Two months had passed since the fight between Dana and Holly at the beach house, and Marcy was obsessed. That might have been annoying if it didn’t mean that she wanted sex constantly and wanted to talk catfights while we fucked. I was not complaining. In a way it was good for her. She seemed to go into training, if that makes sense. She ate leaner, ran every day, even started lifting weights. Always a tight body, she got tighter. Near-constant sex is a great fitness program.
She wouldn’t say it, but I think she wanted to fight Dana. I wasn’t ready for that. Marcy didn’t know that I had been fucking Dana for years behind her back, and a catfight between them would surely include her finding out. Plus, Dana was still recovering from the brutal beating and strangling Holly had put on her. I knew that because even with Marcy on high fuck-me status, I couldn’t resist Dana’s fine pussy whenever my work took me to the town where she lived. No, a Marcy-Dana match-up was not in the cards for now.
I had someone else in mind for my wife.
Sara was a work colleague of mine. She was maybe thirty, a year or two older than Marcy but otherwise could be her twin, in terms of physique. She wore her honey-colored hair up most of the time, and black pencil skirts and white blouses. Corporate sexy. Sometimes, when she crossed her legs, I’d see the top of her stocking. Sometimes, when she turned, a gap in her blouse would form, and I’d see the white lace of her bra. I think the only thing sexier than that was when the gap was lower and I’d see her belly button in the center of her tanned flat stomach. Yes, belly buttons do it for me. They do it for a lot of guys.
I had long thought Sara at times would flirt with me, but if she was, it was subtle. Workplace flirting, with lots of plausible deniability. But three months ago, we had a joint business trip. End of the day, after a drink in the hotel bar, she wasn’t that subtle. She liked it rough. The harder I squeezed her tits, the harder I hammered my cock into her, the harder she came.
But you know what she did? She talked dirty the whole time about fighting my wife.
This was a delicate matter. I knew Marcy would go for it. But maybe Sara just liked to talk and not do. A wrong guess could get me fired. Finally, on a Friday afternoon, I closed Sara's office door behind me and just asked.
She unbuttoned her white blouse and went down on me. I took that as a Yes. I came on her tits and watched my cum trickle through her cleavage and down into her belly button.
Marcy couldn’t wait.
But, some things had to be negotiated. I took charge of wardrobe.
For Sara, white, of course. White lingerie. A push-up bra, matching lace panties, thigh-highs with a lace band at the top. White stiletto heels. A double strand of white pearls. For Marcy, I finally settled on red. A bra that cradled her sweet 36C breasts. Panties cut high up her hips. Matching heels. A gold necklace and hoop earrings.
Sara wanted two things. First, to bring her friend David just to make sure she stayed safe. He was gay and had no interest in a catfight but he was big and strong. I agreed, no problem. Second, that I was the fight prize. Marcy said No at first, but Sara called her a fucking coward and told her she’d fucked me once already and the entire reason she was in this was because she wanted to fuck me again and this time do it after beating the shit out of my wife.
It was an uncomfortable call, but it made Marcy furious and she said Yes. Then she slapped me and fucked me raw. The fight was set for Saturday night, ten p.m.
Marcy and I got to the beach house about nine. She kissed me hard and disappeared into the bedroom we shared there. I went to the main room and moved the wicker furniture out of the sunken area. After Dana and Holly, I’d had to replace the carpet. Blood doesn’t come out well. I adjusted the lights about ten different ways. Pulled the drapes. Fuck, I hated waiting.
Sara and David arrived at 9:45. He showed me he had a gun but looked bored and said he had no intent to use it unless something was seriously fucked up. He liked Sara fine but she had told him that so long as it all remained between her and Marcy he was to stay the fuck out no matter what. Cool, cool.
Sara waited out that little preamble. She was wearing a tan raincoat. Her hair was up. Her make-up was flawless and a little exaggerated, like the theater. Red lips, dusky eyes, cheekbones sharpened to knife blades. She opened her coat and shrugged it off her shoulders with an amazingly sexy compact motion. She was stunning in her white ensemble. I’d gotten the lighting perfect. She was breathing heavy already. She caught her lower lip between white teeth. “Where’s your bitch wife?” she said.
“Right here, you whore,” Marcy said from the door across the room. Jesus, only two moments rivalled how she looked in that moment: the first time she took her clothes off for me when we were both twenty, and our wedding night when we were twenty-three. At twenty-eight, I think she was at her peak now. She’d spent the hour well. She’d run oiled hands through her dark curls so her hair gleamed in the light. Like Sara, her make-up was perfect. Her eyes flashed. I found out later she’d even deepened her cleavage and accentuated her abs with a slight edge of blush. She was just incredibly erotic. She came towards us with a runway strut, her hips flashing. Two stairs down into the sunken circle, and waited with her hands on her hips.
It was an entrance designed to seize the psychological edge, and it worked until Sara reached over and ran her polished nails along the obvious erection under my slacks. She kissed me hard, aggressively pushing her tongue into my mouth and then licking my jawline. With a hand on my chest she pushed me away and took the two stairs herself.
Marcy met her head on. Or I should say tits on. Chest to chest. She knocked both of Sara’s boobs up and out of her bra cups. Sara gave a step and Marcy tit-butted her again. Sara’s heels were at the pit edge now. It was like a fucking amazing sumo match. Sara put a foot on the first step and lunged back. Marcy staggered. Sara hit her again. Now Marcy’s tits were up and out, the red bra squeezing them together. Sara hit her again. Marcy fell on her ass as the front clasp of her bra gave way.
Sara crowed. “You want to titfight, bitch?” Pinned up by her bra, her brown nipples were nearly pointing at the ceiling and bulged an inch from her areolas. Marcy bounced up and tossed away her bra rather than fix it. Sara’s hands cupped her breasts, pushing them up and together even more before unsnapping her own front clasp. “My girls will beat your girls, you little cxnt.”
They banged together again, this time neither giving ground. Spike heels dug into the carpet. Sternum to sternum. Their stomachs slapped together as they fought for leverage. Their tits rolled back and forth. Then Sara thrust forward. Marcy cried out.
“I hurt your little wifey just then, Ron,” Sara said. They were slowly turning in a circle as they ground their tits together. Marcy’s back was to me when Sara thrust again and Marcy’s black curls snapped back. The impact made her tight ass jiggle. Their tits flattened enough that their outer edges were visible on either side of Marcy’s back.
Sara twisted and Marcy lost her balance and spun off one side. She landed on her knees.
“You’re fucking pathetic,” Sara said. “Are you as bad a lover as you are a titfighter? No wonder your husband fucks around.” Clearly, Sara liked to trash talk. From her knees, Marcy lunged up and at her. With impeccable timing, Sara caught her on the side of her jaw with a knee. Marcy pinwheeled sideways and landed hard.
“Damn,” David said. I’d fucking forgotten he was even there.
Marcy lay on her back, dazed from that knee to the head. Sara strutted over her. Her ass looked amazing in her little white lace panties. With her hair up, her back was bare. She put her foot on Marcy’s chest. Marcy’s boobs are firm and perky, but the tits of any woman on her back angle out. Sara turned her foot sideways, slid her toe to the inside curve of Marcy’s right breast. The white stiletto heel poised an inch above the swell of Marcy’s nipple.
Sara looked at me and smiled. Her heel came down
Marcy shrieked in pain. She bucked and twisted. Sara kept her balance with difficulty but she kept it. The white spike was set in the dead center of Marcy’s breast. Marcy rolled and shoved Sara’s leg aside but those few seconds were devastating. The stiletto had torn open her nipple.
Sara grabbed two handfuls of Marcy’s curls and pulled her up to her knees and flung her back down. Marcy’s temple bounced on one of the stairs. Sara did the same thing and this time it was Marcy’s forehead that hit the edge of the stair. Thank God the carpet was thick. Still, Marcy had taken three brutal head shots in the space of a minute. Plus a sadistic spike heel to her breast.
“That’s enough!” I shouted. “Fight’s over!”
Sara stood astride my sobbing wife. “Are you that anxious to fuck me, Ron?” she said.
“Just get out,” I said. I moved towards Marcy but Sara put her hand up.
“We have a deal,” she said sharply.
“The deal was for a fight! You fucking win!”
“No,” she said. “The deal was for you to fuck whichever woman beat the shit out of the other.”
Behind me I heard David cock his pistol.
“I love the way you thought I was bringing him for my protection,” Sara’s smile was brilliant. “Like I needed protection! I brought him just for this. To keep you on the sidelines until I have all the fun I want with your stupid little wife. And then to make sure you come through on fucking the winner.”
I looked over my shoulder. David made a little motion with the gun barrel. I stepped back out and sat down heavily.
“Now where was I?” Sara said. But before she could turn her head, Marcy’s fist flashed up between her thighs from behind.
