Michael knew there were some questions that you never answer honestly. Those questions range from the job interview suicide offer of "What are your weaknesses?" to the simple classic "Do you think I look fat?" to the nuclear option that his wife had just tossed out.
Brenda lay on the couch across his lap, lazily stroking his cock. She turned her shoulders so he could reach her breasts. The TV was on. This might ripen into sex, it might not. She didn't mind that much either way. But his semi-hard cock had reminded her of a nagging impression, one that sat in the very back corner of her mind. So she asked.
"Come on," she said again. "I'm just curious. If I didn't exist, which of my friends would you like to fuck?%" She took him in her mouth and waited, sucking gently.
You just don't answer that. Especially if you are actually fucking one of her friends behind her back.
"No one, baby," Michael said. She raised an eyebrow, but started sucking harder. His cock grew thicker in her mouth. Mmmmmm, Brenda thought.
He sure as hell wasn't going to tell her that his cock hardened because he was thinking about Rhonda.
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Michael and Brenda had first met David and Rhonda through mutual friends. They were part of a larger social circle, a group of couples, who gathered for happy hours and barbecues, that kind of thing. Now and then, they went out to dinner as a foursome. All very pleasant. Then one summer day, they had drinks at Michael and Brenda's pool. Maybe a few too many drinks. Rhonda hadn't planned to swim but with inhibitions lowered, she changed her mind. Brenda loaned her a bikini.
Brenda was 38DD, and yet Rhonda spilled out of her borrowed bikini top. Jesus Christ, Michael thought. He did his level best not to be obvious. Rhonda and David were flirting away, so it wasn't that hard to avoid their notice. Rhonda caught him looking as she climbed out of the pool, the water streaming off her. None of them were kids anymore, but mature women were sexier to Michael anyway. Rhonda's body had curves. She smiled and winked at him, then picked up a towel and went into the house. He risked a glance at her ass as it jiggled away across the patio. Fuck, he was getting hard. Behind him, Brenda laughed, and touched David's arm.
"Michael," Rhonda called from the kitchen window. "Do you have limes?"
"Refrigerator door," he called back.
"I don't see them."
His erection had subsided enough for him to safely walk to the house.
Rhonda was waiting just inside the door. She had a lime in her hand, a grin on her lips, and her incredible tits up and out of her borrowed top. Her nipples were deep pink, almost red, and still wet from the pool. In the cool of the house, they jutted nearly an inch high. She kissed him, hard, her tongue dancing on his teeth. Her lime-free hand plunged into his shorts, ran down his cock - hard as steel now - and squeezed his balls.
"Did you find them?" Brenda called. Rhonda broke off the kiss, catching Michael's lower lip between her teeth for a second.
"Yes!" she called back. "They were right there in front of me!"
That was how it started. From the start, they agreed that it wouldn't split up their marriages. In a way, the fact that it was just raw sex made it hotter. On the surface, their relationship didn't change. It was the little, secret things that changed. Like now, when Rhonda came to a happy hour straight from her job as a nurse, in her blue scrubs and her hair pinned up in severe professional mode, Michael knew that she didn't wear panties under those scrubs, and that her pussy was shaved smooth as silk, and would be dripping wet within seconds if he played with her clit. Like how, when her hair was down, he thought of how incredibly sexy it was when it was on her shoulders and in her face as she rode his cock, leaning forward over his chest. And like how, when he looked at her chest penned up in the bras she couldn't avoid wearing, he knew her all-natural tits were the heaviest, hardest wrecking balls he'd ever seen when she let them swing free.
They fucked whenever they could, which was not nearly often enough to suit either of them. Michael and Brenda had always had good sex, but it was fairly conventional unless Brenda had a little too much to drink. There was nothing conventional about Rhonda. She loved to suck his cock, anytime, anywhere. She'd lie on her back with her head tilted back off the edge of the hotel bed while he deep-fucked her throat. It drove him insane to feel her fingernails dig into his ass as his cock disappeared between her lips all the way to its root while her big hard tits bounced on her chest. She never said make love. She said fuck, and she said it constantly. She wanted him to fuck her in her ass. She wanted him to fuck her standing up in the restaurant bathroom. She wanted him to fuck her and pull her hair, call her a slut, choke her, slap her tits. The rougher he was, the harder she came.
And that was before they discovered their mutual kink.
Since adolescence, Michael was aroused by catfighting. Even the heavy-set matrons of pro wrestling back in those days made him tingle; the tantalizingly brief and phony Dynasty-type scuffles made him hard. Then he discovered magazines, and then the internet came alone. Christ, today the pro-wrestlers look like porn stars.
Every woman he'd ever been with, he tested the waters carefully. Most of them clearly had no interest at all. Brenda had briefly indulged him with some dirty talk, and he supposed she knew his browser history, but she had labored at it, and he had let it go.
Testing the water with Rhonda was like testing gasoline with an open flame.
Rhonda loved the idea of fighting another woman. Even more specifically, Rhonda was crazy fucking turned on by the idea of fighting Brenda. Brenda was the only woman in their circle who had tits that could even compete with Rhonda's. And now the topic was all Rhonda needed, or wanted, for foreplay.
"Describe her pussy," Rhonda demanded, as she fingered her own. Michael told her how Brenda trimmed her pubic hair, into a neat triangle. She moaned when he said the hair was just long enough to grip, that she could pull it out while Brenda screamed.
"Her fat flabby tits," Rhonda whispered, as she squeezed Michael's cock in her cleavage. "You're are bigger," he said. "Much, much harder. Her tits are soft." He waited until he reached back and penetrated her with his fingers to tell her how she would destroy Brenda in a titfight. Her hips would buck with her orgasm, which always made him cum in concert, thick on her tits and throat
"Tell me about her nipples," she said as she went down on him. He described Brenda's pink areolas, how they were wider than Rhonda's but never as hard, except for the one time Brenda was drunk and told him to bite them while he fucked her. Rhonda's thick red nipples turned to stone, and she pinched them and gasped with his cock in her mouth, as she pictured biting Brenda tits until they bled. She greedily swallowed what Michael emptied into her mouth, except for what she deliberately let drip from her grinning lips onto her tits.
And while Michael fucked her, she talked about catfighting Brenda - no, she moaned about it. With her legs wrapped around his waist, her nails dug into his back, Rhonda described in vivid detail how she would fight Brenda, how she'd pound her tits, claw her pussy. How she would hurt her. It was an incredibly sadistic fantasy, and unbearably erotic. He would violently fuck her, as hard as he could, and she met every thrust and wanted more. Her favorite climax to her story, the point that unironically always triggered an avalanche of an orgasm, was this:
"I'd break her, Michael. I'd break your bitch wife's spirit. She'd beg me for mercy, like a little girl. She'd beg me to fuck you, to save herself." Rhonda's voice would change as she shuddered in her orgasm, into a gasping, dead-on imitation of Brenda.
"Please!! No more . . . . please . . . . !"
The facade started to crack. When the four were together, Rhonda would go out of her way to stand near Brenda, to compare their bodies. She dressed more daringly. She invented reasons to show her bare stomach, or talk about her breasts. Brenda noticed. That's why she asked Michael the question, about which of her friends he'd fuck.
"I think she suspects," he said to Rhonda a few days later. She stretched like a cat over him, her big tits swaying.
"Let her," she purred. "I hope she smells my pussy on your cock, that bitch. Let her start something. She'll regret it before I finish with her."
The fantasy was growing too strong for Rhonda. A week later, she invited Michael and Brenda to dinner for Saturday night.
Michael watched Brenda getting ready in their bedroom. She lingered over lotioning after her shower. Her skin was fair and freckled; her brunette hair tousled and wet. She ran her hands over her breasts and glanced sideways at him in the mirror. He came to her and stood behind her; she reached up and back with both hands, her fingers on the back of his neck and in his hair. He cupped her breasts. In the mirror, she closed her eyes and smiled.
"We'll be late," Michael said.
Brenda opened her eyes. "Later, then?" she said. She turned, and pressed her breasts against his chest. "I want your cock between my tits," she whispered. "I want your cum all over them." He nodded.
She put on her sexiest lingerie, black lace, and her black heels and little black cocktail dress. "For dinner with David and Rhonda?" Michael asked.
"She suggested the LBD," Brenda said. "She said I looked great in it. I guess I wore it to something last fall. She's going to wear hers too. A who-wore-it-better-thing." She laughed.
Uh oh, he thought.
There was a post-it note on their doorbell. M & B Come on in.
"Hello?" Michael called from the foyer.
"Come in!" It was Rhonda's voice muffled from the back of the house somewhere.
"Where's David?" Brenda asked. She'd brought wine he liked. Michael had noticed that, and he noticed she'd asked about him right away.
"I'm in the basement," Rhonda answered. "Could you guys come here please?"
Michael had been in their basement once before. It was unfinished, open space the size of the house's footprint. Cement floor and walls. Narrow windows, so most of the light came from the bare bulbs in the ceiling joists not far over his head. Steel supports were spaced around, holding up the house above them. Michael had thought then how uncluttered it was. He'd have stashed all kinds of odds and ends there, but David and Rhonda kept it almost empty.
They picked their way down the stairs, eyes adjusting to the lower light. Rhonda stood at the far end. Her hair was up. She wore a pearl choker, and hoop earrings. Her little black dress fit her like a glove, everywhere but her neckline, which her breasts made look a size too small. She held a glass of red wine, and sipped it.
"Where's David?%" Brenda asked again.
"Your lover isn't here," Rhonda said. "He's gone. Happy now?"
Silence. In the basement it just sort of hung there.
"To be fair, though," Rhonda said, taking a final sip of wine and putting the glass on the narrow ledge where the concrete basement wall supported the brick foundation. "I've been fucking your husband for quite awhile now. So I guess we're more or less even."
Brenda turned to leave but Michael was behind her.
"Hold it," Rhonda said sharply. She walked toward the couple, her heels clicking on the bare floor. "It's all coming out in the open now, so it's all over, but there's one thing. The reason I invited you two here." She stopped in the center of the floor. "I haven't just be fucking him, Brenda. He and I have a game, a game where you and I fight. I think, tonight, you and I should play the game." She set her feet shoulder-width apart, her skirt pulled tight.
"Fight me, Brenda, you bitch. If you've got the guts."
Brenda's eyes were fixed on Rhonda, but she spoke to Michael.
"You want this," her inflection wasn't quite a question. He knew she knew the answer anyway. Now that it was reality rather than fantasy, he might have said No but for the fact that he now knew about David.
Brenda didn't look back. She walked toward Rhonda.
