[sinclairfan]

My name is Pam.  I'm a 48-year old happily-divorced (I'll explain that in a minute) blonde Chicago woman, who, so far at leadt, is aging very, very gracefully.  And sexily.  Everything still works "down there"-- in fact, never better.  For me, and for the men I date.

Now, the divorce.  In 2016, my wealthy husband got caught red-handed by my tech-savvy, younger BFF Meghan.  He got caught not for flirting, not for one-time sex, not even for an affair.  No, my husband got caught raising a whole damned second family, wife and three kids, in Syracuse, New York.  He couldn't very well leave them after he got caught--the kids were still young.  And I didn't want him back.  But I did want his Alimony checks, which were large enough that I became a Woman of Leisure.  I worked, as a grocery store cashier.  But just to get out of the house.  And to meet men to fuck.

Oh, I was never going to marry any of these men.  That would have cut of my Alimony checks.  But I did want their intellectual companionship.  And some fuck-me-now on-the-kitchen-counter sex.  Even in my twenties, I had never been the cuddling type.  I loved the ego trip of being desired, and the tangible payoff of having a man cum inside of me. 

Middle aged life was good.

I met a regular named Wallace, who I called Wally because it reminded me of Leave It To Beaver.  Wally and Eddie always seemed like they knew how to get a 1950s bad girl into trouble--Good Trouble.  Wally was an invented, scienfltific type--witty talker and conversationalist over Brandy.  We weren't exclusive, and he started seeing another Mistress (yes, I was officially his mistress) named 'Rebecca'.

It made me jealous that he was seeing Rebecca, too, besides me.

And it made me scary jealous when he broke the news to me he would see just Rebecca.

I missed Wally bad.  I wanted Rebecca gone, so I could have Wally back.

I told my internet-know-it-all BFF Meghan, crying to her about how bad I missed Wally.  One Saturday afternoon, we got onto Google, and started to try and find out what we could about the vixen Rebecca.

And we came up dry.  Until Meghan had an idea.

"Try spelling her name 'Rebekah'."

Brilliant.  The floodgates opened.  Articles.  Employment awards.  No Instagram or Facebook pages.  But .... court documents.

Divorce decrees.  From 2016, the same year as me.

That bitch.  Rebekah was divorced like me.

And no kids, like me.

And born in 1975, like me.

That fucking bitch.  I hadn't lost Wally to another mistress.

I had lost him to .... another ME.  The only difference was .... she was named Rebekah, not Pam.

What did she have that I didn't.

"Oh, Rebekah," said Meghan, " Pam-my's gonna make you fucking pay."

You got that right.

To be continued....

[sinclairfan]

Now, before you go thinking I'm the hair-trigger jealous type, I need to point it that not once did I give any grief to the Syracuse, NY Karen (can't make this up:  her actual name was Karen) who used my husband as a three-time sperm donor.  My BFF internet-whiz Meghan hit Karen's Instagram and Facebook pretty hard, and my husband hsd been telling her some pretty obnoxious lies about him, me, and us over the years.

Karen, I forgive you.  For your adultery.  For fucking up my marriage.

For the animalistic rivalry I got into with Rebekah because of you.

And, unlike my husband's farcical marriage vows, Wally had never made a commutment to me to be exclusive.  Nor I to him.  I was cool sharing Wally with 'Rebecca'.

It was when 'Rebecca' became real, when she became 'Rebekah', with an actual address, profession, face, hair, body, Date of Birth.

Did I mention?:  she looked same damned much like me.  Medium length blonde hair, 5'5", 118 or so.  34c-ish boobs.  Born in 1975, same as me.

Why, Wally, why?  Why a woman who could be my long lost twin?  Thaz's like the boy in high school who dated me.  Then my sister.

In 1993, my sister and I got in the worst catfight one day over him.  She slept with him in our house ....  WHILE I WAS IN THE HOUSE.  Not cool, sis.  I told her that, and we threw down for 5 bloody minutes.

Not my greatest childhood memory.  Our relationship never really recovered.

It still hasn't.

I think Rebekah and I are doomed to zhe same relationship.

We hate each other.  It's just a matter of how far each of us will take it.

To be continued....

[sinclairfan]

Cyberstalking Rebekah on Google with Megan was something that brought me back to my high school soccer days in the 1990s.  Back then, we would go to the local library and get yearbooks from the schools we were about to play, and see what girls on the other team looked really bitchy.  You can't really tell just by a girl's headshot if she's a bitch or not, but we'd do it anyways.  We's speculate on who on our team wluld have a good catfight with who on the other team.

I found it erotic.  And when Meghan started finding pictures on the Web of Rebekah, I found that erotic too.

Because she looked attractive.
And looked bitchy.
And looked like she could fight.

It was hard to tell why her marriage had fallen apart.  But I doubted she could top my story of an out-of-state family of 4 (5, counting my hubby).

I was hoping it was because Rebekah had sucked in bed.
"But ... Wally chose you over her."

Thanks for reminding me.

[sinclairfan]

Meghan and I being raised a half-generation apart gave us different girlfight experiences growing up.  We had both played high school sports (soccer for me, basketball for her), and had gotten into catfights vs teammates or opponents from time to time--me in the 1990s, her in the 'aughts of the 2000s.

But the outcome of her fights were very different than mine.

In my fights, the point of the pre-fight trashtalk and posturing was to intimidate your enemy into not showing up.  The intimidated girl .... and her friends .... would play off her cancellation with excuses like "She's not worth my time" or "I don't want to get suspended", but all unbiased parties would know that the No-Show Girl had indeed wussed out, and was afraid to fight.  If both girls actually showed for the fight, you'd pull hair and roll around for 60 seconds, get into a motionless catball on the ground, and your friends would break you up.  Both girls would declare victory ('Look at me!  Not even a scratch!..... Well, on my forehead here, but it's small.'), and that was that.

Meghan's 2000s generation of girlfighters couldn't have had a more opposite approach.  If both girls showed for the fight, in Meghan's words, 'It was ON, baby.'  The girls would go at each other full force, holding nothing back, and no matter how many rounds it took, they didn't stop until there was a winner.  And a beat-up, crying loser.  In Meghan's generation, ypu weren't necessarily the girl who started the feud .... but you damn well made sure you were the girl who ended it.

So, Meghan got the satisfaction of winning, or losing (hey-at least she knew where she stood) every fight she was in.

I got--grass in my hair from rolling around.  And not much else.

Just once in my life, I wanted an honest to goodness, Let's-See-Who's-The-Better-Woman no rules brawl.

I was already sensing that Rebekah could give me that.

To be continued....

[sinclairfan]

Meghan's and mine half-generation of separation in age also caused us to arrive at different conclusions on whether I should (cyber)stalk Rebekah is secret for as long as possible, or whether I should reveal my identity to her.

In Meghan's generation, where a conclusive, climactic catfighting between my rival and me was inevitable, I should remain in cognito as long as possible, and let Rebekah be as surprised as possible on Fight Night.

But to my generation, the idea was to induce Cold Feet in your enemy, and have her slink into the background with her tail between her legs.  After all, once she knew I had found her, she would see how much I wanted Wally.

Right?
Right?

What rational woman would want to tangle with ME??

Meghan and I compared strategy and tactics over red wine for several night.

Meghan won the debate.

And I did things my way anyways.

I decided to confront Rebekah.  I had her address, her email, her text. 

Time for Rebekah to get to know Pam.

To be continued....

[sinclairfan]

Although it was exciting (and erotic!) to talk thru the possibility (and speculate on the outcome) of arranging a Starbucks meeting with Rebekah, an in-person meeting with Rebekah would have been too hard to control.  Rebekah and I had both slept with the same man, and I wasn't meeting to be her friend, nor to ASK something of her.  I was there to TELL her something--that Wally was choosing the wrong woman, and she needed to stop seeing him so that he would see ME INSTEAD. 

This wasn't a negotiation.  I needed her surrender.  That would be an ambush Starbucks meeting, and there was no way for it to play out civilly.

So we met on Zoom.  Meghan texted Rebekah, introducing herself as a friend of me, Pam. 

Wally had mentined Pam, right?, Meghan asked Rebekah.  Yes, yes he had.

So you agree you and Pam need to have a little Girl Talk, right?, Meghan asked Rebekah.  Yes, yes that would be fine.

Zoom?, Meghan asked?  Tuesday night?  Yes, yes that would be fine, said Rebekah.

I didn't want Meghan on the Zoom.  But she agreed to sit in the background, out of view of zhe camera.  I agreed to let her.  I needed the courage of her support to TELL Rebekah whst I needed to TELL her.

Plus, Rebekah might have a friend in the background of her Zoom.  Or maybe even Wally.

Tuesday night.  I dialled into the Zoom.  I sat in the waiting room for 10 minutes.  Rebekah makes me wait in a (virtual) waiting room.  She shows up fashionably late.

What a bitch.

She arrives.  Her image comes up.

A raven-haired brunette.

> Rebekah?  You're not blonde???  [Whoops.  I just admitted I've been stalking her.]  Wally said you were blonde.

> Liar.  Wally never mentioned my appearance to you, bitch.

> [Shit.  I'm busted.]  I beg to differ, sweetie.  But that's not why we're here.

> Why are we here, hun?

> I need you to stop dating Wally.  I want him back.

> Or what?

> [This bitch is getting right to the point.  I need to do the same.]  Or we fight for him, slut.

> I don't have a problem with that.

Meghan's jaw drops to the floor.

Is this really happening?

To be continued....

[sinclairfan]

I close the Zoom window.  Meghan and I wait 5 seconds to make sure Rebekah can't hear us.  Then, I speak first:

> Shit.  Is it just me, or was that a disaster?  I feel like I wasn't prepared.

> Well, at least you know something for sure.  THE .... GLOVES .... ARE .... OFF.

> The gloves are off .... and her hair is... BLACK? .... Blonde women die their hair black??  Is she Goth?  Is that a thing?

> No, it's s thing.  A girlfriend of mine did it .... and dhe's not Goth.

> Is Wally into .... BLACK ... hair??  Is that why she did it?

> Pam, it DOES look good on her.

> Wait .... you could SEE her on the Zoom?

> Well, yeah .... against the mirror behind you.

> But .... she could see you then, right?  RIGHT??

> Hey, don't get pissy with me just because Rebekah has you flustered.

> [I'm flustered??  By this Rebekah bitch?]  Does SHE think I'm flustered??  She knows I'll fight her, right??  [Well, wait ... where DID Rebekah and I leave things??]

> I dunno, Pam.  That call just kinda .... ended.

> [Fuck, it did??]  Well..... you texted her before.  Can you find out where she wants to fight?  And when?

> You're actually gonna fight her?  Just like that?

> Well, yeah .... I miss Wally.  I'm horny as fuck.

> Ok.  I'll text her.  I'll say I heard you and her agreed on the Zoom.

> Ok.  Do it.

To be continued....

[sinclairfan]

The next day, as I await Meghan's instructions for where and when to present myself to catfight Rebekah, I'm at my hairdresser's to, for the first time in my life, get my hair dyed dark.  As in raven-black.

When the day and time comes for my fight with my rival, I want Rebekah to be as surprised ... and flustered..... by my appearance as I was by hers when we Zoom'd.

Then .... I want Wally to see me in my new 'do.  If my guess is right that he prefers dark hair, then he and I will have a really good time.

My hairdresser is curious about why I'm making such a radical change to my appearance.

> Well, ummm ..... this is embarrassing [I look around the salon to make sure no one else, customer or hairdresser, is in earshot] ..... I met a nice guy .... and then he met someone else .... a raven-haired vixen ..... and she stole him from me.  But I want him back.

> I see .... but won't this gentleman prefer "the real thing", not the imitation.

> That's the thing .... her black hair is as phoney as a three dollar bill.  She's a natural blonde.  Like me.

> I see.  The plot thickens.  Does this other woman know about your plan.

> We've Zoom'd ..... she knows I want him back.  She DOESN'T know about my change in hair color.

> Are you ..... worried .... how she might react once she finds out?

> Oh, she didn't need that to ... react.  She intends to fight me.

> [Drops her scissors] .... I see .... and are you receptive to her offer.

> Naturally.  A friend is arranging an encounter as we speak.

> [Drops her scissors again] .... I see .... a catfight.  Pam, several of my customers come in to see me after a catfight .... to repair the damage.  It happens more than you think.

> So my friend tells me.   ..... I'm ready.

To be continued....

[sinclairfan]

The next day, Meghan drops by my place unannounced.  Even though we're BFF's, we hardly ever drop by each others' places.  To start with, we're both single and sexually active, and might have a gentleman caller over, day or night.  Second, I haven't gotten a chance to warn her about my new raven hair.  I want to giver her a heads-up first, so she can let me down easy if it looks horrid.  I already feel down on myself after losing Wally to Rebekah.

But she's at my door.  Knowing she might have news for me about when I'm fighting Rebekah, I answer.

> [Meghan's eyes go straight to my new dark hair.]  Pam!!  Wow!  You look bad-ass.

> [Blushing.]  Really??? It came out good?  [Maybe I should have done this sooner.]

>[Meghan pushes past me into my house.  Whoa--why is she being so bossy?]  Hell ya.  Looks kinda Goth.  Perfect for a fight.  Which .... you'll be doing tonight, Pam!

> [Tonight?  So soon?] Wow.  She wanted this now?  Rebekah did?

> I talked to Rebekah's friend Marcia.  We're both afraid the other friend wii back out if we don't do this soon.  So Marcia's house is free tonight.  I'm bringing you there!!!  And .... Pam, I need to rub one out, right now, so bad.  I got ....  sssoo .... fucking ..... horny talking about the fight.  Pam, I know we've never done this in front of each other .... just on the phone .... but can I get off now?  On this couch?   [She's disappointed by the hesitation on my face.  Meghan and I HAVE mutual masturbated on the phone--but never acknowledged it while it was happening, or after we came.  We're crosding LOTS of lines here.]  Pleeeease??

> Go for it, horndog, sheesh. 

Actually, I AM curious now how my BFF gets herself off.  She takes the comforter on my couch, rolls it into a tall cylinder, and starts dry humping it like a dog in heat laying into a leg.

Meghan wasn't kidding--she pretty far along to an orgasm.  Driving here must have been torture.

She unbuttons her shorts and strips.  Another line between us being crossed--seeing each other nude.

Meghan lays into the rolled up comforter and goes for broke.

Maybe because she's my friend, or maybe it's because I masturbate on my back, legs spread, while she masturbates on my belly, but I don't feel the urge to join her.

But I can't look away either.

Meghan gets herself over the top.

> What a fucking slut you are.  [Did that come out right?  I'm pretty dur it doesn't matter.  I don't think she heard me.]

To be continued....

[sinclairfan]

As much as Meghan has been a lifeline to me during my divorce rebound, the prospect of her relishing a ringside seat at my fight with Rebekah doesn't endear me to her.  I'm not having a slumber party pillow fight with Rebekah--I'm trying to win back a fuck-buddy she STOLE  from me.

And, another thing which is a turnoff.

I can't get the image out of my head of Meghan humping my comforter like she was some kind of horny male puppy starting puberty.

Call me old-fashioned .... but, there's a RIGHT WAY for a woman to masturbate .... and a WRONG WAY. 

The right way, whether alone or with a sexual partner:  laying back, spreading your legs as wide as they'll go, knees pointing was away from each other and your whole body.  Let your pussy relax and rise up as high as it will go towards your waist.  Let your pelvis relax into your body, and even better into the bed or couch you're laying up.  Prop your head up on a pillow or an armrest, so your arms can reach down there.

Start aggressively with the touching and rubbing, including finding where your clit has decided to spend the day (mine always has seemed to move around a lot), so you can find it at climax.  Go in circles, go in vertical strokes, but keep the movement rhythmic--if the radio is on, do it to the beat of whatever's on; if nothing is on, do it to 'Wicked Games' or 'Just Call Me Angel'.

Even as you get more aroused, only increase the speed a little bit.  It's your aggression with yourself which will get you over the top, not your speed.  Trash talk a lot.  Fuck ya.  Fuck ya.  Slut.  cxnt.  Bitch.  You fucking bitch.  You fucking bitch Rebekah.

I'm going to come to your house now.  I'm not waiting for tonight.  Just you and I are gonna fight, no witnesses.

I'll fucking kick your ass.  fffffvvbbnjkkoooooooooooo

I cum all over my hand.

I slip my clothes on and get my purse and car keys.

I'm driving to Rebekah's now.  To catfight her.

And that .... is how a lady masturbates.

To be continued....

[sinclairfan]

If Rebekah, dressed in jeans and a tank top, is surprised to see me when I knock on her door, she doesn't act it.  She stares at me thru the storm door with a bitchy, icy glare.

She DOES notice my new raven 'do.

> It's gonna take more than new hair to get your man back, honey.

> I know that.  But maybe it's not about getting him back at this point, sweetie.

> Oh?  What's it about then?

> Maybe it's about not letting you take him.  Whaddya say you give me that chance, bitch?

> Oh, I'm alllll abooouuuut giving bitches chances, trust me sweetie. [Rebekah unlatches the storm door, lets me in, our breasts bumping as I pass thru, and closes and locks the door behind us.  I realize now I had no plan for what happens next.  Did she?  She's been one step ahead this whole relationship.]  Best place to talk is the front room (pronounced 'French Room'--a Chicago bungalow anachronism).

> How's divorced life treating ya, hun?

> As sucky as it treated you, I suspect.  I'm ready to take it out on someone.

> That interesting, sweets, cuz I was finally getting back into a happy place.

> Until.

> Until you showed your face .... bitch.

> I have a right to be here.

> I was here first.

> Then defend your turf .... cxnt.

> [She's direct, I'll give her that.] So why are we stll talkin'?

> [Does zipping motion of her lips.]

> You want me to hit you first.

> ......

To be continued....

[sinclairfan]

I guess I was wrong about Rebekah wanting me to hit her first.  Her right hand came up in an uppercutting motion, completely blindsiding me, and catching me right in the lip.  I could feel liquid fill my mouth but couldn't tell if it was saliva or blood or bile ...  or all 3.  And Rebekah pounced on my hesitation and tackled me to the ground, pinning all of me except my flailing right arm, which managed some slaps on her face and left boob.  She needed both of her hands to immobilize my right arm, which meant I couldn't hurt her, but she couldn't hit me either.  We were temporarily stalemated.

This was the closest I had ever come to being suckerpunched since high school.  Once, at a Friday night football game, a group of us from two packs of girls were surrounding 2 girls who were arguing.  Out of no where, from behind me, a hand came out of no where and smacked my mouth, causing the same liquid-y sensation in my mouth.  I turned around, and of course the bitch that got me had long since disappeared into the crowd.  I never knew who it was that had hit me.

I couldn't believe Rebekah had smacked me in the way she had.  I now we were on her floor, looking at each other, all dressed up (for a fight, ya know?) and no where to go.

> Well?  Are we fighting, bitch?

> You tell me, Pam.  You came HERE.

> Then let me up.  And we can fight.

> [Mockingly] 'let me up, let me up'.  Get up, you fucking bitch, if this is a fight.

We continue struggling, essentially motionless, on the floor for a good 10 minutes.  I'm being careful not to wear myself out.

Rebekah has been gradually turning her pin on me into a dry hump.  She's actually getting aroused and masturbating herself on me.

I worry that if I acknowledge whatshe's doing, it will just turn her on even more.

This sucks.

Plus .... I'm getting pretty damned aroused myself.

To be continued......

[sinclairfan]

While still mounting me, Rebekah undid the buttons on her top and removed it, revealing a back lacey bra that was somewhere in between intimate apparel and underwear.  It was more practical than explicit lingerie, but more feminine than a straight bra yoz'd get at Marshall's or even Macy's.

Her boobs were firmer and, well, younger looking than I expected.  And her nipples were brownish sand-dollar style, forming circles well in excess of either a Kennedy half-dollar or an Eisenhower silver dollar.  She resumed grabbing my sole unpinned hand, but did so in order to bring my hand up to her exposed breasts and to rub my palm on them.

> These tits are nicer than yours, Pam.  Feel them.

> You've never sern my tits, Rebekah.

> Wally has seen them.  And he's seen mine.  He says mine are better.

> You two talk about me in bed?  How flattering.

> Not entirely, Pam.  Oh, he zhunks you're ok for a lay.  A 5.  Five and a half when you're horny.  Bur he puts more far ahead of that.  You and I both know that.

> Fuck you, Rebekah.

> And after today, .... he'll know I'm the better fighter as well.

> You haven't won this fight, Rebekah.

> You can't get up, Pam.

> .....

> Now be a good girl, and caress my tits.

> I'll fucking scratch them off, slut.  [I bare my nails, and begin digging and slashing into Rebekah's boobs.  She responds by showing me her nails, and digging them into my cheeks and forehead.]

> You're a feisty one.  I like that.  [Rebekah starts rocking back and forth. arousing herself.]  Want to get off??  Or want your face scratched?

> [I lie back and let the rocking motion arouse me.  I stop scratching Rebekah's tits, and start massaging them.]

> [Rebekah leans over and kisses me hard.  Then harder.  Then almost too hard.]

> .....

> [Almost.]

To be continued....

[sinclairfan]

My feminine unconfident side feels validated that Rebekah can get aroused at the sight of me under her, even with my darkened dyed hair.  In my entire life, all the times I've had sex (making love or fucking) have been as a blonde.  I've never known if I'm sexually desirable as a brunette. 

Until now.  Rebekah enjoys looking down at me and my raven hair.  She enjoys bending down close to me to tongue kiss me.  She enjoys running her fingers thru my hair.  The setting is blissfully exciting, except for one part.  I wish my butt and back weren't on hard floor.

> Rebekah?

> Pam?

> If we're gonna do this .... can we do it right?  Can we get in bed?

> [Rebekah is ready with a response, as if she was waiting for me to ask what this all means.] O, but Pamela .... I'm a straight woman.

> I'm straight, too, Rebekah.  But I like being physical with you.

> I like it, too.  Coming over here to catfight was a wonderful idea.

> Ok .... ssssooooo ...... we're gonna keep catfighting??  I thought we were gonna have sex? [she looks at me obtusely] .... ya, know, with all the fondling and kissing we were starting.

> I see .... so you 'give' in our fight?

> I didn't give.  You know that, Rebekah.

> But Pam .... you can't get up.

> And you can't make me give.  You haven't 'won' anything, yet, Rebekah.

> Then we're still fighting, Pam.

I wait for Rebekah to slap or scratch me, or maybe pull my hair.  But she just reasserts her pin on me.

And then starts the rocking motion again, to stimulate between her legs.

I reach up and feel her breasts thru her top.

I reach back with my right hand and punch her left breast.

> Owwwww.  You bitch.

> You psycho slut.

We kiss on the mouth, our tongues fighting each other.

Rebekah is totally confusing me.

But other than that .... I'm thoroughly enjoying this fight.

To be continued....

[sinclairfan]

Rebekah continues forcing her tongue into my mouth.  I think back to awkward, early-marriage 5am morning wood sessions with my clumsy ex-husband, when he didn't understand that while he and I had good sexual chemistry (that would fade later), I didn't particularly enjoy, or appreciate, being woken up so early to a hard cock seeking entry into my desert-dry pussy.  He then worsened the awkward situation by forcing kisses on me, incorrectly (and awkwardly) assuming that I'd find that any more sexy or enticing.

Rather, it just reinforced that he was literally using my body to get off.  There was nothing mutual about those pre-dawn rumble sessions.

Rebekah was doing the same thing now.  I was aroused and willing to reciprocate her advances.

But is that what she wanted?  Reciprocal sex?  Or was forcing herself on me, for her pleasure and my discomfort, the whole point?  I was starting to wonder.  And preparing myself to not like the answer.

> I'm not complaining .... butvwhat are we doing tight now, cowgirl.  [I think of that word because of how she's literally riding me.]

> WE're not doing ANYthing.  Bitch.

> Well .... [more forced kisses] .... SOMETHING's happening.

> I'm forcing myself on you.

> Huge problem, hun .... uou haven't subdued me yet.

> [Rebekah's hands tighten around my wrists] .... Get up, then.  Bitch.

> [I don't want to show her I don't have the strength to get her off me.]  Stick that slut tongue in my mouth again and it might get bit, sweetie.

Rebekah shoves her tongue in my mouth again.  I can't force myself to bit her.  I instead kiss her back and suck on her tongue.

> All bark and no bite.  Pathetic bitch.

Is that what she wants?  For me to hurt her?

What does SHE want???

What do I want?

Rebekah can tell I'm thinking ..... and indecisive.

> Make your move, Pam.

To be continued.....