[sinclairfan]

The Old Maids, reflected Elizabeth, and she and Dorothy taunted each other on the office floor, were fonts of catfighting Wisdom in some respects, but downright Dinosaurs in others.

Dinosaurs, how?

Here's how, decided Elizabeth:  "There's nothing to discuss with a rival."

False, Elizabeth had discovered tonight.  One hundred percent false.

If your rival was a virgin, despite having countless romantic interludes with the object of your rivalry; despite playing 'Show me yours and I'll show you mine" with the object of your rivalry; despite being alone in a Saratoga ice house with the object of your rivalry. 

No, no, no Old Maids.  In those circumstances, there was most certainly plenty to discuss with your rival.  You would tear into her mercilessly about her virginity.

And Elizabeth proceeded to do so.

> You're a pathetic virgin, Dot.  Virgin, virgin, virgin.

> You're a slut, Liza.  Better a virgin than a slut.

> A slut who has been with one man?  Some slut.  Sluttiness should be made of sterner stuff.

> A slut, yes.  If she sees her man three months a year, and fucks him then.

> We make love.  We don't fuck.

> You fuck.  In the filthiest, basest manner two beasts ever fucked.

> You call your suitor a beast?

> I call you a beast.  The lowest on God's good Earth.

> It takes two to fuck.  Which is why you've never done it.

[Elizabeth and Dorothy claw each others' hair again, tearing large swatches from the scalp.]

> 'Made of sterner stuff.'  You un-educated tramp, stealing bits of Julius Caesar.

> Uneducated.  And yet better read than you.  A bitch.  And yet more beloved than you.

> Henry doesn't love you!  You're a piece of ass to him!

[Dorothy mounts Elizabeth again, this time mauling her enemy's breasts.]

Elizabeth is frightened by the ferocity of her enemy's rage.

Perhaps the Old Maids were right.

Perhaps the time for talk has passed.

To be continued.....

[sinclairfan]

Truth be told, Elizabeth had spent most of the fight so far underneath Dorothy, and her breasts were showing the effects of that outcome by their excessive redness and tenderness.  Elizabeth realized she must quickly turn the tide before exhaustion resulted in a humiliating defeat to her brunette rival.

Searching her memory banks for ideas, Elizabeth tried to recall experiences over the years while serving the Old Maids.  She recalled that as they were milling about before, during, or after their leisurely dinners and brunches, they would sometimes throw each other into playful headlocks.  Were these clinches possibly recreations of their decades-ago Charleston streetfight days? 

Elizabeth used to retire to her bedroom after witnessing these headlock being applied and resisted.  She would get aroused admiring the posture of the attacking and attacked Old Maids, the look of aggression in the eyes of an Old Maid applying the headlock, the look of retaliation in the eyes of one trying to escape one.  She would masturbate herself to satisfaction picturing what each Old Maid must have looked like 40 years ago, in Charleston's back alleys, gutters, and docks, applying such moves on an enemy catfighter.

Tentatively, then with desperate determination, Elizabeth wrapped her left arm around the back of Dorothy's head, seeking to squeeze and apply leverage to the Philadepian's soaked upper body.  Dorothy underestimated to danger to her superiority over Elizabeth's prone body of the blonde's exertions, and allowed Elizabeth to lock in a hold.  Dorothy thought her best course was to continue mauling Elizabeth's breasts, and realized her mistake much too late. 

For as quickly as a Charleston thunderstorm unleashes rain on the late afternoon or late night streets and harbor, Elizabeth threw her enemy off of her using her left-handed headlock, and pounded her enemy's exposed face with her free right fist.  It was now Elizabeth on top of Dorothy, but in a side mount, rather than the full body mount which Dorothy had been applying.  Both women were moaning and grunting in full exertion, with Dorothy's noises becoming increasingly desperate and frightened, Elizabeth's becoming animalistically triumphant.

> FUCK

[grunting]

> YOU

[grunting]

> PHILADELPHIA

[grunting]

>BITCH

[grunting.....Elizabeth lands unanswered point-blank fists on Dorothy's face, her nose exploding in an mangled mash of blood and torn flesh]

> I'll fuck up your face so no man will rmever look at you again.  Bitch.

To be continued.....

[sinclairfan]

Dorothy could feel hot liquid on her face and taste iron running down the back of her throat.  Since the 1882 Phoenix Park assassination in Dublin about which she read voraciously, she had given considerable thought to what Lord Canendish saw and felt as his throat was being slit.  She knew her wounds weren't yet as lethal as his, but were possibly nearly as gruesome.

She knew time was of the essence in giving to her enemy.  Henry was lost.  But there were other eligible bachelor's in the Harvard Class of 1891.

She needed to preserve her looks for them.

> I give, Elizabeth!

> What, bitch?  Is this a trick?

> No trick.  Liza, you win Henry.  I'll tell him.  You won fair and square.  Please stop hitting me.

> [Elizabeth relents with her striking, but persists in her mount of Dorothy.]

> Please, Liza.  You win.  I'll tell anyone.  You won.

> Anyone?

> Anyone.

****************************
Monday night.  Dinner time in the Inn.  The Old Maids have gathered for dinner.  They inspect Elizabeth's face.

> Well, well, young woman.  That's quite a bit of bruising.  And yet, no open cuts.  I take it your Yankee rival and you settled your amalady.  And your pecking order with your mutual suitor?

> We did, m'lady.  [Elizabeth blushes.]

> So, is our Son of the South remaining .... in the Palmetto State?

> [Blushing]  Still to be determined, m'lady.  But I can tell you one thing for sure. 

> What would that be?

> Where he's NOT going.

> And..... his NON-destination would be, what?

> The Quaker State.  Pennsylvania.

> Well done, Elizabeth.  Although .... your discussion wasn't a .....  DRAW .... was it?

 > It wasn't.

> Can you offer .... proof?

> I can.  (I knew you would ask.)

> Old Charleston merchants always insisted on security.  What's yours.

> Dot!  Will you please present yourself to the Old Maids?

[After a pause, Dorothy emerges into the dining room.  The women gasp at her countenance.  Hair missing by the handful.  Eyes still barely open.  A nose gashed and stricken.  And fat lips.]

> Show then your chest, Dot.  Don't be shy.  The Old Maids have seen bared bosoms in their time.

[Dorothy lifts her top, revealing her still-bruised breasts.  The Old Maids stand in awe.]

> Dorothy, tell the Old Maids who won the fight.

> You did, Elizabeth.

> Dorothy, tell the Old Maids who's the better woman.  You or me.

> You are, Elizabeth.

[The Old Maids reach for their napkins, dabbing their eyes.]

[Elizabeth reaches into her skirt.]

THE END

[Tiberius J.C.]

Great stuff! Unexpected but satisfying ending. Bit like a Roman triumph, Charleston style.

[h_k]

I think it's so thoughtful of Elizabeth to show the Old Maids the fruits of her night's work. I hope one day when I'm an old maid (as I surely will be) the local queen will show me the same kindness and make all her vanquished rivals strip for me, and exhibit their bruises, and prostrate themselves like that before their conqueror. It'll make her accounts of the fights so much more credible and easier to visualize.
Elizabeth is going to give the old dears a blow-by-blow, too, I hope, in the coming days, as I'm sure they'll appreciate it as much as I did.
BTW what's an 'amalady' - (typo or Charleston lingo?)
p.s. kudos to Dot for keeping her word and going through with it. Can't have been easy. Hope she finds someone just as eligible up North when her bruises heal. She's a fox!