I had been surprised by a stranger in my own shop and beaten senseless. My sister, Carrie, had arrived in time to chase off my assailant and rescue me from further punishment. The American woman had gone but we couldn’t be sure she wouldn’t be back.
After the excitement of Tuesday evening, the rest of the week was business as usual at the shop. As I’d predicted, in addition to the pout from my split lip, I also had a few welts and bruises on my face. Fortunately, at this time of year I could keep all the scratches on my boobs and arms well out of sight without raising any suspicions. As to the scratches in other places – well, I keep the out of sight most of the time.
I kept to the back room on Wednesday but once the swelling on my lip started to go down, and with a liberal application of foundation covering the marks on my face, I felt confident enough to face the customers again. Not that there were many of them. The weather had taken a decidedly autumnal feel and small seaside villages aren’t prime destinations on wet and windy days.
I was still slightly nervous every time I heard someone come into the shop, just in case it was ‘her’ but there was no sign of the American. As the days passed, I grew less edgy. Getting kicked in the face, and other more sensitive areas, by Carrie’s riding boot seemed to have had the desired effect. She was probably nursing a few bruises somewhere – by Carrie’s account she was lucky she still had all her teeth and wasn’t nursing a broken nose.
By closing time on Friday afternoon, we’d begun to relax and were looking forward to sharing a glass or two of wine in our local. That was when we got complacent – and paid the price!
As I’ve mentioned before, I’m no fashionista. I’m an artist and I run a shop for creatives. I’m a beach bum at heart and my uniform is jeans, t-shirts, cheesecloth blouses and jumpers with deck shoes or sandals – you’ll rarely see me dressing up. Carrie is similar to me in that respect but she’s more of a hippy and a bit more fashion aware, so she does occasionally wear long dresses and smarter clothes. This Friday she was more dressed up than usual, and for a good reason, she was off to a court hearing about the settlement from her recent divorce – her ex-husband hadn’t paid up.
I knew what she was up to, of course, but it didn’t stop me making jokey comments when she turned up at the shop in a white blouse, A-line skirt Bolero jacket and patent leather pumps with one inch heels. Her outfit was hardly risqué but, combined with a bit of makeup (something neither of us usually bothered with) it made her look younger and quite sexy in a MILF sort of way. I kept telling the customers and any friends came in that she was going for an interview or had a hot date and ribbed her about it all morning.
The hearing was at 2pm and she returned to the shop around half three, jubilant that the judge had ruled in her favour and a sizeable cheque would be on the way soon. Apparently, the old bastard didn’t even bother to show up, let alone contest the settlement. Besides, we knew he could afford it, he was just being his usual pain-in-the-arse self. At 56 my darling baby sister was finally free of her unhappy marriage and would soon be quite comfortably off in her new single life. That was reason enough to celebrate after work.
As we got ready to close for the day, she said to me:
“Sorry Ellen, but I can’t go to the pub all tarted up like this, can we go back to my place so I can change first?”
“That’s okay, honey,” I replied, “I’ll close up here, you run home and get changed and I’ll meet you in the Smuggler’s in half an hour.”
She thanked me and headed out of the back door. I didn’t give it a moment’s though. It was 5pm, a good hour before sunset. It was overcast and a little misty but still broad daylight. She’d be safe enough walking two hundred yards, wouldn’t she?
How wrong can you be?
After Carrie left, I set about tidying up the shop and locking up. About 10 minutes later I headed for the back door with a couple of bags of paper to go in one of the big recycling wheelie bin/dumpster things that the landlord provided in the private parking area behind the shop.
As I stepped out of the door the sight that confronted me filled me with horror and rage in equal measure. There was my poor baby sister over by the bins, lying on the wet ground, weeping, bleeding and half naked, her posh clothes in rags. And standing menacingly over her was that damned American woman in her smart clothes and heels. Although, I absently noted, her clothes were also slightly dishevelled.
They were probably about ten paces from the door. Carrie would later tell me her version of events but it didn’t take a rocket scientist to work out that the bitch had probably been waiting for her and jumped her from behind.
The American had her back to me. Stifling the urge to scream at her, I balled my fists and began quietly walking towards her, hoping to catch her unawares. Unfortunately, for me, Carrie saw me and cried out: “Ellen! Help me!”
The American turned in surprise and immediately charged towards me with a bloodcurdling cry. Fortunately, I was ready for her. I buried my right fist deep into her belly and hit her with a left hook to the jaw. She staggered back and I went to hit her with a with a right hook but she ducked under my swing and slammed her knee into my crotch. Then she stood up and head-butted me.
As I stood there dazed, she grabbed me by the arm and swung me backwards into the plastic dumpster. I hit it with full force, and she was quickly on me, kneeing me in the pussy again and ripping open the front of my cheesecloth blouse before grabbing my bra and yanking it. Once again, the fabric gave way and the girls swung free. If nothing else this bitch was costing me a fortune in lingerie. She’d destroyed more bras in three days than I’d bought in the last three years. As I slumped against the bin, she bared her teeth at me and spat:
“Well, well, well. Ellen Shaw. Come to save your little sister, have you? I thought you’d have had enough after last time. You’re obviously a glutton for punishment. I shall enjoy beating the crap out of you again!”
With that she squeezed my exposed tits and then head-butted me again. I dropped my hands and knees, my udders swaying freely below the remains of my bra and blouse. I glanced up at her standing in front of me. She fired off a kick. Her shoe connected with my face and I tasted iron. The bitch had split my lip again.
Behind her I saw Carrie getting unsteadily to her feet clutching her handbag. Carrie took a couple of faltering steps forward and swung her handbag, smacking the American in the back of the head while simultaneously kicking her between the legs. Tsking that as my cue to attack I launched myself from the ground, ripped open her blouse and grabbed hold of her large breasts, squeezing them and pulling them out of the cups of her flimsy lace bra.
Seemingly unfazed by Carrie’s attacks and my grabbing her tits, she simply elbowed my baby sister in the solar plexus and grabbed hold of my tits. Carrie collapsed to her knees, clutching her middle as the American and I began squeezing each other’s breasts. I was still only half standing, and she pulled me up by my boobs, slammed back against the dumpster and head-butted me yet again. At the same time, she kicked backwards, catching Carrie on the temple and knocking her onto her back.
God, she was tough. I was seeing stars and I sat down hard on my backside against the wheelie bin. Dazed and unable to react, I watched in horror as she turned around and quite literally pulled my baby sister to her feet by her tits. Carrie was screaming in agony. I knew I had to do something to save her but I was in no fit state to take the fight to this woman.
Ignoring the pain coursing through my body I slowly rolled over and pulled myself to my feet with the aid of the dumpster. I was about to turn around when the American spotted me. She let go of Carrie, who dropped to the ground in a heap, and slammed into my back, body-checking me and punching me hard in the kidneys. I groaned and collapsed to my knees again, facing the plastic bin, and she turned her attention back to my little sister.
Once again, I started slowly, pulling myself up, clutching on the side of the dumpster to regain my feet. I could hear slaps and Carrie’s screams behind me. As I turned around, I saw that Carrie was once again flat on her back and the American was stomping on her pussy and tits. I launched myself at the coffee-coloured woman’s back.
This time, distracted by the brutal beating she was giving my little sister, she didn’t see me coming until it was too late. She turned to face me as I clattered into her and knocked her flat on her back. I dropped on top of her, my backside impacting her belly and forcing the air out of her lungs as I once again grabbed hold of her tits and gave them a damn good squeezing and clawing. It was payback time and I would have ripped them off if I could.
She looked up at me in horror, as I grabbed hold of her by the hair, and began mercilessly banging her head against the tarmac until she stopped reacting.
Satisfied she was out cold I reached behind me with one more bit of payback in mind. I don’t have long nails but I was hoping to claw her labia just as she’d done mine three days before. My fingers found her thong and pushed it aside. I slid my hand into her pussy but it was soaking wet and I simply couldn’t scratch the flesh with my trimmed nails. Instead, all I could do was pinch her clit until it bled and rip out a few of her pubes (not that she had many) to give her something to remember me by.
Satisfied I done all I could, I looked around at Carrie, who was slowly getting to her hands and knees, swung my leg off of the unconscious American and said to my sister:
“Give me a hand with this bitch, Carrie, I think she belongs in the garbage.”
Together we got the American to feet and, while I held her up, Carrie flipped open the lid of the dumpster. Then, between the two of us, we lifted her up and tipped her in on top of all the recycling materials. I picked up my two bags of paper and threw them into the dumpster on top of her. Then I hugged my sister and we went back into the store and locked the door behind us.
God, we were a mess! Both half naked and both bleeding from multiple places. But the American was in the same shape and she was now outside in the dumpster as it grew dark, and started to rain.
In the warmth of the shop, we tended to each other’s wounds, comforted each other and considered how we were going to get home given the state of all clothes. At least I still had my jeans on and my blouse, although lacking buttons, could cover my boobs if I held it closed. Carrie was not so lucky, her skirt had been ripped, as had her blouse, her jacket was a mess and her knickers were just rags. Only her strapless bra was still in one piece, albeit around her waist. She tried to pull it over her tits but they were too swollen and painful and she quickly gave up.
When she’d calmed down enough, Carrie told me what had happened. As I suspected, the American had been waiting for her, hiding. She probably figured the best time to get us was closing time on Friday – and the bitch was right!
Carrie was half way across the small parking area behind the shops when she was grabbed from behind and a voice whispered in her ear: “Got you! Now it’s payback time.”
With that she was shoved against the dumpsters and her head was repeatedly slammed into one until she was dazed. Then the American spun her around, ripped open her blouse and grabbed her tits. Like me, Carrie is a C cup – the perfect size (‘more than a handful is too much’ as our mum used to say) – although I doubt the busty American would have agreed with that as she tore into my poor sister’s boobies.
Carrie did her best to fight back, kicking and scratching her assailant, but she was no match for the big American. Having tired of abusing her tits, the woman threw her to the ground and kicked her in the pussy. Then she reached down, stuck a hand up my poor sister’s skirt and grabbed hold of her knickers, lifting her off the ground by her crotch until the gusset fabric gave way. I could sympathise with that, having been subjected to the same treatment just days before.
After that it seemed poor Carrie had just become a play thing for the bitch, who kicked her, stomped on her and punched and pulled her tits and pussy. After 10 minutes of that treatment, I’m amazed she was still conscious. Talk about reinforcements arriving at the last minute – not that I was a great deal of help once the bitch started laying into me but at least I knew how to fight back.
Carrie’s account of those few minutes I’d let her out of my sight brought me to tears. All I could do was hug her and apologise – I knew it was all my fault. I was the reason the woman had shown up and I was the reason Carrie had attacked her a few days ago. This should have been between me and the American. Why did I have to drag Carrie into it?
We waited as the light faded and the village quietened down a bit, sipping brandy to calm our nerves. After an hour or so, when it was completely dark and raining quite hard, I grabbed two of the painting smocks we gave people who came to our workshop sessions. We slipped them over the remainder of our clothes and made our way out of the front door and quickly down the street to my cottage.
There would be no celebration at the Smuggler’s Rest tonight, that could wait for another day. Instead, we both showered, changed into bath robes and sat quietly drinking wine and licking our wounds. We were both showing the signs of combat. Tomorrow was Saturday, a busy day in the shop. One of us would have to be behind the till and a quick glance at Carrie told me that, fat lip or not, it would be me.
The next morning I left Carrie sleeping while I went to work. She was still in bed when I got home and I could see she’d been crying. I sat on the bed and hugged her as tightly as I could.
“There, there Carrie,” I whispered, “It’s over, forget it, you’ll be find in a few days.”
“No, no,” She sobbed, “I’ll never forget it. The scars may heal but I’ll never forget that woman and what she did to me. What she did to us both!”
Then her voice took on an anguished tone as she almost screamed at me:
“Why, Ellen? Why do you do this? Why do you have to fight these women? Why do you have to suffer such pain? Are you crazy or what?”
I didn’t answer but I thought to myself: ‘Yes, why? To prove I’m the better woman? Because I need to feel pain to know I’m alive?’
I shook my head. I had to admit that after 35 years of fighting other women I had no idea why I did it. I just knew I that I had to, and I knew that when I stopped, as I now knew I would, I would miss it like crazy. What’s that thing they say? ‘The nicest thing about banging your head on a wall is when you stop’? Yes, that’s me all over.
It was a few days before Carrie felt well enough to come back to work. I did my best to put the incident with the American behind us but she was right, it haunted me and I knew it would haunt her much more. I’d fought for years, but in a ring, with rules and a referee. I’d never experienced anything like this and I’d never fought against such a savage opponent.
The good news was that the American was gone. I checked the dumpster on my way into the shop the next morning and there was no sign she’d ever been there. I’m guessing that when she came round, she hauled herself out of the dumpster, got in her car, drove back to the hotel room that I imagined she had in the city and then flew back to Kansas or New York or LA or wherever the fuck she was from. I just knew that if I ever saw her again it would be too soon and I knew Carrie felt the same way.
