Vanessa
The Fair’s midway, normally a cacophony of lights, sounds, and smells, sits all but deserted in the starlight of a late summer night. The last few hundred patrons pass slowly through the gates and out into the world as the vendors and operators shutter their booths for the final time. The boldly lighted signs winking out one by one along the broad, trash strewn streets, until the heart of the Labor Day weekend tradition sits cold and black and empty. Empty, save for us.
Looming above the seemingly endless rows of games and rides, over food stands and beer gardens, sits the observation wheel. 10 stories tall, with 40 carriages large enough to carry 20 passengers apiece, and painted a garish crimson, it sits at the far end of the midway, offering an unparalleled view of the fair, and of the city beyond. Tonight, however, the view to be envied is of the interior of the carriages, or more specifically, OUR carriage.
The wheel turns slowly, illuminated only by the modest running lights to afford the maximum degree of privacy. Staring out from the reinforced glass on the south side of our car, I watch the distant lights of the Capitol come into view beyond the tops of houses and trees. Church spires and skyscrapers rising over the river, their lights shimmering faintly in the heat.
"Well worth the price, wouldn’t you agree?’’ Smiling at you through the darkness, the interior of the car is lit by a single bulb that casts wild and menacing shadows about the walls. “An hour, I think he said, no need to rush.’’ Recalling the Wheel operator’s face as he slipped the pair of hundred dollar bills into his pocket, along with the plastic quart bottle of whiskey. No doubt he’d his own notions of why two women might request a midnight ride together, and be willing to pay under the table to get it, but it’s a different kind of conquest we hunt for this night. An equally ancient, equally honored kind of union.
Tossing my head back, letting the hair cascade freely down my back. Raising both hands slowly, my right index finger curling, exhorting you to advance. “Well, shall we?’’
***
Jacqui
There is something in the way she moves that attracted me. My glances were stolen, easily done at the gym with walls of mirrors. Nobody noticed me noticing her. And certainly not her.
She was new to the gym but not to the world. I could tell she was older than I. Early 30s maybe and several inches taller. Longish blondish hair. My own, longish and darkish.
As a newspaper reporter, I'm paid to be curious. But I'd do it for free. Especially when something catches my interest. Something like her.
I found myself arriving at the gym a little before she normally arrived, making it appear that she liked to show up when I am there. It was the highlight of my day and I'm afraid my glances were becoming less secretive. Hardly invasive, but our eyes occasionally met and our smiles crossed.
One day I said hi. She was friendly and asked for my name. I already knew hers. Vanessa, a little reporting showed.
Vanessa is the author of paperback novels that sell quite well. They are dark and quirky, but she has a following. And now she has a following plus one. I started with the most recent. The heroine is a tall blonde paperback writer who has a penchant for getting into fights. My head spun as I read. I felt I was in The Twilight Zone. Art imitates life?
The curious reporter had to know. I finangled a way to do a story on her. A paperback writer who writes novels about a paperback writer? And what's with all the fighting?
I called her for an interview, and she invited me to her home in a leafy neighborhood not far from the gym. Now I could ask anything, no questions asked. I was in my glory, question after question. She was absolutely charming and offered me a glass of wine. Who says I can't drink on the job?
I spent all afternoon on the interview. The photographer came and went. But I lingered, so many questions I wanted to ask. We laughed and bonded.
As I put away my notebook and moved for the door, she placed her hand on my shoulder, stopping me for a moment. Now she had a question for me.
"Do you fight?"
That's how I find myself atop a dark and deserted Ferris Wheel at midnight on Labor Day.
***
Vanessa
“Past hope. Past kindness or consideration. Past warmth, or cold, or comfort. Past love. But past surprise? What an endlessly unfolding tedium life would then become.’’
I’m not past surprise, far from it. Not surprised at the setting, as it’s been a favorite of mine for years. Nor at the gooseflesh raised on my arms, or the tightening in my gut as I begin to circle my foe in the dim light of the carriage, guard raised and eyes narrowed. What surprises me is the dedication to one's craft, the willingness of this charming, dark haired scribe to put her body on the line in pursuit of a story. Of MY story.
I’ve managed to scrape out a comfortable living with my books these past 15 years, though by no means an easy one. “Write what you know” the axiom tells us, and what I know best is fighting. I’ve been in every dive bar and sleazy nightclub wrestling ring. Taken modest paydays to square off with the Queens of fetish clubs, and an endless array of bitchy suburban house fraus. I’ve stood triumphant over the broken and battered bodies of women thought invincible, and been dragged limp and ruined from the scene of shocking, disgraceful defeats. Every one of those showdowns has ended up in a book, and if that seems a hard way to make a modest sum, it’s still more than most girls from the Range could hope to see in a lifetime.
I was stunned that she wanted to write about me. Hell, I was stunned she knew my name! My books sell well enough in the pulp and kink circles, but an article in a ‘’legitimate’’ publication was not something I’d ever considered possible. She wanted to know everything, grilling me on the emotions that rise in the heat of combat, the rush of victory and the shameful sting of defeat. Though she claimed to have no experience in my world, past a few playground shoving matches in her youth, something in her eyes told me that when I extended the invitation to join me at the fair, she’d jump at the chance. And of course, she did.
“It feels like your heart may beat right out of your chest, doesn’t it? Either that, or you have to puke.’’ Smiling thinly as I move, eyes roaming slowly over my smaller adversary, hunting for the right moment, the perfect opening. ‘’That’s natural, and it never leaves you, not entirely. It’s a strange and wonderful sensation, I think. You know that any second now you’re going to hurt, and that you’re going to make the other bitch hurt. The world becomes a very simple place for just a little while. It’s condensed itself down to this car, down to you, and down to me. And you’re either going to win, or lose. Isn’t the simplicity beautiful?’’
Before the last syllable of my question has died away, my right knee is rocketing forward. Driving straight ahead, and seeking the toned yet unguarded flesh just above your navel, where the pale flesh gleams between the hem of your tank top and the waistband of your shorts.
***
Jacqui-
Oh what I do to get a great story!
I do a lot of fun things, some exciting things, and a few things I wish I hadn't done.
When I explained to the editors why I thought I should interview this woman who wrote paperbacks about a woman who wrote paperbacks, they thought it was a pretty cool idea.
Their jaws dropped when I came back from the interview and said I was going to fight her atop the Ferris Wheel at the State Fair at midnight on Labor Day.
"Go for it!" was the general reaction.
The newspaper does State Fair stories every damn day of the Fair. Some of them are cool, but a lot of them are pretty boring, and reporters don't exactly line up to get a State Fair assignment.
This would be the story everyone would remember.
No photos because the paper can't glorify women getting beat up. Even if it is one of the reporters.
Things are moving so quickly. I'd just left the interview an hour ago. Vanessa and I are booked for tomorrow night. She had already greased the wheel with the appropriate carny and had plans for a different foe. The fight would be the highlight battle of the next book.
But she'd rather fight me. I thought I was interviewing her for a book author story. Yet there was another interview going on. She was interviewing me. As a prospective Ferris Wheel opponent. By the time the interview ended, she knew as much about me as I did about her.
I knew where and when she was born, the history of her writing career, how she happened to include fights in her books, the heart-pumping thrill of victory or defeat.
She didn't just know about me.
She knew me.
She knew I'd say yes.
“Do I look tough? Do I look mean? Do I look like a fighter?”
That's what I ask myself as I look in the mirror before leaving for the Fair. I see a fit woman in her mid-20s, with long raven hair, wearing a black tank top, slightly cropped to show several inches of gym-trained abs. Khaki shorts, leather sandals that could be easily kicked off as I'd rather fight barefoot.
We were both at the Fair when it closed and you led me to a place we could hide until the time was right. I followed you to the Ferris Wheel and the carny opened the door with a flourish. Said to text him when we wanted out.
I'd been here before but the cab looks so different now. So roomy with only two passengers in a space built for twenty. Room to stretch out. Room to fight. I know I'll never look at this ride the same way again.
I feel my breath catch in my throat as the wheel begins to move. Moments later we are at the top. Although the Fair is dark, the lights of the city twinkle. The view is peaceful. The feeling inside the cab is raw and edgy. And I am nervous.
You say it's always scary at the start. You say it's a "strange and wonderful sensation."
We stand a few feet apart and you raise your hands and motions me forward with a curled finger. I raise my hands.
You say the world is simple now. One of us will win and one of us will lose.
Then you hit me.
***
Vanessa-
The knee lands flush, burying itself about a quarter inch below your navel and eliciting a ragged gasp, a hot rush of escaping breath. You start to fold forward, hands clutching at your lower belly as soon as I’ve pulled my knee away. Catching a handful of those jet black locks, I jerk your head back sharply, bringing that pretty face up, the eyes wide with pain and staring up at me in a stunned look of accusation.
“You were open, wide open.’’ Winding the captured tresses around my wrist to better control your head. “You have nice abs, but if you leave them slack and open like that, they’re worth about as much as tits on a bull.’’ Walking a slow circle around the center of the carriage, forcing the novitiate warrior to follow, lest you surrender some hair.
“I’m a fast learner’’ She’d promised me, perhaps sensing the skepticism I’d felt initially. Good publicity is hard to come by in my genre of writing, but canceling on my prior engagement tonight would mean a total rewrite of the climax of my upcoming release. And how would the readers react? Would I be viewed as a sellout? Or as taking the easy way out, shunting aside a more qualified rival in favor of a walkover bout with some ink-stained wretch who, by her own admission, doesn’t know a Boston Crab from a Burning Hammer. But she was alluring enough, full of promise and potential, and a simmering fire that I KNEW could become an inferno with the proper motivation. Obviously, I made the switch.
Yanking you forward sharply, I chamber my right knee and drive it upwards like a piston, testing your claim, your reflexes, and hopefully the durability of those abs that peek out tantalizingly from beneath the hem of your top.
***
Jacqui-
All those crunches. All those hanging leg raises.
I should have done more.
Earlier today I was basking in glory, the talk of the newsroom.
"You're doing what?"
"Yes, bare knuckles."
George Plimpton had nothing on me. The famed writer sparred three rounds with Sugar Ray Robinson.
But he wore boxing gloves. Sissy!
Earlier today, I was the toast of the newsroom. Now I'm just toast.
Your knee slices through my defenses, finding the bare skin of the belly button I love to display. Taking my air as I double over, my hands around my waist.
Suddenly the glory is gone. I'm jolted back to reality.
I'm in a fight!
In a flash, my hair is in your hand, my head jerked back, face up, eye to eye with a real fighter.
"You were open."
My hair wrapped around your hand, I'm treated to a tour of the carriage, dragged in a show of superiority. But things are different now. The adventurous reporter is ready and eager for the adventure.
I tighten my abs, spot your right knee moving toward me.
Same knee. Rookie mistake!
I grab it with both hands and yank up fiercely!
***
:Vanessa-
She wasn’t kidding about being a quick study. Either that, or it’s just the instinct for self preservation. However you choose to define it, my knee strike is defused just inches from its goal of the naked navel, already starting to bruise.
Jerked off balance by the upward thrust, my arms flung wide in an effort to steady myself. For an instant we look like two women in the middle of a cheer routine, an assisted backflip in the offing, perhaps. But I simply stagger backwards, groping behind my back for the glass of the carriage and bracing myself against it to keep from falling.
“Not bad at all.” Nodding in approval as I push off the glass and begin to circle, fists raised. “You can take advice, that's clear. Now let’s see what else you can handle.”
My eyes gleaming mischievously. Leading with a left handed feint towards your jaw, looking to draw your eyes and guard high before I lash out low, and buckle the newbie’s right knee under my sole.
***
Jacqui-
She's crazy graceful. Balancing on one leg, her arms out as if on a tightrope over the Grand Canyon.
Not something I didn't know. It is the way she moves that first caught my attention at the gym and began the dance that brought me to the Ferris Wheel. I could say she lured me to this lair, but that's not quite true. I lured myself.
Like the angel of the morning, it was I who chose to start. It was I who first stole the glances, I who offered the first smile, I who said hi. And it was I who yielded to temptation when she asked if I fought.
I'm to blame if I get beat up by the charming Cheshire Cat.
You smile approvingly at my last move while moving in with gleaming mischievous eyes and trickery in your heart.
I don't know all your moves, but I know your intent. If you’re headed for my jaw, the real target is elsewhere.
So I spin on my left foot, lifting my right leg for a roundhouse kick aimed at your ribs.
***
Vanessa-
You don't bite on the feint, not even a flinch. Either you’re a quicker study than I expected, or you’ve no regard for your face. Both admirable qualities in an opponent, both qualities that could prove rather vexing in a fight.
The knee that I’m targeting vanishes before my sole can land, showing no small degree of grace yourself as you pirouette deftly out of the line of fire, my kick catching only air and causing me to step clumsily, my weight displaced in an awkward fashion.
“FUCK!” The thought flashes behind my eyes as I catch a glimpse of your counter, the leather sole of a sandal flashing up towards my ribs. I drop my arm quickly, and try to deflect the kick, or at least take the brunt of it on a less vulnerable part of my body.
Not quickly enough. A bolt of pain shoots through my core as the kick slips past my tardy defense to land with a dull “THUD” against my ribs. The impact folds me forward, sending my left arm groping for the afflicted area as I groan quietly. Attempting to use my forward momentum to best advantage, I keep my body square to the target and lurch ahead with an angry snarl. Looking to use my size and bury my left shoulder into your midsection and drive you backwards.
***
Jacqui-
Yes!
I allow myself a smile as my foot connects with your ribs. It's my first offense of the night and it feels so good. It brings a groan from deep inside you as ribs are a weak point for anyone. Not a knockout blow but a step in the right direction. I want to hang with you, be in the fight, make you recognize that trouble and pain could be coming at any moment from any direction. Keep you on your toes.
Years of ballet lessons led to that spin. I hated them but my mother insisted. Finally a use for the spin move. I would have preferred square dancing, but then I'm kind of an outdoorsy type with pigs and cows and horses and creatures of the night.
One creature of the night is on the loose right here in the carriage, snarling and angry, aiming for me, her left shoulder in a take no prisoners mood, slams into my stomach, doubling me over and driving me into the glass window. I wince, air whooshing from my lungs.
Instinctively, I bring up my right knee, using the window as support, hoping to find the chin leading this attack.
***
Vanessa-
Smiling as you fold forward against my shoulder, a hot exhalation of stolen breath racing past my ear as I drive you backwards into the glass of the carriage. The triple thick pane not giving an inch, but your back? That remains to be seen.
Drawing my shoulder from your injured core, still bent forward as you grope along the wall with a pained urgency. Measuring those abs for another thrust, intent of breaking my smaller foe down inch by inch. And then your knee strikes, catching me flush under the chin and snapping my head back, the carriage a whirling blur.
“Everyone has a plan until they get punched in the mouth.” Mike Tyson once said, and was he ever right. Fortunately for me, this isn’t the first time I’ve been hit hard, the first time I’ve needed to change plans on the fly. Cursing through my fingers as I drop heavily onto my ass, clutching my chin and trying to shake loose the blur behind my eyes. I see two Jacquis at the moment, and decide to play it safe: Thrusting my feet forward, one at the left knee of the Jacqui on my left, the other towards the right knee of her doppelganger to Starboard.
***
Jacqui-
The novelist hurt me, but I don't die easily.
This isn't a game. I know I'm going to get hurt. Even though I regard her as a friend. Even though I was attracted to her the very first time I saw her at the gym. Even though we've chatted amiably, even bonded. Even though she knew I'd say yes to joining her adventure atop the Ferris Wheel.
She saw me for what I am.
A sucker for thrills.
Your shoulder finds a home in my stomach and drives me hard into the thick glass of the carriage, doubling me over, a soft whistling sound escapes my lips, pain decorates my face. But I fight back, bringing my knee up, catching you under the chin and taking you by surprise.
My legs have some snap in them, thanks to tennis, swimming, and the gym. Through my wincing eyes, I watch your head snap back, watch you plop onto your buns, rubbing your chin. No time for a smile as your legs show their own snap and two feet smack into my knees. Dropping me to my backside. Leaning back against the window. My dark hair hangs limp and my arms show little life as my fingers rest lightly on my thighs.
Breathing hard, eyes alert for danger. An aching in my back. Claiming a moment's respite.
You don't look so good either.
***
Vanessa-
Pushing back with my left palm, scooting my ass across the carriage floor while my right hand rubs my chin, eyes locked on you and ready to defend, if necessary. “That wasn’t bad for a virgin, but if that was your best shot, then you’re in serious trouble, doll.” Once I’ve put a bit of breathing room between us, and determined that the shots to your knees have taken the starch out of you, however briefly, I push back to a vertical base. Raising my guard, motioning with three fingers, a “come hither” gesture.
“No rest periods, Jacqui. Here you’re on deadline ALL the time, and If I catch you slacking, you’ll have bigger problems than gettin’ busted down to covering the Llama Prom..” Giving you a friendly assist, one hand snaking out to wind its fingers in your jet black tresses. Yanking you up to your feet, injured knees and all, and pulling my unwilling marionette towards the glass behind me. Already imagining the look on that pretty face when it’s smooshed tight to the window.
***
Jacqui-
Two of the better butts in this carriage, both on the floor as we study each other warily and contemplate our next move. She scoots away, mouthy as always, threatening "serious trouble."
I wonder why you’re moving away if I'm the one in trouble. I start to push up with my palms, sliding my back up against the thick glass window and beginning to test my knees as you reach your feet and taunt me with a wave of three fingers, sign language for "Come on, babe. Got anything left?"
I take a tentative step toward you, eager to show both my back and my knees are good as new, when you decide I need some help and help yourself to a handful of my hair, yanking me all the way up. Then displaying power you didn't get from typing paperback novels, you firmly point me toward the thick glass you'd just used on my back. It’s obvious you intend to give my face the same treatment.
But my sandals have other ideas. My right heel drives down into the top of your foot, just as my face is flattened against the cool, hard glass. Giving me a smooshed-eye view of the lights below.
***
Vanessa-
“Enjoy the view!” My voice honey sweet, eyes brimming with mischief as you stumble forward, following the sharp yank of your raven tresses to crash against the triple paned glass of the observation carriage window. Making a move to step behind my prey, to scrub those pretty features across the unforgiving glass until it’s a mosaic of greasy, sweaty smears, and my feisty apprentice a subdued and docile posing board.
I should have known it was never going to be that easy. As I move to take you back, one hand still twisted tightly ‘round your locks, a smooth sandal sole drives down squarely into the top of my foot. My own shoe absorbs a fair amount of the impact, but the stomp is enough to wobble me, a jolt of discomfort shooting up my ankle. Releasing my captive, staggering back a few steps, cursing and hobbling slightly. For the moment, you’ll have to drink in the view unassisted.
***
Jacqui-
Strangely enough, I do enjoy the view.
I've never seen the lights of the city in quite this way. From up high, through eyes squinting and smooshed against the glass, a vision rarely afforded the average Fair visitor, each twinkling light with its own aura, much like squinting your eyes at a Christmas tree. Even a camera couldn't capture this view.
It's not a view I want to enjoy for an extended period, though, as it comes courtesy of a strong hand gripping my hair and pressing me harshly against the window.
That same hand has its own problems as the stomp of my heel atop your foot sends pain radiating upward, and the fingers holding onto my hair quickly relax and disappear entirely, allowing me several deep breaths. I kiss the marvelous view goodbye and turn around to see my foe staggering back, cursing, hobbling, and a pale shadow of the beast she was only moments earlier.
The beast within me comes alive, and I lower my head and charge, aiming for your stomach, hoping to steal your air.
***
Vanessa-
I reel backwards across the carriage, hobbling on my injured foot. My plans of a slow, steady face wash across the glass, of dazzling my opponent with the view and simultaneously sapping her will to resist have, for the nonce, been scuttled. You’re proving to be more determined, more tenacious than I’d expected. And while that certainly adds excitement to a struggle, it’s also, frankly, beginning to get on my nerves.
It takes several awkward, backpedaling steps before I regain my balance, and I manage it just in time to see you charging headlong, a dark haired, diminutive toro who must have wandered off from its trailer and been left behind when rodeo pulled out. I tense my core to receive the charge, no room or time to dodge. The impact rattles me, eliciting a pained and almost frustrated groan as I tumble to the floor beneath you.
“FUCK!’’ The word hoarse and pained, forming unbidden on my lips as I writhe under you, winded and sore, my abs quivering but holding firm. Reaching for your dark mane with my right hand, my legs opening, trying to ensnare your body between my thighs. I need time to regroup, gather my wind. I need to get you back under control.
***
Jacqui-
Selfies! Selfies!
Where's my selfie stick when I need it?
The beast formerly known as Jacqui is on the attack and I need photos. I can see the headline now."Reporter defeats a fighting writer who writes about a fighting writer."
I guess that's why they don't let me write headlines. Fuckem, I'm a poet in the arena, not a copy desk critic. My face is marred by dust and sweat and the marks of having recently been smooshed by a thick window. And my place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.
I slam into you with my head and shoulders, a collision that topples you, leaving me on top and your felled form writhing beneath me. And I look down, my eyes on yours, making sure you know who is on top as I reach for your hair, seeking a grip that will help me slam your head against the floor and scramble your brain.
A dominant move from the fiery young reporter. A dominant move that should show the novelist who's winning and change the momentum. I've put the window smooshing behind me.
A dominant move interrupted by your hand in my hair, your thighs coiling around my waist.
***
Vanessa-
Wrenching your head back, breaking the fiery tyro’s concentration, and hopefully your momentum, with a determined attack on your scalp. My thighs pulsing against your sides, working to milk the precious oxygen from your lungs. Taking great pains to keep my cheek pressed to the floor and out of the way of those grasping hands.
We linger in that pose for a few, seemingly endless moments, you groping with limited vision for the hand buried in your locks, and I on my back, flexing my toned thighs against your ribs like a boa. I’m working doggedly to take some of the starch and spunk out of what is proving to be a very determined first timer.
“Alright….” I hiss, easing the pressure off your ribs even as I roll my left hip into you and off the floor. “You’re a feisty one, Jacqui. And If the circumstances were otherwise, I’d happily let you stay on top. But the free ride ends now!” Rolling hard, spilling you from your position as we go tumbling over. Time to bring my superior assets to bear. Time to pin you down and wear you out.
***
Jacqui-
I'll never forget the expression on your face as I look down at you lying beneath me with your back on the floor.
I see fear and worry. You're losing and you know it. I'd love to look into my own eyes. I'd see joy and excitement as I straddle the paperback writer who’s squirming beneath me and in danger of being conquered by the novice fighter with the indomitable spirit.
I know I haven't won the fight, but I'm winning. I may end up losing, being knocked out, screaming in submission. But at this moment, the thrill is all that matters. At this moment, I've never felt so alive! My eyes glow brightly. And I know why you’re a fighter. It's the thrills, the ungodly excitement of battling a dangerous foe. All my senses are on fire.
They are still ablaze when you grab my hair, yanking my head back and wrapping your bare thighs around my waist. The warm lushness of your skin squeezes tightly against my bare midriff. My eyes focus upward as I struggle to gather your hand in my hair. I gasp each time you pump your thighs, and God you have thighs. My face is flushed, my eyes lose their focus and scrunch tightly closed with the effort as you take your time, your own sweet time, pumping your thighs again and again, whenever you please, my abs no match for your loins. Showing me.
I'm still atop you but I'm no longer winning. I'm squirming and gasping. Worried as your power is taking its toll on me.
When suddenly you ease off and I hungrily gulp precious air as you raise your left hip into me, wanting me off of you, spilling me as we tumble, my mind a blur as two sweaty fighters roll together in a tangle of flesh.
***
Vanessa-
Successfully unseating you, rolling with the momentum my hips have created, trying to gain the position that you just relinquished. Groping for your arms, wanting to secure them firmly to the carriage floor, slithering my larger frame over you as we grapple. “What are you gonna do now? This isn’t something you can write your way out of!”
Keeping my full weight applied to the pin, sliding your arms higher, my palms locked about each wrist, squeezing firmly in an effort to keep them pinned above your head. Smiling deviously, enjoying the look of discomfort on your face, perhaps even the beginnings of fear. “You don’t have to answer right away. In fact, don’t bother answering at all.” Slivering up your smaller body and, with an evil little purr, lowering my chest over your nose and mouth.
***
Jacqui-
Your powerful rolling move dislodges me from my position atop you, and you waste no time taking advantage of that momentum to wrestle me to my back as I squirm and struggle to thwart you.
I knew you were larger, but I’ve never had you on top of me before, as you use your extra heft to pin me down while also capturing my wrists and pressing them to the carriage floor. Above my head, then higher, as high as my arms will go, stretching me out so my halter top displays an embarrassing amount of midriff skin. The sultry midnight air tickles my bare tummy like a damp feather. Being on top was better, even with your thighs punishing my waist.
You smile down at me as I wriggle wildly, trying to buck my hips against your weight, my knees bent, feet flat on the floor as you straddle me. You know you’re winning and you want me to know you’re winning.
Your taunting stings as you revel in your control. Once again taking your time, letting it all play out to your satisfaction. Dawdling.
“What are you gonna do now?"
It's your eyes that embarrass me and make me want to look away as they bore into mine, searching for signs of weakness or hint of submission. I slither beneath you, gaining no traction, simply stuck. Feet busily slapping against the floor. My body writhing to no avail. Some of my hair slathered to my sweaty face, the rest lying limp around my head and shoulders.
You move your thighs snug to my side and ride me like a rodeo girl, heels digging into my ribs, long blonde hair alive and bouncing, your halter top hanging loose, giving me a full view of your breasts, gleaming with sweat and lowering bit by bit, evil purr by evil purr, til they reach the target, engulfing my nose and mouth. Your eyes are smiling. My eyes are wide with fear, barely showing above your boobs as my breath catches in my throat and my face jerks to the side, desperately seeking escape.
Another taunt as my fingers tighten into fists, but glued to the floor by your fingers around my wrists. My feet kick wildly from the carriage floor, strewn with State Fair litter of Pronto Pup pieces and funnel cake parts nobody could finish. I feel the stickiness on the bottom of my sandals from spills of fresh squeezed lemonade.
My mind reeling as your breasts snuggle tighter, cutting off more and more air, along with more and more dignity and hope. And I desperately flail with my left leg, kicking upward enough to send a sandal flying toward the back of your head. A quick and urgent twist of my hips, and my right foot also breaks away from the sticky floor and sends another sandal like a missile in search of any piece of your head within range.
***
Vanessa-
Game over. Not a bad little effort from a rookie, a fact that might prove inconvenient for her, now that she's getting intimately acquainted with my girls. The feisty little scribe has given me JUST enough trouble to merit a drawn out defeat, deserving of a bit of extra anguish before I let her go out.
Such is my thinking (one could well argue my hubris) as I stretch your arms inexorably higher, forcing your own modest chest to heave beneath me. A few inches more and those panicked eyes will disappear between my breasts, oxygen cut off completely unless and until I allow you a few desperate breaths.
And I will. How many I've yet to determine, but this won't be a peaceful, easy sink into blackness. You’re going to linger, hopeless and helpless, struggling for air like a trout on the floor of a Crestliner. Because you need to understand that this story of yours, while a potential award winner, was truly a fool's errand.
All these thoughts, the vision of my triumph as a thing already accomplished, are suddenly and rather rudely dispelled from mind with the dull "THWACK" of the sandal sole as it bounces off the back of my skull. It's not all that painful, certainly not enough to break my hold on you, but as a distraction? It works wonders.
"Was that it? Your last gasp is kicking off your footwear like a 5 year old throwing a tantrum?" Rising a bit higher to look you full in the face. But of course, that isn't it, and the hard twist of your hips beneath me, taking advantage of the space I've so generously created, manages to jar me off my perch, shifting my own weight awkwardly and drawing a surprised, frustrated groan as I'm forced to roll clear, abandoning my grip on your arms to avoid a rough landing.
My face darkening, I scramble back to my feet, kicking aside a few discarded wrappers, sending the thrown off footwear skittering beneath the bench behind you. "You're gonna wish you hadn't done that..."
***
Jacqui-
Buried in a sea of boobs as I frantically struggle for air, for freedom, for thoughts, anything that can get me out of this dark, sweaty, slippery mess, my back planted to the floor of a Ferris Wheel eerily silent after midnight on the final day of the State Fair.
No noisy crowd, no Kewpie dolls, no cotton candy, no two-headed cows, no tractor displays. Even the grandstand is empty. It's over for this Fair.
Is it over for me? Three answers. No. No. No.
I still have weapons. My wits, my legs. My sandals.
Yes, my sandals. Hard and stiff on the bottom, they serve as a projectile as I kick my left foot upwards and send missile No. 1 into the back of your head, not hurting too much but startling you. You quickly lift your head to look back, raising your breasts up as well, giving me a chance at greedy gulps of air.
You see my right sandal hurtling toward your head and quickly dodge, shifting your weight just as I begin a full-fledged attack of my knees, jerking them up and hard into your lower back. Left, right, left, right. Trying to break your concentration and wreak havoc with your balance, upsetting your apple cart.
A wild ride now for Vanessa as your slippery mount is out of control, bucking and twisting, firing knees, tipping the apple cart. Apples flying everywhere, a couple of peaches also shaking crazily and on the loose, no longer in my face.
The more air I swallow, the more rambunctious I become, the more I kick and twist and shout. Until you are forced to roll clear of the donnybrook, taking your dangerous boobs with you and releasing my wrists as you scramble to your feet. Scowling, kicking at my sandals. Almost in spite.
Fine, I don't need them anymore. My bare feet grip the sticky floor as I roll to all fours and rise to my feet, my dark hair dangling and stringy, my face flushed from embarrassment and anger.
We face each other in a darkened arena high over the fairgrounds. No witnesses. Just four eyes glaring in the blackness.
You offer a threat.
I offer a sudden lunge forward and a fist for your stomach.
***
Vanessa-
I watch you fumble in the gloom through narrowed eyes, burning centroids of anger and frustration. All about the carriage, the shadows dancing wildly, the scrambling of limbs creating a hellish forest of ghostly arms, spreading along the walls and across the windows.
Bending slightly at the knees to receive the lunge, tensing my core even as my hips twist inward, taking a glancing blow that skids off the primed and waiting muscles above my navel and connects at last with my hip bone. Absorbing the shock with a quiet grunt, satisfied in the thought that your knuckles almost certainly took the worst of that, and determined to render that discomfort insignificant in short order.
"Desperate and sloppy. You put yourself in a vulnerable spot for an attack that had no real chance of success." More a taunt than instruction, the good humor all gone out of me, washed away by a rising tide of blood lust. Punctuating the critique with a hard downward thrust of my right arm, driving the point of the elbow between your shoulder blades, just below the base of the neck. Spinning on my heel, pivoting into a straddle over your lower back as you crash heavily to the carriage floor, prone for the moment. Raising my right leg, squinting in the gloom for just an instant before bringing my heel down violently into the small of your back.
***
Jacqui-
You offer words, but I offer action, lunging at you with a gleam in my eye and a fist aimed for your stomach as I anticipate your gasp, your moans, your doubling over. And all for my delight.
Instead, I get your quiet grunt as you twist your hips and evade the brunt of my punch, now smacking against your hip bone instead of the softness of your flesh. I wince as my knuckles find bone, and you offer more words, a taunt as I bend forward, my sweaty face brushing against the targeted midsection.
A taunt that quickly dissipates in the hot summer air but is followed by a pointy elbow between my shoulder blades, driven with force, driving me to the floor, face down at your feet, my left cheek against sticky lemonade stains.
You spin, your legs vanishing from my sight as you pivot, stepping over me and straddling my lower back.
Then the heel stomp, vicious, ugly.
A scream rings out in the blackness of the night. Pain shoots up my back and my feet bounce wildly on the floor. Eyes scrunched closed, teeth clenched tightly. Awash in anguish.
It's all or nothing now.
Let it be all. Pushing up with my sweaty palms, I roll toward my right, spot the target, and kick up and back with my left leg, driving my heel into the outside of your left knee. The knee holding you up as you lift your right leg for a second attack.
***
Vanessa-
Your spryness, even after the abuse you’ve taken, is surprising. My stomping foot slamming down awkwardly into the carriage floor, to be followed quickly by the rest of me. The kick finding its mark, driving into the outside of my knee and buckling it, spilling me to the filthy floor.
Clutching my knee and cursing as I plant one elbow beneath me, propped up a bit and scooting backwards towards the bench. Keeping a close watch on your movements as I ease myself up with the seat for support, testing my knee with a bit of pressure, wincing noticeably.
“You…..you’re proving to be a real escape artist. It’s beginning to get on my nerves!” Shaking my leg a bit, still working to loosen up the knee. Waiting for you to make a move, giving you air and opportunity to make another rookie mistake.
***
Jacqui-
The darkest hour is just before dawn.
Just as Vanessa has me down, stomping on me, a glimmer of light appears. And becomes a beacon as I realize the stomper is standing on one foot. A precarious position.
I roll just far enough and kick just hard enough to make that position even more precarious. A house of cards. Easily toppled, queens falling to the left, jokers to the right. Cursing as you topple.
A grimace on my face as I roll to all fours, then up to my knees. Wincing as I rub the ungodly tender spot in the small of my back. You got in one ferocious heel smash. I thank my lucky stars it was just one.
Both of us easing our aching bodies upward, eyes warily studying each other as we slowly rise to our feet, facing each other. You're talking, but I'm not listening. I'm thinking. ”How should I hit her?”
My last punch didn't work. You'll never expect me to try it again. I've learned my lesson.
But I do! Surprise! Clenching my left fist, aiming for your abs. You won't expect it.
And won't get it as I suddenly stop.
Then kick out hard and fast with my right heel aimed at your aching left knee.
***
Vanessa-
You’re telegraphing another punch, but I'm through with evasive maneuvers. Leaning forward and tensing my core to receive the blow, fingers spread and claws flashing in the moonlight. "Come on, let me have your best shot. Get in nice and close, let me clamp down on that jet black mane and show you how to REALLY work the body!” My lips curling into a wicked sneer at the thought, the image so vivid in my mind. Ready to drag you into my web as soon as the punch lands.
But it doesn't land. It's a feint, of course, and a pretty damn well exercised one. My weight tilted forward as it is, the kick to my injured knee is like swiping away the bottom of a house of cards. With a groan of pain and arms flailing I drop, crashing heavily on the filthy carriage floor. A rough and decidedly undignified landing, my chin rattling and a blinding pain flashing behind my eyes. "NNNGHHH....FUCK!" Seeing spots and stars, rolling slowly onto my back, holding my face and blinking rapidly in the gloom. Fighting to chase away the fog that's threatening to settle thick and weighty upon my aching head.
***
Jacqui-
I love it when a plan comes together.
You’ve outsmarted me so far in this fight and made me pay. Punishing my stomach with your knee, smooshing my face against the window, torturing my abs with your thighs, nearly putting me into dreamland with your boobs, viciously driving your heel into my lower back. You’re a fighter, deadly, efficient and the heroine of your own books.
And I'm Cinderella. But I don't have to be home by midnight. The fight began at midnight. Just 30 minutes ago. I've learned a lot in that half hour.
Trickery is important. Deception. Don't be the fool. Be the one who fools.
You wanted my best shot. And you get it, your damaged knee collapses, dropping you to the floor. Awkwardly, foolishly leading with your chin in a collision with the floor. You moan, obviously dazed and rolling slowly to your back, clutching your face with both hands.
My eyes widen and my jaw drops as the vision of you on your back and moaning appears before me. I quickly drop and straddle you, my buns resting on your tummy, wriggling in for a good fit before bouncing twice, my dark raven hair shaking. Then my left hand grabs your right and pulls it away from your face.
"Anybody in there?" I smile. I watch you blink, your blue eyes bleary. Mine glowing, fiery brown and lively.
My right hand finds a grip on your blonde hair, right at the scalp line. And I playfully lift your head up, pausing to capture the image in my mind.
Before slamming the back of your skull against the floor.
***
Vanessa-
My eyes unfocused, staring into the blackness of the carriage ceiling and fighting the myriad fireworks exploding in my head. “Fuck….FUCK! This wasn’t supposed to happen….” The thought cutting through the haze, invisible hands slapping at my brain, attempting to kickstart a defense.
My inner monologue cut off quickly, the impact of your weight and deceptively nice rear making my core quiver, forcing a ragged rush of oxygen from my lungs. Unprepared abs throbbing dully under your bouncing bottom, momentarily taking the spotlight from my aching knee and pounding headache.
Slender fingers curling in my hair, lifting my head until our eyes lock and I can read the determination on your face, even through the blur. “Is that all you’ve got for me?” Forcing a smirk, projecting a cockiness I’m no longer feeling. “A REAL bad bitch would’ve ended it by now!” There’s no pithy rejoinder on your part, of course. A solid spike of my head against the floor says more than words ever could.
“I REALLY gotta learn to keep my mouth shut….’’ The fireworks roaring back with a vengeance now, it feels like the grand finale. And it’s likely curtains for me as well, unless I act fast, and get a little luck. There’s 3 Jacquis hovering over me, shimmering and ethereal, for all the darkness of the room. Closing my eyes, I swing a right hand up, aiming for the bitch in the middle. Hoping you’re basking in your glory, or at least sadistic enough to be more concerned with punishing me than defending yourself.
***
Jacqui-
You’re failing badly at humility. Still mouthing off even as I straddle you and bounce my gym-trained buns on your bare tummy, softer now as you’re too groggy to tighten up. That raspy breath music to my ears.
And yet between gasps, as you struggle for air and I hold your head up so our eyes meet, defiant words spew from your mouth. Not the words of a vanquished fighter, but insults and a smirk so out of place.
"Is that all you've got for me?"
Not quite all as I slam your head down on the floor. Smiling as the thunk echoes in the darkness and I look again into your eyes and wonder if your mood has been altered. I'm thinking a good smack in the back of the head will bring you back to your senses.
Your answer is a flying fist, snapping my head to the right, but softly. Leaving only a hint of red on my left cheek. So hard to punch upward with dangerous power. More of a flail. A disappointment, actually, from a fiery fighter, a legend in your own books, now on your back with eyes barely focusing. Her starch is nearly gone.
You’re the first serious fighter I've ever met and you’ve taught me so much in so little time. You even use your breasts as weapons. Crazy. I want to do that. If it's a choice between punching you out with my fists or knocking you out with my boobs, it's boobs all the way. I'd look so professional, stylish.
Maybe mine aren't as large and fearsome as yours, but you work with what you have. And what happens to be handy, as I notice your own pair hanging half out of the halter top. There for the taking. I smile and arch my back, peeling my own halter top up and over my head and tossing it aside, shaking my boobs playfully, my dark raven hair brushing against them.
Let's bring everybody to the party. Four boobs are obviously better than two, I'm thinking, as I scooch up a bit on your chest, cradling your boobs in my left elbow as I once again take a grip of your hair with my right hand and pull your head up into my breasts as I lean down.
Pressing all four boobs into your face. Various angles, various sizes, working together for a common goal.
Victory over the paperback writer.
***
Vanessa-
The punch connects, or at least I THINK it did. Feeling the impact on my knuckles, but seeing no real effect on any one of the triumvirate of Jacquis hovering over me. I'm preparing to try something, ANYTHING else. Still fighting the spots and flashes that keep edging into the corners of my vision when you push both palms up firmly against the undersides of my breasts, palming my girls like a randy teenager and forcing them upwards, spilling them free of my top.
"Wha?'’ Is all I have time to get out before you flop forward, draping your smaller frame over my face, at once silencing me and answering the unfinished question by burying me beneath your modest chest. Perhaps sensing your own pair won’t quite suffice, you curl an arm behind my head, cradling it against the elbow and pressing my face lower. Using my breasts in addition to your own , a cunning tag team effort that I’d find laudable in most other circumstances.
Hips bucking, long legs thrashing slowly in the darkness, I frantically try to break free. The lack of oxygen makes it impossible to strategize, I’m reduced to instinctive flailing, groping blindly for your arms, your hair. “Not going to happen! I’m not going to lose!!”
Putting everything I’ve got left in the tank towards a last ditch, Hail Mary effort. Wrenching my right shoulder off the floor and rolling us both sideways, anticipating the release of your arms.
But they don’t release. Coiled around my arms and legs both, you manage to ride out the roll and keep going, planting me back under you once more. An angry, helpless groan escapes my lips to die quickly against your body. My eyes flutter weakly, then slowly slip shut. My legs kick once, twice, and a third time before they finally drop to the floor, sliding to a stop with a last lingering exhale.
***
Jacqui-
I remember it so clearly. My blistering cross-court forehand, the weak return, a wobbling sphere of yellow fuzz, a sitting duck at match point. I attacked the net and smiled at the open court. I could have done anything, a dink, a dropshot. I was in control.
What a rush!
I smashed it as hard as I could! Threw my arms up in triumph. Sheer joy! I was 14, my first tennis trophy. Many others to come, but the first one stands out.
A year later, another first. I was 15. He was 16. An older man. Hot summer night. He was in control. He took advantage of my youth and my lust. It was awful. I hated it and vowed never to have sex again. That lasted four days. This time I attacked him, frightened him. I was in control, got what I wanted and vowed never to see him again. And I didn't.
Now my latest first. My first fight. And I see victory smiling at me. I have Vanessa where I want her. I'm on top.
Four boobs in play and I control all four. You struggle to breathe, gasping, choking. Any airway that opens quickly finds another boob eager to fill the gap. It's like juggling.
I feel you losing steam, but you suddenly throw everything you have into a desperate roll. I adjust, letting you struggle, as I easily roll with you, riding the roll, juggling, hanging on til we're back at the starting point with me on top, still in control of all the boobs.
Now simply watching.
As you wither on the vine. Your eyelids flutter and slowly close. A final twitch. Your legs bounce three times, weaker each bounce, then fall silent on the floor. Toes in opposite directions. I take a huge breath and run my fingers through my hair, shaking it out. Arms raised in victory as I straddle you. Smiling to a crowd of none.
Your large and luscious boobs settle like mounds of vanilla pudding with cherries on top. My fingers reach down, teasing the cherries to life. Then several playful pats on your tummy.
"Thanks for the lesson, Vanessa."[/i]
***
**Epilogue**
Jacqui-
Those screams coming from the State Fair Ferris Wheel on Monday night?
Just novelist Vanessa Marsh beating the tar out of me.
I DO know how to start a news story.
Get their attention right away. That's my style. Who is going to stop reading after the first two sentences? Nobody. Readers are slack-jawed. They want to know more. Like who the hell is Vanessa Marsh? And why is she beating the tar out of the reporter?
Good questions. And I spend the next 1,000 words answering them.
A few of the highlights in the story, which begins on Page One:
Vanessa Marsh is a paperback novelist, a local woman who sells a lot of books about a heroine who is also a paperback novelist. The heroine packs a mean punch and gets into fights in every book, mostly winning but sometimes losing, and the readers lap it up. They can hardly wait until fists are flying. It's suspense, action, sexy women battling it out. It's addictive.
But that's just half the story. Vanessa is also a fighter and bases her fictional fights on her real fights. She knows what she is talking about and has the bruises to prove it.
And I have the bruises to prove it. She fights someone for every book. After I interviewed her for the story, she had this peculiar gleam in her eyes. And I had the same peculiar gleam in my eyes. We both knew I was the someone for this book.
The State Fair Ferris Wheel was the site. Labor Day was the time, just after the Fair closed for the season. We faced each other in the midnight darkness when our carriage stopped at the top. I was excited, breathless, and nervous.
She said the world is simple now. One of us will win and one of us will lose.
Then she hit me.
For the next 30 minutes, she hit me and kicked me and squeezed me with her thighs. I battled back, blow for blow. Each of us getting the upper hand at times.
Until finally the loser lay unconscious on the floor, pieces of Pronto Pups and funnel cake scattered about, the scent of spilled lemonade adding to the Fair atmosphere.
The most exciting night of my life.
***
Vanessa-
“A Week At The Fair”, The innocuously titled new release from the preeminent catfight author of our generation (she says in all modesty), was released a month later. The pulpiest of pulp fiction, it was chapter upon lurid chapter chronicling seven days of battles. From the horse barn to the hall of mirrors, a knock down drag out slugfest in a dirt lot encircled by hooting carnies, to a sexfight in the Tunnel of Love. The “Ferris Wheel Fracas” chapter closed out the book, and deservedly so. What follows is an excerpt from that chapter:
When I awoke, the fairgrounds were pitch black. The carriage resting upon the ground, its door left open, by Jacqui or the ride operator I couldn’t be certain. Easing myself slowly up on my elbows, I could see the Midway stretching out before me, empty and ominous as the void itself. It was hardly the worst defeat I suffered, as the longtime reader will know. There would be no long hours devoted to pulling splinters from my back, no need to either stock up on concealer, or craft clever excuses for black eyes and swelling, or both. But don’t think that made it any easier to stomach. From the moment I staggered out of that carriage and limped slowly along the darkened street of the Midway toward my car, there was one thing on my mind. “365 days until Labor Day. 365 days until round 2.”
-The End-
