The inspiration, and some terrific input, for this came from Wives Fighting (https://www.freecatfights.com/forums/index.php?action=profile;u=33206) - thank you!Living in the shadow of an overwhelming presence isn’t easy. Sri Lanka lies close to the hulking subcontinent of India, and folktales tell of a landbridge in the past, an umbilical cord of sorts, a connection once seemingly unbreakable now overtaken by the greater force, the sea.
So it can be between parents and children. The looming presence of the parent can be intimidating, especially when the child is a son, and the son chooses a woman of whom his mother disapproves. Then the order of life must be determined, alpha roles settled, the land bridge retained or broken.
Mike had met Anjali while abroad. She was amazing, an Indian beauty, slender and vivacious. He fell into her bed first and then fell in love. He wanted to marry her, to have her forever, as husband and wife. But he dreaded taking her home to his family, in Sri Lanka. That dread was because of his mother, Meera.
His hometown was isolated, a throwback to a way of life that was rarely seen elsewhere. It was a place ruled by women. Even as a boy, he had been dimly aware of it; as a young man, he had seen it first-hand. Outside of the town, in the forest, was a rough pen, a wooden fence of ironwood in a square five meters on a side. This pen served as the center of town governance and societal norms, the place where rules were made and enforced.
It was the women who served those functions. When he was 18, Mike’s father fell into a dispute with another man of the town. It was a business matter, one that elsewhere would be negotiated and settled by a payment of money, perhaps with lawyers involved, perhaps not. Here, it was settled between Meera and the other wife. Mike realized now why his mother in the past from time to time had been bruised, injured in some way. As a boy, he had not thought deeply about it. But even as a boy he must have sensed it, because his fascination with catfights had begun at a young age. As a young man, allowed for the first time to follow the interested parties into the forest, he watched his mother in the pen as she twisted the other woman’s head back and beat her bared breasts, until she capitulated in sobbing submission. This was the settlement of the dispute.
He thought of that woman in the pen as he fucked his girlfriend at the time, a big-titted friend of his sister. And now today, while Anjali rode his cock, her hands on his chest, her lovely brown breasts swaying over him, he still thought of that first woman and of other fights he’d witnessed since, including that teen-aged girlfriend, beating his sister as she hung on the fence, over some slight between them. He had gathered his courage and told Anjali of his fetish for catfights, how he imagined her as a fighter. She was indeed thoroughly modern. She didn’t shame him; she humored him in small ways about it, dirty talk when they fucked, how she would challenge that woman or another. Even though she didn’t embrace his fantasy, he thought perhaps there was something there in her, a bit buried. Sometimes now, in his dreams, it was Anjali’s breasts that Meera beat, smiling cruelly as she did.
He broke the news of their wedding plans to his mother from afar, but the meeting, the initiation of Anjali to his roots, could not be delayed forever. He and Anjali would travel to his home for Diwali. Anjali was excited, although her few telephone conversations with Meera had not gone terribly well. Wedding planning was always stressful, of course. Meera would have strong ideas about it, naturally. Anjali was Indian, and young, and thoroughly twenty-first century, so there would be relationship growing pains with her future mother-in-law. Anjali said all this to Mike. In his mind, he saw the pen.
The tradition, the rule of law as it were, of the town went beyond dispute resolution. Any woman who married into a local family from the outside was tested for worthiness by a local woman, in most cases, her future mother-in-law. If she refused, or proved too weak in a fight, the marriage was not allowed. These fights took place with only the husband-to-be and the women of the town watching. Meera was still young; she had given birth to Mike at age twenty. Her body was strong, and lush. Can this be avoided, he would ask when he called her. No, she answered unwaveringly. She will be tested, and by me. Truth be told, he was not sure that he wanted it to be avoided.
The festival days were hot and feverishly full. Cricket matches were played, mostly by the men. Rugby games and tug-of-wars involved both sexes. He was proud of Anjali, who played with spirit and held her own. After dinner, and many drinks, the men began an impromptu arm wrestling tournament. Some laughed, some took it very seriously. They all hushed, however, when Meera sat down at the table and called for Anjali. At first, Anjali tried to laugh it off.
“Don’t disrespect me, girl,” Meera voice cut the air like a whip. She wore a sleeveless shirt and when she rested her arm on the table, hand raised, it was firm and toned. The edge of the table was just under her breasts, too, so that the men there admired more than her arms. Anjali stared back at her. Mike steeled himself for his fiance to look to him, to expect him to extricate her from this situation, but she didn’t. She took the chair across from Meera. Her shirt was also sleeveless, her neckline even more open than Meera’s.
Their right hands locked together. So did their dark eyes. The strain appeared first in their biceps, then their shoulders and forearms. The crowd erupted in cheers. Meera took Anjali’s arm a few inches from upright almost immediately, but the younger woman stalemated her there, then forced her back to center. A long minute ticked by. Both women were covered with sweat now, their faces and throats, their shirts where it wicked off their breasts into the cotton. The crowd began to murmur. Finally, Anjali’s muscles began to cramp, and fail, but everyone saw that she didn’t surrender. Meera slowly forced her arm down, but Anjali resisted the entire way. The last few inches, Meera banged the younger woman’s hand hard to the table. She stood as the men and women cheered her.
Anjali remained seated, and raised her left arm to the table. Meera stared, as Anjali had stared at her before, then sat. This match was longer, more grueling than the first. Anjali’s nipple nearly slipped from her shirt as she strained to her utmost. The locals began to urge her on. Many women there would not be unhappy to see Meera bested by the girl. And she was - Anjali slammed Meera’s hand hard against the wood at the end. Meera stood and left without a backwards look.
As an unmarried couple, Mike and Anjali had separate sleeping quarters in his parents house, but she crept to him in the middle of the night. She and Meera had disappeared together for a long time; he had waited up as long as he could, worried about what might be happening.
“She told me,” Anjali whispered. “She showed me the place. Tomorrow night.” They were naked together beneath a light sheet. She ran her fingers down his body, wrapped them around his cock.
“Are you okay?” he asked her, fearing her answer. Her eyes glowed as she looked at him.
“I will prove to her that I deserve you,” Anjali said. “I will prove to her that I am as strong a woman as she is. It is you who needs to be prepared, my love.”
He was confused. “Prepared for what?”
She smiled, and mounted him. “For me to beat your mother tomorrow night,” she said, as she guided his cock into her.
The moon was full. Torches around the ironwood pen added light and shadow. Word had spread of the armwrestling contest. Mike thought that every woman in the village was there. Meera and Anjali stepped forward, from opposite sides, and slipped between wooden rails into the square.
They each wore a traditional saree, but a short one and only on her hips, pinned securely but also so that there was full freedom of their legs. Meera’s was primarily blue, with gold interwoven. Despite the inevitable signs of past childbirth, her body was still very erotic. Mike’s father was considered a lucky man indeed. Her saree rode just under the small bump of her belly, around her waist that was thicker than that of a girl but over hips that promised a man that she had knowledge of lust. Her breasts were big, her nipples large and dark. She had nursed two children and fought numerous times in this very pen, but her bosom was still proud and firm. Anjali wore red, with silver. She drew admiring looks as she tossed her dark hair back. Her breasts were not quite as large as Meera’s, but very full and hard. Her nipples were small and dark but jutted aggressively from her curves. She had a slight disadvantage in weight and a huge disadvantage in fighting experience, but held a countering advantage of youth and fitness. Her stomach was hard above her sari.
The rules of the ironwood pen were simple. Once inside, there would be no assistance given either woman. No limits were placed on their battle. No mercy could be asked or given. They were bound to fight until one woman could no longer rise. These fights - increasingly rare - to initiate a new woman to the fold, were the most vicious of all. Despite the antiquity of the tradition, there was no more ritual, no speeches made or words recited. They met in the center of the pen.
Meera’s experience was immediately clear. Without hesitation, she whipped her fist into Anjali’s breast. Mike winced. Anjali liked for him to be rough when they fucked, but he was sure nothing like that had ever happened to her. His fiance’s face contorted in pain. She staggered back a step. Meera followed her, driving her other fist into Anjali’s other breast, her knuckles pounding the lovely brown globe flat.
“You are not in your city here, girl,” Meera said. “Your education, your career, your Indian ways - “ she hit Anjali again, an uppercut into the soft undercurve of her breast - “won’t help you here.”
Anjali screamed and raked her fingernails down Meera’s chest, curling them into her broad nipples. Meera gasped in surprise and pain. She did not expect this arrogant girl to be a fighter, despite her showing at armwrestling. Anjali raked her again, and this time caught her nipples in a vise of her thumb and fingers. Meera shrieked.
“You think I’m not good enough?” Anjali snarled. “I will beat you into the dirt, old woman.”
A murmur rippled through the women watching. Yes, Anjali was an outsider, but many there had suffered at Meera’s hands before and had little love for her. She was a ruthless hellcat, willing to hurt her opponents badly. Might her daughter-in-law candidate be cut from the same cloth?
Anjali dragged Meera forward by her nipples and drove a knee up between her thighs. The short saree flapped as Anjali’s strike hit home, revealing that Meera wore nothing beneath it. The older woman did not shave or wax herself as young women did today, but she did trim her public hair short as her husband enjoyed that. She moaned in pain but rage was overtaking her shock. She drove her fist into Anjali’s face, snapping her head back, and as the girl released her breasts Meera shot her hand under her saree.
Anjali screamed as Meera clawed her pussy and tore away her garment, leaving her naked before the townswomen. Mike had been hard from the start but the sight of his fiance stripped and tormented made him throb. Keeping her pussy claw - intensifying it - Meera gripped Anjali by her throat with her other hand and forced her to backstep to the side of the pen.
“You won’t beat me, you little whore,” said Meera. “Did Mike find you in a brothel? What pox have you given my son with your filthy pussy?” She dragged Anjali up on her toes as she said this, her nails now deep between her labia. Meera bent her back over the top rail, choking off her air.
An amazing, erotic start - but the audience buzzed knowingly. Meera had the upstart in her power now. No Indian girl could break that hold. There was some pity for Mike, but not much. He would do better with a local girl anyway, one with fights to her credit. Anjali writhed on the ironwood rail, her painted toes no longer touching the earth, as Meera clawed and choked her. Her flailing hand found Meera’s face, her thumb in the woman’s eye. Meera screamed and stumbled back. Anjali hung in place for a second, then crashed to the ground inside the pen, face down.
The skin at the edge of Meera’s eyelid was cut. Her vision was unaffected, once her stinging tears cleared, but blood trickled down her cheek. Her fury at the young interloper doubled. She twisted two fistfuls of Anjali’s dark hair and lifted her to her knees before flinging her back against the fence. Anjali lay dazed, one leg bent beneath her, her shoulders across the bottom rail as if she was partly reclining, her arms outside it.
Meera brutally stomped her, smashing her bare foot down on her face and throat and chest. Anjali’s breasts bounced and swayed under the blows. She sobbed in pain, then screamed as Meera’s heel drove into her pussy. She tried to escape, to roll away, but as she turned Meera kicked her in the side and back. She fell forward over the middle rail. Meera reached over the top rail and gripped her hair, now wet with sweat, and dragged her up and back. Anjali was trapped, the middle rail hard against her stomach, her arms and head pulled back over the top of the pen.
Meera looked for her son. She had her foot braced against the middle rail next to Anjali’s waist, and she pulled back on her hair with all her strength. “Come here,” she gasped. Mike obeyed, the crowd parting to let him move around the pen to the two fighters.
“Look at her,” Meera commanded. Anjali’s spine was bent in a bow, her eyes closed, her teeth clenched. Meera dropped her foot from the fence and moved closer to it, shifting her hands from Anjali’s hair to plant one on her chin, shoving her head back even more. Anjali’s breasts were thrust up and out, angling from her chest, dripping sweat and trembling. Meera slapped the closer one. “She is weak,” said Meera. “She is not fit to bear my grandchildren.” Mike was silent, which infuriated his mother. “Keep her as a side whore,” Meera said. “Fuck her, if you must have her filthy Indian pussy! But you may not marry her. I forbid it!” Mike opened his mouth, but his fiance spoke first. Anjali’s voice was small, barely there, but clear.
“Fuck you, Meera,” she said. “You have not won this fight.” She threw off Meera’s hand from her face and as the older woman lurched forward, unbalanced, twisted to grip her hair and smash her face into the top rail. Now it was Meera who slumped to the ground.
It took Anjali a moment to extract herself from how she was caught in the fence, valuable time to Meera to clear her head as well. Meera had more visible injuries; her face bled from her eye and from a fresh cut on her forehead. These were superficial, despite the blood. While she looked more whole, Anjali was worse, especially her mauled pussy. It hurt her to even walk.
The two women circled. Meera heard some in the audience comment on Anjali’s nakedness, the attractiveness of her body. The older woman pulled away her own sari in envy, hungry for her share of admiration, competing in this way with the younger woman too. Many women there knew their husbands had lusted for Meera for years; they scowled as her pussy was now on display as well as Anjali’s, knowing their man’s cock would harden over both.
“You called me a whore twice now, Meera,” Anjali said. “You’ll pay for that.”
“Try to make me pay, little girl,” Meera answered. “I will ruin your tits and pussy. You’ll remain a whore, just a poor one.”
They clashed, throwing fists. Meera quickly even the score on blood; her knuckles cut Anjali’s lower lip badly. Anjali in turn battered Meera’s body, her small fists sinking deep into Meera’s softer belly. Meera grunted in pain. Switching tactics, she raised both fists and brought them down hard across Anjali’s collarbone. Again. Again. Anjali’s knees buckled; her arms went numb for a moment. Meera beat her into the dirt with a brutal strike to her face. Anjali pushed up to her hands and knees. Meera beat her down again, her fists clasped together smashing into her back.
“Have you had enough?” Meera demanded. “You embarrass my son. The whole village now knows he fucks a pathetic weakling.”
“I won’t submit to you,” Anjali slurred the words. When Meera pulled her up by her hair, she rammed her elbow into her breast. She had come here hoping to be accepted, but if this bitch wanted a fight then she would fight her. She slapped Meera heavy tits hard, sending them swinging back and forth.
“He’s mine, now!” Anjali snarled at her. “Face it, old woman! Step aside!” She kicked Meera, straight on, her heel right into her sternum. Meera landed hard on her back. Anjali kicked her legs apart and viciously drove her toes into her pussy, revenge for the attacks she’d taken. Meera twisted in pain, her back arching. Those watching who wanted to see Meera suffer urged Anjali on. She kicked her again. Then screamed as Meera’s foot crunched into her knee.
Meera’s hate was irrational now. The girl had disrespected her too much. This had never been just a test, but now it was intensely, violently personal. Meera dragged Anjali to a corner of the pen, and hung her there. With heavy, punishing blows, she beat her face and her breasts and her belly, until Anjali’s head dangled limply forward, blood drooling from her mouth over her bruised and swelling tits. How could such a bitch have captivated her son? She called him again. She wanted him to watch closely.
To Anjali, she said, ”No children for you, whore.” She rammed her fist low into her belly, where her ovaries cradled her eggs. She hit her there over and over. Anjali’s body curled around her fist each time, her knee coming up, her chest coming down. Then Meera pushed her shaking thighs apart and smashed her knee into Anjali’s pussy, over and over. Anjali still refused to admit defeat.
Meera stalked the pen in a fury over the girl’s obstinance. Anjali’s eyes were dull with pain but still held light. “Your mother is a bitch,” she said to Mike. He had to smile a little. “So are you,” he said.
“Enough!” Meera shouted. “Come fight me, slut. Time to finish you and send you home!”
Anjali limped forward. Meera thought that the girl had nothing left. She was wrong.
They stood in the center of the pen, and traded hard, hate-filled blows. Time and again, Meera clubbed Anjali’s face and tits, trying to spoil her looks. Each time, Anjali answered with fists to Meera’s breasts and belly, trying to prove to her and those watching that not only did she belong, she was better.
Anjali found a spot, midway between Meera’s navel and her public hair, low in her belly. When she hit her there, the woman’s face crumpled in pain. Something there, inside her. Anjali tried to hit it each time, her fist or her knee. That stubbornness cost her. Meera knew where she was headed, knew where that attack would place her head, and hunted that place. Her lips already smashed, Anjali’s nose also bled hard; cuts from Meera’s knuckles around her eyes spilled more blood into her blurred vision. Meera battered her neck, her collarbone.
But slowly, Anjali was gutting Meera, always hitting her there. Her fists and knees sank deeper. The sound of pain that Meera made changed, became more desperate. She finally tried to turn away, to save herself. The light that ignited in Anjali’s brown eyes when that happened was fearsome. She pursued her, still trying to get at her belly, but now Meera was hunched around it so Anjali chose open targets, striking her face. Meera’s black hair whipped, the few signs of gray mixed in as it flew around her shoulders. Her blood spattered on the dirt.
They reached the rails, Meera falling heavily against it. Anjali pushed Meera’s right arm over the top bar but then grabbed her wrist below it. With her other hand, she gripped Meera’s sweaty left breast and dragged it out and back. Meera’s upper body opened up, and Anjali pounded her knee into that spot in her belly.
Meera could barely breathe through the pain. The girl was trying to rupture her womb. No longer needed for children, but still the center of her being as a woman. She tried to lift her own knee to block the vicious strikes from Anjali, but it was either ineffective or only served to make Anjali hit higher, to punish her swinging right breast.
The women began to buzz. It was said that Meera had lost a fight in her youth, but those present had never seen her beaten. Mike saw Sonam and Lakshmi, his sister and cousin, their faces in shock as they watched.
“You know now,” Anjali said to Meera, her voice low. “You know I’m good enough. Now, you learn that I am your alpha.” She drove her knee, the hardest yet, and this time between Meera’s legs into her pussy.
Meera screamed in agony, but rather than fall she threw herself to her right against Anjali. Surprised, the younger girl was pinned front-first on the fence, Meera on her back. Meera shoved in, and down. The bark and rough knots in the wood scraped Anjali’s belly as she sank. Meera’s hands were on the back of her head now, pushing it down. Her battered tits hit the rail, compressing up and over it. Meera stepped up on the bottom rail and shoved down. Anjali hung there, her chest jammed into the hardwood, the bottom halves of her breast flattened, the top halves swelled full. against and over it. Meera lifted a knee to Anjali’s back, between her shoulder blades, and shoved her head down a few more inches. Anjali’s long hair hung, obscuring her face.
Meera’s other hand snaked under the wooden rail, and found Anjali’s breast, gripped her nipple, and pulled. Anjali’s body shuddered, helpless. She couldn’t breathe enough to scream. The noise she made was pitiful, a wounded, dying animal sound.
“My alpha?” Meera growled. “Stupid girl!”
Had this been a fight to settle a dispute, a fight where only winning mattered, Meera would have simply held her brutal advantage until the other woman fainted from pain.
For this fight, that was not enough. Meera burned to make this insolent girl admit she was weak, not fit for Meera’s son; not just to beat her but to humiliate her. Meera’s ego fed this fire. She was no longer young, even she had to admit that to herself. Soon, challenges to the family would fall to Sonam or Lakshmi and she would be just another old woman among the old women who watched and remembered past glory. No, Meera wanted this fight to be her legacy, the time she destroyed the much younger bitch who dared to try her.
She released her deathgrip on Anjali’s breast and threw the girl back toward the center of the pen, and waited for her to gather strength to rise. She was surprised that it did not take too long.
Anjali pushed up, and swung her hair from her eyes. She was exhausted, and hurt. Her skin was dark enough that bruises were less obvious than on a pale white girl, but they were still clear. Meera had beaten her to the edge of her endurance. They would fight on now, at that edge. Anjali knew she had to find strength; that she could afford no mistake.
Meera simply smashed into her, chest to chest, her big tits pounding Anjali’s. Anjali flew back, landed hard in the dirt, sobbing. Meera waited again for her to get up. It took longer, this time. Anjali thought of quitting, of no more pain. But she also thought of her lover.
She stood again, and this time as Meera charged she slipped to the side and drove her knee into Meera’s guts.
Meera fell to her knees. Anjali hit her in the face, sending her sprawling on her side.
You’ve seen races, between distance runners? How some spend a final, desperate burst of energy when the finish line nears - that final kick? That was Anjali. She pulled Meera up and hit her with everything she had left in her body and spirit.
Too late, Meera realized that her ego had led her into a dark alley, that her contempt for this young outsider had blinded her to the girl’s power. Anjali hit her, again and again.
Meera fell. Anjali did not arrogantly wait for her to rise. She followed her to the dirt, still hitting her.
They finally fell still, lying together on the ground. The watching women waited, barely breathing.
Anjali lifted her head. Meera didn’t. Anjali stood, slowly. Meera didn't. It was over.
The wedding was six months later. It was beautiful, with flowers and music and family. Anjali kissed her new mother-in-law’s cheek at the party after. Meera would perhaps never love her as a daughter, but she sure as fuck respected her now. Their places in Mike’s life were settled. Anjali was happy with that.
