[catfightlover40]

Don't worry, 'Chelle, no conflict of interest here, she just used to oversee elections in Georgia, while running in them, the cards are totally not stacked against you

[wutong369]

I have to admit that waiting for the final duel between the two wives was an ordeal.

[sinclairfan]

"I SAID .... WHO ARE YOU??"

I arrived in the waiting area at the Wellesley divorce attorney's office and was immediately alarmed at the shabbiness of the surroundings.  The office was in an industrial park which was clearly past its prime.  Not that I could afford a super-expensive attorney for what was likely going to become a very bitter divorce trial, but you like to think your attorney has deep enough pockets to go to bat for you.

As I filled out the endless, and depressing, intake form (no, <<sigh>> my soon-to-be-ex-husband and I have none of the laundry list of assets and investments listed on these pages), I became suspicious about why more clients weren't moving in and out of the office.  I hadn't even been asked to pay any sort of retainer or fee yet--exactly how many partners and associates does the life office have anyways?

My women's intuition was kicking in, and not in a good way.  Was word of mouth from your boss really the best way to choose a divorce attorney?  Should I back out now while I still have the chance?  The personal information being requested on the form was all the stuff we were trained in 1996 (pre-Facebook, pre-Google) to NEVER disclose to ANYONE.

I bring the clipboard and the only-partially-completed-intake-form up to the attractive-but-a-bit overweight receptionist, who seems a few years younger than me.  She thanks me, and tells me it will be awhile before "the attorney" can see me.  Wonderful--this morning is just getting better by the minute.  I want to break down and shout that as we speak, my house is sitting empty and unguarded, just 24 hours after my husband's mistress, who is also my worst enemy, broke in and stole my clothes and underwear. 

Should I be reporting the theft to  the cops?  Did I lose my right to report it by not doing so yesterday?  Should I be "stealing" my husband's tools snd papers to preserve my right for later?  Is Ben remembering to not let himself get served with divorce papers today?  How can I fuck with Karen and get the upper hand on her?  And what does she have up her sleeve today to fuck with me?  I csn't wait to get back home and log onto AOL and see if CapeKaren is online.

I ask the receptionist if the black Mercedes belongs the one of the attorneys.  She smirks, and says, "Oh, no, that's one of our investigators.  She works in the field most of the time." 

That's odd, I think to myself.  "She"  "The field"?  Was my house "the field" yesterday??  Is "she" the womsn who served me with divorce papers when I arrived him from work?

I ask, if, while I'm waiting, I can visit "the investigator" in her office.  The receptionist says, "Sure, let me buzz her and let her know you're coming."  "Oh, no, don't bother.  I'll just drop in quick.  What suite number is she?".  "105F."  "Thank you, I'll be right back."

I walk briskly to the investigators office.  I knock, and she shouts "come in."  My heart sinks.  I immediately recognize her voice from yesterday.  My pulse races--get ready, Michelle.  I open the door.  Our eyes lock.  I slam and lock the door behind me.  The blonde reaches for her phone, but I rip the cord out of the wall--no such thing as wireless communications in 1996.  We slam together in the tiny office, desperately grabbing each others' hair and face, our mouths inches apart. 

Who ARE you, bitch??  You were at my place yesterday.

Fuck you, psycho, get out of here.

Not till I know who you are.  Now answer me, who ARE you??

The older, attractive woman and I are now on the surface of her desk, desperately catfighting.  She foolishes attempts to punch me, her apparent training in self-defense and hand-to-hand combat being completely useless in a cubicle setting.  Plus, I've just plain fucking had it at this point.  Karen is fucking with me, my clothes are gone, my marriage is in shatters.....I'm going to make the bitch who served me with divorce papers pay.

So I reach my hands under her soft fabric top and find her bra.  I use my legs to mount my opponent, and I begin pinching and twisting her breasts under her shirts.  The olser attractive blonde responds in kind, reacking up tearing and tearing at my blazer, using her nails to slash as my breasts.  Neither of us expends an ounce of energy defending ourselves, each maintaining 100% focus on harming our opponent.

I look down into her eyes and twist her nipples in rapid repeating cycles.

Fuck you, bitch.

Get OFF of me.

Get me off, bitch.

Papers, folders, and pens go flying off the desk surface, as our struggling bodies wipe the surface nearly clean.  I wonder if any of those folders contained useful information on Karen.

I wonder if my approach is wrong.  This woman I'm viciously catfighting isn't my enemy--she's Karen's hired help.  And anyways, I'm down to my last set of clothes.  What will happen if these get ruined?  I'll be stranded in this office.

Focus, Michelle, focus.

I wonder if this woman would .... kiss and make up ..   with me.  Literally.

I lean over her.  "You're a damn good catfighter, honey."

"So are you, bitch."

Our eyes lock again.  We're breathing in each others' face, our foreheads sweating profusely.

I make the first move.  I plant a deep tongue kiss on her mouth.  She reciprocates, our tongues wrapping around each other and exploring.

She lowers her legs onto the floor.  I mount her and start thrusting.

We're both screaming in orgasm in 2 minutes.

Hi.  I'm Michelle.

Hello.  Denise.

I need your help.

To be continued.....

[catfightlover40]

I've worked both as someone whose job it was to guard and manage a colleague's availability, and as someone whose job it was to try to make connections with such people, this receptionist would be easy pickings in real life. The "good old days" of '96, when phone book and fax scams still provided a living, and marks.

That being said, the "don't ask don't tell" reveal of Michelle is very hot, like she's the queen of the damned who now has two minions listening to her every whim

[wutong369]

could This third woman help michelle?

[sinclairfan]

GETTING MY CLOTHES BACK

Denise gets into her black Mercedes, and I follow her in my car to a UHaul storage facility in Quincy, where yesterday Karen was stashing my clothes and underwear while Denise stayed behind and served me with divorce papers.  Luckily Denise has a key to the storage locker, and we load up the trunk of my car with the clothes, which are terribly wrinkled but appear to mostly be here.  I ask Denise for her help in rehanging the many garments in my closet, promising to "make it worth her while," and sticking my hand in my mouth, so that she understands my payment to her will need to be sexual, not monetary.

Jackpot.  Denise accepts my offer, and gets in her car and follows me home.

Home sweet home.  I start thinking clearly for the first time in 36 hours, now that I have clean clothes to put on.  The clothes currently on me are starting to get funky from being worn thru two consecutive eventful days which included a stressful discovery of divorce, a late night online AOL DM-fighting with Karen and getting Ben situated (I hope he didn't get served today--shit, I need to catch up with him), a drive to Wellesley, a full-on office catfight with Denise, make-up fucking with Denise, and now the physical labor of loading the clothes into my car.  I need a shower bad.

Denise and I get home and unload my car.  We silently strip and climb into my standup shower, kissing every inch of each others' bodies as the hot water drenches our flesh.  We take turns standing and kneeling as we go down on each other and suck each other to orgasm, somehow not losing our balance as we receive alternating finger- and tongue-fuckings.  We continue so long, about a half hour, that my hot-water heater can't keep up, and the shower water turns cold.  We take that as our signal to get out.

We stand in front of my bathroom mirrors drying off, inspecting each others' naked bodies as we cannot yet speak verbally since the hair dryers muffle and drown out our voices.  Denise's 5'7" body is flawless--her tits must be 38c, her waist 32 inches top, her butt at least 36.  Her biceps are rock hard--I can't believe I went toe-to-toe with this bitch earlier this morning.  I'm lucky she didn't clean my clock.  I hope she likes my body as much as I like hers.

Both of our hair is thick and is taking a long time to dry.  I realize we never got around to using soap in the shower--I hope Denise doesn't mind that I'm still a little bit funky.  We comb our hair, still locking our gaze in the mirror.

> I don't know about you, but I still need to fuck more.

> So do I.  Bad.

Still naked, we dash to my bed, and mash our mouths onto each other, our tongues going as deep into each others' throats as geometry will allow.  We desperately bear hug, seeking to rub our rock-hard breasts together and to align our hips to allow maximum direct contact with our pussies and clits.  We are on our knees on my bed, loudly kissing and sucking each others' faces, our hands on each others' backs and butts, pulling each others' bodies close. 

We reluctantly release each others' mouths do that our impossibly aroused pussies can experience release.  We sit on our butts, face each other, lick eyes, scissor our legs, and begin grinding our pussies together.  My arousal increases such that I concentrate just to maintain consciousness.

After some slips and starts, Denise and I find a rhythm.  We both want to cum together, so we listen to each others' groanings and monitor each others' facial expressions.  The anticipation is excruciating.

We continue grinding, not quite rapidly, not quite slowly.  Just right.  We're about a minute from cumming.

A horrific thought crosses my mind.

> Did you fuck like this with Karen??

> [Denise pretends to be too aroused to answer.]

> Answer me, bitch!! Did you fuck that slut Karen.

> [Denise smiles at me with a devious look I can't read.]

> [My fear turns to insecurity, now pleading.  Denise can read weakness, and she has read mine.  As we grind, I change tactics.]  Denise, ...  I ....  ,  I'm not mad.  Just tell me.  I just want to know.

> You aleady know the answer, bitch.  Now cum.  Cum, slut.

Desperate to show my new lover that I can keep up with her, I drop my questiong and aggressively resume my grinding.  I desperately need Denise's help in finding out where Karen is.  Further, I'm intensely indebted to her for recovering my clothes from the storage locker.  I'm in no position to be issuing demands to her.

Plus, I like her.

We've lost our grinding rhythm, and are seeking to re-synchronize our hips.  Shit, why did I have to ruin the best fucking session of my life?  I always do that.

Our pussies touch just right, but something is still off.  Denise finds what it is.

> She and I fucked yesterday.  Right on this bed.  Right before taking her clothes.

> Who was better??

> Show me who's better, sweetie.  Here's your chance.  Show me.

> Will you help me get her?

> Do you want me to?

> [Our grinding is perfectly synchronous again.]

> I want to make her wish she was dead.

> Then the answer is ...

> YES YES YES

> YES YES YES

We cum simultaneously, for minutes.  And we recover, spooning, for another few minutes.

> Denise?

> Yes?

> Seriously.  I'll do the dirty work.  But please help me kill that bitch.

> I will.

To be continued......

[wutong369]

It's a perfect plot. Your creativity is beyond my imagination. Thank you for your novel.

[catfightlover40]

Who was she again, on whom Michelle reminds me of? The Long Island Lolita, was she called? That's what I have flashbacks to reading this On the plus side you encourage me to look into current and vintage regulation on how private investigators can operate in Mass (but of course breaching a client's trust is still unethical, as it was then).

Also, I'm quite torn on Michelle's eagerness to jump into relationships. Regardless, how exciting the sex is, Denise is mentally abusing her, meanwhile she doesn't much about Ben's flaws either (yet, you can easily conclude that you have mas an invested reader).

[sinclairfan]

POINT OF NO RETURN

Denise and I realize that we have several items on which we need to act quickly.  We are both about to be in very hot water with our employers.  Denise has breached all sorts of written and unwritten norms by "flipping sides" in an active divorce case.  She has served papers on me, then actively assisted me in recovering property and obtaining information about my soon-to-be-ex's side.  Not to mention, she has also engaged in sexual congress with me, but 1998 (Clinton-Lewinsky) hadn't happened yet in 1996, so there wasn't an ethical framework in place yet to comprehend that sort of thing--the JFK-Marilyn Monroe happy-birthday-Mister-President rules from a more discreet era still applied.

For my part, meanwhile, my principal had either knowingly or unknowingly sent me into the lion's den by referring me to a law firm which was actively cooperating with my husband's mistress.  I wasn't sure which was worse.  If the former, than my principal was putting her thumbs on the scsle of justice against me.  If the latter, than Karen knew who my principal was and how to get her to make decisions not in my best interest.  Either way, my career in that school system was sabotaged, and like Denise, I would be resigning within weeks if not days, if I wasn't fired first.

So Denise and I got busy amassing as much ready cash as we could to get us at least thru a final battle with the ultimate instigator, CapeKaren.  For Denise, more used than I to skirting the tightrope between the "legitimate" versus the "underground" economy, this meant tallying the locations of safety deposit boxes, located both at physical banks and buried in basements.  Wouldn't you know it, several of these locations were in good ole Raynham, Msssachusetts, where the greyhound racing track was still operating, albeit at a lower daily handle ever since gambling became legal 100 miles away in southeastern Connecticut at Foxwoods and Mohegan Sun.  My life was coming full circle, which Denise and I took to be a positive omen.

For me, we threw anything of my husband's that was transportable into the trunk of my car--tools that we were pretty sure could be sold on the black market, raw materials like nails and copper wire and pretty much anything that was not bulky, and his cash stash of over $120,000 or so--Denise pointed out to me that he would never go to the cops or even his divorce attorney over my swiping this:  doing so would implicate himself in 8 years of income tax fraud.  (He also must not have made Karen aware of the existence of this wad of cash, or she would have taken possession of it yesterday--trouble in paradise, perhaps?).  This was our insurance policy--our way to live on the lamb for at least two years, after we bolted after "settling up" with Karen.  We also took clothes and and toiletries of mine--amazing how it's the little things that matter most when you're about to lose access to them.

We weren't nervous about confronting Karen.  Rather, we were nervous about doing so in a mannrr which would deprive us of a future together.  We shared with each other why we found sex with each other so ... transcendent.  For my part, Denise was my protector, my saviour.  My Marlboro Man, except with blonde hair, firm breasts, and a pussy.  Totally independent, working within the system, but right at the margins of it--all the courage and principles of the outlaw, but with the privileges of the sherriff.  A licensed private investigator.  After all this was over, would she still be able to operate, to make a living, in her oh-so-sexy line of work?

Because I was pretty sure I wouldn't be employable in my profession.  Any respectable school system would contact my former one, snd inquire as to the circumstances of my separation from employment.  It was now irrevocably tied up with my separation from marriage, and Board of Education members would get cold feet.  At least, that was the assumption I needed to operate under.

Denise reassured me that while she was also acting rashly, and burning bridges, she was doing so with free will.  She found my backbone in standing up to Karen to be the sexist narrative she had ever encountered in 20 years of p.i.' ing.  (She was 42, she disclosed, 11 years older than me.)  She was looking for a permanent life partner, and the dark and dreary Massachusetts winters weren't her thing anymore.  Florida beckoned, and the had been looking for an out to make a "clean break".  This was it, and there would be no looking back, so long as  I was willing to join her.  Which, I was. 

We considered getting on 95 and disappearing forever.  The risk of something going wrong in confronting Karen was high.  My desire to "kill" her was no idle boast--I could seriously do it, and I would be Suspect Number One.  Life in jail would be a drag, and conjugal visits with Denise would not be allowed.

Also, though--I was about to break Ben's heart, and, even worse, leave him without a protector in his own ugly divorce battle. 

I felt I needed to break Karen--to hurt her so she couldn't hurt others.

Denise and I needed to get in our cars, to drive to Karen, and then to physically beat her go her breaking point.

> So...... where is she?

> She's in a safe house in Dedham.  That's the county seat, so it has quick access to the courthouse.  Here's the bad news:  it has full security.

> But you know how to get in?  Right, Denise?

> Only if we get there before my company realizes I've flipped.  If we're too late, we're walking into a trap.

> We have to do it.  We have to take the risk.

> Because?

> Because I can't live in a world where Karen is living free and happy and ...... pain-free.

> God, that's hot.  Let's go.

> I wish we could fuck first.

> I know.  Me too.  But I'm serious, the partners are going to wonder where I've been all day.  We're so closs, let's not blow this, Michelle.

> Fight first, and fuck later?

> Yes.

To be continued......

[catfightlover40]

Looking forward to the next fight with high aspirations I'd have said the Starr Investigation has only brought the issue to national prominence, sexual misconduct in several industries, especially ones with a supposed ethics code has been an issue since eternity. Despite that I like that you portray as flawed where in the end there won't be a moral high ground.

Sexist narrative... as well as back then or today, when adolescent men are seduced by older women, they're being lauded as "lucky dogs", "heroes" and not what they actually are, victims of crime, so there isn't and wasn't really a scenario where ready-made assumptions aren't applied to Michelle or Karen. As for Denise, it's reassuring that she spends more thought on professional conduct than on hiding being a lesbian at a time when even famous people like Versace couldn't escape the murderous bigotry of people.

[sinclairfan]

CAR FIGHT

It's a Tuesday night Massachusetts rush hour, as I follow Denise's car through the gridlocked streets of Dedham.  I'm encouraged that a couple times I "lose" Denise at traffic lights, but she is inevitably waiting for me 150 feet up the road.  She has had ample opportunity to come to her senses, ditch me, and return to her Wellesley law firm.  But she is sticking with me, looking forward to a new beginning in Florida.  I remember seeing a special on MTV, a cultural North Star in 1996, a show about cities in Florida who put rainbows on their front doors to signal they are LGB-friendly.  Is thst where Denise and I will try and settle, to start a new life together?

Maybe, too, Denise just wants to see two women fight over her.  Two women who she's made love to over the past two days--it's instinctive ... primal .... to want to build a life with the stronger one.  Well, what an opportunity:  now she gets to find out which of Karen or me is stronger.  Sort of like a job interview, but with fists (and nails and tits and ass) instead of words.

We enter and underground parking lot underneath the grey, concrete buildings of the Dedham courthouse system.  Denise knows exactly what she's doing--she's obviously been here many times.  We park in a pair of empty spots.  She puts her toiletries in my car--after the fight, she informs me, she going to ditch the Mercedes.  It belongs to her law firm, not to her, and it will only attract heat on the long drive south down Route 95.  I wonder howmy own car won't do the same, but at least I do own mine, and anyways I need to focus on my fight.  My car is even more overpacked now, so Denise tells me to wait in her Mercedes while she goes and sees if Karen is in the safe house.

I anxiously wait in the back seat of the car, in thd lonely parking garage.  I wonder if we've made a mistake coming for Karen.  If we'd just gotten on the highway and started driving south, we'd be over the Tappan Zee bridge by now.  We'd be looking for a hotel to stay at for the night, and rolling around in bed, Denise and I, fucking each others' brains out.  We'd be paying cash, invisible to the world.

Shit, I look forward to fucking Denise again snd again.  We push each others' buttons so .... perfectly ...  like a hand fitting in a glove.  Our lovemaking back in my bedroom wasn't nearly enough.  Was fixating over Karen an unnecessary distraction.

But Karen is originally FROM Florida, or somewhere near there.  She would find Denise and me in Florida.  Might as well deal with Karen now.

Well, speak of the devil.

Karen and Denise are walking toward the black Mercedes.  Denise opens the backdoor, lets Karen in, sticks her own head in and says, "I'll wait out here and let you two ladies chat," and closes the door.

A stunned Karen looks at me.  I look at her.  Should I strike now before she gets her bearings?  No, Denise is watching outside the car.  I want to win the fight that's about to happen, but I want to win it fair.

> Hello, Karen.  Having trouble serving papers on Ben?

> I knew you were behind that in some way.  I can see why you'd be concerned with your own divorce case from your own husband, but my divorce from Ben is none of your business.

> That's bullshit, Karen.  You got to my pricipal somehow and sent me to a divorce attorney of your choosing.  Blew you in your bitchy face, though.  Hooked me up with Denise.

> You always take my sloppy seconds, Michelle.  Ben.  Denise.

> Bull ..... shit ...  Karen .... [we are nose to nose in the backseat] .... you started this war by fucking my husband.

> Fine.  I started this.  And I'm ending this.  Where do yiu want me to beat you up?

> Right ... here ....  sweetie.

Our hands find each others' hair and we strain against each other in a ball on the floor of the backseat of the Mercedes.  No one could break up this fight now, even if they wanted to.  This is between Karen and me now, no matter how long it takes.

Our nails rake each others' faces.

And it's only going to get worse.

To be continued......

[wutong369]

wonderful plot. thankyou for hardworking.

[sinclairfan]

STRUGGLING FOR BREATH

The windows and doors of Mercedes must have perfect seals, because within minutes of Karen and I starting our fight in the back seat, both of us are laboring for breath.  I remember the fight in the New Hampshire lake I had with the girl from Boston College about 10 years ago, and how I won by motorboating water into her mouth and nose.  I maneuver Karen into back drivers-side corner of the back seat, where the rear seat belt is dangling.  I reach my arms around Karen's head, and pull and twist the seat belt around her neck.  Karen stares back at me defiantly, but I can't tell if it's because the seat belt is ineffective as a choking weapon, or if Karen's false bravado is causing her to deny even to herself her struggle to breathe in the increasingly claustrophobic car interior.

So I maintain my seatbelt chokehold on my enemy, hoping for the best.  If I'm right, she will gradually lose strength.  If I'm wrong, my body will pay a terrible price.  Because Karen's hands search thru my soft top for vulnerable spots to scratch and pinch.  Like a hands-y teenage boy making out in the backseat, she undoes the buttons on my blouse, and lowers my bra below my breasts.  Karen's fingers go to work on my nipples, sadistically scratching and pinching them raw.  We glare angrily at each other at the discomfort we inflict so guiltlessly on each others' bodies.

I lash out in anger, shredding the buttons of Karen's flannel top, revealing a bra-less top and raking her exposed breasts with my claws.  We shake the sleeves off our shirts to maximize our freedom of movement, and are now completely topless.  Our exposed flesh takes on a ghostly pale appearance in the dimly-lit parking garage, and exposed cuts appear blue-back rather than the red color which would be showing in normal lighting.  The effect, speaking for myself at least, is a complete release of any inhibitions at drawing or seeing blood on my opponent; a complete absence, in other words, of the dizzying sensation which occurs when you see fresh red fluid on a fellow human.  Karen and I are in a self-contained bubble with an otherworldly altered atmosphere and lighting scheme, and the effect on our psyche is as mindbending is one would expect.

I flashback to the lake fight with the girl from college.  We were fighting at night, with a nearly-full moon above us in the sky.  The light which showed down on us that night was nearly the same as the parking garage fight glowing thru the car windows now on Karen and I as we fight.  The moonlight that summer night had transformed our mindset as we fought, escalating some friendly splashing between suite-mates into a vicious catfight.  If Karen and I already hated each other before this fight, what effect will the glowing light and thinning air have on the damage we strive to inflict on the other?

Not for the first time today, I again become aware of a funky aroma from my flesh, partly from forgetting to soap up when Denise and I were giving each other oral in the shower.  Karen is as sweaty as I am, but does not appear to be issuing forth b.o. or workout funk as I am.  I scan her face and hair-- no make up, just like the morning we fought in her house in Barnstable, and yet her face and hair are as beautiful as if she is about to go out for the evening.  I strain with jealousy as the contrast of her Southern Belle natural beauty, versus my Italian back-to-nature frizzy-hair wrinkled-face look always lurking under the surface.  I think back to Raynham, how on Sunday mornings if my Italian mom wasn't up at dawn, she wouldn't be presentable enough for 8:30 Mass, and we'd have to wait to go at 11.  Since we were fasting for Communion and couldn't eat breakfast, my poor father would then have to listen to two hungry, crabby, insecure about their looks Italian bitches snipe insults back and forth at each other for two hours.

My rough-and-ready looks now cause me not insecurity, but are liberating.  I form the fingers of my hands into talons, and continue lashing at at Karen's face with them, inflicting more scratches and drawing more blood.  She has freed herself from the seatbelt, and we are now tossing each other violently from side to side of the back seat.  Blood has now smeared into Karen's blonde hair, its appearance doubly visible both due to the dark purple color it shows as in the flourescent lighting of the parking garage, and by a permanent cowlick-like effect forming as the blood congeals in her hair.  The thought of her cleaning herself up tonight, alone and abandoned by her husband and by Denise, exhilarates me more than I expected.

Karen is drawing blood from me as well.  She slashes at my exposed chest with her sharp nails, sinking them into my flesh and leaving deep gashes in their wake.  Karen then pinches at my wounds, a surprisingly effective tactic in our scrum-like battle, and rubs my face with my own blood, a maneuver apparently intended to inflict humiliation.  Instead, it just pisses me off.

Like everything else about Karen does.

To be continued......

[catfightlover40]

The only thing I can say is: ? Get out of my dreams, and into my car ?

[wutong369]

It's a wonderful fight, bloody and exciting. Fight in the car, the sense of space is too shocking.