When our triangle first formed, all those years ago in college, if you had told me that this night, this scene, lay in our future, I would have thought it was the craziest story ever. Still, a story that made my cock hard. Marcy and Dana, Dana and Marcy.
“I beat you last time,” Dana said. “Remember what I told you then, Marcy? You aren’t good enough.”
“Quitter,” Sara again, from her place on the wall. Then a long silence. Marcy only looked at Dana. She raised her fists and took a deep, shuddering breath. “One more time,” she said.
Which one of them was stronger? More like which one was less damaged at this point. I wondered again if Dana could even feel her tits, they were so brutalized. Marcy’s left eye was ruined roadkill. The way she held herself, it was obvious her back and shoulder were in agony. The only reason her tits didn’t look horrifying was that Dana’s were much much worse.
They came together in a clinch, my brunettes, their left arms around each other’s necks, their right fists driving into the other’s body. Every breath was a sob. Thud. Thud. Thud. The way they turned, I was looking into Marcy’s face as Dana’s fist went deep into her guts. Pure torment.
Dana was stronger. We all saw it. She was steering Marcy as she beat her. The Steinway loomed large in the corner of the room. Step by shuffling step, red heels gave ground as blue ones pushed forward. Marcy’s back hit the piano’s tail, the curved taper in its cabinet, Dana hit Marcy’s ribs, the lowest ones, the ones that break the easiest. She gripped her throat and bent her backwards. Marcy’s wet curls left beads of water on the polished wood. Her arms fell outstretched on the lid as Dana throttled her. Her legs spread as Dana ground into her. Dana raised her other fist and hammered it down, like pounding a table for order, into Marcy left breast. The blows sounded like a meat hammer, the piano amplifying them. I didn’t count. Twenty, maybe. Marcy’s breast was as ruined as Dana’s now, a swollen bag of blood. Dana dug her nails into it. Marcy’s body spasmed. She was out of air.
Inexplicably, Dana let her stranglehold go. Maybe she didn’t realize how close she was; maybe she just wanted to hurt Marcy more. She switched to hammering Marcy’s right breast. Marcy jerked in pain but she could breathe again.
When Dana’s fist came down again, flattening Marcy’s breast, Marcy trapped it, both hands. She hooked her left leg up and across Dana’s throat. She lay back on the lid, her lower belly and hips a fulcrum under Dana’s elbow, the lid’s edge a fulcrum under her ass, and dragged Dana’s head and shoulders back, and down. Dana’s knees buckled as she twisted, screaming as her elbow exploded in agony.
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After that, it could only end one way. Dana on her knees at the keyboard, Marcy’s teardrop ass on the lid crushing what was left of her rival’s tits, her legs over Dana’s shoulders, grinding Dana’s face into her pussy. Bedlam in the room as the host crossed the floor.
Dana was unconscious. Like one mind, every set of eyes turned to Holly. She was motionless. He raised Marcy’s hand. It was over. Marcy stood, and looked at me. I caught her as she collapsed.
The first door I tried opened into the billiard room. It would have to do. I laid Marcy on the table, the perfect green felt that looked new. I peeled her red panties down her legs as she tore my shirt open, jerked my belt off my hips. “Fuck me fuck me fuck me,” she moaned, panting hard. I mounted her and sank deep.
God, all those years together, it had never been like that. Her pussy was electric, milking spurt after spurt of cum from me, somehow keeping me hard through her multiple orgasms too, until I came a second time, a dry heave inside her that triggered a final climax for her. We’d left the door open, and I was dimly aware that Sara and Monica watched us, the sweat cooling on our skin.
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Did we get back together, Marcy and me? Lord no. Can you blame her? But it’s a thin line, isn’t it, between love and hate; or maybe it’s a triangle: love, hate, and savage lust? We still had that corner. One of three.
