Is this it?
CANDY KICKASS # 1
by
Candy Kickass
Doesn't anyone know what a catfight really is? It's a clash with no rules. Anything goes. In nearly everything I've read, what passes for catfight letters and stories, is just real wuss and pussy bullshit. Let me tell you about a real battle I was in a couple of weeks ago.
First off, I'm all woman, a genuine female. That's why I'm called Candy. I'm hot and so sweet. I'm a redhead, 26, 5'8, 136 pounds, 37-23-37. I've been doing this all my life. And when I'm not kicking ass on some slut, I'm bragging about doing it. Or what I'll do the next time some bitch whore pisses me off. For some reason, most men seem to like my aggressiveness, or at least they say they do. And they say they like details; the nastier the better. I'll give you some details, soon. I lost a few battles when I was younger. But I won more than my share. I learned to fight with my sisters and with the other kids in the suburban neighborhood where I grew up. Of course, when you're a kid, fights are frequent and usually not too serious.
It is only as you get older and start to fight over men, money and status that the real damage gets done. It also seems like tempers flare more brightly from about age 17 to 35. This is clearly the time a women is at her fighting prime.
But then it also seems like the vast majority of these fights get broken up before anyone can get really punished, and a decisive winner arrived at. It doesn't help that most of these brawls begin in bars and when alcohol is involved. Or that being half or fully drunk prevents the wise selection of the proper fight arena. Usually this means that privacy isn't available - so the combat can't go to its logical conclusion. Some male jerk will always feel it's his duty to jump in and break it up before it gets really good and really nasty.
But enough background - except to say that this is why, with my battle experience, I now make serious efforts to get some privacy for my fights. And especially for this most recent, real adult, woman on woman fight to the finish.
At this bar I go to, there's this blonde bitch. She's about my size, maybe a little shorter, maybe a little heavier, clearly a few years older. She's bigger in the chest, but it's obvious that it's all plastic. We'd been verbally catty for a couple of weeks, mostly over turf, and men, and just on general principles. I knew it was going to blow up into a real melee sometime soon. But I didn't want it to happen in the bar or even in the parking lot. Too many jerks around, staring, and just ever ready to break it up. We both knew it was going to come to blows, so one evening when I got to our bar, the "White Hole" at about eight o'clock, I was cocked and loaded. She, I still don't know what her name really is, but they call her Wilma, was already there, sitting alone facing the bar with a bottle of Jet City beer in her hand. I'd heard that Wilma had got that alias since she had something of a reputation as a cave-woman. Reputations don't bother me.Mean wicked women do.
I walked over to her, and just leaned against her shoulder with my back to the bar. She said, "you thinkin' it's about time, bitch?"
I just smiled and said, "you been readin' my mail, meat. But not here." Wilma nodded, "how about my house? It's just down the street. There's no one there and it's nice and isolated on a big quiet lot. cxnt."
I said, "let's go." And we went in separate cars. I was really looking forward to destroying this whore. She might put up a fight, but all the better to encourage me to really put her lights out. I was wearing my usual go-out-to-the-bar-looking-slutty-outfit: A tube dress, tight, short, and white, this particular night: Five-inch white pumps, and a white g-string underneath. Wilma wore her own slut dress, bright green. Even shorter and tighter than mine. And lower cut to show off her fat tits. She had on a pair of five-inch spiked heels as well, in black.
I followed her into her house. Her living room was large, carpeted and with very little furniture in it for some reason, other than a sectional sofa. There was track lighting so that no lamps were going to get broken if things got rough. And there wasn't even a bookcase or television or stereo in the room. She turned to me and said, "you want a drink before we get started?"
I wanted to give her a little scare, so I snarled sweetly, "no thanks, Wilma, I'll just drink some of your blood later tonight." She ignored this ploy and said, "well, what rules should we have?" "Rules? What are you, an idiot? This is a catfight. Have you ever seen real felines follow any-"
And before I could finish my sarcastic reply, she swung from the hip and caught me a glancing blow on my chin. I was just able to pull my head back from the main force of her swing. This was going to be fun. She swung at me again, and this time I got entirely out of the way. She was off balance, so I kicked her in the ribs as she lurched by me. I heard her go, "oof," so I knew I caught her a good one. She backed away and kind of glared at me. We weren't talking by this time. But my adrenaline was sure pumping.
She came toward me with her fists up like a boxer for protection. I lined her up, and shot a kick up between her legs. I nailed her with the point of my shoe right into her pussy. She gave out a moaning scream, or a screaming moan, dropped to her knees, and grabbed her cxnt.
I kicked her in the side of the head with my instep, knocking her sideways on the carpet. I had this bitch in my sights. I jumped on top of her and started to tear out her bleached blonde hair by the handful. All the time she was sucking wind and screeching with the pain.
Finally, I guess in desperation, she twisted her torso, reached an arm around, and grabbed hold of my pussy with one of her claws. It was my turn to start screeching. I was almost seeing stars from the pain. I raked her arm with my nails, leaving bloody furrows up and down the length of it but she still wouldn't let go of me.
I started to alternately rake her face with my nails and pound her in the mouth with my fist. I think I loosened a couple of her teeth. I know I split her lip wide open from all the blood that began to pour out of her mouth. But she held on like a fucking bulldog. I started to choke her and tear into her throat with my nails. There was beginning to be blood everywhere, almost all hers, but she still wouldn't let go of my damn cxnt.
I couldn't figure out what to do with this whore. And I was weakening from the pain. I grabbed her hand with mine and was finally able to wrench her away from my pussy. I probably broke one of her fingers twisting her away from my cxnt. I rolled off of her and rolled around in my own agony. Despite being weakened and bleeding from her face, neck and arms, she got to her feet and whipped my dress almost all the way off of me with one good pull. She left part of it around my face and then started to get even with me. She began to kick and stomp me with her spiked heels. I struggled to pull the remains of my dress off my head.
I could feel the blood pouring out of my gashed and perforated stomach, thighs, ass, and even my tits. I finally grabbed her ankle and twisted as hard as I could on one of her down stomps. She stumbled and fell face first onto the floor. I jumped on her back, spun myself around while pressing down on her, and sank my teeth deep into her left calf. I had her pinned down with my weight and I could taste her flesh and blood as I bit her. And you know something: It tasted damn good. I spit out a chunk of calf flesh and went in for another slab of meat.
She thrashed around and was finally able to buck me off of her. By this time, I was naked except for my g-string and heels. She had her dress pulled down to her waist from the top, and up to her waist from the bottom. Her giant tits and her unbleached brown pussy hair were showing. Target time. We were both covered with blood and spit and pussy juice. More of her blood, and more of my spit and pussy juice. There were clumps of hair scattered around the room. Again, more of hers, but also some of mine, that she had gouged out of my scalp with her sharp high heel.
This fight was far from over. We both got up on our knees to face one another with the same idea in mind. We were like a couple of bitch leopardesses. We went at each others' tits with our long and nasty claws. Wilma tried to grab my tits and dig in deep and then hold on. My strategy was to slash and rake her and leave her bleeding from as many places as I could.
I don't know, for sure, which would really be the better technique. But I do know, when she got latched on, with her nails digging deep into me, that I was in torment. But not so much torment that I couldn't keep ripping and tearing at her. Blood gushed out of dozens of areas on her tits and torso and shoulders. I aimed a slash at her face once in a while to rip open her cheek or forehead. I almost blinded her, at least in one eye, after just missing with one of my slices. But she was still doing her damage. Just like when she had my cxnt earlier, she just wouldn't let go. Fucking bulldike bitch.
I started to use my fists. I could see, although I wasn't very intellectual about it, that I was going to have to knock this bitch out to get her to let loose of my tits. Her nails were dug an inch or more into my boobs and I was desperate and pouring blood. I swung as hard as I could and got her square on the jaw with a right. As her head got knocked sideways, I swung with my left and flattened her nose. Blood began to spurt out of it, too. I'm pretty sure I broke it because I felt some cartilage go mush.
Even though I was in this nasty bitch fight, and in a lot of pain, there was, like, a part of me that was outside my body and watching the whole thing going on.
Maybe it was the physical agony itself which allowed me to be so disassociated. But this separate part of me, watching from outside, marvelled at how much blood was being spilled and how messed up we both were. Especially her. Such fun. With my punches connecting to her face and nose, she finally weakened enough to let go of my tits. Now it was my turn to do a little kicking and stomping. I staggered to my feet and began to methodically kick the shit out of this cxnt. She curled up like a crying fetus, but still I kept up my kicking. I felt like some kind of damn soccer player and her ass was the ball. I especially aimed at her cxnt and asshole with either the tip of my shoe, or if she got it exposed properly for me, with the spiked heel itself.
The blood gushing out of her, and some out of me, was phenomenal. There were, like, puddles and pools of it all over the carpet. There was so much that it was actually slippery, even on a medium thick carpet, and kind of hard to keep my balance.
After she got both her hands down below her waist to protect her shredded privates, I went around to her head. I started kicking in her bloodied face. It felt great to stomp this bitch senseless. As she now began to bring her hands up to protect her face, I got ready, aimed, and dropped my knee square onto her gashed and ripped forehead. I kneed her unconscious from the weight of my body landing on her bloody skull. Oblivion city for this cxnt.
I staggered up to my feet, grabbed her by what was left of her hair, and dragged her inert body over to the couch. I leaned her up against it in a sitting position. And then I backed away to survey my handiwork. This was the worst, or maybe the best, beating I had ever given any bitch. And it was all because there was, finally, no jerk male around to break us up.
Wilma probably wishes now that we had brought a referee of some kind. But if she had, fat chance for this fat bulldog cow, and if she had somehow kicked my ass, she wouldn't have wanted any interference or stoppage. It's a risk you take, babe.
You lose, you pay. I went into her bathroom, took a quick and painful shower to get rid of most of the blood of the fight. I was still bleeding in about two dozen places, especially in my boobs and pussy, but compared to Wilma, it was like I hadn't even been touched. Especially in my face. I put on her robe and my white spikes splattered and soaked with her blood, and came out to find her now laying on her side, retching, groaning, and sobbing. The side of her bloodied face lay in a pool of her own vomit. She had evacuated her bowels and bladder and she was lying in own her piss and shit. But she was conscious, and again, evidently, aware of her own physical state.
I thought about really finishing her off, but decided against it. Still, it wouldn't hurt to do her a little more damage. I kicked her gratuitously in the face a couple of times just for the hell of it. But shit, she was such a mess, I really didn't want to get any part of myself, including my shoes, any filthier from touching her.
After these last few punts, I went over to her, rolled her face around in her own barf using the sole of my shoe on her ear, and said, "hey, Wilma, that was fun. We'll have to try it again some other time." And then I laughed and laughed at her.
The bitch. She didn't look at me; what with her eyes mostly covered over with the blood that continued to leak down from her slashed forehead and torn out scalp. And she didn't even have the decorum to be a graceful loser; however uglified I had made her. She said under her breath, with a kind of a rasp, "fuck you, cxnt." It was said softly, but I could still hear it. This girl was not a graceful loser.
I stood over her, pulled up her robe to my hips, spread my legs and from a semi-squatting position, pissed hot urine all over her bloody face, tits and the rest of her body. She tried to caterpillar away from the warm wet yellow, but she was so beaten she could hardly move.
And that was the way I left her. With a broken nose, some loosened teeth, a few broken ribs, probably a concussion, genitals kicked to mush, and ripped and bleeding from a hundred slashes and bites. She was bloodied, beaten, and lying in a pool of her own vile fluids, with my hot piss dripping in her wounds.
So now, if anyone writes some candyass catfight story, just remember, the above described war is what it's really like when a couple of nasty bitches get together. It took me over a week to get over most of my injuries from this battle. And I still haven't seen Wilma around. She probably figures that she doesn't want to tangle with me again. Besides, she'll definitely need a few more weeks for her broken bones to knit, and to get back to the point of just being scarred, rather than scab-encrusted. Personally, I'm already ready for my next catfight. I don't care if it's with Wilma or some other bitch. There's nothing else I do that's nearly as much fun. It's even more fun than sex. Oh yeah, sexually, I didn't come during this fight, like I have in some of my others. But I do jerk myself off sometimes with the memory of my victory. And these memories, I call them the "Wilma Destroyers," are among my sweetest, my candyest, kickass orgasms. You know what I mean, all you jerks out there?
