Both women were pulsating with pure adrenaline, stunned at how quickly their unplanned confrontation had escalated to a challenge, and acceptance, of an unplanned catfight. Both women had fought before--many times, more on that later--but always out of their skill and size class. You see, both Aglaura and La Pisana were very tall, each at 6-feet tall. Aglaura's genes came from generations of Greek seafarers and pirates, with a beauty gene or two from generations of Durazzo or Contantnople or Smyrna or Tana streetwalkers providing relief and relaxation to her forefathers calling at port. La Pisana's forefathers, meanwhile, were labor-hardened shipbuilders and craftsmen from the Venice Arsenal, but with beauty inherited from the pastoral Istrian shephers and goatherders.
Both had leaned to fight with fists from jealous women seeking to Mar their flawless faces. Both were used to being the more pretty woman in the fight. But, now, this morning, both could see that the feminine beauty scale was equal. Flowing, thick, wavy manes of fair dangles down to each woman's tight, impossibly firm buttocks. Their legs went on seemingly endlessly. Their breasts were ample and hard as Mediterranean grapefruits. Their upper arms, strong with years of rope work on Mediterranean galleys. Their gait, confident with years on horseback in the valley of the Po River Valley and the Via Egnatia.
And, their eyes....
Staring daggers at each other with pure jealousy. Both hated the other the moment Carlo broached the topic in bed.
> I hate her.
> I'll kill her if I'm ever in the same province as her.
> I hate all Greek bitches, but her above all.
> The Catholic Italian pig, marrying for money but sleeping with others. Oh, just with you?? Do you really think that, Carlo.
> Carlo, promise me. Sleep with anyone, but not that Greek merchant swine.
> Carlo, please, I beg you. Cut off all contact with that Italian whore. I'll do anything, if you do that.
> I'll gouge the Greek's face to shreds.
> I'll rake the Italian's bosom as deep as the sea itself.
> I'll kill her. Then keep punching even more.
Aglaura had learned to punch from the ages master spy himself, Joseph Fouche, the butcher of Lyon. She had been on a Genoese merchant voyage that had been caught in a counter-revolution to the French Revolution in 1794, and Fouche had been sent in by the Directory to suppress the uprising. He was immediately drawn to the Amazonian Aglaura, and trained her in the ways of self-defense in tight quarters. Thereafter, all her fights had been with fists.
La Pisana had met Fouche as well, in 1797, when he established the police force of the Cisalpine Republic. He had seen in La Pisana a skilled femme-fatale for the puppet Republic, and had also trained her in the art of bare knuckle combat. La Pisana had had occassion to use her new skill three times in the past 12 months.
And both had slept with Fouche. But that was just business.
Both were now sleeping with Carlo. And that was for love.
Yes, love. Both had fallen for Carlo. And hard.
Both shred their deepest fantasies with Carlo.
Aglaura's fantasy of destroying La Pisana in a fistfight. And La Pisana marring Aglaura's Helen-esqe face with her bare hands.
Neither thought the occassion would ever present itself.
But it had. Right now. This morning.
> You ready, bitch?
> Try me.
To be continued.....
