on his laptop and placing baseball bets, I get horny fantasizing about taking one of my MassMutual offers and coming there and getting you fired.  I'd deliver the news myself.  You know how when you fire someone you're supposed to have them sit further from the door than you, in case they cause trouble.

I fantasize about you taking the news badly and getting belligerant.  Except I wouldn't back away out the door, and I wouldn't call security either.  I'd close the door, and tell you the decision was mine.  That it's been my desire for two decades to fire you, but I specifically waited for a sucky economy to do it.  That I hope you miss payments on your dumpy Colchester house and get foreclosed on.

Middle aged.  Single.  No job.  No credit.  My pants would be wet from that alone.

And then you notice how much I'm enjoying ruining your life.  So you lunge at me.  Big mistake--you give me a reason to make our meeting physical.  For me to defend myself.

I'd sink my nails into your face, into those exaggerated cheek bones of yours.  I'd start digging and clawing and gouging, so that Tom would see what I did to you.  I'm getting turned on right now just writing about it.

Mmmmm.

I'd kill you if we ever fought.

When we fight.

xoxo,
Christine

[sinclairfan]

September 21, 2010

Dear Christine,

You realize you're pathetic, right?

Making your hair blonde?  Really?  And the same shade of blonde as me?  You know that Tom knows that the carpet doesn't match the drapes, right??  So trashy.

Now that you admit Tom likes blondes better, why don't you just crawl away and let him have the real thing? 

In fact, why don't you just die?  You're 44 years old.  You had a good run.  But you know you're past your prime sexually.  You can't attract men for much longer.  And let's face it, honey, you don't have much to offer the world beyond tempting men.  Married men--since no single man would want to get involved with you and end up having to marry you.  And support you.  Since you suck as a secretary.

And since you suck at fighting.

Tom told me about the pathetic fights you have with strippers.  Rolling around on the floor with them for hours.  What would you ever do if you ever fought a woman actually trying to hurt you?

Like me.

I'd hurt you, honey.  I'd hurt you bad.  I know how.

I picked a fight with a woman in the neighborhood.  In her late 20s, not past her prime like you.  She's training for the Manchester 10k on Thanksgiving, so she's in shape.  She could tell I was looking for a fight, and I guess she was up for the challenge.  We met up in her backyard and went at it.

We were pulling hair, but it wasn't a girlfight--we were going for it, tring to break bones, draw blood.  We were smacking each other in the nose and mouth--flesh on flesh, bone on bone.  Standing up, not rolling on the ground like you do with Tom's whores.  I could taste the metal, the iron, in my mouth, but that just made me angrier and want to hit her harder.  We both knew we had to get a knockout because neither of us would give.  My knuckles hurt so bad, but I fought threw the pain out of fear.

But I also drew inspiration thinking of you.  How someday soon it will be you I'm smacking.

Any hoo.....after 7 minutes, 8 tops, I floored her.  Best feeling in the world.  Made the next three days in bed totally worth it. 

You're next, bitch.

xoxo, Lisa

[sinclairfan]

February 24, 2011

To:  Lisa454426@ MassMutual.com
From:  Chrissy99944a4@ hotmail.com
Subject:  I hate you, bitch

This winter has sucked in Connecticut.  The weather.  And my finances.  I just sent in my taxes.  I've had too many years with no income.  I need income to write my capital losses off against.  I need to get a job in 2011.

I started snooping around MassMutual.  My reputation is good enough there that I can get an admin assistant job there basically anywhere.  (Unlike your reputation, btw--more on that in a minute.)  The purpose of my snooping around was to make sure you're still in Enfield.  So that I post for a job in Springfield.

Because -- and I think we both realize this -- if you and I ever see each other in the office, we'll fucking try and kill each other.  And one, or both of us, will succeed.

Not that I'm afraid of that, by the way.  I'd fucking welcome the opportunity.  With open arms.

But it would be ugly.  And I don't want to force my MassMutual friends to witness that.  Too traumatizing.

Now, as promised, back to YOUR reputation at MassMutual.  This is just too rich.  I love this.  Did you know--there's a rumor going around MassMutual that the reason you never got married is because you have a flaming case of genital herpes???  I'm not making this up.  Now, I, of all people, know this is false.  Because you and I have been fucking the same man since 1984.  Unprotected.  And yet I'm totally clean.  So you obviously don't have herpes.

But I'm not going to correct that rumor.  I'll let it "spread".  Haha.  Get it?  See what I did there?

Fuck you,
Christine

February 25, 2011
From:  Lisa 454426@ sbcglobal.com
To:  Chrissy99944a4@ hotmail.com
Subject:  Re:  I hate you, bitch

Ok, which was it, sweetie?

When you accidentally hit "send" on that email.

Were you drunk?  Or was it drugs.

Because I forwarded it to MassMutual HR.

And you will never work at this fucking company again.

Got it, stupid bitch?

xoxo,
Lisa

February 26, 2011
To:  Lisa454426@ sbcglobal.com
From:  Chrissy99944a4@ hotmail.com
Subject:  Re:  Re:  I hate you, bitch

Fine.

Since you ask:  I was drunk.  Ir buzzed.  Yes, I hit send by accident.  But I don't regret it.  Not for a minute.

I do regret never working at MassMutual again.

And I do regret going all the way till 2011 to confront you.

But now that it's out there:  How 'bout it, hun? 

You.  Me.  Alone.

Where and when?  Bitch.

xoxo,
Christine

[sinclairfan]

February 24, 2011

To: Lisa454426@ sbcglobal.com
From:  Chrissy99944a4@ hotmail.com
Subject:  Re: Re: Re: I hate you, bitch

Get on Web cam and Skype me, right now, bitch.  If you're woman enough.


Chrissy99944a4:  Well, well.  Didn't think you'd Skype with me.
Lisa454426:  Why not?  I'm not afraid to face you.
C:  Then why, in all these years, have I been to Colchester more times than you've been to ....  my places?
L:  You just answered your own question, Sweetie.  You move sround too much.
C:  You want me to move around, hun.  You're too afraid to let me come back to the company you work at.
L:  You forgot something, Chrrrrrissy--YOU were to afraid to come to the same location as ME.  You were interviewing in Springfield, remember?  By the way.... that blonde hair of yours?  Gross.  I can see your roots.
C:  I can see the wrinkles on your forehead and eyes.  Crows' feet, I think those are called.
L:  [pulls open her robe and holds her chest up to the Webcam]  Well, tell me what you see now, Sweetie.  I always had you beat down here.
C:  In what?  Being a slut?
L:  Who's afraid now, bitch?
C:  [loosens her bra and shows her chest] Fine.  Satisfied?
L:  Those are fake.
C:  I consider them custom-fitted to Tom's .... specifications.
L:  You dumb ass.  The hair.  The 38c tits.  He's turning you into a version of me.  He prefers me.
C:  He prefers MY pussy.  That's something you'll never have, Darlin'.  They haven't come up with a surgical replacement procedure for THAT.
L:  Nor have they come up with one for smarts, hun.  I've got you beat there--conversation between me and Tom is ...  another level than with you.
C:  I wouldn't know.  He and I do more fuckin' than talkin' when we're together.
L:  Oh, he and I do plenty of fuckin', don't you don't it, sugar.
C:  So what's your point?
L:  What's yours, bitch?  YOU wanted to Skype.
C:  Face me, sweetie.  In person.
L:  I'd love to.
C:  Why?
L:  To get my hands on that pussy you think is all that.
C:  And do what to it, Lisa?
L:  Make it not all that anymore.
C:  You wouldn't dare.  You're not woman enough.
L:  What makes you so sure?
C:  Those fights you have with other women, like that runner.  Those aren't catfights.
L:  Excuse me?
C:  Punching another woman in the face .... trying to knock her out ...  that's bad ass .... it can be .... but it's not catfighting.
L:  You're trying to trick me into agreeing to fight you without fists, coward.
C:  I'm daring you to try something .... that will last longer.  If yiu're woman enough.
L:  Those fights you have with those strippers in front of Tom .... they last long because the strippers are just in it for the cash.  It's not a real fight.
C:  Then ... if you're so smart .... show me what a real fight is, Lisa. 
L:  A real fight has fists.
C:  But are we going to fight .... or are we going to catfight?  Which is it, tough girl?  Afraid to catfight me?
L:  I'll catfight you.
C:  Wonderful.  Where?  When?
L:  I'm home right now.
C:  Are you inviting me over?
L:  The door's unlocked, sweetie.  Don't even knock.  How long's the drive?
C: Give me 45 minutes.
L:  I'll be waiting.

[sinclairfan]

February 25, 2011

From:  Lisa454426@ sbcglobal.com
To:  ThomasAquinas771117@ verizon.net
Subject:  Your girlfriends fought last night

Darlin',
They say that history is written by the winners.  And I'm here to tell you that one of your girlfiends, moi, is a winner at catfighting; and the other, Christine, is a sad sack loser.  And I have pics to prove it.

Shit, does that feel good to type.

She wrote me last night.  By accident.  Well, she wrote me ...  then hit "send" .... by accident.  We Skyped, came up with some rules (basically, naked, and no punching), and she agreed to drive here to have it out with me.  Long time coming--we should have handled it in high scool.

I stripped and waited for her, praying that snowstorm in the forecast wouldn't stop her.  I masturbated the whole time, but was so nervous I couldn't .... finish.  Not nervous about the fight outcome.  Nervous about the fight falling thru for some reason.  Her not coming.  Or coming but not wanting to fight.

Luckily the snow held off.  She was here sooner than she guessed when we had Skyped.  I guess she was lying about being here before--she made good time, even in the dark.

We were so nervous about making each contact.  I didn't want to break the rules and punch her in the face and have her go crying to you about my not catfighting her fair and square.  I wanted my chance to have at her.  To show her my body is better, more desirable to you.  She must have half known that already if she changed her hair and chest to match mine.

She used my bathroom without asking.  She knew where it is--those other times she came to fight she must have looked thru the windows.  Creepy bitch.

She came out of the bathroom nude.  Her bush was totally .... ungroomed.  Is that how she is when you two fuck.  You don't find that sexy, do you?  Baby, why are you still with her?  Do you pity her?  She's not smart at all.  Is it the contrast between her and me?  Her and your wife?

She and I got nose to nose and told each other why the other doesn't deserve you.  We each gave the other one last chance to back down voluntarily before fighting it out over you.  I was praying she wouldn't back down.

Out breasts were bumping into each other the whole argument.  I got scared that mine being real and hers being fake would mean mine would hurt more in a fight.  I was angry with myself for agreeing to rules in the fight.

We circled each other in my den--it has the least furniture, just the leather couch and the big screen tv.  Our hands sunk into each others' back, our nails digging into flesh.  I was so frustrated at not being to get off before the fight--I was pushing her hips into her and grinding with her.  We both slid against each other from how wet we both were.  We fell into the couch, both desperately trying to get on top.

We kept scratching and slashing at each others' tops, and then at each others' faces, trying to fishhook each others' mouth, nose, and eyes.  We tried to smother each others' nose and mouth, getting scared when we couldn't breathe for more than a couple seconds.Our chest and pussies were banging and sliding.  We swore insults and threats against each other.  We each predicted we'd win the fight.

I was so relieved that we were finally fighting all alone that my hangup about cumming cured itself.  I lined up my pussy on Christine's hip and rocked back and forth until I came in waves.  I pretended my exertions were from our fight, but I was cumming in multiple orgasms, too many to count.  Christine may have been cumming too, but if she was, she was quiet about it.  Baby, is she quiet when she cums?

We fell onto the hardwood floor, pulling hair out now in gigantic blonde clumps.  We could tell which clumps on the floor were hers by the dark roots.  I wanted to keep cumming, but was afraid of losing the fight, so I resisted the urge.  I got scared when she almost mounted my face with her hips.

We wrestled and rolled on the floor until I got on top.  I got her shoulders under my knees and mounted her.  I started scratching her face, then reached behind and scratched her pussy.  She tried to buck me off and couldn't.

I sat on her face and csme all over it.  We both knew who the better woman was.

And now you know too.

xoxo,
Lisa



December 17, 2013
From:  Chrissy99944a4@ hotmail.com
To:  Lisa454426@ sbcglobal.com
Subject:  Remember me?

Rematch, bitch?  Your rules this time, if you want.
p.s.  I fucked your boyfriend last night.
Christine  xo


December 17, 2013
From:  Lisa454426@ sbcglobal.com
To  Chrissy9994a4@ hotmail.com
Subject:  Re:  Rememer me?

Ok, he hasn't been my boyfriend since 2012 when he went broke gambling.
But, yes, I remember you, bitch.
And, yes, nothing would make me happier than a rematch.
And, how's about no rules this time?
Lisa xoxo