[sinclairfan]

Setting:  New England, early Summer 1984, the home of recent divorcee Mrs Silva

Dramatis Personae:

Samantha, Mrs Silva's 20-year old niece from Florida, who visits her Aunt in New England for 3 weeks every summer

Whitney, Mrs Silva's 20-year old neighbor, who has opened up to her mentor lately about one of her unfulfilled fantasies.

If she plays her cards right, that fantasy just might happen today.

It's 9am.  Mrs Silva is running errands until 2, so Samantha is home alone.  But as she's been told Whitney might 'stop by for a chat', she's up and dressed, with her blonde hair blow-dried.  She has make-up on--she's not sure why.  She's watching MTV, lightly fingering herself to a Duran Duran video.

The doorbell rings.  Samantha gets up hopefully and answers. 

> Oh, good.  You must be Whitney.

> Yes, hello.  Samantha, I presume?

> You found her!  And I'm glad it's you, not Jehovah's Witnesses or something.

> Well, THAT's a low bar!  [Both women giggle nervously.]  And I'm relieved as well.  Your Aunt and I play pranks on each other.  I thought she might 'send me over' without giving you a heads-up.

> [You and her 'play pranks'  Exactly HOW WELL do you and her know each other?]  Oh, she gave me a heads up, all right.  If you really want what she said you want, I think you'd best come in so I can close the door.

> [I guess the chit-chat is over.  We got down to brass tacks pretty fast.  Maybe that's best....before we chicken out.  The two women sit awkwardly on Mrs Silva's old couch.
They never did get around to shaking hands.]  Sssssoooo....youtlr aunt said you go to the police academy in the Fall??

> Yep ..... wrapped up my Associate's Degree last week.  If all goes well, I'll be a cop this time next year.  Start earning some money.  You're pre-law, is that right.

> Yes, Dartmouth right now....

> Wow, Ivy League ... smart, sexy ....

> [Blushing] Oh, thank you ... and I meant to tell you at the door, .... you're VERY preety too .... the Florida sun agrees with you....

> [Huh?  Are you saying the only reason I'm pretty is that I grew up down South?]  Oh, thanks .... [I told her she's sexy and smart .... All I'm gonna get is that I'm 'pretty'.]..... I heard you never fought growing up because you didn't want to get a record and lose your law license ....

> Something like that .... Just like I heard YOU didn't want a record.... that it would jeopardize your law enforcement aspirations ....

> [They're not aspirations, birch .... didn't you hear?  I got accepted to the academy.]  Ya .... kept my nose clean .... My aunt used to think girls don't think about career that way, until you mentioned to her that you had pretty much the same thought .... too funny.

> Yes .... funny.  So .... I guees you and I have this place to ourselves until, 2?, was it?

> Yes.  That's the idea.  Are you thinking .... we should use it?

> I'm thinking.... I'm thinking I can see fighting you .... if that's what you're asking..... [is that what she meant?].....

> It is, Whitney.  I'm thinking I'd like to fight.  And I'm thinking I'd like to fight YOU.

> Because?  neither of us has fought?

> That.  And something else?

> Well.... Whitney.  I don't know you verywell, but .... I don't like yoz very much.

> I was just thinking something similar, Samantha.  I was worried driving over here, what if Samantha is someone who would make a good friend.  [Fuck, this is arousing.  Does she notice me getting turned on?]  Well, I would never want to be friends with you, Samantha.

> Too good for me, Whitney?  Xou only befriend Ivy Leaguers?

> That was a bitchy thing to say to domeone you barely know.

> You started it, if I remember.

> .....

> .....

[The two women alternate between looking each other and looking around the house.

> I wonder what room my Aunt meant for to fight in.

> I think, Samantha, that she wanted us to put on our Big Girl pants and secide on our own.

> Have you decided, Whitney.

> Right here is fine by me.  So when she comes home she can see how I wiped the floor with you.

> [The two women, still sitting on the couch, lunge for each others' hair.]  You fucking obnoxious bitch.

> Florida Trash.

To be continued......

[sinclairfan]

Setting:  Downtown Waltham, MA, that same afternoon, an upscale lunch restaurant

Mrs Silva, a 41-y.o. divorcee

Mrs Porter, 28-y.o. and separated, Mrs Silva's friend

> What's new, girlfriend [a Freudian slip which both women notice]?  Glad it's summer?  Doesn't your bratty niece from Florida visit soon?

> She arrived three days ago, ..... and, umm....

> What?  Tell me!

> I don't want to jinx it, but .... SHE might have a visitor right now?

> Well, what??  A boyfriend?

> A girl .... but NOT a friend.

> Ok, totally confused.

> Ok, well..... you know how Samantha has always wanted to get into a fistfight ...... Well, it's getting real now, because she's going to Police Academy in the fall ....

> The school, not the movie right?

> Ha ha, .... c'mon this is real .... well obviously at Police Academy she's gonna learn self-defense .... prolly spar some Lady Cadets, right?....

> Sexy.

> Sexy, and, since she's never been hit.... possibly pathetic .... well, I was on rhe lookout all Spring for someone for her to fight ...

> AND?.....

> AND ....  Jackpot!.... this girl Whitney who used to watch my place?....

> Girl Scout?

> Total Gitl Scout, literally and figuratively.... well, she's halfway done Dartmouth .... she tells me SHE wants a fight ....

> Why do these girls tell you this?

> I know!  ESP, or something, right? ... well I knew I was going to lunch today .... I tell Whitney about Samantha, and Samantha will be home;  I tell Samantha about Whitney, and Whitney might come over .... and that the two girls should 'chat' .... about their .... mutual interest.

> Are you nuts?  They'll obviously kill each other?  You can't leave two girls that age alone to fight!

> Au contraire.  I think they'll just spar.  Ya know, get the adrenaline rush sensation.  No harm no foul.

> Doubtful, but posdible.  If they're nice girls. You didn't want to watch?

> Well, if anything happens to Samantha and I'm there, my brother will kill me.  But, also .... let the women have their privacy.  For their first fight.

[sinclairfan]

As Samantha and Whitney rolled onto Mrs Silva's carpeted living room floor in a hairpulling catball, they were both aggravated that their first fight experience was far less dignified, and was more girly, than they had envisioned when they woke up that morning.

Samantha had pictured light stand-up sparring with fists against a studious, pretty good-girl.  Instead, Whitney had turned out to be the worst kind of preppy, snooty, full-of-herself Ivy League bitch.

Whitney had aldo wanting stand-up jabs, using her long leading left arm to keep her fight opponent at a distance while punishing Samantha's pretty Portuguese face.  Whitney new that since Samantha and Mrs Silva were blood relatives, Samantha would have inherited Mrs Silva's thick raven hair and pretty Mediterranean skin.  But Samantha's attractiveness had generated waves of unexpected jealousy in Whitney, her sensitiveness at her own skin's inability to generate a summer tan being reinforced by the arrival of the all-too-brief New England summer. 

Both women clenched their fists while on the ground and attempted to land blows to the faces, the neck, the breasts, and soft parts they could visually locate.  But most blows were finding skull, shoulders, and other useless hard parts.

Or floor.  Good thing for the carpeting.

Samantha remembered an episode of The Brady Bunch where a school fight between Peter and his bully ended when Peter induced a nosebleed with a single punch.  Samantha craved more than anything to draw First Blood from Whitney.

But, would that end their fight?

Did Samantha want Whitney to quit at a bloody nose?

Or did she want to hurt and maim the Ivy League bitch?

> I hate you, slut.

> Fuck you, tramp.

To be continued.....

[coachzzz]

A-ha!  A blast from the past.  Nice to see a tie-in from a former story.

For those newer to our author, please go to the Search page at this site, type in "Vicky" and "Silva" to find out more of the history and exploits of the manipulative Mrs. Silva.   

[sinclairfan]

Mrs Silva and Mrs Porter are speeding down I-95 South after having lunch in Waltham, uncertain of what they will find aglfter Samantha and Whitney have been given access to Mrs Silva's house for 5 hours to do what they would like.  The two adults decide there are 5 possibilities.
> Perhaps they just talked.
> Perhaps they just sparred.
> Perhaps the had a short fight.
> Perhaps they fought 3 or 4 rounds.
> Perhaps their fighting got out of hand and they brawled to a conclusion.

> I don't know what you were thinking, leaving two attractive girls like them alone.

> What?  Two girls can't just spar with each other?  To see 'what it's like'?

> When they're that attractive?  No!!!  They each need to be the sexier woman .... and the tougher woman.

> You never got alone with a girl growing up?  One you had met at a sleepover, maybe?

> Alone!?!?  No, never!!!  My patents wete always upstairs, or at least my brothers!  So nothing would get out of hand!!  Think about it.  If you just wanted to mess around with a boy, you made sure someone else was around.  If it was just you and him, it meant things would go all the way to fucking.

> If Samantha is going to be a cop, she's going to need to know how to take control of situations.  Not let the situation control her.

> Cops always have back-up!!!  For exactly that reason--things can be controlled by one person.

> Well... maybe .... Whitney is a good girl, tho.  A-student.....

> [Interrupting] .... Honor students are the worst!!!  She's gonna not be a doormat to your niece.  She's gonna escalate the situation!!  If she shows up, it's to fight!!

> Ok, you're scaring me.  I don't want them trashing my place.

> That's ..... exactly .... why bars make women 'take it outside'.  Things are gonna break.

> Shit, this was a dumb idea.  Maybe.  I still don't think they would, like, .... , totally brawl.  I can't picture it.

> You can't picture it because they've never been alone with another girl their same looks and size.

> I guess.... growing up.... I DID try to avoid situations like that.  Being alone with a girl who wadn't my friend.

> ......

> Shit.

To be continued.....

[sinclairfan]

Driving in the car, Mrs Silva couldn't understand why "sparring" wouldn't be enough thrill for the two young, pretty women. 

Growing up in New Bedford, MA in the early '60, Mrs Silva remembered getting home from her public high school, and the pretty Catholic school girls getting home in the pretty uniform skirts, and the two sets of girls squaring up for standup fistfights.  The liquored up Mom's inside would look the other way and ignore the fights, as long as the girls refrained from pulling hair or wrestling on the ground with their opponents.  Pulling hair or catballing on the ground was viewed as something "lesbians" did, so the parents would not tolerate in their backyards.  But standup fistfights was allowed, since it was tolerated when boys did it.  Do how could the egalatarian-advocating women deny that behavior in girls.  Equal rights.

Mrs Silva would love punching a stuck-up Catholic school girl in the nose and getting it to bleed a little.  The Catholic school girls would taunt the public school girls for missing Mass on Sundays.  Mrs Silva wondered why God wouldn't protect the Catholic girls from getting hurt in their fights.

When Mrs Silva won a fistfight, she would go home and masturbate.  It excited her to beat the skirted stuck up bitches in fights.  She would immediately start looking forward to the next day of fights.

Whitney and Samantha had never been in a fistfight.  Mrs Silva wondered how that was even possible.

Other than fucking, it was the most fun thing a woman could do.

Mrs Silva loved watching other girls fight, too.  She would always want the prettier girl to win.

To be continued....

[sinclairfan]

Mrs Silva remembered visiting her boyfriend, Mr Silva, the man who would become her husband (then, later, her ex-husband) at Boston College in 1967 or 1968.  She prepared to get teased by the Boston College girls, who, like the New Bedford girls who she liked to spar with in high school and give bloody noses to, had gone to Catholic High Schools.  As she knew they would, they teased Mrs Silva about going to community college in Southeastern Mass, to learn typing and other office skills.

Mrs Silva and a Boston College coed challenged each other to fight outside in a courtyard.  Mrs Silva expected their fight to be like a New Bedford after-school fight:  two girls jabbing each other in the face until one had a bloody nose or lip.

Instead, the Boston College girl dug her nails into Mrs Silva's hair, tearing whole tufts of Mrs Silva's pretty Portuguese hair out my the roots.  The two girls rolled on the ground, the Boston College girls being much more experienced at using her legs in a catfight, eventually mounting Mrs Silva and slapping her face until her eye swelled shut.

Mrs Silva felt humiliated losing the catfight the way she had.  She felt there was nothing sexy about fighting another woman with hairpulling and mounting.  Girlfighting, to Mrs Silva, was two women standing toe to toe and punching each other in the face until one of the girls was bleeding.  THAT was fighting; THAT was sexy; THAT was fun.

> THAT's how Whitney and Samantha will fight each other.  Right Mrs Porter??  RIGHT, Mrs Porter??

> I don't think so, Mrs Silva.  That's not usually how women fight.

Mrs Porter thought back to her disastrous 1981 marriage to her serial-chesting husband.  Mrs Porter constantly caught him arranging affairs with ex's and business clients of his.  Mrs Porter was always catching him with AT&T phone bills, calling the women, and fighting them.

The fights always involved hair-ripping, clothes-stripping catfights at the women's spartments, or outside bars Mrs Porter would confront her rivals at.  Mounting a rival and slapping her in the face was how you ended the affair before it became a habit.  Especially if the Other Woman and Mrs Porter were equal in age and looks.

Like Samantha and Whitney were.

> Women fight with nails and elbows, Mrs Silva.

> That's not .... fair play.

> There's no fair in girlfights.

To be continued.....

[sinclairfan]

Between 1975 and 1982, Mrs Silva was preganant three times with her three children:  a girl, a boy, a second girl.  When she was pregnant, Mrs Silva was practically bedridden with horrible Morning Sickness. 

When she wasn't pregnant, Mrs Silva hosted Morning Coffee's with the neighborhood housewives.  Mrs Silva would do just about anything to avoid being home alone with her toddler children.

The Coffee's would conclude at 2:00, when the neighborhood school buses started bringing the pupils backs home from school.

1:30 to 1:50 featured a Sparring Match between two of the housewivesat the Coffee.  Sometimes Mrs Silva would be a participant in the sparring, sometimes a spectator.

She was fine either way, as long as a girlfight happened.  Two houewives would stand in the center of the kitchen, square up, and punch each other in the face.  The winner was the first woman to draw blood from her opponent's nose or mouth or lips.  The fights were deadly serious.  Within the defined rules, but with punches never pulled.  The fighters were out to win the fight.

When Mrs Silva's oldest daughter started being old enough to be one of the students stepping off the bus, it was HER job the watch Mrs Silva's toddlers.

Because Mrs Silva would retire to her bedroom.  To masturbate to that day's 1:30-1:50 fistfight.  Either that Mrs Silva had just lost, had just won, or just watched.  All zhree turned Mrs Silva on. 

Two women had just fought in her kitchen.  She found that irresistably sexy.

When her husband came home at night, she would tell him to fuck her face, as she thought about that afternoon's fistfight. 

She loved drawing blood from a rival housewife in a fight.

Why had that Boston College girl resorted to pulling hair and catballing?  What was sexy about that?

No, Mrs Silva thought, women are built to punch each other in the face with fists.  That, and fucking.  But mostly fighting.

When her niece Samantha announced her interest in fighting, Mrs Silva arranged a fistfight with Whitney, a girl as pretty, tall, young, and strong as her.

Is it possible Whitney and Samantha were both like the Boston College girl, and used the opportunity to pull hair and roll on the ground?

Didn't they wonder who would win a fistfight?

To be continued....

[sinclairfan]

When Mrs Porter's marriage starting falling apart in 1983, she became a regular lunch partner of Mrs Silva.  Mrs Silva, a specialist in contentious divorce from unfortunate experience , taught Mrs Porter how to protect her and her children's financial interests in her coming Court skirmishes.

Mrs Silva loved Mrs Porter's straight blonde hair.  In the early 1980s, Farrah Fawcett's 'feathered' style was how women wore blonde hair.  Mrs Porter didn't care--she wore her blonde hair straight.  Mrs Silva had a strong desire to spar with Mrs Porter.  She hinted at it gradually, then pestered her about it constantly.

Mrs Porter was not opposed to two women sparring.  But not alone.  Mrs Porter reminded Mrs Silva that her Morning Coffee sparring matches were always with multiple spectators present.

To make sure the rules were followed.  And to make sure the fights always stopped at First Blood, or after twenty minutes.

Whichever came first.

Because two women fighting alone wouldn't stop organically.

To be continued....

[sinclairfan]

Just as Mrs Silva was attracted to Mrs Porter's straight, thick blonde hair, so to was Mrs Porter attracted to many parts of Mrs Silva.  Mrs Porter like Mrs Silva's black Portuguese hair, highlighted with a "frosted" style then in vogue in 1984.  Mrs Porter thought Mrs Silva's figure was shapely and sexy.  And, she USUALLY enjoyed Mrs Silva's bitchy, take-no-crap personality.

One bitchy part of Mrs Silva which Mrs Porter did not appreciate was that Mrs Silva never invited Mrs Porter to her famous Morning Coffee's.  Mrs Porter knew exactly why.  Despite Mrs Silva's protestations that there was no stigma associated with divorce, Mrs Silva was refusing to co-mingle her married friends with her new divorced friend.

Despite the fact that Mrs Silva was herself divorced.

Why did Mrs Silva still go by her married name?  It was as if she was in denial about her divorce.  Or, trying to have it both ways--the freedom of divorce, but the social status of being married and having Coffee's with married school mom's.

Mrs Porter knew about the 1:30 to 1:50 sparring matches which occurred at Mrs Silva's Coffee's.  She was curious to watch them--curious about seeing two attractive School Mom's standing and punching each other in the face.

Who WOULDN'T want to watch that?  Obviously it was sexy and exciting.

But no invitation had come yet.  Maybe someday.

Mrs Porter instead settled for 1on1 meetings with Mrs Silva.  Mrs Porter knew Mrs Silva loved Mrs Porter's hair.  Mrs Silva would stroke it and caress it.  Then, inevitably  Mrs Porter and Mrs Silva would bend their foreheads together, their soft faces touching, cupping each others' cheeks with their hands.  And the tongue-kissing:  damn, Mrs Silva was a good kisser.  Mrs Porter and Mrs Silva would kiss for hours.

But Mrs Porter still wanted to see Mrs Silva fight.  Mrs Silva was probably bitchy when she was that day's Morning Coffee fighter.  Mrs Porter could picture Mrs Silva gleefully punching another school mom in the face, over and over, for 20 minutes.

That would be sexy to watch.  It made Mrs Porter cum everytime she masturbated to the thought.

She was hoping Samantha and Whitney were still fighting in Mrs Silva's living room when she and Mrs Silva arrived.  So she and Mrs Silva could watch, and kiss as the fight was happening.

To be continued.....

[sinclairfan]

On Mrs Silva's living room floor, Whitney and Samantha remained locked in a full-bodied, 8-limb catball.  The had rolled all the way across the room to the kitchen bar, where Mrs Silva had a bar stool set up with her (many) household bills, and her divorce paperwork from her attorney.  Whitney and Samantha kicked the rickety barstool, and the papers and stool went flying, the heavy barstool narrowly missing Whitney's head.  The stunned fighters popped, releasing their grip on each others' manes.  They stared at each other, sweaty and breathing hard.

> You fucking coward, Samantha.  You did that on purpose.

> Did NOT, bitch!!

> Fight me like a woman.  No weapons.

> I'll fight you like a woman, bitch.  Stop ripping my hair out by the roots!

> You wanna fight with no hair-pulling, Whitney???  Fine by me.  Let's fight standing up.

Whitney and Samantha squared up, fists drawn in bare-knuckle fighter position.  Neither knew where they had learned that stance .... perhaps from high school after-school fights at the city park.  But it came naturally.

Whitney swung with short, chopping punches, while Samantha threw haymakers.  Each landed punches with sickening 'thwacking' sounds, stunning her enemy.

And each girl missed plenty of punches to, as each girl was naturally skilled at avoiding punches.  Again, likely from youthful witnessing of other girls fighting.

The girls had paid attention well.  Both were fighting a very skilled, poised fight for their first fight.

Whitney especially had jumped at this morning's opportunity to fight her first fight with no witnesses.  She was (unjustifiably) unconfident in her athletic prowess.  But she was a natural at fistfighting.

Samantha, growing up in an underfunded Florida school district, had witnessed many girl fights.  She learned the fight art of keeping your head tilted back so your opponent couldn't hit you full force with a fist.  She was applying that knowledge now with great skill.

Whitney's missed punches, the 4 out of every 5 that missed Samantha's face, were hitting Mrs Silva's wooden cabinets, which were showing their age.  They began to crack against the force of Whitney's angry fists.

One cabinet came off its hinges, and several glasses and plates crashed to the floor.

> My aunt is gonna be pissed at you, Whitney.

> Mrs Silva would never be mad at me.  And she calls you 'superbrat', dumb ass.

> ....

> That said, we can stop now if you want .... and finish another time.

> We're finishing this NOW, slut.

> Fine by me, bitch.

To be continued.....

[sinclairfan]

Whitney became frustrated that despite her being the more effective puncher in the fight so far, she was doing as much damage to her own hands .... and to Mrs Silva's house .... as she was inflicting on her enemy Samantha.  Samantha head-bobbing made her a difficult target to pin down.

As well as Samantha's strategic back-pedalling and retreating.  Whitney recalled how in schoolgirl under-the-bleachers fights she had witnessed, a ring of girls formed around the two girls fighting.  The girls in the circle both wanted a good view of the chickfight in progress, but also prevented the losing girl from retreating.  Whitney needed to corner Samantha to prevent retreat, and only then would she be able to wear down her enemy with her jabs.

There was no good place in the kitchen to corner Samantha.  But right next to the kitchen was a pantry, with three surrounding shelves of food and ingredients and staples and condiments.  Whitney had to get Samantha into the pantry.

Whitney circled Samantha, getting her rival's back facing the pantray.  Whitney then clutched one of Samantha's shoulders with her right hand, and dug her left hand into Samantha's hair.  Samantha resisted, causing her left shoulder to pop out of her top, and then her left breast.  Whitney became instantly jealous of the perfection of Samantha's Mediterranean, dark, large nipple.  She released her grip from the torn blouse, and grabbed and twisted Samantha's breast, pushing her into the pantry shelves as she did so.

Whitney recalled how in schoolgirl under the bleacher chickfights, both girls would be desprrate to prevent the circle of spectator girls from seeing their top torn off.  Whitney was desperate for Mrs Silva to come home and see scratches on her niece's breasts--it wpuld be indisputable evidence that Whitney had won the fight between the two rookies.  So she continued twisting and tearing, getting Samantha's top completely off and rendering her enemy fully topless.

Despite the fight occuring with no live audience, Samantha reacted with the identical desperation as Whitney had seen occur at after-school chickfights.  She retaliated by clutching Whitney's halter top and tearing it straight down.  Samantha now experienced her turn to feel overwhelmed with jealousy at a rival's breasts.  Whitney's bust was large, shapely, and firm.  Samantha acted on her irresistable urge to dig her nails into her enemy's chest, and to rake it repeatedly with sweeping hand motions.

The two women sunk their claws into each others' backs, and threw each other around the pantry, knocking boxes and containters of the shelves, and tripping onto the floor.

> Stand up and fight me, Samantha.

> We WERE standing, Whitney.  YOU turned this into a catfight.

Whitney wondered if what Samantha was saying was true.  What DID she want when she came over this morning?

A fistfight?

Or a catfight?

> Fine.  Let's catfight, bitch.

> Fine by me, bitch.

To be continued....

[sinclairfan]

While Whitney's cultural 1980s New England taboo against "good girls" fighting was a remnant of the Puritans from 300 years ago, Samantha's 1980s Florida taboo was more complex.  It was an anti-"catfighting" bias based on something that Foxy Boxing strippers did in Florida dive bars. 

Girls fistfighting?  Have at it.  It was just Bourbon Southern duelling without the gloveslap and pistols.  Happened every football Friday night under the bleachers.

But to degrade yourself in a catfight with another pretty girl?  There better be $500 in singles for a night's work at that, preferably more.

Lots more.

And yet here Samantha was, baited into a catfight with an Ivy League bitch fresh off the Mayflower.  Samantha felt humiliated.

And yet liberated.

She was exhilarated to be tearing at Whitney's bare chest.  Whitney cringed at each smack Samantha laid on her.

Samantha was gleeful at taking the future lawyer down a peg or two.

> Bitch.

> Whore.

> Trash.

> Snob.

> I'll kill you.

> Fucking try.

To be continued....

[sinclairfan]

Samantha's now-topless body reminded her of an episode growing up in Florida, the first real-life catfight involving girls in her circle of friends.  The two other girls had tangled the night before under ghe bleachers at a Friday night football game.  But the outcome of that fistfight must have been unsatisfactory two both gladiatrices, as they both arrived at a Saturday night pool party looking for each other.

They 'accidentally-on-purpose' met in the pool and collided, and immediately tore each others' bikini tops off.  The battle then spilled onto the grass, with all the other girls in the crowd staring in silence, hoping the parents inside wouldn't figure out what was happening on their backyard lawn.

The two topless women battled with bared claws and elbows, ripping at each others' soaked flesh.

Samantha's initial thought was, "How sad for these 2 girls' reputations--they'll forever be remembered as the 2 girls who got into a catfight at a pool party."

But weeks and months later, she was impressed at their bravery for showing up at the party, knowing the likely outcome.

She was similarly proud of herself now, for accepting Whitney's offer to fight.

First in a fistfight.
Then in a catfight.

Now ..... the day will be complete if I can hurt this stuck-up Ivy League bitch.

And hurt her bad.

To be continued....

[sinclairfan]

Samantha's loss of her cool head earlier in the fight, when she had been astutely (and skillfully) bobbing and weaving her head and hips to dodge Whitney's jabs and punches, and to cause Whitney to bruise her hands on knuckles on the interior of Mrs Silva's house, was an unfortunate tactical error.

Unfortunate for Samantha.

And fortunate for Whitney.  Because Whitney was now able to grab Samantha into a hard headlock, and throw her opponent into Mrs Silva's master bathroom.  Whitney kept hands wrapped around Samantha's face and head, making it difficult for Samantha to inhale full breaths of air.  In desperation, Samantha began clawing at Whitney's bare chest, so hard that she succeeded in breaking skin in various places.

Both women were enraged and aggravated with each other, and lost all inhibitions against using the hard bathroom fixtures--sink, tub, towel rack--to their advantage.

They began throwing each other around the hard tile room, cracking a mirror (7 years' bad luck!), breaking tiles, and accidrntally turning on the tub water.

They rolled out on the hallway floor, but the tub water began running full force, eventually flowing over the tub and onto the bathroom floor.

The girls didn't notice.

They were too busy looked in a topless catball, tumbling into Mrs Silva's master bedroom, small streaks of blood getting onto Mrs Silva's white comforter.  In one final desperate attempt to break the headlock which was strangling her, Samantha rolled herself and her enemy into the exterior-facing side door of Mrs Silva's bedroom (an old New England trick--an escape route for secret bedroom guests), sendung both women flying outside, still locked in a desperate, angry topless catball. 

Once outside, the continued rolling, both banging their heads on the rocky soil.  Each was to stunned to continue the fight. 

They were lying motionless on the ground outside, unviewable from the house, when Mrs Silva and Mrs Porter pulled up to the house in Mrs Silva's car.

*************************

Both of the MILFs had an ominous feeling when neither Samanzha nor Whitney greeted them upon arrival.

And even more ominous when the saw the hot bath water seeping from the bathroom.

"Holy shit," said Mrs Silva.  "What have I done?".

"Where the fuck are they?", thought Mrs Porter.  "Are they alive?".

Mrs Silva and Mrs Porter inspected the ruined kitchen and pantry.

They ran into the bedroom and saw rhe hints of blood on the comforter.  They looked at each other.

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?," they asked in unison.

Both women stripped, hopped onto the bed, and started kissing each other.

"This is the hottest thing I've ever seen," each was secretively thinking.  "I wonder if the fight had a winner.  And where she is."

to be continued......