This is the third and final Society story featuring Joyce (joycecheng) vs Tiffany (Tiffany_Fights), posted back in 2013. It follows on from the previous story posted here:
https://www.freecatfights.com/forums/index.php?topic=92683.0I'm reposting it here at Joyce's request.
Enjoy!
*****
Tiffany stood in the corner of the enormous living room, gazing around her at the crowd of people clustered in groups. Some talked quietly, some more animatedly, as black-clad waiters moved among them bearing trays of canapés and drinks. The room was dimly lit, furnished in chrome and black leather, painted and carpeted in white except for the broad square rug, perhaps twenty feet across, that occupied an expansive area in the center that was devoid of furniture though not, right now, of people. The lights of midtown Manhattan bathed one side of her face as she scanned her surroundings. Three walls of the room were comprised of floor-to-ceiling windows that gave panoramic views from the East River and Long Island City, past the Empire State Building a few blocks south, to the Hudson and the lights of New Jersey beyond.
There was a general air of excitement throughout the room. This was one of the largest – if not the largest – crowds Tiffany had seen here. There must be fifty people here – many couples, but probably slightly more women than men. She smiled inwardly at the thought that they were here for her – well, for her and that little Chinese bitch. The word had gotten out. This was no ordinary event – if anything that happened here was ordinary.
This was no ordinary party – no ordinary group. This was the Society, the most exclusive catfight club in the country. Here, the best of the best gathered to pit their strength, skill and determination against one another in physical combat, in front of a crowd comprised of New York’s – and the world’s – most rich and powerful. There were rules – nobody got seriously injured here – but the risks were high. This was not a good place to lose, as Tiffany herself had found out on one occasion, but the rewards more than outweighed the risks, at least in her mind. She would never forget the feeling when she saw the size of her first winner’s check, the night she had won her place here. That night – that fight – had changed her life.
Not that she did it entirely for the money – not even close. It was more than that – a lot more than that. It was the excitement, the thrill of feeling her body straining against another woman. The thought of risking herself, not just her body but her dignity, putting it all on the line, was what had motivated her ever since her first fight in a dive bar in Miami. That seemed like a lifetime ago.
Just like her, they came from all over the country and – like tonight – even the world, to fight here. The woman she would fight tonight had flown all the way from Hong Kong to be heretonight. Actually, she had flown all that way to be here two weeks ago, but things had gone awry a few days after she arrived, when a chance encounter with the manageress at the Society’s private gym – a petite blonde named Cindy who had been bugging the Society’s committee for a place here, ever since Tiffany had known her – had resulted in an impromptu challenge.
Tiffany’s smile broadened as she remembered that fight. She had seen it all. In a savage and hard-fought battle, Cindy had not only defeated the Chinese champion – a petite but surprisingly busty woman named Joyce – but had humiliated her horribly in ways that the Society itself did not permit in its official fights. Tiffany could still hear her screams of despairing lust as Cindy had forced her to an anguished orgasm in the middle of the gym’s fighting ring.
Yes, the word had definitely gotten out about that, and drawn the largest crowd she could remember. Cindy herself was here – the first time Tiffany had seen her at one of the Society’s gatherings – chatting with several fighters on the far side of the room. She had a glass of wine in her hand, so Tiffany surmised she was not here to fight. Tiffany herself nursed a glass of cranberry juice and she sipped at it, still scanning the room, wondering if the Chinese bitch
had arrived yet.
She caught sight of herself in the mirror that made up the fourth wall of the room. She had worn her hair up tonight in a tight bun that shone in the lights and emphasized her high cheekbones. She had spent four hours in the salon today having her hair and makeup done. Her dark brown eyes and cherry red lips were flawless. Her face was framed by the silver drop earrings that brushed against her long, shapely neck each time she turned her head. A matching silver pendant hung at her throat. As she lifted her hand to brush a stray strand of hair back behind her ear, her broad silver bracelet, embossed with a complex pattern of entwined vines, flashed in the light. Her other wrist bore its twin, the pattern a mirror image. Her glossy nails, trimmed short, were a perfect match for her dress and lipstick.
Her lipstick matched the vermillion red of her strapless mini-dress, which clung to her slender but buxom figure like a glove. Little more than a bustier with a short skirt, it pushed her full breasts upward and inward, accentuating the deep valley of her cleavage, cinching her waist and hugging her narrow hips. Her six-inch heels matched the dress and had her walking almost on tiptoe, highlighting the length and exquisite musculature of her legs, pushing her
rounded buttocks out. She looked amazing, and she knew it. That wasn’t arrogance, merely an acknowledgement that all the hours in the gym, the fanatical attention to diet, exercise and discipline had paid off. She was a fighter – a warrior – and she was in peak condition, like a thoroughbred racehorse.
“You won’t be smiling later,” said a voice behind her. “Not when I’m done with you.”
She spun to face the speaker. Joyce stood a few feet away, regarding her appraisingly. She was shorter than Tiffany by a couple of inches. Her glossy jet-black hair was loose and brushed her bare shoulders. She wore a white halter-necked cocktail dress and matching heels. The neckline of the dress plunged almost to her navel, exposing the tanned curves of her generous
cleavage. A golden chain dangled from her throat and held a pendant engraved with an indecipherable Chinese symbol.
Her smile was unabashed – inscrutable was the word they used to describe the Chinese, and it certainly seemed to fit here. Tiffany smiled back knowingly. “I wouldn’t be so sure of that…honey.” The last word dripped with anything but honey.
Joyce’s dark eyes roved up and down Tiffany’s body. “You look a lot better than you did in the gym,” she conceded. Her pink tongue flicked across her lips and Tiffany tried not to raise an eyebrow, wondering just what the bitch was thinking. Not that it mattered. Joyce was going down and that was that. Tiffany would make sure of it.
“So do you,” she shot back, “though that’s not difficult. Back then, you were squealing like a virgin as Cindy fucked your brains out.”
The smile did not leave Joyce’s face. “Losing is part of the game. When you lose, you pay the price. I don’t let it haunt me.”
“Well, get ready to lose again,” said Tiffany. “What Cindy did to you will seem like a walk in the park.” She sipped at her juice, gazing at her soon-to-be-adversary over the rim of her glass. “Not that I’ll give you what she did, of course. I’m the only one who’s getting off tonight…as I ride your face.” That was a rule for Tiffany. No matter how much she wanted to humiliate
a defeated opponent, she never made – or let – them cum. Why should the loser get any pleasure out of it? To the winner went the spoils of victory. Let the losers lay there crying in defeat. That was the price they paid. “Feel free to beg all you like, of course,” she added with a wink, and mimicked, “Please…please fuck me! I’m sure the audience will enjoy it.”
Joyce’s smile seemed painted on her face. “That was then…tonight will be something very different.” She inclined her head slightly. “Cindy and I have…come to an understanding. She’s been helping me train…helping a lot.”
Tiffany knew that much was true. She had heard from other fighters in the Society – none of them could really be called friends when they might be tearing each other’s hair out one night in this room, but they did exchange gossip – that Joyce had been in the gym every day. That was unusual – most fighters, even professionals, would have been reluctant to show their face after the kind of defeat and degradation that Cindy had dealt out to Joyce, but the little Chinese fighter had been spending at least four hours there each day. What was more, Cindy had been working with Joyce as her personal trainer, and they had been working hard. That puzzled Tiffany, and Tiffany did not like to be puzzled.
“Maybe she’ll help you crawl out of the room tonight after I’m finished kicking your ass and making you my bitch,” smiled Tiffany. Puzzled or not, she was not going to let it affect her. She would make this little slut rue the day she ever heard of the Society.
“I see you two are getting acquainted.” Michael, the dark-haired and debonair host of the gathering – this was his penthouse apartment – appeared at her elbow.
“Just a friendly greeting,” smiled Tiffany, touching his arm.
“…and a friendly warning,” added Joyce. Her smile was almost girlish, and belied the viciousness with which Tiffany had seen her fight. Though she had lost to Cindy and suffered the consequences, and though Tiffany mocked her relentlessly for it, she was no pushover. She would not be here in this room if she was. It had been bad luck as much as anything else that had cost her the fight against Cindy. Tiffany was not going to underestimate the bitch.
“Well, it’s time for things to get a lot less friendly,” replied Michael with a half smile at both of them. He nodded toward the rest of the room. “Shall we?”
“I can’t wait,” said Tiffany with a pointed glance at Joyce.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” Michael raised his voice, and the buzz of conversation in the room fell silent almost immediately. “It’s time for the main event of the evening.” All heads turned toward him as he stood with the two women on either side of him.
“Tonight we have a visitor, whom I know many of you have already met. From our sister organization in Hong Kong, please welcome Joyce!” There were a few murmurs, a smattering of applause and a lot of critical glances as the men and women of the audience sized up the visitor. “Joyce stands 5’3”, and weighs in at 112lbs,” continued Michael. A few hands slipped into purses or jacket pockets, withdrew cell phones and stabbed at the screens, probably placing bets. Tiffany wondered which way they were wagering.
“Facing Joyce tonight is a lady who needs no introduction,” he added, “though I’ll introduce her anyway.” There was a brief ripple of laughter. “Our own appointed champion tonight – ” Tiffany saw a few sour faces among the women in the room. She knew that more than one of them wanted to be in her shoes right now. “ – is Tiffany.” There were more murmurs, and louder applause this time. Though all these women were her rivals, there was a certain team spirit and all of them – well, most of them anyway – would want one of their own to win. “Tiffany stands 5’5”, and weighs in at 124lbs.” Tiffany glanced at her opponent. Twelve pounds was a lot of weight advantage but if it bothered Joyce, she certainly wasn’t showing it. Her face was a mask of calm confidence – inscrutable.
“Ladies, you have the customary fifteen minutes to prepare yourselves and be back here, ready to fight.” The same lithe blonde who ushered Tiffany to and from the dressing room at all her fights appeared at Tiffany’s elbow. A dark-haired woman, dressed identically in black, stepped up beside Joyce. “Tiffany…Nikki will show you to your dressing room. Joyce…please follow Angie.”
Tiffany reflected as she followed the blonde that she had not even known her name until now. The staff were polite and efficient, but faceless. She wondered idly, just what they thought of the happenings here, but she had more important things on her mind than to ask. They walked down the long, familiar corridor and the blonde beckoned her through the open door at the end.
The room within was the same as the last time she had been here. Floor-to-ceiling windows occupied the right hand wall and revealed a wide expanse of Central Park. There was a king-sized bed with snow-white covers and black lacquered end tables, an armoire against the left-hand wall, and a full-length mirror. A half-open door in the corner revealed a bathroom beyond.
The blonde smiled at her from the doorway. “You know the routine,” she said. “I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.” She closed the door behind her as she exited.
Tiffany turned to the bed. She had noticed the red presentation box, wrapped with gold ribbon, as soon as she had entered the room. She knew what was in it – Michael had told her when she had arrived tonight. Now she strode the four paces to the bed, pulled off the ribbon, lifted the lid of the box and withdrew its contents.
The box contained a red bikini, the color precisely matching that of the box, and also a very close match to Tiffany’s dress and lipstick. She smiled to herself. It had ceased to surprise her how the Society – the committee? Michael? – seemed to always know her tastes and how to match them with the things they provided her.
The cloth of the bikini top was flimsy, semi-sheer and unlined. The room would be warm and the sweat of the fight would quickly render it almost transparent. The string straps however, threaded through the edges of the brief cups, were quite sturdy. The top would be supportive and revealing at the same time.
The bottom of the bikini was a thong, even more brief than the top, with a tiny triangle at the front and a narrow band at the back which broadened out at the top, where the red cloth bore a word in gold ‘Champion’ – in the same cursive script as the Society’s logo. Tiffany smiled to herself. Less than a year ago, she had stood in this same room in an agony of anticipation, about to fight here for the first time. Now, she was the Society’s appointed champion. She made a silent vow not to let them down – not to let herself down.
Laying the bikini back on the bed, she stepped out of her shoes and placed them neatly, side by side on the floor. She reached up behind her and drew down the zipper than fastened the bodice of her dress. As she eased it down to her waist, baring her torso, she caught sight of herself in the mirror and was proud to notice that her large, rounded breasts barely fell as she freed them.
She was nude beneath the dress, her golden tanned skin unmarred by tan lines or the marks of underwear. She resisted the temptation to stop and appraise herself – she already knew she was in superb shape – and reached for the small squeeze bottle of body oil that stood on the nightstand. Pumping a generous amount into her hand, she began to rub it evenly over her entire body, from her neck to the tops of her feet. She proceeded quickly with a skill born of long practice. When she was satisfied that she had covered every inch of her skin and verified as much in the mirror, she washed the remainder of the oil from her hands in the bathroom sink before she returned to the bed and picked up the bikini once again. Champion.
She stepped into the thong and pulled it up her strong, lithe legs, settling it over her mound, snugging the rear band between her rounded butt checks, smoothing the straps over her hips. Snatching up the top from the bed, she slipped it over her head, stretching it over her bosom, reaching behind her back and tying the lower strap in a tight knot to secure it in place. Only then did she turn to check her appearance in the mirror, and her full lips broke into the
broadest smile of the night.
The bikini fit her like it had been tailored to her exact measurements – as it probably had. Despite the apparent delicacy of the fabric, it lifted her breasts and held them snugly, even though she could clearly see the dark circles surrounding her nipples, already erect in anticipation of the fight, pressing at the constraints of the bikini top.
She was always daring in her own choice of thong bikinis, but this thong went further still. Her pubic hair was neatly trimmed into a narrow landing strip, and at least an inch of it poked above the top of the miniscule front panel. The thong was extremely snug and pulled up firmly between her nether lips in the distinct camel toe that had become a trademark of her fighting attire, long before the Society.
She turned from side to side, admiring the smooth curves of her buttocks, checking that the back of the thong was properly centered. The lettering – Champion – gleamed in the pale light.
The bikini drew attention to the bare expanses of tanned flesh around it, as any good bikini should, showing off the well-defined musculature of her arms, shoulders and upper body, above and below the voluptuous swell of her breasts. Her abs were clearly visible, firm but feminine, bearing testament to the long hours of sweat and pain in the gym at home. All that work paid off – literally. She lived a lifestyle now that, just a year ago, she would not have dreamed. Warrior. Champion.
Her butt cheeks, engulfing the back of the thong, were rock hard and her thighs rippled as she twisted this way and that, hinting firmly at the musculature beneath. Soon that little bitch would feel the power of those muscles as Tiffany wore her down and crushed her will to fight. Her heart quickened. With a smile at that delicious thought, she began her warm-up regimen.
She was ready a few minutes later when Nikki returned for her, a black silk robe covering her bikini, belted loosely at her waist. She followed the blonde back down the hallway toward the living room, with the image of the Society’s logo, emblazoned on the back of the robe, fresh in her mind. Champion. She felt the responsibility of the trust that the Society had placed in her, but she was confident – more than confident, certain – that would shut down and show up this
little Chinese skank and send her crawling from the room, crying in shame.
They emerged into the main room. The lights had been turned up, and it seemed warmer than when she had left a few minutes ago. She was used to that. The crowd parted and made a path for her to the wide black rug in the center of the room, now empty of people. This was the arena. This was where they would fight, though Tiffany knew that it might be only on the rug. She had seen fights here spill over onto the surrounding carpet, the furniture, even up against the walls and windows. Anywhere in the room was fair game. There was no sanctuary. Once the fight began, it would end only one way – with the surrender of one fighter or the other. Tiffany was determined that it would be Joyce screaming for mercy.
She reached the edge of the arena, feeling the thick black padded rug beneath her bare feet. She looked across the open expanse and sure enough, Joyce was emerging from the hallway at the other side of the room, trailed by the brunette, Angie, and strangely, by Cindy too. Tiffany kept her face impassive, but wondered what was going on. Had Cindy been in the dressing room? Tiffany did not know that was allowed. Then again, she had never seen nor heard that it was forbidden either.
Their eyes met as Joyce reached the far side of the arena. Tiffany did not say a word, but her hands reached for the belt at her waist and pulled it free, sliding up the edges of the robe, slowly – ever so slowly – peeling it aside. This was the moment she loved – the reveal – when her opponent saw her body ready for the feet, saw her muscles warmed up and ready for battle, saw the fierce glint in her eye, and knew precisely what she was facing. This was the
moment when the audience could view and compare them both, could make their assessments of who would prevail in the combat to come – the last moment they could place their bets before battle commenced.
She opened her robe wider, showing herself to Joyce first, before the rest of the room. Look, bitch, and be afraid. She held the edges apart for a long moment, smiling into the Asian’s eyes, before she pushed the robe back off her shoulders and let it slide down her bare, gleaming arms, confident that Nikki, standing behind her, would catch it. She felt the blonde’s hand take the weight and stepped forward away from it.
As the audience got their first full look at her, there were cheers from various places around the room, murmurs of admiration though not of surprise. These people had seen her before. They knew what to expect. They would only have been surprised if she had looked any less than the formidable fighter she was. She raised her arms and turned in a slow circle, giving them all a good view, making sure she gave her opponent a good long look at the lettering across the back of her thong. Champion. She completed the circle and faced Joyce again, smiling quietly. Be very afraid, bitch. Tiffany did not wear that title for no reason.
Joyce kept the same smile fixed on her face. Without taking her eyes off Tiffany, she slipped the robe from her shoulders, holding her arms behind her for the attendant to take it. To Tiffany’s mild surprise, it was Cindy who stepped forward and scooped up the robe just as it fell from Joyce’s fingers.
The Asian wore a white mesh bikini that stood out starkly against her caramel flesh. Her arms and shoulders shone in the light, the muscles sculpted and showing beneath her smooth skin – not quite as pronounced as Tiffany’s own, but impressive nonetheless. Her bikini top was stretched tight over her bountiful breasts, lifting and separating them. She had to be the bustiest Asian woman Tiffany had ever met. The open mesh of the top revealed the chocolate brown circles of her aureolas, and her left nipple even poked insolently through one of the holes.
Exclamations of surprise and admiration – even desire – came from the audience behind Tiffany. She narrowed her eyes. They would not be admiring her so much when she was screaming on the floor with those big tits bruised and blotched from Tiffany’s fists.
Joyce’s abs were chiseled and clearly visible, her belly firm and flat, her muscles tight below her navel, above the swell of her mound. Her bikini bottom was a thong, just like Tiffany’s but even tinier, woven from an open mesh just like the top. Joyce wore it low on her hips – much lower than Tiffany did. The upper margin pressed tight into the puffy flesh of her mound, and her neither lips swelled around the edges.
Her butt, revealed as she too turned in a circle, was small but firm. Her legs were short but powerful, and flexed as she turned. She too was at the peak of her fitness. She too was a warrior. Tiffany expected nothing less. Only warriors earned the right to stand her and challenge – or defend.
“Ready for a hard lesson, skank?” Tiffany called out as she stepped forward toward the center of the arena. “The little blonde slut – ” she jerked her head at Cindy, “ – might have taught you a few things, but she’s never fought here in this room. This is way out of her class…and yours!”
Joyce gave a short laugh. “Arrogant bitch! I’m going to wipe the smile off your face…with my pussy!” She twisted her body to face Cindy, at her right shoulder, and kissed the blonde full on the lips. Tiffany frowned – had Joyce really just twisted her fingers into Cindy’s hair and tugged her hair back firmly as she kissed her? She could swear that she had – that Cindy’s back had arched in almost-submission. Given what happened between them, that was precisely the opposite of what Tiffany expected. What the hell was going on between those two?
She put the thought out of her mind as Michael stepped up to the edge of the arena. Only one thing mattered now – defeating this little bitch, destroying her, giving her a defeat she would never forget. That was precisely what Tiffany intended to do.
“Ladies…!” Michael looked at each of them in turn. Joyce nodded her readiness. So did Tiffany. “FIGHT!”
TO BE CONTINUED...
