Marcy braced her feet and met her.
From what David had said, Sara was no novice to fighting like Marcy. Her experience was obvious now. Marcy swung, but missed often. Sara almost never missed. Her balance on her high heels was smoothly athletic. Her fists slashed, and slashed with weight and power behind them. In the space of a minute, Marcy’s mouth was bleeding. And Sara was sure to pump every third punch or so into her injured breast.
I love Marcy. I really do. But she had wanted this. And Sara was a fucking erotic avenging angel now. She hurt Marcy. She paid her back with interest. She beat her face to bloody pulp. She knocked her down, over and over. Every time, Marcy struggled back up, but each time it took longer. I was sick to watch it but god help me Sara was so dominant I did want to fuck her. I wanted to grab her fucking slim waist and plunge my cock into her from behind. Slap my stomach against her ass until she came as hard as she was hitting Marcy.
Almost without realizing it, I took my cock out. It was as hard as diamond.
You might think two women in a brutal fist fight might not even notice that, but they did. Marcy sobbed, a heartbreaking gasp, because she knew she was losing. Sara licked her lips. Her last punch twisted Marcy at her waist. My wife fell.
“Now ask her,” Sara said.
“Marcy, it’s OK,” I said. “No more. Just say no more.”
“Oh no,” said Sara. “Not that. Say please. Say please suck Ron’s cock. Say please fuck my husband because I am a weak little girl.”
Marcy was lying on her side. I couldn’t see her face. She shook her head.
“I’m ready to fuck him,” Sara said. “You hurt my pussy, you bitch, but like David said that just made me want Ron’s cock buried in me even more. For him to fuck me as hard as he can no matter how much it hurts me. But you know what? I’m just as ready to keep beating you, you fucking amateur. You got the drop on me and you hurt me but now you know you were lucky and that you are no fucking match for me.”
“I won’t quit,” Marcy sobbed.
“Then don’t,” Sara said. “Fine with me. I’ll break you while he watches.”
She could have choked Marcy out, or knocked her unconscious. But that would mean relief from pain.
Sara kicked Marcy onto her stomach. She dropped heavily onto her back. She jerked Marcy’s head up by the curls. Draped Marcy’s arms over her thighs. Laced her fingers under Marcy’s chin. Wrenched back.
A strangled sound rolled out from somewhere deep in Marcy. Her body bent, more than I thought it could. Sara’s heels dug deep into the carpet, and she bent Marcy more. She bent her until the pain in her spine and the pressure on her rib cage stopped her breathing. Then she carefully eased back, an inch at a time, until Marcy drew a shuddering breath again. Sara held her, right there.
The centerline of Marcy’s bust was the apogee of the cruel arc of her body. Her tits pointed out at an angle, stretched tight as drums. Her chin pointed straight up. Her hands clenched and unclenched helplessly as thin air whistled in and out of her chest.
Sara’s shoulders and arms were corded. Her battered tits were squeezed together between her biceps. Her bloody face was alight with sadistic glee. “How long . . . do you think she can . . take this?” she asked me.
“Fuck you, Sara,” I said. She laughed. She knew I wanted to. “Soon enough!” she said.
It was a cruel trick question, anyway. The real question was how long could Sara hold her like that. The answer was three eternally long minutes. Marcy screamed when Sara released her.
Sara flipped Marcy on her back. She gripped her ankles and lifted her tanned legs until they pointed up in a vee. She slowly slid her hands down Marcy’s calves, widening the vee as she went. Marcy sobbed as the muscles in her thighs and groin stretched to the tearing point as Sara split her completely. Sara was leaning over her, her tits dripping blood onto Marcy’s belly.
“I doubt your pussy was very good to begin with,” she said. She slammed her knee into it.
This bitch had some kind of supernatural instinct for Marcy’s pain ceiling. She kept her hovering just under it, under the point where she would pass out. Marcy’s body jolted every time Sara’s knee crunched into her pubic bone, her battered tits shuddering with each impact, but she didn’t lose consciousness.
Marcy’s agony made Sara stronger. It aroused her. When she beat a scream from my wife, she moaned herself. Her nipples, cut by Marcy’s nails, incredibly got harder and longer the more Marcy sobbed. Sara was wet with sweat and gasping from the effort of the unrelenting punishment she dealt out, but also, I realized, because she was about a half-inch from a fucking orgasm. God, my cock throbbed.
She finally stopped.
“Ask her again,” she said. I did.
Marcy’s voice was a broken whimper.
“Please,” she said. “Please suck his cock.” She sobbed, a harsh sudden cry.
Sara gripped Marcy’s damaged breast, the one she’d driven her heel into at the very start.
“What else?” she said, breathing hard.
“Please fuck him,” Marcy whispered. “Just don’t hurt me any more.” Her eyes were closed.
Sara stood. She slid her panties down her thighs until they fell around her ankles and she stepped out of them. She still wore her heels, and stockings, and pearls. Her pussy was smooth-shaven, reddened from the mauling Marcy had given her, and visibly wet. A droplet of her juices ran down her inner thigh.
“You can go now, David,” she said. “Drop that cxnt in an emergency room parking lot somewhere.”
She spoke to him but she looked at me. I belonged to her now.
