[sinclairfan]

While Miss Fredrickson goes into her office to change into her fight clothes (Jeans and t-shirt--so hot), I feel so grown and Mature at the conversations I've had the past day--with Miss Fredrickson, with the Fleet Bank girls.  Such open talk about fighting.

I get jealous about the Fleet Bank blonde who obviously has the crush on Mr Harris.  How long as she liked him?  Does she like him back?

That bitch.

I have a free Minute, and access to a free phone line (something that was hard to come by in 1983).  My number at work ends in 1114.  She's 7 desks from me, so hers ends in 1121.

I impulsively call her.  It's still workday hours.  She might answer.

I dial.

Shit.  I shouldn't have done this.  I go hang up.

Too late.

> Fleet Treasury, Cara speaking.

> Cara, hey, it's me, Anne.

> Hey, Anne, you forget somethin' [you can take the bitch out of Providence, but you can't take the Providence Accent out of the bitch .... apparently.]

> Ya, ummmm, the thing is..... I heard a rumor Mr Harris's birthday is coming up .... and I wanted to get him a card.  Is that true??  Is his birthday soon.

> Nah, you're way off .... his birthday is November.

> Oh,.... , umm, how did you know that?  If you don't mind me askin'.

> OK, Anne.[lowers her voice]... let's cut the crap here.  Mr Harris is off limits.  You hear me?

> Oh???  ....  because he's married.

> Because he's married.... and because I .... have seniority in this office over ....  YOU .... ok, sweetie?

> Oh, is that a fact Cara?

> It's a fact, Anne ...  get it thru your thick, catfight-concussed skull, before I fuck you up ten times worse than your high school buddy did, k?

> I thick Mr Harris is old enough to choose between you and me, Cara.

> There's no choice, Anne.  I'm Warning you.  DONT .....  FUCK ..... WITH ...  ME.

> ooooo, I'm scared ....[Cara hangs up on me]

Miss Fredrickson walks up to me in her jeans.

> Anne?  You look .....  flustered.

> Then please hold me.  And kiss me.  Hard.

Miss Fredrickson sits on my lap.  I feel better already.

Hope we don't Show up late for her fight.

To be continued....

[sinclairfan]

When Miss Fredrickson and arrive at the jogging path where she's going to be catfighting Mrs Harris, I'm in even more of a mood than usual to watch two women go at it.  Cara is an unwelcome new presence in my life--I'm doing all the work to break up Mr Harris's marriage and make him available, and she thinks she's going to swoop in and snap him up?  Cara and I are going to eventually fight for him, I can feel it.  The thought is making me uncontrollably horny.

Miss Fredrickson steps down to the open firepit clearing where she is going to fight Mrs Harris.  I'm hidden in the woods about 20 yards back, but have a good view.  Mrs Harris emerges out of the other end of the woods, dressed in cutoff shorts and a halter top.  The two of them don't speak, they just square up and start swinging, not girly windmill punches, but not quite controlled punches like boys throw either--somewhere in between, but deadly serious, aiming at each others' jaws.  About half of their punches are connecting squarely.  I can tell by how their heads snap back at the impact, and by the slapping sound I can hear with each blow that connects.

I had learned the hard way fighting my sister Lisa that a fistfight between women that goes longer than a minute or two runs out of gas because your (and her) knuckles get bruised and sore, to the point you can no longer properly form a fist.

Sure enough, 90 seconds in, Miss Fredrickson and Mrs Harris wordlessly switch tactics, and begin to go for each others' hair.  But not to rip out clumps of it, like Donna did to me in both fights.  They're each trying to maneuver the other into an off-balance standing position, and snap a lighting flash jab at the others' face.

Both are using such a similar fighting style, it's almost like they both had the same teacher.  Or that one of them learned from the other.

The standup hairpuliing is so sexy that I can't resist touching myself.  Then fingering myself.  Then wristing myself.

I cum and cum, fast, hard, and often.  My eyes water and I lose sight of the catfight, but can still hear it.

Which arouses me even more, and causes me to cum even harder.

Shit, I don't think Miss Fredriclson is going to win.

I don't think either of them will.

I think it's going to be a bloody draw.

I wonder how Mrs Harris will get home.

Who brought her here?

I start looking into the other sides of the woods.

I knew it.

It's Donna.

I think of the sexual electricity between Lisa and me after we made up after our fights.

I wonder if I would be like that with Donna.

I get up and sneak behind Donna.  Mrs Harris and Miss Fredrickson are still fighting.  Good.

I tap Donna on the shoulder and startle her.

> Good fight, huh?

> [Recovers her composure.  She senses that if I was going to jump her, it would have happened by now.]  What are you doing here?

> Same thing you're doing.  Getting horny as fuck from a catfight.  Mind if I join you?

> [Thinks 5 seconds.]  Undress me first.

> [I remember the morning in the gym Donna was being partially undressed by Miss Fredrickson.  Rhat must be Donna's "thing".]  Only if you tongue kiss me hard first.

> Deal.  Now stop talking, bitch.

> Shut up too, slut.  [I mount Donna in a flash.]

To be continued....

[sinclairfan]

As Donna and I kiss to the sound of Mrs Harris and Miss Fredrickson catfighting in the background, I remember my new-found enjoyment of, and arousal from, shoulder kisses.

I maneuver my shoulders to Donna's mouth, and whisper into her ear.

> Kiss my shoulders, bitch.

> Suck on me hard, slut.

> Admit I'm a better fighter than you.

> Admit Mrs Harris and Miss Fredrickson like me better.

> Admit Lance likes me better.

[Shit.  Whoops.]

[Our rhythmic, in-sync rocking has stopped.  Our bodies are tense.  Opposed.  On guard.]

> Did you actually fuck Lance??  I thoughthe's with your sister now.

> [I've come this far.  I might as well finish.]  I actually fucked him, bitch.  And I actually will again.

> [Donna's clas sink into me.]  I hate you, bitch.

> Do something, then, bitch.

> Don't tempt me, Anne.

To be continued.....

[sinclairfan]

I can sense the tension between Donna and me has changed from being amorous to being hostile, but that she is trying to hide this from me until she can get out from being under me.  I'm mounted, on my knees, which are in turn pinching into her sides.  My brown hair is dangling down my face into hers, and I enjoy the sense of power of being on top of her.  My hands are locked with hers, holding them over her head, her blonde hair spraying helplessly everywhere on the forest floor, flecks of leaves and tree bark everywhere in her hair.

Seconds turn into minutes, and I brace myself for her to start bucking her hips to try and dislodge me.  I wiggle my hips forward so that she can't ambush my spine or kidneys with her knees.

Even though we are no longer kissing, I find my mount of her to be even more erotic than our protracted make-out session.  I enjoy pinning another woman under me, and decide I will do this to Mrs Harris after we fight for her husband.

Mrs Harris.  Damn, I'm so turned on pinning Donna that I've lost track of the progress of her fight with Miss Fredrickson.  What are those two bitches up to now?, I wonder.  I look up to where they were fighting.

Shit, one of them is down on her back.  The fight must be over.  But who won???

I hear Mrs Harris's voice, coming from a foot or so away from where I'm pinning Donna.

> Well, well.  What do we have here?  Are you two ladies about the start Round Three?  Mind if I watch?

Donna looks up over my shoulder.

> Mrs Harris??  Your face is all ....  scratched.  And bloody.

> You should see the other girl.

> So, you .... you won the fight??  You beat Miss Fredrickson??

> Don't tell me you misded the best part!!!  Hell, yes, I won!!!  Punched her straight on the face for two minutes straight .... well, you know .... once I got control of the fight.  Took longer than I expected, I admit .... but let's just say she won't be working at our school next year .... or eating solid foods for the next week or so.  Shame you missed it.  Now .... are you two ..... ladies .... about to put on a show for ME??  After the one I just put on for you??  I must say .... you two are living up to the BEST CATFIGHT MATCHUP award you got in the Yearbook.

I finally find my voice.

> You published THAT, bitch???

> Oh, Annie, honey ..... you bet your sweet ass I published that.  Let the whole world know you're not the GOOD GIRL you pretend to be.  Now.... let Donna up and take me home ..... or PUT ON A SHOW for me.  I'm horny as fuck.

Donna and I are both hesitant about what to do next.

> C'mon, Donna.  You lost both fights to her so far, last chance for redemption.

> I want to, Mrs Harris.  But tell her to let me up and start square.

> Sorry, cutie.  I luv ya.  But you're gonna hafta handle that one yourself.

Mrs Harris sits on the ground, unbuttons her jeans, and starts fingering herself.

> C'mon, girl.  Make me proud.

To be continued.....

[sidekick]

I love this fucking story.

[sinclairfan]

Donna is thinking of the quickest way out of my mounted pin on her, but I maintain my fingerlock on her to keep her under me.

I'm flatttered by how aroused Mrs Harris is from watching me kneel on Donna.  I remember how ashamed I expected to be after Donna and I had a school entrance catfight in front of basically the entire senior class, and my top got torn off with me wearing no bra .... and yet the shame never arrived.

I wondered on the nights after that catfight ..... and find myself wondering now... how many senior is our high school class were masturbating to the sight of my 38c breasts being exposed by Donna.

I pictured all the senior girls fingering themselves in envy of how much bigger my breasts were than theirs.

Then I pictured all the senior boys jacking themselves off, regretting that they never asked me out all 4 years of high school.  Never danced with me at a high school dance.  Never cornered me at a Rhode Island house party.  Never drove me home and pulled over in front of my house.  Never came over my house when my mom was at work.

So much kissing and touching they could have had with me.

So much fucking they could have had.  I doubt I would have ever initiated.  But I doubt I would have said no to a hard fuck.  Hell, even a soft one.

I lock eyes with Mrs Harris.  I think about what got me off when she was fighting Miss Fredrickson twenty minutes ago.  I decide it was the face-hitting.

I unlock my right hand from Donna's left, and slap Donna hard in the face.  The strike echoes thru the forest.

> I hate her, I silently mouth to Mrs Harris.  I hate you, too, bitch, I mouth to Mrs Harris.

> Slap her tits, Donna, says Mrs Harris (out loud) to my prone opponent.  Donna does as she says.

> [I slap Doona face again, harder, and backhand her as well.] I mouth to Mrs Harris, I'm badder than her -- and badder than YOU.

> [Mrs Harris is already pre-cumming from the sounds of Donna and me slapping.  This is what she unbuckled her pants for.  And it's working.]  Fight back, Doona, dammit.  Why can't you beat this bitch?

> [I'm talking out loud now to Mrs Harris, not mouthing silently to her anymore:]  Why can't you stop me from stealing your husband, cxnt?!?!?!?

> YOU HAVEN'T STOLEN HIM YET, SLUT!!!!

> [Mrs Harris and I cum in unison.  Donna bucks me off of her .... finally .... but I regain my composure and lock her into a mutual hairpull catball.  We roll along the forest floor, our legs snaking around each other, neither able to get complete control.  I'm exhausted from an afternoon of cumming, kissing, and .... now..... catfighting.  But Doona is just as exhausted from 45 minutes of me mounting her.  We all notice is getting dark.  I whisper in Donna's ear:]  Take the quuen bitch Mrs Harris home.  And tell her to pack her fucking bags.  I'm moving in there this weekend.

> [Mrs Harris hears me:]  YOU ...  Anne .... you pretentious bitch ..... take Miss Fredrickson HOME.  And stay away from .... ME .... AND my HUSBAND ...... forever ..... or I swear to God, Anne, I'll....

> You'll do WHAT, loser??

> I'll make you wish you were never born, Anne.

> I look forwatkrd to it, slut.

[Donna and I release our holds on each other.  We get up.   I help Miss Fredrickson to my car.  Donna helps Mrs Harris's to hers.]

I can't wait to steal that bitch's husband.

To be continued.....

[sinclairfan]

The entire car-ride home from the clusterfuck anticlimactic Mrs Harris-Miss Fredrickson catfight, which Mrs Harris somehow managed to turn into Anne-vs-Donna-Round-3, all I can think about is titfighting with my sister Lisa.  The time we tried doing it, it had all of the tension and competition of my pre-Mrs Harris catfights with her, and way way way less of the danger.

I hope she's in her bedroom, I think to myself, as I open the front door of our house and tear off my top, exposing my rock-hard breasts.  Oh, good--there's a light on in her bedroom.

I burst thru her door.

Shit, no Lisa.  Instead, it's just Lance.  He blushes at the sight of my bared boobs. 

> Lance.  Oh.  Sorry.  Where's Lisa?

> I was hoping you might know.  She's been gone since dinnertime.

> Oh.  Umm.... can I stay?  Like, can we talk?

> Ya, Anne.  Totally.  And, umm .... you can leave your tits out if you want.

> Oh .... ya ...  although, Lance .... This IS ....  MY ......  house, right?

> That's true.  No offense.  Carry on.  I'm not staring ..... just, a, ummmm ....  congenital lazy eye.

> Ya, ok,  .... we'll go with that.   Lance, about that .... can I ask you something?  Nevermind, I'll just ask .... did any boys in high school talk about as someone they would just ... excuse my French ..... come over and fuck?  Like, if they knew I was home alone.  [He hesitates.]  Like, be honest, I wanna know.

> Anne, ...., and I'm not just saying this ..... boys wanted to fuck you.  You just seemed like the type that needed to be wined and dined first.

> But, then why did no one even do that??

> Well, Anne,  ......., every boy was different ..... probably some were afraid you would say no.   ...... , ya know, like, to a date.

> But I never did.  Not once.  Never said no.

> Well, ..... ok, ...... but, Anne, your hair was so hot.... your breasts are so perfect.... it just SEEMED LIKE you would say no.  And that's scary to boys.

> [Lance may not realize it, but he's telling me exactly what my ego wants to hear.]  Lance, the other night when we fucked, you never kissed my [air quotes] 'perfect breasts'.  How come.

> [[Lance weighs in his head if I'm shitting him.]

> [I decide to take the onus off of him.]  Lance ....  please kiss my breasts .....  and ..... fuck ..... me ..... hard.

I mount Lance like I was mounting Donna an hour ago, and undress him like I was undressing her.

He tries his best to suck my breasts, but I'm grinding too hard into his hips.

He penetrates me, and I gasp.  I rock harder and harder, enjoying the power of being in control.  I grasp my sister's headboard, hoping I don't tear it off.

Because then she'll know I rode Lance.

And she'll kick the shit out of me.

To be continued......

[Cali_teen]

I am LOVING this story, every part of it is just amazing and keeps getting better and better

[britney_summer]

This is really good and hot   Except  for the blood and  scratches  that's a turn off for me but then you turn me on again.

[sinclairfan]

As I shower to clean myself off from fucking my sister's boyfriend Lance, and as I go to bed nude (a new habit of mine), I think about Lance confiding in me that boys thru high school wanted to fuck me, but were afraid to ask me for a date for fear of rejection.  I had inadvertantly (or, maybe subconsciously on purpose) sent signals that I wasn't interested in learning how to fuck.

I reflect on all the years Donna stood in the courtyard during 2nd peruod smoke break, unlit cigarette in hand.  I face palm myself as to the 2 real reasons she was out there.

She wasn't outside to smoke.

She was telling the boys, those outside in the courtyard milling around--and those inside the building looking out the window-- she was available to fuck.

And she was telling the girls--those like me, staring outside into the courtyard--that she was available to catfight.

That if someone like me wanted to stir up shit, say
by talking behind her back,
or flirting with her boyfriend,
or gossiping about her,
or looking at her funny in the hallways,
or accidentally bumping her at a school dance,
or just showing up at her home after school;
well, then, we would go at it like bitches and find out who the better woman was.  And let of some steam.

So many ways to start a catfight, if you thought about it.

And knew how to tell the other girl you were "game."

Cara at Fleet now knew I was "game".  My impulsive late-in-the-day phone call to her about Mr Harris had put her own notice that I was a catfighter.  And her giving me my crap right back told me the same about her.

It was pretty much a given she and I would be fighting soon.

The fuse was lit--there was pretty much no stopping it.

I masturbate myself to sleep to the thought of Cara and I catfighting in a Providence alley after work.

And then I wet dream to a trip to the smokebreak courtyard in high school, a trip that never happened but I now wish did.

Donna would catch my eye.

> Why are YOU out here, bitch??  Good girl gone bad??

> Why are YOU still holding that unlit cigarrette.

> Maybe I'll light it and shove it up your ass.

> Maybe you can try in the school parking lot after school.

> Be there.  And I will.

> Fine, sweetie.

> Fine, honey.

I cum in gushes onto my sheets.

To be continued.....

[sinclairfan]

The next day at work at Fleet, the air is crackling with tension in the seven desks between Cara and me.  The other Fleet girls can sense the tension between the two of us, but none ask either of us about it.  Fleet girls have spats come up from time to time, and the tension usually passes, like a bad head cold, in 24 to 48 hours (in fact, a bad head cold is usually the cause of the tension).

But this feud between Cara and me is different.  It's not going away with the passage of time.  She and I will need to resolve it physically.

In 1983, like most northern American cities, downtown Providence hadn't yet been gentrified and beautified and Disney-fied.  It wasn't "family friendly", or safe for children.

Just the opposite.  It was gritty.  Dirty.  Grimy.  Gross.  Tough.  Crime-ridden.

There were dark back alleys you wouldn't go down alone.

Unless it was to cause trouble.  Or run from trouble.

Or to catfight.

Walking to work that morning, I assumed that 5:10 tonight would find Cara and me in each others' hair in one of the dark alleys I walked by from the municipal parking to the Fleet office.  The thought excited me.  Beating her on her home turf would compound the sensation of control.  Of dominance.

But Cara couldn't waot that long, apparantly.  At 10:30, coffee truck time, I could smell Cara's cheesy cologne over my shoulder, and heard her harsh Rhode Island accent purring into my ear:

> I have a key to the Executive Washroom, bitch.  Follow me ...  NOW.  No one will interrupt us.

I drop what I'm working on, and discreetly follow her to an isolated part of the building, thru an empty foyer, and finally into the rain forest-themed Executive Washroom.

Mr Harris probably washes up on here.  So hot.

Cara kicks off her heels, and locks the door behind us.  No, literally.  She KICKS her heels off.  The fly into opposite walls.  I unbuckle mine, licking a stare with her.  I step off of them.

> Is what you did with your heels supposed to SCARE me, bitch?

> [Cara and I are both wearing short summer skirts and halter tops.  My first fight in awhile that both girls are equal in clothes.]  No, slut.  THIS is supposed to.  [Open-handed, Cara slaps me on the cheek.  It hurts much more than a punch.  The sound echoes thru the room.]

I'm at a loss as to what to do next, but as the seconds go by, I realize doing nothing is not an option.  In a soccer-style/football-placekicker-syle motion, I kick Cara in the upper shin.  She pretends not to mind, but then drops to one knee.

Good.  I hope she can't walk to the parking lot this afternoon.

> Thanks for the idea of losing the heels, bitch.

> Thanks for giving me the idea to do this ..... [on all fours, Cara rushes at me, grabs my upper legs, and drags me down to the hard, cold washroom floor.  I catch my fall, and grapple my arms around her shoulders.  We're upright on our knees, facing each other, embracing in a wrestling-type hold.]

It's damn hard struggling in awkward skirts, on an awkward floor.  Our bodies are pressed against each other.  I have an urge to pull Cara's hair, but am afraid to release her shoulders.

We start grunting, our wrestling devolving into the mutual, stalemated draws I'm so familiar with from fighting my sister Lisa.  If Cara or  Iwere outside, we'd pull each other to the ground and try to mount and pin each other.

But the thought of doing that on a public bathroom fllor is just too gross.

So Cara and I continue or futile upright struggle.

The pace slows.  Our breathing gets harder.

Cara breaks the silence.

> Can I ask you something, Anne.  [She called me 'Anne', not 'bitch'.  This must be an olive branch.]

> Go ahead.  Cara.

> Do you love him? 

> Mr Harris?

> Who else?

> I think I do.

> I think I do too, ya know.

> I, ummm ...... that turns me on.  That YOU love him.

> It turns me on, too.  That YOU love him.

> Are you turned on now? 

> A lot.  A real lot.  You are too, right?

> A lot.

We pull back on our holds on each other.  We press our foreheads together, and begin to kiss.

> Cara.  My shoulder.  And neck.  Kiss my neck.

Cara complies.  I surprise myself and cum on the gross bathroom floor.

Cara and I have resolved nothing between us.

May the better woman win.

But first I need Mrs Harris out of the picture.

Like .... soon.

To be continued.....

[sinclairfan]

I sit back at my desk with my hands shaking and unable hold any papers or file folders or paper clips, or anything else. 

I wonder if the reason Donna held an unlit cigarette at 2nd period smoke break was to calm her nerves from a catfight challenge having just been made, or contemplating making one.

I wonder how many catfights she "scored" from going out to smoke break all those years.  And how many of them were intense draws, like the one I just had with Cara in the Executive Washroom.

I wonder why Cara asked me if I "love" Mr Harris.  Did she already know she loves him?  Has she told him?  Have she and he exchanged gifts.

I want to tell Mr Harris that I love him.  Like, right now.

It's 1983.
I can't text him.
I can't email him
What to do?

1983 have this futuristic technology called a "pneumatic tube".  You put a note in a capsule in a vacuum tube.  And it goes to a designated office in, like 3 seconds.

I write my note.
Dear Mr Harris,
I love you.  Have I ever told you that?  Because I do.  xoxo  Anne

I seal up the tube.  I make the sign of the Cross.  And I send the capsule.

For 24 unbearable minutes, I wait for a reply.

It comes.  I unscrew the capsule.  Cara is watching me, but I don't give a fuck.

"Dear Anne.  I know you love me.  But Mrs Harris will fleece me if I divorce her.  Mr Harris."

Pfft.  So much for Mrs Harris's independent feminist principles.

He didn't say he loves me.

But, I know now:  it's on me.  I need to "get this done."

I need to get Mrs Harris out of his life.

I give a smug side-glance to Cara.  Good.  She knows Mr Harris replied to my note.

To be continued.....

[sinclairfan]

I get home from work, wanting to have a sister-to-sister conversation with Lisa, telling her that today, for the first time in my life, I told a man that I love him.  I'm glad my sister and I are on speaking terms again and can have these types of conversations.

I walk in the door eagerly, but for the second day in a row, it's just Lance at home.  I like Lance, but I wish Mom would lay down the law in the house and tell Lisa to be less welcoming about boys moving into our house.  To be in charge.  Like I will be when I'm running Mr Harris's house.

Lance looks like he misses Lisa, and wants to talk to me.  I have a topic I could use some male perspective on.

> Hey, Anne.  Anything new at work today.  [I had a bathroom catfight with Cara, but Lance doesn't need to know that.]

> Oh, the usual.  But Lance, there IS something I've been meaning to ask you.  About the birds and the bees.

> Ooooo, sexy.

> Ya, well, easy there, this is serious.  This girl at work..... some Providence bitch ..... she and I might be interested in the same guy.  Well, more than interested .... we've both fucked him .... at least I'm pretty sure SHE has .... and I think he's gonna pick whichever one of us is better at it.

> Makes sense. 

> So.....?

> So?  Not follwing ya, Anne.

> So, which one of us is better at it.

> I don't know her.

> But you know me.

> [Shrugs .... poor Lance, so spacey sometimes]

> So?

> [Shrugs again .... maybe he just needs me to spell it out]

> So how am I?  At fucking?

> [Gets his tongue] You're the best I've ever been with.  [Wow!]

> You're just telling me what I want to hear.

> No, it's true Anne.  Like, Donna, and Lisa, .... I dunno it's so hard to make them cum ...... they just need it for so long .... but you cum so easy .... and over and over ...  it's just .... FUN ..... fucking you.  With them it's work.  Takes all the fun out.

> [Lance is a man of few words, but every one he does say reminds me of the saying 'talking a girl out of her pants'.  I need to do it with Lance.  Right this minute.]  That ..... umm .... my question wasn't meant as a proposition,..... but do you, umm, wanna do it right now?

> You want tell your sister?  She'll freak if she finds out.  This is more than once.

> [If this was meant to slow me down, it was the wrong thing to say--it just revvs my engine any more.  And by engine, I mean pussy.]  Then we better not tell her.

I can tell Lance is as turned on by the thought of cheating on Lisa as I am.

Because for the first time that he and I have fucked, HE mounts ME.

And I experience the joy of letting the guy take charge.

Lance fucks my brains out.

To be continued.....

[sinclairfan]

At work the next morning at Fleet Bank, after a night of wet-dreaming to cheating on my sister wirh Lance, I've barely sat down when the pneumatic tube at my desk makes a <thwack>ing sound.  It's the capsule, with a message for me.

I hope it's from Mr Harris, telling me that he loves me, and that he should have told me yesterday.  Or that he's divorcing Mrs Harris, even rho she'll fleece him finacially.

It's neither.

It's from Cara.  "Meet me in the Executive Washroom at 10:30, bitch.  In a stall, this time.  Don't tell me you haven't been thinking about it since yesterday."

I'm tempted to write back that, no, I actually have given much thought to catfighting Cara, because I had mind-blowing sex with my sister's boyfriend.

And hope to have more with him tonight.  After work.

But Cara doesn't need to know that.

Instead I write her back, "Of you and I go in a stall together, slut, one of us is getting dunked in the toilet.  xoxo Anne"  I send the capsule thru the tube, and wonder if any of Donna's high school restroom post-2nd period fights happened in a stall.

"Try me, cxnt."  Fine.  We're on at 10:30.

For two hours, I sit restlessly at my desk, while pussy stews in its own juices.  I wish I could get up and say hello to Mr Harris, but I'm worried what will come running down my legs if I get up and walk.

I can hear Cara sitting seven desks behind me working.  Is she as turned on as I am?

10:30 arrives.  Cara has already headed to the Executive Washroom--she has the key.  I head in.  I can see her shoes in the stall she's established herself in.  I stride in.  She slams the stall door, latches it, and gets in my face.

> Let's go, sweetie.

> Let's go, whore.

Our hands are in each others' hair, trying to dunk each other into the toilet.  Even though this is supposedly the Executive Washroom, the porcelain surfaces are far from clean--as persistent level of stain and droplets covers them.  Both of us strain, almost in desperation, to avoid contact with any surface.  The thought of sitting at a desk the rest of the day is mortifying.

Cara pushes me against the stall wall, but I push back and force her shins against the toilet rim.  She loses her balance, and she's sitting on the very back of the toilet seat.  I push down with all my might to prevent her from moving either up or forward.  Both of us are straining against each other with full force.

> You fucking bitch.

> You slut whore.

> I hate you.

> I hate you more.

Cara outwits me and without warning completely releases her grip.  My body flies down in into hers with full force, her back slamming against the toilet tank.  I'm in her arms, we're face to face.

And we're toungue kissing desperately, our mouths making sucking sounds that echo thru the entire stall.

> Finger fuck me, Anne.

I tick my middle and ring fingers under Cara's skirt hem line, and am finger fucking her rapidly.  She explodes into my hand.

Later that afternoon, all of us get an Interoffice Memorandum.

The Executive Washroom is closed until further notice.

To be continued....

[sinclairfan]

That Friday evening and night in my house, my own childhoood house, is claustrophobic torture.  Cara and I have lost our private catfight den at Fleet, probably because someone snitched on us.  My divorced mom is absent as usual, probably over at my Dad's bachelor pad apartment, giving him the attention and affection which, if she had only given to him while they were still married, would have prevented their marriage, and our happy home, from breaking apart in the first place.

And, worst of all, my slut sister is in her bedroom with Lance, both of them ignoring me, and being indiscreetly loud in their fucking, knowing I can hear them.

How can Lance tell me I fuck better than my sister, and then choose to be with hertwenty-four hours later?

My house is no longer my home.  I need to find a different one, and fast.

I need to take Mrs Harris's home from her, and make it mine and Mr Harris's.

I go to bed early that night, burying my head under my pillow to muffle the sounds of Lisa and Lance's lovemaking.

And I'm up at dawn.  I pack my workclothes, and my own cologne and soap and makeup--I'm taking Mrs Harris's from her, but I'm putting it in the trash, not using it.  The thought disgusts me.  I fill my car with all my belongings.

I thought I'd be making this car ride in 8 weeks to go the Northeastern in Boston, and then to Rhode Island College.  But I don't need either of those now.  I have a career at Fleet Bank.

And I'll soon have a new husband.  Mr Harris.

The whole car ride, the excitement in my pussy builds for my confrontation with Mrs Harris.  Donna gave up Lance with such ease when my sister Lisa starting fucking Lance--sure, she came over to our house and slapped Lisa around one day.  But Lisa kept right on fucking Lance, and there was nothing Donna could really do.

It'll be the same with Mr and Mrs Harris.  Mrs Harris and I will have our epic bitchfight.  But Mr Harris will want to be fucking me.  So Mrs Harris will just disappear into his past.  She hot and young--she'll find someone else.

I arrive at Mr Harris's house just as the sun is rising.  The scene couldn't be more picture perfect.  Their new two-story Federal Revival, with full central air, is ahead-of-its-time in 1983 Rhode Island, where the humid summers normally favor Ranch or outdoor patio lifestyles.

What a bitch Mrs Harris is, planning to have zero-to-one kids and buying a house with four bedrooms.  What are the extra rooms for, bitch?

What's even in those extra bedrooms?

I ring the doorbell.  Mr Harris, in his bathrobe, answers.

> Anne!  [He's not upset to see me.  Just understandably surprised.]

> Mr Harris, I know I should have called.  But I can't stand it at home anymore.  My obtuse mom.  My slut sister.  Her horny boyfriend.  It's not .... home.  Can I crash here??

> Who is it, baby?  [I hear from upstairs.]

> [I recognize that voice.  But it's not Mrs Harris's.]  Mr Harris, is that ....  DONNA ?!?!?!?  WHY THE FUCK IS SHE HERE??

I push thru the door past Mr Harris. I feel the tables turn on me from my conversation with Cara, her telling me she had ..... seniority privileges on me .... in flirting with Mr Harris.  That's how I feel with Donna. 

Plus, I won three catfights against her.  In front of the school, at the Providence no-tell-hotel,  and in the woods.

I barrell up the stairs, planning on throwing Donna out of this house by her hair.

When, another bathrobed woman emerges from the master bedroom.

It's Mrs Harris.

> Well, well, it's Anne.  You just can't let go of your high school feud with Donna, can you?  Why don't you FUCKING GROW UP, ANNE? 

> [I'm pissed off, now.]  I'm GROWN, bitch.  And this feud isn't between Doona and me.  IT'S between YOU and me ..... you've just be using Donna this whole time.  I can see that now.  [The thought of Donna, Mrs Harris, and Mr Harris sharing the master bed enrages my jealousy.]

> Well, what are you gonna do about it, sweetie??

> You and me, Mrs Harris.  RIGHT .... NOW.

> I'm game.  With Dannoa and Mr Harris watching?  Or not watching?

> You ....  and me .... alone, Mrs Harris.

> Fine.  What are we waiting for, Anne?

> For them to leave.

To be continued.....