[sinclairfan]

When they came to in Mrs Silva's side yard, Whitney and Samantha had had enough of each other and had no desire to resume their fight.  That day, that week, and that summer.

That day--both girls were starving and parched.  It had been six hours, 9am to 3pm, since they started chatting in Mrs Silva's living room.  Between the fight and losing consciousness, they had not eaten or had a drop of water.  It was a muggy New England June day, and neither had the energy to continue their brutal battle.  Whitney walked home, and Samantha took a long bath in Mrs Silva's house to attempt to recuperate.

That week--Mrs Silva and Mrs Porter hinted, persistently, to Samantha that she had "unfinished business" with Whitney, and that the two women would gladly facilitate .... and witness .... a Round 2 rematch.  Samantha was also self-conscious about the catty tactics she and Whitney had resorted to during their battle.  It was embarrassing enough for a college-aged girl in 1983 to have a crowd witnessing her fistfight.  A hairpulling catfight was a whole other thing ..... Mrs Silva was Samantha's own aunt, and Mrs Porter was a complete stranger.  She wasn't thrilled at the thought of putting on a show for the two women at her expense.

That summer--as her time at her aunt's drew to a close, Samantha reflected with satisfaction that she had achieved what she had come to New England to do:  she had gotten into her first fight.  And had acquitted herself quite well.  Whitney, after all, knew where to find her, and hadn't come knocking for a rematch.  Samantha must have decided that Whitney had weighed the opportunities and risks of meeting up again with Samantha .... and had decided against approaching.  Good .... I must have given her all she could handle.

Samantha flew back home to Florida as planned  ..... and enrolled in the Police Academy.

While Samantha was satisfied with the course of the summer's adventures, Mrs Porter's catfight appetite was barely whetted.  She was astounded at the damage the two women had caused, given the opportunity to fight alone, without an audience.

Mrs Porter wondered if she and a woman her own age would also fight as recklessly if alone.  She asked Mrs Silva if any of the MILFs in Mrs Silva's Morning Coffee's felt the same as her .... and was willing to test herself in such a contest.

She craved to be alone with another MILF in Mrs Silva's circle, and begged Mrs Silva to ask around.

She pictured the entire event.  Waiting on Mrs Silva's couch for her opponent to arrive.  The sound of the car pulling up.  The doorbell or door knock.  The awjward greeting at the door, assessing each others' looks, just like a blind date.  The awkward conversation on the couch, working out the 'rules' [as if either woman would honor them].  Standing and facing each other to fight.  The first hit.  The fight.

She masturbated every night to different outcomes of different fights with other women.  She asked Mrs Silva to make it happen.

A member of Mrs Silva's circle agreed to try it .... then backed out.  Then re-agreed.  As long as Mrs Silva didn't share her name with Mrs Porter.

Mrs Porter agreed.

The last Monday of summer vacation, Mrs Porter was waiting alone in Mrs Silva's living room, waiting for an anonymous MILF to knock on the door so they could be alone.

Alone to fight.

Like Whitney and Samantha had done.

> Why are my hands shaking so bad?

To be continued.....

[sinclairfan]

A car, an old beat-up Ford with a too-loud engine, pulled into Mrs Silva's driveway.

Mrs Porter found this ironic, because her final blow-out fight with her estranged husband was over their household cars.  Her husband always took the new Toyota for himself, 'because it gets better mileage', and left her to run household errands with their beat up 1970s muscle car, which was difficult to park in crowded parking lots, with a turn radius the size of a football field.  Their divorce negotiations also turned from amicable to adversarial over the division of the household cars.

Mrs Porter was in the mood to kick someone's ass over all the legal fees being acrrued in the divorce.

Mrs Porter anxiously opened the door.  The two women surveyed each others' bodies, clothes, hair, and demeanor.

Similar heights--5'4".  Check.

Similar weights and build.  Check.

Similar perky busts.  Check.

Similar straight blonde hair.  Neither followed the early '80 feathered hair trend.  Check.

Similar pretty faces.  Check.  [Does this MILF put her pretty face on the line in Mrs Silva's Coffee's sparring?  Wow.]

Similar confident, but not cocky demeanors.  More curios than cocky.  Check. 

> Hi.  Come in.  I'm glad you came.

> Thank you.  I almost turned around and got back in the car.  But, no, this is right.  I'm good.  I wanna see what happens.

> I do too.  We can talk first, tho.  Join me on the couch.

> Yes, thank you.  That would be nice.  [Both women sit, carefully avoiding body contact.]  Mrs Silva told me you're getting a divorce.  I'm sorry.

> Thank you, but .... don't be sorry.  It's for the best.  Get this chapter behind me.  I'm still young.

> I hear you.  I remind myself every so often that I'm still young.  Still time to do young women things.  Like this, not to cut to the chase.  We can talk about other things first if you want.

> No, no .... you're right.  We can talk about 'this'.  Our fight.  I thought Mrs Silva might send someone over who wasn't a good matchup for me .... some SHE-Hulk or something .... just to prank me .... you know, someone who could kick my ass with one arm tied behind her back .... but you're actuslly in my weight class.  I think this'll be interesting.

> I was just thinking the same thing.  I think we'll both .... find something out about ourselves.  If you know what I mean.

> Ok, good.  Looking forward to it actually.  How did you want to do this.  Like, a middle school catfight on the floor.  Closed fists or open hand slaps?

> Actually .... I think THAT PART .... will take care of itself.  I think we'll be doing all of it.... at some point.  I thought the more relevant .... and immediate question is .... lose the clothes as we fight .... or before?

> Intriguing [Mrs Porter's feet reach over to playfully lean on those of her anonymous MILF opponent]..... I somehow over looked that.  Wanna .... maybe start topless?

> We could do that .... or start entirely nude.  That is ..... if you're not too much of a pussy

> Is that a challenge?

> Take it how ever you'd like.

The two women take their tops, shirts, and underwear off, eyeing each other.  They return to sitting on the couch.

> You have nice tits.

> As do you.

> I can't wait to scratch yours up.

> Nor can I wait to do the same to your pretty face.

> Then come at me .... bitch.

For the first time, Mrs Porter and her MILF enemy have cold feet.

Maybe this wasn't a good idea.

> You can back out now, sweetie.

> Not a chance, hun.

To be continued....

[sinclairfan]

Neither Mrs Porter nor her anonymous rival from Mrs Silva's Morning Coffee's felt the least bit awkward sitting nude on Mrs Silva's couch.

The anonymous MILF friend of Mrs Silva had gotten married during early 1970s swinging culture, or at least a sub-branch of that culture called neighborhood 'Key Parties'.  Couples would attend a neighborhood cocktail party, putting their car keys in a bowl held by the host.  Then, at the conclusion of the party, the inebriated men would randomly choose a set of keys, and drive home the woman whose car it was they had chosen.  Whatever making out occured in the car on the way home was up to the couple, and the electricity and attraction between them.  Key Parties fell out of favor in the late 1970s as society seriously addressed drunk driving, but the generation which lived thru it was perfectly comfortable with nudity with strangers, as long as those strangers were neighbors.  And preferably married.

Mrs Porter, meanwhile, had attended a small, private New England college during mid-1970s streaking culture.  Streaking wasn't quite the same, of course, as sitting stationary and holding a topless or nude conversation.  But she enjoyed the freedom of removing clothes, attending nude beaches, and being around other nude women.

Both women were waiting for their fight to begin.  But they had time.  Mrs Silva wasn't due back home until 3pm.  Might as well enjoy the novelty of the tense atmosphere.  And the unique conversation.

> You know I'm gonna kick your ass, right Mrs Porter?

> I know no such thing.  I expect to win.

> I expect to win .... AND to hurt you.

> I expect to win..... THEN to hurt you.  Expect no mercy after you give.

> I ask for none.

> You won't get any.

> Fuck you.

> Fuck YOU.

This was certainly getting interesting.

To be continued....

[sinclairfan]

Both MILFs, as they bickered on Mrs Silva's couch, thought of the college-aged women who had brawled in this same living room 9 weeks earlier.

Mrs Porter had known Whitney for a couple of years.  She knew that Whitney viewed Mrs Silva as a mentor--an experienced older sister type you could quiz with questions about adulthood, ...., well, about sex.  Mrs Silva was Whitney's sex mentor.  Mrs Porter wished she had had such a woman in her late teens and early twenties.  She never would have married the subpar man who she did in 1978 .... and was divorcing in 1984.  A 6-year marriage.  What a joke.  Since her marriage hadn't even lasted 10 years, Mrs Porter hadn't even earned future Social Security benefits from Mr Porter.

Mrs Porter envied Whitney.  Going to Pre-Law.  Getting into the Ivy League.  And getting a plum catfight arranged by Mrs Silva.  What a sexy catfight Whitney must have had.  Mrs Porter would have given anything to watch it.  Hell, even her engagement ring.

The anonymous MILF was thinking of the 9-week-ago fight as well.  Of Mrs Silva's niece Samantha.  Samantha had always been a cute kid, but puberty had been downright generous to her.  Such thick, long raven hair.  Such huge breasts and firm butt.  Such olive skin.  Amazing no jealous Florida girls had baited her into a catfight.  Amazing she had to come to New England and brawl with hercaunt's college-age neighbor.

Both women were getting turned on thinking of that fight.

> Scared, bitch?

> None in the least.  Why do you ask?

> Your nipples are rock hard.

> That has nothing to do with fear, sweetie.

> What does it have to do with, hun?

> I'm chilly.  We've been sitting here nude for awhile.

> Then come at me.  Bitch.

> ......

> I dare you.

> Let's dance.  cxnt.

To be continued.....

[sinclairfan]

Mrs Porter and her MILF enemy lunged at each other on the couch, briefly grabbibg four full handfuls of hair, but then mutually remembering that each wanted to experience a bare-fisted streetfight, not a schoolgirl roll around catball.

If two college girls, Whitney and Samantha, had chosen to fight a bar-room brawl-style donnybrook, then certainly two MILF's should elect that same option.

And did they ever.

At close range, Mrs Porter and the MILF friend of Mrs Silva began throwing point-blank haymakers at each others' faces and boobs.  Every blow to the former landed with a crackling sound, every strike to the latter with a sickening thud.  Both sounds brought arousal to the aggressor of each blow, making her hungry to land even more.  And harder.

Both women struggled to scold each other thru their grunts of exertion and pain:

>  I've .... wanted to .... hurt you .... since ..... first setting .... eyes .... on .... you.

> You're .... not ..... woman enough .... to .... hurt .... me.

> You're ..... crying .... already .... ugly .... bitch.

> You're ... crying ... more.

Both women were astonished that a fight with a stranger could be so emotional.  Neither woman had an argument with the other until this morning.

They knew of each others' existence.  But barely.  And only thru Mrs Silva.

Mrs Silva.

Is that why this fight was escalating?  Did each woman dread reporting back to Mrs Silva that they had lost this fight?

Is that why Whitney and Samantha stopped at a draw.  Was each satisfied with a draw in her first-ever fight? 

Neither Mrs Porter nor her MILF opponent was in her first fight.  A draw would not be face-saving; it would be humiliating.

And unacceptable to Mrs Silva.  She would shun both women, and stick to her more battle-hardened friends at her Morning Coffee's.

Both women needed to win this fight.

And each knew it.

> Slut.

> Pathetic divorced bitch.

To be continued....

[sinclairfan]

Twenty minutes into their naked streetfight, the scales tipped in favor of Mrs Porter.  In 1984, workout culture was still in its infancy; it had found Mrs Porter, but not her too-busy-with-the-kids anonymous opponent.  Mrs Porter's blows to her enemy's face began to go unblocked, and her slaps and punches to her enemy's stomach elicited agonizing grunts and caused her enemy to bend over like a men's billfold-style wallet.

> Told you I'd hurt you, bitch.

Mrs Porter was pleased at the tangible payoff from watching Jane Fonda workout video's on VHS.  As the morning's fight had progressed, she noticed a couple of instances where the "runner's high" had picked in, allowing her to maintain most of her strength even as her enemy became sluggish and lethargic (and disgustingly sweaty) under the force of Mrs Porter's fists and elbows.

Mrs Porter knew EXACTLY what she wanted as her reward for this morning's labors.  She pinned her exhusted enemy under her, sat on her waist, and bent over to get her face close to hers.

> Promise to tell Mrs Silva I kicked your ass?

> Please don't tell her that.  It was a good fight.  Close.

> [Mrs Porter slaps her enemy in the face four times, then kisses her twice.  The kisses are even more invasive than the slaps, both eomen notice to their surprise.]  Close?  Are you fucking kidding me?  I'm stronger than you, bitch.

> Your tits are red from getting slapped around, sweetie.

> [Mrs Porter means to slap her supine opponent, but face is drawn to her rival's.  She's inviting a slap, and she receives it.]  Didn't hurt, bitch.  [She now bends down and sticks her tongue into her enemy's mouth.  The two women begin tongue-kissing with a loud smacking noise, eerily similar to the flesh-smacking sound when they were fighting earlier.]

> Get off me, bitch.  Tell Mrs Silva whatever you want, just get the fuck off me.

> Not till I cum.  [When Mrs Porter's marriage to her overly-domineering husband was falling apart, he would have sex with Mrs Porter in bed at night wizhout asking her first, and wouldn't let her up until he had cum inside of her.  Mrs Porter now knew the feeling of power he got from this, as she was enjoying it now on her defeated enemy.] Mmmmmmmyyyyyeeesssssss.

Mrs Porter enjoys the release of cumming on her enemy, but goes to shower so she can look her best when Mrs Silva returns home.

She can already picture the (brief) conversation in her mind.

> I kicked the shit out of your friend.

> I knew you would, babe.  Get over hear and fuck me.

To be continued....

[sinclairfan]

The day after winning her arranged catfight against one of Mrs Silva's school mom friends, Mrs Porter drives unannounced to Mrs Silva's.  She knows unannounced visits are risky with separated or divorced Mom's, since there's no telling when a chance grocery store hookup will be in the middle of being consummated.  Any opportunity free of 'the kids' must be seized, or lost forever.

And yet.... 1984 technology does not afford many opportunities to "call ahead".  Just the basic landline phone, whose reliability is suspect.

Plus, Mrs Silva is a toll call from the town where Mrs Porter currently lives.

So Mrs Porter just drives up.

A packed station wagon is sitting in the driveway, with a college-aged beauty sitting inside, about to pull away.

> [Shit, that must be that Whitney chick, thinks Mrs Porter to herself.  She looks like she's headed back to .... where was it?  Dartmouth? .... I'm gonna get out and say hi.]  Whitney?!  Whitney!!!  Hi!!! Do you have a minute?

> Ummmm, ya, I'm kinda on a schedule .... but ok.  You are?

> [Gheezh ... stuck up girl, but ok.]  Oh, no, it's just  [extends hand]  I'm Mrs Porter ... I'm the friend Mrs Silva was having lunch with the day .... well, you know .... that Mrs Silva let her niece and you .... you know .... [air quotes] .... 'use her house.'

> I, ummm,  ..... , ya, so, .... like, that never happened, ok?  And if you really are Mrs Silva's friend, please never mention that again, ok.  That's how rumors start.

> [Mrs Silva comes out of the house, locks the door, and gets in the passenger seat next to Whitney.]  Mrs Silva?  Hello?  Can I get a god'damned hello?

> Oh, I'm sorry Mrs Porter.  I'm driving Whitney back to campus in New Hampshire.  Then I'm driving her car back.  You didn't think I was availablefor lunch today, did you?

> [Mrs Porter hesitates, slack-jawed at Mrs Silva's tone.]

> Because .... I'm not.  Ok?  Let's go, Whitney.  We'll be late.  [The station wagon peels away.]

> Those .... two ... fucking .... bitches.

To be continued.....

[sinclairfan]

Once Whitney and Mrs Silva were down the road and out of the earshot and eyesight of Mrs Porter, both women let out giggly guffaws at the awkward position they had left Mrs Porter in, alone on Mrs Silva's empty driveway.  Mrs Silva spoke first.

> Oh .... My .... Gawwwd .... that was classic.  Did you see the slackjawed confused look on that bitch's face?

> No shit ....that was PRICELESS ....  but .... Did you invite her over to see that?  So that she would see us?

> No!!! I wish !!!! But, no, Whitney, even I'm not that good.  I lucked into that one.

> WE lucked into it, right.

> [Mrs Silva leans over and tongue kisses Whitney]  Oh, yeah, babe.  You and me.  Now and forever.

> [Moans from this kiss.] ..... mmmmm, babe, I like it, but ..... we still have a 4-hour drive to Hanover .... don't get me going or I'll need to pull over.

> Ok, but ..... we ARE going to pull over somewhere before we get there, right?  Dartmouth is so stuffy, we won't get a chance to do it there .... I wanna do it before you're gone till Thanksgiving ....

> And then you're gonna screw Mrs Porter, right?  [Whitney pouts.]

> If she'll have me.  I don't think I'm her fav person right now.

> I think it's me who's not her fav person.  The jealousy is just making her want YOU even more.  Which, for the record, is why I think you pulled off that stunt?

> I told you ..... I didn't arrange her coming over this morning.

> That's not the stunt I meant.

> Which one then?

> Making her fight your MILF friend yesterday.

> Ok, time out .... the 2 of them wanted that.  But let's not bicker.  Truce.  I just wanna road trip with you, you sexy bitch.

> Same.  You bitchy slut.

> [The 2 women kiss again.]

To be continued...

[sinclairfan]

Whitney and Mrs Silva had a pleasant surprise in store for them when they arrived on-campus in Hanover, NH.  Whitney was now a junior, and an unexpected "single" room opened up in her dorm, and she was being the opportunity to move into it.

Her own room.  With unlimited privacy.  For sex.  No more awkward hanging a sock, belt, or scarf on the doorknob.

For example, right now.  Sex with Mrs Silva.

As soon as the last box was out of the car and in the room, Whitney and Mrs Silva locked themselves in the dorm room, moved to the bed to strip thrmselves, and began fiercely kissing and caressing each other hungrily. 

> I love you, Whitney.

> I love you, Mrs Silva.  Don't hang out with Mrs Porter when you drive back.  Don't hang out with her alone.

> She'll be able to tell I'm avoiding her.

> Tell her it's because of me.  That I asked you not to date her, the be just friends

> That'll make her mad.  And jealous.

> She'll get over it.

> [I doubt it.  Good.]

To be continued ......

[sinclairfan]

Mrs Silva says her goodbyes to Whitney, grateful for the unexpected fuck session she got to enjoy with her protege.  But Mrs Silva is not satiated.  Having sex has always made her want ... more sex.

It's what ruined her marriage to her husband.  Mr Silva would never feel able to keep up with his energetic wife.  She always wanted .... more .... more .... more .... which he could deliver for awhile .... but evetually wore out.  Irritating Mrs Silva.

So, today, as Mrs Silva exited the chaotic Dartmouth campus on move-in day, she could feel the eyes of the Dartmouth staff, parents, and students following her as she strutted back to her car.  A group of Dartmouth Men, jocks in athletic letter jackets, even though it was 75 degrees out, whistled at her ass.  She turned and showed her appreciation for the catcall.

Mrs Silva envied College Men, the whole persona.  Growing up in S.E.Mass. she knew she was doomed to never enter college herself.  That her Boston College boyfriend was the closest she'd get.  And even that boyfriend, she had met off-campus, not on-.

Fucking a College Man in his dorm room or Frat House was on her bucket list.  She had never done it.  Time was running out.

Now or never, Mrs Silva told herself.

> Like what you see, fellas?

> [The Dartmouth Men can barely believe their luck.  Is this chick playin' us?  But their horniness overcomes their hesitations.  It's been a long, sexless summer.]  Yes, ma'am.  You a parent here?  [The Men don't want entanglements with the parent of a well-connected student.]

> Nah.  Just a neighbor.  Lending my csr for move-in.  Now .... my pussy is up for lending.  Any takers.

> [The Dartmouth Men gasp as their luck.  They look around for sdcret cameras--this almost seems like a sorority prank.]  No offense, Ma'am, but .... can we all take a turn?

> [Mrs Silva pauses to size up if she's up for a gang-bang.]

Just kidding.  She's up for it.  This is Mrs Silva we're talking about.

Mrs Silva drove him from New Hampshire two hours later with cum from 5 Dartmouth Men inside of her.

> Shit, that felt good.

To be continued....

[sinclairfan]

Mrs Silva gets home from New Hampshire very very late that night.  She revels in the memory of how good it feels to be with a man.

> Shit, look what I've been missing fucking a man.  Or men.  Men are so much more practical than women.  They'll share a woman if she's putting out to both of them.  Not at the same time ...  not a gang bang, like those Dartmoth frat boys.  But, just dating .... they'll date non-exclusively.  They don't get all CRAZY JEALOUS  about non-exclusive dating.

Her revery is interrupted by a knock on the door.

> FUCK .... 7:47 AM .... Who the fuck is knocking at my door so fucking early.

Mrs Silva crawls out of her cozy  (there's already a Fall nip in the New England air) and walks over  to her front door.

> Fuck.  It's Mrs Porter.  What a pain in the ass she is.

Mrs Silva opens her front door to Mrs Porter, but leaves the screen door latched.  The two woman can talk, but can't touch.  Mrs Porter is frantically jiggling the screen door handle, trying to get in.

> Hey hey, easy  bitch.  Don't break by fucking door.

> Fucking let me in, Mrs Silva.  Or is Whitney here??  I swear, if she is, I'll fucking kill her.

> Whitney???  Pfft, get real, bitch ... you can't fucking take Whitney?

> [Mrs Porter has an appalled look on her face] Can't take Whitney? She's had one fucking fight, and didn't even win it.

> Well, either way .... let me of your fucking obsession with Whitney .... and with ME for that matter .... I've been doing some thinking .... I'm going back to men .... and I recommend you do the same ..... I think we might have made ourselves crazy dating women .... two women don't mix, I'm thinking .... at least, not as relationship material.

> [Mrs Porter's lips start to quiver .... is the only female lover she's ever had ...  DUMPING HER ?]  Mrs Silva .... I .... I .... I'm going thru a divorce [her voice almost cracking] .... and I NEED YOU.

> Mrs Porter .... when you pull yourself together .... I'm happy to resume our lunches and shopping trips ..... I went thru a divorce myself .... It sucks, I know it does ..... but I highly recommend you find a man ... maybe some guy who's always been sniffing around your ass when you were married .... and tell him you're getting divorced.  And let him have your way with you.  It'll be fun.  Trust me.

Mrs Silva closes the door on Mrs Porter.

Mrs Porter feels worse than the moment she decided to end her marriage.

She has no intention of seeing a man today.

She's gonna get into a chickfight.  If she can find one.

To be continued....

[sinclairfan]

Mrs Porter's estranged husband, after long reluctance to do so, had fanally agreed to settle thru the state mediator.  This would considerably lower the legal fees associated with the divorce.

In the preliminary hearings associated with her divorce fact-gathering, Mrs Porter became irritated with the female blonde #2 lawyer on her husband's case.  In 1984 Massachusetts, the males held every possible advantage in the Family Court system.  All the judges were men.  96% of the attorneys, both for husband and wives, were women.  Why would a female attorney possibly use her education and license to help the cheating husband?  What kind of female self-hatred would lead to such behavior?

Well, if you hate women so much, bitch, why don't you fight one?  Me.  I'll fight you.

Mrs Porter had the business card of the blonde attorney.  Shelly.

She wondered if maybe her husband had Shelly's home number.

She called Mr Porter's secretary at work (also a bitch, btw, but too small to have a fair catfight with).  And she got Shelly's home number.

And even better.... her home address.

On a free Saturday, Mrs Porter drove to Shelly's house.  A starter home in Quincy.  Figures.  The bitch buys property in her own name, not jointly with a man who can take it.

Mrs Porter knocks on the door.  Shelly answers.

> Mrs Porter.  This is quite unusual.  It's a weekend.  And we shouldn't meet outside the office.

> Shelly, what I want to do with you is quite inappropriate office behavior.

> You must have in mind either fighting .... or fucking.  Which is it?

> Which do ... YOU .... think I want with you.

> I hope you say fighting.  Because I have no interest in fucking you.

> [Shit.  That was easy.]  Today's your lucky day.  Bitch.

To be continued.....

[sinclairfan]

Shelly's house was cramped, and Mrs Porter wondered where inside she and Shelly would catfight.  Mrs Porter didn't want to come all this way, and go thru all this trouble, just to have a 45-second brawl with another bitch end with a slashed scalp on the corner of a coffee table.

But Shelly led Mrs Porter down steep stairs to a damp semi-finished basement.  This space also had its own clutter--a washer/dryer (not a matching set) a folding table, and a couple boxes.  But it was carpeted against what was a hybrid stone-concrete foundation. 

There was enough room to fight here.

Mrs Porter was just getting used to the intense mildew-y scent when Shelly turned and slapped her hard in the mouth.  Shelly then began kicking off her shoes, and kicking Mrs Porter's shins and thighs.

The fight was on.

Mrs Porter's jogging shoes were too tight to come off, frustrating her at first.  But she now decided too use her hard footwear to her advatage to back away from Shelly and to kick her in the knees, thighs, and even the crotch.  Mrs Porter's adrenaline was running hard enough that even her high kicks were landing.

> You fucking bitch.

> You crazy lunatic.

> Fuck you.

Shelly's and Mrs Porter's fight involved little hand contact, with feet and knees instead the primary weapons.

Shelly wondered where Mrs Porter had learned to fight like that.  She wondered if it was in the 1970s, when womwn's self-defense classes were all the rage.

Shelly had never signed up for those classes. 

She wished now that she had.  So that she could kick this bitch's ass.

To be continued....