[sinclairfan]

As Mr Harris runs out quick to buy me 4 or 5 sets of underwear, stockings, bras, tops, and shorts to at least get me thru the weekend (I find it sexy that he knows how to buy women's underwear--his bitch wife probably made him buy hers because she was "too busy" with her career), I think back to the Margo-Marc storyline in the Apartment 3G comic strip on the daily newspaper.

In one 4-week tangent, Marc asked Margo one day to watch his apartment to receive a refridgerator service call while he was at work.  Margo sat on Marc's couch, curiosity consuming her as to whether any articles of women's clothing were lying around Marc's apartment.  Since none were in the open (not surprising--Marc was impeccably clean, neat, and organized--traits Margo found irresistably sexy), Margo got curious about the interior of Marc's bedroom drawers.  Fighting her own conscience, Margo eventually "invaded" the drawers.  Her heart sank.  There was women's lace underwear in there. 

And not just any women's underwear.  Some had stirrups running down the leg, and some was "crotchless".  I had never heard of crotchless underwear before--the concept thrilled me sexually.  Margo comes to the heartbreaking realization that his relationship with his nameless suitor has progressed beyond dating.  The two are being intimate--and erotically so--in Marc's apartment, just across the hall from Margo. 

Margo seethes with jealousy at Marc's suitor.  She weighs declaring her feeling for Marc before Marc can consider marriage to his sexually acdventurous girlfriend.

But Margo's morning in Marc's apartment brings more surprises.  Marc's phone rings.  Margo lets it ring at first, not wanting to invade Marc's privacy.  But as the phone continues to ring, she rationalizes to herself that she should pick up and answer, since, What if the refridgerator service men are calling, needing directions to the apartment?

Margo holds her breath and picks up.

> Hello?

> [Margo is surprised to hear a woman's voice.]  I'm looking for Marc.  May I please speak to him?  [the tone is polite but insistent]

> Marc is at work.  May I take a message?

> If Marc is at work, then why is there a woman in his apartment?

> I assure you I am in Marc's apartment doing him a favor.  [Whoops, thinks Margo; that sounds like a sexual innuendo.]  Might I ask who would ask Marc such an impertinent question.  Are you his mother?

> I'm not Marc's mother.  I'm his ex-wife.  But ....  who might YOU be??

> [Margo is conflicted between telling the truth--that she's Margo, Marc's neighbor, house-sitting for the day--OR , behaving mischieviously, and taking on the identity of Marc's stirrup-/crotchless-wearing girlfriend.]  I'm Marc's new girlfriend.  Pleased to meet you, wifey.

The conversation takes weeks to unfold, the author being constrained by 3 comic strip panels per day.  But the slow burn inflames my ypung, naive imagination.  Margo finds herself in the middle of a love triangle,  Since it's 1983, the storyline resolves itself in a "Let's be mature adults, and handle this divorce in a sophisticated manner." 

But the catfight possibities are lurking just beneath the surface.

What if the ex-wife decides it's "too soon" for Marc to be dating, never mind hosting overnight sleepover dates.

What if the sexy new girlfriend finds out that Margo has invaded her underwear drawer?

And impersonated her on the fucking telephone?

Margo wonders if she has accidentally set herself on a catfight collision course with Marc's girlfriend.

And if she has, who would win.

I masturbated everyday to the thought of a Margo catfight with Marc's stirrup-wearing girlfriend.

Each dressed in crotchless underwear.

I'm so fucking horny.

I pick up the phone.

I call Mr Harris's Rhode Island phone number.

Please answer, Mrs Harris.

Shit, no answer.

The answering machine beeps.

"Mrs Harris, it's Anne.  I'm in Albany.  I just fucked your husband's brains out.  Fuck you, bitch."

I hang up.

To be continued.....

[sinclairfan]

As I touch myslf in Mr Harris's bed and reflect on how Mrs Harris, Miss Fredrickson, Cara, Lisa, and Mr Harris have been behaving towards each other the past 4-8 weeks, I begin to wonder if the common denominator between us is our looks.

By which I mean.....

All six of us are 95th%ile, at least, in our physical appearance, body proportions, style, and our hair.  Even poor little Donna is 90th%ile, I must grudgingly admit--she comes up short, but she's the only student in my class who can get chest-to-chest with me, literally and figuratively.

None of us have ever "struck out" on a sexual proposition.

Hell, we don't even need to ask 9 times out of 10.  It just happens.

The sex.
The kissing.
The fucking.
The catfighting.

I think back to Economics class in school.  A pretty Spanish girl who would flirt with the Math Club nerd and let her look at the answers on his test papers.  I used to want to report her, and get her expelled for cheating. 

And if she wanted to catfight me over it, so be it.

I get restless and begin snooping in Mr Harris's work briefcase.  Brokerage statement.  Lots of common stocks.  Digital Equipment Corp, the company Mrs Harris got me fired from, before I was fired from Fleet.  800 share.
American Home Products, 300 share.
Manufacturers Hanover Bank, 600 share.
Bethlehem Steel, 200 shares.
Grumman Corp, 550 shares.
Warner-Lambert Corp., 300 shares.
BayBanks, 700 shares.
Shawmut Corp, 400 shares.
Bank of New England, 1700 shares.

Shit, Mr Harris is loaded.

Or is he?

I see comments about a "Trust for the Beneficial interest of" (FBO) Mrs Harris.

Is she a trust fund baby?  Was she loaded going into her marriage to Mr Harris?

What a lying hypocrite to say she doesn't want to depend on a man.  Easy to do, and say, when you're born with a silver spoon.

She's dependent on a man.  Her fucking father.

I wish I could tell her.

Mr Harris's phone rings.  I have a hunch it'll be her.

> Hello?

> [It's not.  It's Cara.] You fucking backstabbing bitch.  Did you forget I know what your fucking car looks like??

> Anything happens to it, I'm calling the cops on you, Italian slut.

> You can't seriously want to bring the cops into this, virgin.  [Why the fuck does everyone call me that??]

> Try me, slut dancer.  I bet they'd love to her about your unreporting stripping income.

> [I've found her weak slot, and she knows it.]  Then tell me how I can help take down Mrs Harris.

> [Well played, Cara.]  Call around Fleet Bank tomorrow about brokerage acciunt xxx-xxxxx7.  It's hers.

[sinclairfan]

Although I had spent the past 4 to 6 weeks on a sex-and-catfighting bender, the night ahead of me should have been special.  For the first time, I was actually going to spend the night with someone.  Back and forth from late night fucking to curling up in his arms (and, Mr Harris no less, the man I loved), to waking up in his arms in the morning with the mid-summer sun peaking thru the windows.

What was that like?  To wake up to a man's morning wood and get fucked by it?  I was about to find out.

Except I wasn't.

Without realizing it, my night of fucking was doomed not to happen.

I had ruined it by backstabbing Cara and taunting Mrs Harris.  They were about to ruin my night, my year, and my life.

The trouble started when Mr Harris came back with my clothes, including clean underwear.  I was so damn turned on that a man had bought me underwear.  I unzipped his fly and began sucking his cock.  He was turned on too.

Then the damn phone started ringing.  1980s telephone were such old-fashioned technology that you had to remember to unplug them if you didn't want to be interrupted during sex.  And we hadn't remembered.

Because then you were stuck.  It kept ringing.  What if the other person didn't give up and hang up?

Or worse, what if they tried again.

And again.

And again.

Which is what happened.  By which point, Mr Harris's hard-on was raging.  He needed relief.

But I also knew he wanted to answer the damn phone.  He probably thought it was work.  Something important about the Fleet-Norstar merger.

So I told him something I hoped would help him finish.

> Fuck my face, Mr Harris.  Please do it.  Fuck my face hard.

Which proceeded to do, grabbing my hair and grinding his throbbing cock all over my face.

At first it was degrading in an erotic way.  I did love him, after all.

But then it wasn't.  It was degrading in a nonerotic way.  And he came all over my face and answered to phone.  I could hear on the other end of the line that it was the clueless doorman from the lobby.

> Mr Harris.  There's a Cara here to see you.  She says it's urgent.

> Let her up.

What??  Why her?

What about our night alone together?

Mr Harris went to the apartment door to undo the latch.

And the damn phone rang again.

Thinking the doorman was being an idiot again, I picked it up to tell him off.

> [It was Mrs Harris's voice.]  Hello, slut.  I told your mother where you are.  She's driving there with your sister to bring you home.

> What? Why?

> Because you're a virgin slut.  And .... because it turns me on.

> You bitch.

> Damn right I'm a bitch.  And don't you ever forget it honey.

I slamned down the phone.  I heard kissing on the couch.  I got up and looked.

Mr Harris and Cara were making out like horny teenagers.

I wanted to cry.

To be continued.....

[sinclairfan]

INTERLUDE:  THE NEW GIRL FROM SPAIN

As I watch Mr Harris and Cara make out on the apartment living room couch, my mind clicks as to why Cara triggers such feelings of jealousy in me.

I think back to what is chronologically just 10 months ago (September of my senior year of high school), but what emotionally and developmentally was half a lifetime ago.  I had signed up for Accounting as an elective, not because I particularly wanted to learn the subject, but because I was supposed to be sitting next to a quiet, shy, serious senior I had been crushing on for years. 

I knew he was going to Northeastern in Boston, where I was planning on going, and was going to commute there by train.  I had visions of finally kissing my first boy (him, obviously), and then commuting to Northeastern with him for four years.

But my plan fell apart the first day of class, when a new student from Spain, an exotic beauty names Leanna, whose surname was just ahead of mine alphabetically, got seated next to him, pushing me back a row.

All of September, I heard their small talk progress from tentative introductions, to flirtatious-but-respectful propositions, to arrangements for after-school sex at either his or her place, depending on whose parents were going to be away after school. 

To make matters worse, this continued even after Leanna began officially dating (and, between classes, making out with) a completely separate boy.

I wanted so bad to expose the cheating classmates.  At night in bed, I would fantasize to Leanna confronting me for my spying, and challenging me to a vicious catfight.  And me accepting, and impressing the future Northeastern commuter.

I had visions of Leanna participating in no holds barred catfights during her European upbringing, and wanting to test her girlfighting skills against an American, a Rhode Islander--having no idea the I had been building my skills for years in battles against my sister Lisa.

The way Leanna torpedoed my Northeastern dreams--is that why I had changed my plans to Rhode Island College, and then to nothing?

Had Mrs Harris noticed my seething hatred for Leanna?  Why had she thought my catfighting Donna would be a better matchup than versus Leanna?

Cara and Leanna both had Southern Mediterranean jet black hair.  Did I hate Cara so much because she reminded me of Leanna?

Half of me wants to go into the living room and tear Cara off of Mr Harris.

But the other half knows my mother is on the way here.  To take me home.

Letting Mr Harris see my mother take me home is too mortifying to contemplate.

I take my clothes and head for my car.

Cara sees me out of the corner of my eye.

> Backstabbing bitch.

> I'm not done with you.  But I need to go to Mrs Harris first.

> Pfft.  Virgin.

Why does everyone call me that?

To be continued.....

[sinclairfan]

I drove back east on the Mass Pike, lightheaded from the past half-week of subsisting on cheese pizza, not nearly enough to keep my energy level up. 

I started to wonder how much of my erratic behavior, and poor choices, during the end of my senior year of high school and my first summer after graduation was caused by the decline in the volume and diversity of my caloric intake since my parents split up.  Before their separation, my dad had consistently cooked steak, pork, and veal dinners, aling with beef tacos every Tueaday.  Since then, my frazzled mom had reverted to Ramen and Kraft Mac and Cheese.  My figure had doubtless improved from the diet change (is that why Mrs Harris started taking an interest in me?), but were my brain neurons deprived and making impulsive decisions?

I had only one impulse now.  With my Mom and sister in the car to Albany, that meant I'd have completely free reign over our family home in Rhode Island.  I craved badly having my sister's boyfriend's cock pounding my pussy.  Lance cock was narrower but longer than Mr Harris's, and its sharpness gave me an exciting sensation of a pencil in a sharpener.  (Is that why Lisa enjoyed fucking him so much, too?  I hope she doesn't find out that she and I are cheating on her.)

I barely keep my eyes open for the entire drive.  My legs are badly cramped, and I need a potty break, but I'm too anxious to get home, and hopefully fuck, to stop.  I feel pee leaking out of my bladder onto my car seat.  I grab one of the new flannel skirts Mr Harris bought me and use it as a towel, placing in between my legs.  I feel a urinary tract infection coming on from all the fucking I've been doing the last few weeks.

Fuck, I loved that skirt.  I could fucking kill Cara right now for making me leave Mr Harris.  In fact, I shouldn't be in the car right now running from her and him.  I should be in Albany fighting for him.

By the time I pull into my home driveway, I feel gross, frustrated, and famished.  I hope Lance's phone number is written down somewhere in our house, so I can call hom for a booty call.

I remember watching Phil Donahue a few weeks ago.  His whole hour-long show was on booty calls.  All the cars I just passed on the drive home:  how many of them were on booty calls?  A quarter?  Half?  Most of them?

There's a light on in the house.  My sister's bedroom.  Is Lance staying here?  Did my mom call him over to watch the house while she retrieved him me from Albany?

I run in, hoping it's him and that he'll fuck me hard.

Ir's not him.  It's my sister Lisa, in bra and panties.  And she's not happy to see me.

> Lisa?  What's wrong?

> You lying backstabbing bitch.

> Excuse me?  [I momentarily forget that Lance is her boyfriend, not mine.]

> He told me you seduced him, more than once.  Double-crossing cxnt.  [Lisa has a scowl on her face like I've never seen before.]

> Lisa, I'm sorry you found out.  And sorry it happened.  But it wasn't me..... not just me.  It was mutual.

> You saying that makes it worse, slut.  [She stands and approaches me.  She's pissed, and ready to fight.]  Because you're my sister.  Sisters don't do that to each other.  EVER.

> Lisa, I've been making a lot of bad choices.  A lot, I'm sorry.  [I genuinely am.]

> [Lisa slaps my face hard, and then backhands me.  The backhand get my bool boiling, as it seems degrading, and I'm tired of getting stepped on by the world.  Plus, I'm mad Lance and I will never fuck again.  I kick my shoes off and backhand my sister's face.]  Fuck you, Anne.  We're going right now.  And this time, we don't stop until there's a winner.

> [I know she's telling the truth.  And I can't contemplate the humiliation of being beat by my younger sister.]
 Ok with me.  Bitch.

To be continued....

[sinclairfan]

Lisa looks into my eyes with a look of raw hatred like I've never seen from her.  Even when our previous sister-catfights were escalating over her slutty behavior, Lisa had always conceded to me a grudging nod of respect as the responsible older sister.  Now her blonde hair was dishevelled in a disturbing I-don't-give-a-fuck wave that showed total indifference to her own personal safety--Lisa's entire focus was on hurting me.

Lisa came at my head, digging her claws into my thick unkempt brown hair, and yanking entire chunks of it out of my scalp.  She twisted and pulled my entire head, torquing my neck into painful angles and giving me the sensation of crashing in a sled after a New England blizzard.  My hands reached for any piece of my sister that they could find--her blonde hair, her pretty face, her huge boobs--and landed instead on her athletic thighs. 

I latched onto the fleshy part of Lisa's inner legs and, out of pure desperation, dug my nails in.  I felt as her leg hair transitioned into her blonde bush, and started pulling hairs back and forth, trying to separate them from her flesh.  We tumbled onto the throw rug on the floor, my shoulders pinched onto the crown molding against the wall.  I felt our skulls denting the drywall, providing irrefutable evidence later to our mother that we had destroyed each other, as well as the house we had grown up in together.

We temporarily stalemated into a 69 position on the ground, with me using my hips to cover my sister's face and forehead, but her strong, athletic hands and arms still in firm control of my hair.

I started grinding my hips into my sister's face in a desperate attempt to smother her nose and mouth and cut off the air she was breathing.  But I could also feel my exposed pussy directly touching flesh on her nose and face.  The arousal was irresistable and distracting, but I feared to release the only leverage I had on my sister's body.

My sister's hands still had a vice-like grip on long ropes of my brown hair, and were tearing away mercilessly.  The pressure and pain on my scalp were sapping my strength, but increasing my anger at her.  We were testing each others' wills, and both of us were willing, at least so far, to go to new heights of pain and punishment.

Both of us were now barefotted, and started aiming the balls of our feet at each others' skulls.  My sister was a runner and had a more innate sense of distance and aim with her legs, and was landing direct strikes onto my shoulder blades and then my kidneys, causing me to grunt primally and animalistically, which only energized and encouraged her more. 

But she was also missing frequently, and hitting drywall, first denting and then entirely cracking entire sections of wall, as if her feet were sledgehammers.

I realize how when I was fighting Mrs Harris in her house, I had taken great care not to break anything.  Because I viewed Mrs Harris's house as my own property, but not my own childhood home.

> You broke the wall, you stupid slut, I shrieked at her.  Mom and Dad's wall, not mine!

> You broke their heart, dumb bitch!

Our desire to have at each other verbally overcomes, momentrarily, our desire to clash physically.  We release our the deathgrips our hands and hips have on each others' head and face.  We sit up and are nose to nose.  I smell sweat and pre-cum.

> How did I break their heart??

> By all the fights you've been getting into the few months.

> Mom doesn't know about those!!  [Does she?]

> Anne!?!?!  That's all this town talks about.

> Who's "this town"?!?!?

> Neighbors.  Everuone in the grocery store.  Anne, you're in the fucking Yearbook for wanting to fight Donna.

> [Dammit, Mrs Harris is a fucking bitch for doing that to me.  For ruining my reputation for her fucking sexual pleasure.  I look at my sister desperately.  I don't want to escalate further with her.]  I fought Donna because you were dating het boyfriend.

> I know.  Thank you.

My sister and I are talking moth to mouth know.  We feel each others' breath on our lips.

We start tongue kissing each other hard.

Almost as hard as we were just fighting.

And, in less than a minute, she's making me grunt animalistically again.

But this time it's because I'm cumming.

And this time, I don't want it to stop.

And neither does she.

To be continued......

[sinclairfan]

After 10 or 15 more minutes of rough play-wrestling on the floor, Lisa and I cuddle in her bed in a spooning position, with me behind her, sliding my clit on her hard butt cheeks, and wrapping my hands around her and cupping her firm tits.

I have an irresistable urge to talk into my sister's ear, and to listen to her voice.

> I missed you when I was in New York, Lisa.

> I know, I missed you too Anne.  It sucked here without you.

> We have to stop catfighting like this, Lisa.  We're gonna fucking kill each other....

> ..... and knock the house down.

> Lisa .... I can't beat you in a catfight.  You're a fucking hellcat. 

> I can't beat you either, Anne.  No matter how mad you get me sometimes.

> Then, Lisa??? .... how? .... this is so hard to say ....

> Just say it.

> Lisa.... how did Donna beat the shit out of you? .... thst day she came here? .... after she found out about you and Lance ...

> You mean after you narc'd on me, bitch [somewhat playfully, but somewhat not]?

> I know .... don't get off topic .... seriously she jumped me at the school front door, but I still got her on the ground .... how did she beat you up?

> I know.  It sucks.  But, Anne ..... I couldn't believe the bitch had the balls to come to my house ...... SHE'S AT MY DAMN HOUSE, I kept saying to myself.  I even said it to her.  I said, "We're gonna fucking do .... THIS?? .... HERE??? .... NOW??? .I guess I was just in denial the whole thing was going down, .... the way it was.  She just got on top of me .... and wouldn't quit.

> I'm ssssooooooo sory I wasn't here to protect you.  [I kiss, well .... lick, really .... my sister's ears.  My clit is rock hard.  I hump her with it]

> It was my fight.  I shoulda beat her.

> [[I get a sexy idea.]  Wanna get her back??

> Someday.

> How about today?  Now?

> What are you dmsaying, Anne?

> Donna's at Mrs Harris's house.  I drive you there.  You have it out with Donna.  I'll keep Harris from interfering.

> I want to.

> Now???

> In five minutes.  Finger me till I cum, first.

> I wanna do that for more than 5 minutes.

> Ok.  But not much longer.

> Fine.

> Fine.

> I love you.

To be continued.....

[sinclairfan]

As my sister and I sped down Interstate 95 to Mrs Harris's house in Rhode Island, I realized it was my second trip there this summer.  The first trip there, I assumed I was going there to kick Mrs Harris out of the house, instigate a separation and divorce between her and Mr Harris, and to replace Mrs Harris as the new woman-of-the-house.

Part of my plan had worked.

Mrs and Mr Harris were indeed on the Road to Divorce.  But not in the way I wanted it to happen.

Instead of my Grand Plan, Mr Harris had struck it rich with his company deferred comp plan when Fleet Bank and Norstar Bank merged.  Mr Harris had set up the paperwork so that he got 90% of the spoils ... and now he could afford to separate from her and move to Albany.

Whereas Mrs Harris was trapped in Rhode Island.  She had accumulated credits in the state teachers retirement plan, and would be starting over if she moved out of state.

I had "given it my best shot", literally and figuratively, by trying to scoop up the soon-to-be-single Mr Harris.

But he had chosen a Providence stripper, Cara, over me.

Cara had gotten to him, months ago, at the Fleet office while I was in still in school.  I tried my best to separate them, but it was futile.

I couldn't blame Mr Harris.  Cara was hot as fuck.

So now I was pissed.

I was ready to kick someone's ass.  And to hurt her bad.

Mrs Harris's ass.

To be continued....

[sinclairfan]

As I drove thru Mrs Harris's neighborhood, I felt a strange attachment to the roads, the sidewalk, the neighboring houses.  The lawns, with the neighbors out mowing and weeding.  I felt that I belonged here, that I had earned the right to live here.

I felt a craving, a YEARNING, for this to be my permanent home.  To have a two-story house, not a raised ranch.  With cental air, not window units; to have cental heating, not registers.

I envied Mrs Harris's suburban lifestyle; not my parents' homestead dug into plowed-over farmland last used in the 1830s.

And I was going to take it from her.

My sister and I parked in the driveway, and my sister was out of the car even faster than me.  She wanted to catch Donna surprise to give herself maximum advantage in their revenge fight over Lance.  She banged on the door.  Donna answered without checking the porthole in the door (something else Mrs Harris's house had that mine didn't), saw Lisa and me, tried to quickly slam the door, but my sister's athletic feet blocked the door before it could latch shut, and my sister's shoulders pushed the door in.

Lisa and Donna were in a catball on the floor within seconds, pummelling each other in a whirlwind of fists, elbows, knees and feet.

I wanted to watch.  But upstairs, I could hear the shower on.

It must be Mrs Harris.

I knew what I needed to do.

I started stripping, top first, dropping my clothes on the floor as I went up the stairs.  I got to the bathroom, taking off my bra and panties.

I could see Mrs Harris's nude body in the standup shower.  She could see  through the steam, and nude body entering.

> Donna?

> Guess again, bitch?

> Anne?

> May I come in.  You and I have unfinished business.

> Then get in here, sweetie.  Let's finish.

> [I step into the shower.  Mrs Harris's toned sweaty body looks statuesque.  Her wet hair is nearly down to her butt.]  We're not done till you're out of my house, hun.

> No one throws me out of my own house, unless it's in a body bad, kunt.

> So be it.  I don't have a problem with that.

I grab Mrs Harris's soaked hair and slam it into the shower tile as hard as I can.  Somehow, she already has her claws into my scalp, and rebounds off the tile and reciprocates by slamming by head into the glass door, shattering it and ejecting steam and hot water into the entire bathroom.  Mrs Harrs then throws both of us out of the shower, onto the tile floor and matt, both of us falling onto shards of glass.

I feel myself sustaining cuts in over twenty places, on my back, legs, and shoulders.  I throw Mrs Harris in a headlock, desperately trying to avoid her mounting me.

We roll around on the glass on the bathroom floor, getting cut on every square inch of flesh.

Downstairs, I can here banging on the walls.  Lisa's and Donna's fight must be at least as violent as Mrs Harris's and mine.

Mrs Harris surveys my cuts.

> I've masturbated to the sight of you bleeding since the first day you were in my Yearbook Club, honey.

> Was it worth it?

> Worth every day I waited, you stuck-up bitch.

> Enjoy it while you can.  I'm about to fulfill a fantasy, too.

> What would that be, babe?

> Throwing you down your own stairs.

I stand up, grabbing Mrs Harris by her soaked hair.  Blood is dripping from both of our bodies in small rivulets.

I pull her out of the bathroom, and into the hallway.  We take turns slamming each other into the hallway wall as we go.  I push Mrs Harris into the wall, face her, and slam my knee into her lower belly over and over in a fit of rage.  I'm angry at her betrayal of me for an entire school year.

> I'm throwing you down the stairs now, Mrs Harris.

> I'm throwing YOU down, calling the cops, and having you put in jail forever.

Mrs Harris's threat, all too valid and realistic, only refuels my rage.  I need to do this now ..... or never.

I stick my hip into Mrs Harris's side, and throw her over my hip. 

She goes flying, almost literally, over my right side, and straight down the stairs, not tounching ground until the 8th or 9th stair.

She lands with a sick thud, bounces, and falls to the landing.

Someone comes over to look at her body.

It's Donna.  She must have won her fight with Lisa.

Donna looks up at me.  Her mouth is bloody.

> C'mon down, Annie.  Let's see if the Yearbook was right.

What she means is:  were she and I indeed the "Best Catfight Matchup"?

I gingerly step down the stairs, picking glass out of my feet.

I discreetly hold some shards in my clenched fists.

> I'm gonna fuck you up, Donna.

> Show me, bitch.  Before you pass out.

To be continued.....

[william taft]

That is not  sexy or erotic its really a gross out. Why on earth would you have them fight like men   on broken glass and dripping  blood?  What a waist to a good build up.

[sidekick]

It was a little over-the-top for me as well. But I still found it exciting and I'm sure many others will agree. It's a fetish my friend. Naked women violently fighting like men draws many of us to this forum. And to me, the buildup of multiple fights between these characters in the story thread leads very logically to this last brawl.

Sinclairfan, you continue to be one of my favorite authors. I'm enjoying this story a lot. Please continue.

[sinclairfan]

If Mrs Harris and I had fought in the shower in 2013 instead of 1983, we probably would have still broken the door, but the plexiglass itself would have been shatterproof, and we would have been much more in danger from the metal framing than the door itself, either from rolling onto the sharp, blunt edges of the stainless material, or realizing what a handy weapon the broken pieces made.

Weapons.  During our entire months-long war, both Mrs Harris and I had refrained from bringing any weapons onto the battlefield--her house, the woods, the school.  We remained intent on engaging in hand-to-hand combat.  This war was woman-on-woman, who's the alpha and who's the beta.  Only one of us could win.  Only one of us could have her life, her house, her career.

I needed to displace her. 

She needed to fight me off.

Donna, on the other hand, was content being Mrs Harris's consort, her partner, sharing her house with her.  Mrs Harris felt attraction for and, in her own sick way, love for Donna.

That's why Mrs Harris had been fantasizing about Donna and me catfighting.

To watch Donna hurt and defeat me.  Then to make love to Mrs Harris.

Mrs Harris sat up in the corner, watching that battle about to commence.  In her own living room.

The glass cuts on my flesh and Mrs Harris's were surface wounds only--mine were already drying off.

I was naked, and Donna was wearing only scraps of clothes.  Donna may have defeated my sister, but my sister had gotten in a generous share of punches, scratches, and chest and face rakes.

It was obvious Donna had just been in a helluva fight.

But she and I were ready for the Main Attraction--her and me.

Mrs Harris was already masturbating to orgasm, just from the sight of Donna and squaring up.  We exchanged jabs, the sharp shards of glass hiding between my hands cutting my fingers and palms.

My plan was to get Doona and a headlock and threaten to dusfigure her if Mrs Harris didn't agree to vacate her house.

I was desperate.

The only alternative was to have Mrs Harris call the cops on my sister and me for breaking and entering, assault, and damaging their house--the upstairs shower was still running.

That would ruin my life.  And my sister's.

I had already given up college.  I couldn't stand the tought of Mrs Harris doing the same to my sister.

If anyone's future needed to get ruined, it was Mrs Harris's.

> Fuck her up, Donna, then I'll call 9-1-1.

> Hurt her, Anne.  Then gdt these bitches out of Rhode Island.  [My sister was masturbating as well.]

The battle lines were drawn.  The stakes were clear.

Now it was up to Donna and me.

We continued to punch, trying to land a KO  to each others' jaw.

I threw a right, and my arm got locked around Donna's head.  Our mouths pressed together.

I allowed her tongue to find mine.

We needed to finish our fight.

But neither of us had celebrated our undercard victories.

It wasn't fair that Mrs Harris and my sister got to cum, while Donna and I sustained punches to the face.

We deserved to cum, too.

We fell to the floor, kissing harder than I had ever kissed.  Or been kissed.

I mounted her, and we rocked until we came together.

> C'mon Donna, fight, don't fuck.

Donna punched me in the jaw, and the fight was back on.

To be continued.....

[sinclairfan]

Donna seemed to know, from having lost three fights to me, that she couldn't beat me if we grappled.  So she kept me at a distance by jabbing me with her left hand, and keeping me back with fierce leg kicks. 

All those years I had watched Donna at smoke break and had pictured us fighting, this was how I had envisioned it--stand up, toe to toe, foot to foot, left-left-right-left, ducking and swinging and retreating.

This living room was too big for me to get her into a hold and take her down.  There was too much room to retreat.

Mrs Harris would having a grand old time sitting in the corner, fingering herself.  Was she "playing possum" after I threw her down the stairs?--really not hurt much at all.  Was she in the mood to be a catfight spectator this afternoon, not a combatant?

Raised ranch living rooms are way too small.  Especially when your mother is too busy working to keep it tidy.  I could do so much with a living room like this.

No wonder Donna likes it so much here.

No wonder Donna kicked my sister's ass when my sister came to her house to fight.  But my sister offered no resistance when Donna came to her house.

Donna loves her own house.  My sister, not so much.

No wonder they stopped building raised ranches around 1978.

They're not worth fighting over.

But Mrs Harris's 3-story Colonial is.  It's worth a fistfight.

Donna and I are proving that now.

To be continued....

[sinclairfan]

One summer growing up, when my Mother got tired of the constabt bickering between my sister in me, I was exiled to my grandparents' house just outside of Boston.  The subscribed to Sports Illustrated, and always had several editions of it out on the coffee table.

One boring, languid summer morning (they had no air conditining in their house, just a loud fan that blew the hot air around), there were two out on the table that I started leafing thru.  There was a long story in one about Carlos Monzon, the Latin world middleweight boxing champion.  His bronzed six pack abs get my hormones racing, having spent my entire childhood exposed only to suburban white boys.  I fantasized about watching him box for 15 long, sweaty rounds.

The other edition was a swimsuit issue with Christie Brinkley in page after page of poses.  I fantasized about her topless boxing with the UCLA women's basketball star Ann Meyers, neither woman backing down because of their endless cardio capacity from being so athletic, bashing each others' faces, kidneys, and bellies for hour after hour.

Just as my women's boxing obsession was leading to nightly masturbation sessions in my temporary bedroom, Evening Magazine came on my grandparents' TV one evening.  Robin Young, an impossibly attractive blonde, was the host.  They had a story about a real woman boxer, and even showed footage of her in action.  They interviewed her about what a novelty women's boxing was in 1978.  At the end of the story, Robin Young threw in an aside about how much she would love to step in the ring and go toe-to-toe with the boxer featured in the story.  About how exciting it would be to fight a woman.

I masturbated in bed from 9pm until 2am that night, falling asleep to the sound of my grandparents watching Johnny Carson.

As I continued my standup fight with Donna in Mrs Harris's living room, I realized I was finally living out my fantasy of a women's boxing match.  I stopped trying to swing for a knockout punch, and instead settled in for a long 15-round marathon.

I started switching from just punching Donna's face, to swapping between face and body blows.

But Donna reciprocated, jabbing at my breasts with her rock-hard left fist.

Mrs Harris and my sister cheered us on.

> Fuck up her boobs, Donna.

> Rabbit punch her, Anne.

> Kidney punch her, Donna.

The dirty tactics were how Christie Brinkley and Anne Meyers had fought each other in my marathon masturbation session that summer night at my grandparents'.

I found it erotic then.  And it was even more erotic to be actually doing it.

To be continued.....

[sinclairfan]

I never did see at the time, nor do I have any recollection of today in 2022, coming up 39 years after our fight in Mrs Harris's living room, the left hook from Donna that completely knocked me cold, and sent my sister and I back home from Mrs Harris's with our tails between our legs.

No sooner did we get back to the semi-safety of our bedrooms than our Mom got back from Albany, madder than nest of hornets.  Mr Harris couldn't afford to let the scandal of he and Mrs Harris taking Donna into their home and having nightly (and daily) threesomes with her get out into the public -- that would have put an ignominious end to the Fleet-Norstar merger, and cost him and both banks' management and shareholders hundreds of millions of dollars. 

So Mr Harris agreed to cooperate with the police, and the School Committee of Mrs Harris's district, on providing details or her manipulation of my life and Donna's while we were still under her authority the final semester of high school.  Today, her story would have been all over the internet and television.  But back in 1983, newspapers controlled what the public heard and saw, and our school district decided they couldn't handle the reputational damage of Mrs Harris's case.  So, Mrs Harris agreed to exit the education profession, and separately settled with my family in return for a nondisclosure agreement from all of us.

Since Mr and Mrs Harris were getting divorced, they couldn't afford to settle with us in cash.  So they paid off the mortgage on their huge Colonial Revival house, (and repaired the master shower door), and gave the keys to my mother.  My mom, my sister, and I sold our rapidly-dilipidating raised ranch, and moved into Mrs Harris's old house.

The house I'd been wanting as my own.

And which became mine, with my sister, when my Mom retired to Melbourne, Florida 6 months later.  She married a new man and never looked back.  She didn't care to continue a relationship with my sister or me after Cara (soon to become Cara Harris) told her all the details about my (our) spring (and summer) of sexual depravity.

Which was just as well for everyone.

Because I wasn't ready, just yet, to give up my new-found lifestyle with my sister.  We cut back our 1on1 time with each other--after one or two more months of mutual exploration--but we continued, and stepped into overdrive, our 2on1 relationship with a man we began sharing our house with, a tough Rhode Island biker named Jonah.  Jonah was always ready to do it--his veins must have run on Viagra, not blood--and had never been able to find a woman to keep up with him.

So he found two.  My sister and me.

And once my sister got her high school degree the next spring, with neither of us having .... or needing .... a job (we lived off of Mr Harris's Fleet Norstar stock and Jonah's money dealing drugs), we just had sex all the time.  Over and over, Anne-Jonah, Lisa-Jonah, Anne-Jonah-Lisa.

And, when that got boring, Jonah would bring home a biker chick for Lisa or me to catfight, depending on who she matched up better with.

I can thank you for that, Mrs Harris, you bitch, if you're out there reading this.

You taught me that it's all about the matchup.

But you did get one thing wrong in the yearbook that year.

The best catfight matchup in our school in 1982-83 wasn't Anne vs Donna.

It was Anne vs Mrs Harris.

But I think you already know that.

Don't you, bitch?

THE END