Catfight Story Archive

by Aviendha 33

It was several months after my wedding that my growing but still largely unconscious suspicions finally emerged into a realization:  I had a rival for my husband’s affections.

It was surprising, given how grateful he seemed to have won a bride almost half his age, but I knew that Eric had a powerful sex drive and a taste for novelty and adventure.  His first two marriages had ended, I imagined, because the two former Mrs. Cartiers had been exhausted and simply run out of ideas.

I was determined to be the last in the Cartier dynasty of wives; and, to seal the bargain, I proved myself to be an energetic, enthusiastic, and inventive mate for my husband.  At 25, I could keep him going all night long and demonstrated this to both our satisfaction, several times each week.

For his part, Eric was a considerate lover and an attentive husband.  We never fought, and he showered me with gifts, clothes, and sincere compliments.  It was a genuine surprise, then, to begin to receive those little warning signals–a waft of strange perfume from his suit jacket, an excuse for being late that doesn’t sound completely convincing.

His devotion to me didn’t change in the slightest, but I began to feel the grip of that unconscious paranoia that a woman feels, when she senses another woman has laid hands on her man.

One morning, while Eric slept in, I decided to surprise him with a real English breakfast.  Slipping out quietly in the early morning to go to market, I saw that his car was blocking mine, so I took his Infiniti Qx4, instead of my Saab.  When I opened the door, I noticed a hint of perfume that definitely wasn’t mine and several rose petals on the passenger’s side floormat.  Eric had given me flowers, the previous evening, but mine were red.  These petals were yellow.  Who else, I wondered, was my husband treating to roses?

I said nothing, of course, and Eric and I enjoyed a lovely breakfast, later that morning, and a leisurely afternoon of unbridled passion, beginning on the dining room table and ending, hours later, on the cool tile outside our sauna.  But I kept a watchful eye, scrutinizing my husband’s comings and goings with a vigilance worthy of how much I thought I could lose.

From the consistency of the signals and clues, over the next several weeks, I concluded that I had only one rival with whom to contend.  She never changed perfume, and her tastes and mine were so similar that Eric often bought two of the same gift, as I discovered in an examination of his credit card bills.

I credited her with intelligence and style and, over time, deemed her a worthy adversary.  And although possessive by nature, I actually developed an emotional camaraderie with this unknown woman.  After all, I thought, Eric has never given me any reason to doubt his love and loyalty to me.  He chose me as his wife, and his ardor certainly hadn’t dimmed.  If anything, maybe I should be grateful to this woman, who helps to quench my man’s overwhelming need for sex.  If he keeps her as busy as he keeps me, maybe I should even reimburse her for her time.

But I couldn’t leave it alone.  The audacity!  The unmitigated gall of another woman’s presuming to take my man, even on short-term loan!  The alpha female was raising her hackles within me, and I knew I had to do something.

So I started sending my rival covert messages.  Signals she would read unmistakably, while leaving Eric clueless.  Not so much “Hands off, girl!” as “You may think you have him, but he’s really mine!”

To begin, I started a campaign of ambushing Eric, whenever I suspected he was leaving for one of his assignations.  I’d surprise him with one of his favorites–a quick, no-nonsense blow job!–all the while, massaging my heavily perfumed hands over his cock and balls.  A week later, I received my adversary’s reply.  When Eric was stepping into the shower, after a late night supposedly at his office, I spied a ring of bright red lipstick–definitely not my shade–at the base of his penis.  Grrrr!

We battled, back and forth, in this manner for several weeks, becoming ever more creative and ever more irritated.  I taped a tack beneath the leather on the passenger seat in Eric’s Infiniti, when I was sure he planned to take her to dinner.  The next morning, I was rewarded to find a tiny spot of blood where she had planted her presumptuous but unsuspecting bottom.  Later that week, I found a pair of her stockings in Eric’s glovebox.

When flowers were delivered to me one morning, I quickly telephoned the florist, pretending to be Eric’s secretary, and changed my rival’s order to a cactus.  Retrieving the morning paper from our steps, the next day, I found a pair of Eric’s silk boxers neatly folded inside, bound with one of her garters.  This was getting personal, and she was carrying the fight to my doorstep!

She sent me a polaroid in the mail of Eric receiving oral sex, the woman’s slender, shapely back to the camera.  No note, but she did place a return box number on the envelope.  I had to hand it to her:  she played fair.  We exchanged several more polaroids, before she finally sent me one of her bending over, her backside toward the camera and her brownish pucker of an asshole staring impudently at me.  The message was undeniable.  I returned the favor with a rear view of my own; and then, for several days afterward, the battle seemed to quieten.  I supposed neither of us knew what should come next.

The following weekend, I visited my mother and returned, exhausted, on Sunday night.  Falling into bed, I thought I caught a whiff of another woman’s sex, but it was fleeting, and I convinced myself I was being paranoid.  In the middle of the night, however, I awakened with the unmistakable scent of my rival in my nostrils.  I smelled the sheets- they were clean–looked under my pillow, and finally found a pair of her sheerest, silk bikini panties, smoothed out between my pillow and pillowcase.  I’d lain on them for hours, the warmth from my face restoring their pungency, until even my hair smelled like her sex.

I doubted that Eric would have taken her to our bed, but she’d clearly been inside our home.  She’d probably excused herself to use the bathroom, sneaked upstairs, and deposited her message, when Eric was otherwise occupied.  This was the final straw!  I was determined to meet and confront her–not so much to push her out of the picture as to re establish who was first in Eric’s life, who was the alpha female.

The next weekend, I told Eric that my friend Karen had asked me to visit and that I’d be spending the night at her home in Connecticut.  After an exhilarating day of shopping and an elegant dinner for one at one of our favorite restaurants, I drove home, pulled into our circular drive with the lights out, and let myself in quietly through the side door.

They were clearly taking no precautions, and I heard them laughing upstairs in Eric’s den.  Ascending stealthily, I paused out of sight, next to the door, and eavesdropped on their conversation.

Eric was saying, “Oh, I doubt very much that she suspects anything.  She’s loyal and trusting, maybe a bit naive about these matters.  Nothing at all like my first two wives.”

“I wouldn’t say she’s naive,” a woman’s voice responded.  “In fact, judging from what I’ve seen about the house, I’d say she’s quite intelligent.  And besides, a woman picks up on these things.”

She does with a face full of her rival’s panties, I thought to myself.

“Well, if she does suspect anything, she hasn’t let on,” Eric said, “so maybe she’s learned the fine art of discretion.  Mmmm, that feels wonderful, darling . . . anyway, I can’t see her making a fuss.  There’s no reason she should see this as a threat to our marriage, after all.  Ouch!  Careful!  Mmmm, yesss, that’s it.  Don’t you think we should get undressed?”

“Oh, we will, but I want to taste you first.  To let you know that, tonight, this belongs to me and me alone.  Mmmm.”

Grrr!  I couldn’t stand it any longer.  Barging through the doorway, I said in my calmest, most composed but forceful tone, “A fuss, Eric?  You can’t see me making a fuss?  Who is this person!  With her mouth all over your cock, I might add!”

Eric sprang to his feet from the large leather Chesterfield couch in front of the fireplace, with the woman half a second behind him.  “My god, Janey!” my husband croaked.  “Oh, god!” the woman echoed.

They both had the good grace to look nonplussed and ashamed, until Eric finally stammered, “My god, Janey, it’s not what it looks like!”

There was an uncomfortable, silent moment, after which the woman and I both exhaled decidedly unfeminine snorts, trying to keep our composure–partly from nervousness, partly in response to the ridiculous cliche contained in the moment, and partly in reaction to the unintended humor in Eric’s protest.

When we recovered, I said, “Eric, it’s exactly what it looks like:  a suspicious wife, surprising her husband while he’s getting head from his bit on the side.  If ever anything was exactly what it looked like, this is it!”

The woman suppressed a smile and, turning to my husband, said, “Eric, why don’t you make a couple of drinks for Janey and me.  We have some things to talk over.”  Then, turning to me, she offered her hand and said, “Janey, I’m Devon.  It’s nice to meet you at last.”

Automatically, I took her hand but then dropped it like a hot coal.  “Nice to meet you, Devon,” I replied between clenched teeth.  “Now get out of my house.”

“Throwing me out?  You disappoint me, Janey.  Given the cleverness of our duel so far, I would have expected better.”

“Duel?” Eric looked puzzled.

“The drinks, please, Eric,” Devon reminded him.

“Never mind the drinks, Eric, Devon won’t be staying.  If she doesn’t leave, I’ll telephone the police.”

“And tell them what?” Devon said, hands on her hips.  “That you’re throwing out a guest invited by your husband?  I doubt they’ll take that seriously.”

I studied Devon’s face and realized that she felt no anxiety.  She wasn’t going anywhere, unless I threw her out myself.  “Eric, Devon’s right,” I seethed.  “I am being a poor hostess.  Please pour us both drinks, while we figure this out.”

Slowly, I took two steps toward her, until we were only a couple of feet apart.  Our eyes traveled down each other’s bodies, scanning for imperfections, our chests thrust toward one another in an implied challenge.

Devon looked to be in her early forties, much older than I’d anticipated, but she was obviously in good shape and quite pretty.  Her luxurious auburn hair was cut simply but elegantly to shoulder-length, framing an expressive face, with lovely green eyes and full lips.  Her skin was pale and flawless, down to the cleavage of her breasts, which I guessed were contained in a c-cup brassiere.  She was an inch shorter than my 5’5″ but perhaps a few pounds heavier, which she wore well.

Dressed in a white cotton blouse and simple, patterned skirt, with sheer stockings and black pumps, she was stylish but understated.

By contrast, I was wearing a midnight blue silk blouse, which accentuated my shapely but slightly smaller, higher breasts, and a patterned Versace silk skirt, which draped around my thighs and legs suggestively, whenever I took a step.  I’d always thought my shoulder length blonde hair and blue eyes were assets in a comparison, but something about Devon’s attitude told me not to underestimate her.

Eric brought us drinks–we both drank scotch and ice, big surprise–and we pulled two chairs together so we could sit closer to one another, our knees almost touching.  Dismissed, Eric sighed and wandered back to the couch.

After a moment and several sips of scotch, Devon started, “Janey, how are we going to settle this?  You may think you want me out of the picture, but I survived the first two Mrs. Cartiers, and I’ll survive you, too.”

“Devon,” I said, slipping off my uncomfortable Milanese high heels, “whether you’re in or out of the picture is entirely up to you and Eric.  I just need you to know who’s on top.  I’m Eric’s wife, and I come first.”

Devon pulled off her pumps, casually massaging one of her stockinged feet, and I noticed that Eric, who’d been nervous as a cat, a few minutes earlier, was now clearly enjoying the game of mutual intimidation his wife and his mistress were playing.

“I can live with your coming first, when he’s with you, if you can live with my coming first, when he’s with me,” she said, “and, tonight, he’s with me.”

“He can be yours when he’s with you, but this is my home, and I don’t want you here ever again, unless I invite you.”

“Hmmm, well, we do seem to have some differences.  Perhaps we should consider settling them, woman to woman,” she smiled.

Now it was my turn to feel nonplussed.  “What are you talking about?”

“I mean,” she drew the phrase out, “that we have the opportunity, here, to settle a few things between us and give Eric a thrill in the process.”

My husband started to say something, but Devon wagged a finger at him.  “Stay out of this, Eric, it’s between Janey and me.” Turning back to me, she said, “unless you don’t think your man is worth fighting for, Janey?”

“Of course, he is,” I spluttered.  “But I’m not about to get myself into a fight and get injured.  Come to that, I don’t want to hurt you either, Devon.  I just want you out of here.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” she smiled, “but I’ll bet you wouldn’t pass up a chance to put me in my place . . . to show me who’s on top, as you so appropriately phrased it.”  Then she had the temerity to wink at me!  “I think we can arrange to do this without risking injury,” she purred.  “Except to the loser’s pride, of course.”  Turning to Eric, she said, “Don’t worry, sweetheart, we won’t hurt each other.  We’ll just mess each other up, a little.  Then you and I can finish what we started,” she smiled.

Grrr!  That settled it!  I was determined to wipe that smug grin off her face!

I looked at Eric, who was breathing hard on the couch.  “Is this what you want?”

In reply, he shrugged and raised his palms; but, before he could say anything, Devon jumped in, “This will be more enjoyable for Eric, if it stays between you and me, Janey.  Woman to woman.  If you win, I’ll stay out of your house.  If I win . . . well, let’s just say I’ll come whenever Eric invites me.”

“And if I win, you’ll take a taxi home in a raincoat and nothing else,” I gave her my best superior sneer.

“Agreed,” she said.  “And just to make it interesting?  At the end, the winner gets five minutes to humiliate the loser in any way she sees fit.”

I must have looked puzzled, prompting Devon to add, “I think the last photographs we traded will give you some ideas, Janey.”

I remembered our exchange of polaroids, offering our backsides to each other in a symbolic gesture.  “Looks like the metaphor is about to become a reality, Devon.  I’m going to love making you kiss my ass,” I said, offering her my best heavy-lidded smile.

“We’ll see who ends up kissing what,” she replied with that same self satisfied grin toward which I’d already grown annoyed.  Rising to her feet, she turned to Eric and said, “Darling, be a good boy and push all the furniture to the walls and find some padding for the hard places.  Janey and I are going to your bedroom to get ready and to finish discussing the rules.”

Brazenly leading the way to my own bedroom, Devon said that, since she was already wearing sheer nude pantyhose and a lace bra that I should change into the same, to keep things even.  While she removed her blouse and skirt, I went to my dressing room in search of my own lingerie suit of armor.  Emerging a few moments later in sheer gray pantyhose and a VS black lace bra, I found my adversary, sitting composed and self-assured on the side of Eric’s and my bed, dressed only in her pantyhose and a lacy white Danskin bra.

Although I wouldn’t call her head-turningly attractive, I could see why Eric found her appealing.  Something about her manner was inviting and seductive.  I joined her on the bed and asked, “Have you really known Eric through his first two marriages?”

“Oh, I’ve been his mistress for nearly twenty years, Janey.  I was actually hoping to be the third Mrs. Cartier, but he met and fell in love with you, before I could convince him . . . No, don’t you dare pity me!  Even if I were Eric’s wife, I’d still have to deal with someone like me.  Probably you, in fact!  At least this way, I know where I stand with Eric, and I have a lot of independence.  Eric has always paid for my apartment and my travel, and he gives me a very generous allowance.  And you should know,” she added with a subtle challenge, “that this arrangement won’t change, no matter what happens between you and me, tonight.”

“As I said, Devon, whatever arrangement the two of you have is strictly between you and Eric.  You and I are settling different issues altogether.”  Then it suddenly occurred to me, “Did the previous Mrs. Cartiers know about you?”

“Of course,” she said.  “You think this is the first time I’ve had to clear the air with one of Eric’s wives?  Here, let me show you something.” Devon padded out of the room, only to return a few moments later with a videotape.  Where she got it, I had no idea, and I was a little unnerved that she seemed to know my house so well.

While she was cuing the tape on our bedroom VCR, she said over her shoulder, “Eric has nearly cleared the den, and he’s arranging bolsters over the hearth.”

Rejoining me on the bed, she waved the remote, and a caption appeared on the television:  “December 14, 2000, 10:16 PM.  Lisa and Devon decide the holiday schedule!”

“Lisa wanted to going skiing in Switzerland,” Devon explained.  “I wanted to spend Christmas in New York, shopping and watching Broadway shows.”

Then two women appeared on the screen — Devon and apparently Lisa, whom I knew was Eric’s second wife.  They were wearing teddies with stockings, garter belts, and sheer panties and facing one another in what appeared to be Eric’s and my formal dining room, but with the furniture removed.  They both looked striking and elegant, until a chime rang and they came together in a hair-pulling, clothes-ripping frenzy.

I watched, completely enthralled, as the two proceeded to fight and attempt to degrade one another for perhaps five minutes, until both were in tears, Lisa finally pinning Devon on her back and making her submit.  Devon turned the VCR off, saying, “That was only the first round, but you get the idea.”

For several seconds, I was dumbfounded.  Then I said, “You mean this was going on during Eric’s marriage with Lisa?”

“And during his marriage with Jackie, before that,” Devon replied, ejecting the videotape and returning it to its box.  “It’s really more fair, this way, Janey.  Whenever there are disagreements about scheduling or plans, Eric lets us decide.”

“And he’s okay with that?”

“Are you joking?  In case you hadn’t noticed, he has a bit of a fetish about women fighting over him.  Otherwise, we could settle everything by taking turns or playing cards.  This way, we give Eric an erotic adventure, and we have a chance to work out our own jealousies and satisfy our need to compete.”

“So this whole duel we’ve been playing was just your way of pulling me into this?”

She raised her right hand and said, “I confess.  And I’m very glad we can finally work things out between us in the open, without constantly putting Eric into the middle.”

“Devon,” I smiled, “I’m really looking forward to this.  Now tell me, what are the rules?”

“The rules are whatever we decide they are.  The only cardinal rule is that we try not to hurt or injure each other in any way or cause any gratuitous pain.  Any breaking of that rule means an automatic loss.  Other than that, we can tear clothes, pull hair, slap faces, spank bottoms and thighs, and generally humiliate each other any way we can.”

She paused, expectantly, and I said, “Sounds fine to me, but you have the advantage of having done this before.”

“True, Janey.  And you’re 15 years younger than I, but I think Eric’s worth it, don’t you?”

“Touche,” I said.  “And how do we decide the winner?”

“As a rule, it’s the best two out of three rounds.  The winner is the first to make her opponent submit twice.”

There was a knock at the doorway, and Eric said, “Everything’s ready, if you two are sure.”

“Oh, we’re sure, sweetheart,” I said.  “Lead on.”

As we entered Eric’s den, I saw that he had transformed it into a makeshift arena.  Most of the furniture was gone, and there was additional padding beneath the room-sized Persian carpet.  There were padded bolsters I’d never seen, covering the hearth; but even more remarkable were the two video cameras attached to the walls and the one pointed downward from the ceiling.  Fetish indeed!

I found myself thinking:  How in the world did I get here?  I was planning to throw this woman out on her ass–metaphorically, of course–and here I was, practically bareassed in sheer pantyhose, prepared to enter into a humiliating contest with her, in which we were likely to degrade one another in unspeakable ways.  Even more puzzling and outrageous, I was beginning to feel the unmistakable symptoms of intense sexual arousal, and I noticed that both Devon and I were showing the first signs of wetness in the sheer crotches of our pantyhose.  “Well, if Eric likes a show,” I thought, “he’s definitely going to get one!”

Devon and I went to the center of the room and turned to face each other, while Eric took his place in a comfortable chair in the corner.

“Just for the record,” she  said, “this will decide guest privileges in Eric’s home.  If Janey wins, I can only come when she invites me.  If I win, I come whenever Eric says it’s okay.  And the winner,” she smiled lasciviously at me, “gets five minutes on camera to humiliate the loser in whatever manner she wishes.  Right, Janey?”

“That’s right, Devon,” I nodded.

“Oh, and if Janey wins, I leave in a taxi wearing only a raincoat.  And if I win . . . I finish the blow job I started earlier and leave wearing whatever I like from Janey’s closet.”

“What!” I started to protest, just as Devon landed a stinging slap across my left cheek, sending me staggering backward several steps.  I recovered quickly, but she didn’t press her advantage.  Instead, we began to circle each other slowly, our eyes traveling up and down each other’s bodies.

As the circle grew smaller, we both reached for handfuls of each other’s hair and began to stagger in an awkward dance, as we tried to throw each other to the floor.  Neither of us could get sufficient leverage to unbalance the other, though, and Devon suddenly released my hair, pulling me close in a bearhug.  Continuing to struggle, I realized her strategy, as I felt her hands working busily behind my back on my bra clasp.  Determined not to be the first to lose her brassiere, I redirected my efforts to her clasp; and, seconds later, we pulled apart, each bearing a lacy trophy.

Tossing our prizes to Eric, we eyed each other’s breasts in a jealous comparison.  Devon’s nipples were brownish, large and erect, a perfect complement to the classic tear drop shape of her c-cup breasts.  My nipples were just as erect, but just slightly smaller and pink, with a gentle upturn that made my own c-cup breasts the object of frequent surreptitious glances in the women’s locker room at my health club.

“Get a good look at them, Devon,” I taunted her.  “They’re firm and sweet, and Eric can’t get enough of them.”

“They’re nice enough, Janey,” she hissed, “but Eric’s mouth never tires of kissing and sucking mine.”

The thought of my husband’s lips and tongue on her breasts filled me with frustration and resentment, and I shook my breasts at my rival in jealous outrage.  Devon shook hers at me in return, and we closed the few feet between us, until our tits began to touch and smack gently against each other.  I couldn’t remember my nipples ever having been this erect, and I was aware of pleasing, almost electric sensations in them.  Judging from my rival’s erratic breathing, she was similarly aroused, and we continued to slap our breasts together in this fashion for several minutes with our arms in a loose embrace.

Our faces were inches apart, and each of us felt the other’s moist, hot breath on her cheek and neck.  Suddenly, Devon hugged me to her more firmly and whispered breathily in my ear, “I’m going to make you come, Janey.  You know that don’t you?”  My body responded instantly, before I could think what to reply, and I felt Devon’s wet, open mouth covering mine in a deep, slow kiss.  We both moaned involuntarily, as our hands caressed each other’s backs and buttocks and our tongues entwined and writhed sensuously in each other’s mouths.

Reluctantly, after a couple of minutes, we pulled apart just enough to cup each other’s breasts and begin to massage each other’s nipples with our thumbs.  Our eyes met with the implied challenge of seeing who would pull away first, as we continued to rub and stimulate each other.  Each of us realized that we dare not inflict outright pain, knowing that, with her nipples in the hands of her rival, the retaliation would be swift and severe.  So the stimulation grew slowly by degrees, as we began to pull and pinch and twist with increasing ardor.

Just when I began to feel I couldn’t tolerate the sensations any longer, Devon pushed me away and covered her breasts with her hands, contorting her face with her eyes squeezed shut and her mouth slightly open.  I stared, alarmed that I’d somehow hurt her, until a rush of breath emerged and her eyes opened.  Then I realized I’d just given her an orgasm by stimulating her breasts.  I’d never experienced one of these myself, but I’d read about them and knew they were possible for highly aroused, sexually receptive women.

Regaining her composure, Devon shook her head and taunted me hoarsely, “Oh, you sweet little bitch.  For that, I’m not just going to make you come, I’m going to make you beg!”

She sprang at me, and we tumbled to the padded carpet, rolling several times, back and forth, until my rival succeeded in pinning me face down, with my arms pulled behind my back.  As she sat up, riding me with her backside straddling mine, she dropped one of my arms in favor of a handful of my hair.  Feeling my head pulled back, I raised my chest off the floor until my back arched uncomfortably and I kicked the floor in protest.

When Devon suddenly released my other arm, I tried to push myself up in order to throw her off my back; but several sharp, stinging slaps landed on my right cheek, and I covered my face with my hands.

I felt her bottom swivelling on mine, behind me, and without warning her thighs appeared on either side of my head, pinning my face to the carpet, once again.  I grabbed the backs of her legs but couldn’t budge them, so I tried bringing my knees up under me.  This succeeded only in bringing my backside up in the air, however, and I felt Devon’s hands grabbing my ass cheeks.

Then I heard the ripping of fabric and felt the cool air greeting my ass, as my rival tore a gaping hole in my pantyhose, exposing me to Eric and the cameras in a most unflattering manner.

“What a sweet little pink rosebud you’ve got back here, Janey,” she teased.  “And how wet you are!”

I felt her fingers slowly exploring me externally, violating my most private of places, gently tugging at my bush, kneading my labia, and finally invading me slowly and sensuously with a finger.  I moaned and struggled, but she had me trapped.  I ripped and shredded the legs of her pantyhose but couldn’t push her off, as she circled my clitoris with a slick finger and began to stimulate me with purpose.  Tears had formed in my eyes, and I sobbed involuntarily with frustration.

“Your toes are curling, Janey,” Devon said.  “Does that mean you’re having fun?”

“Devon, you bitch, please,” I pleaded, but I didn’t know whether I wanted her to stop or go faster.

Sensing the tension building in my nether regions, my rival ceased caressing me and placed her hand in my crotch, holding me firmly.  The effect was almost irritating, and I began to buck and strain, trying to increase the friction and gain more stimulation.  My efforts were futile, however, and, several more times, Devon brought me close to the edge, only to deprive me of the goal in this manner.

“Eric,” I finally pleaded to my husband in exasperation, “please get her off me!”

“Oh, Eric’s having a wonderful time, Janey,” Devon said.  “He’s not about to spoil his fun or mine.  In fact, you can’t see this with your face to the floor and your head pinned between my thighs, but he’s pulled himself out and is giving himself a few leisurely strokes.  But don’t come yet, Eric darling, because I want you in my mouth, once I’ve disposed of Janey.”

Her words burned my ears, but I couldn’t stand my torture any longer.  “Devon, please, please, pleeease!” I begged.

“Very well, Janey, I’m not without pity,” she said.  “But first, tell me whose breasts are prettier.”

“Yours are,” I sobbed.

“And whose sweet rosebud can’t you wait to kiss?”

“Yours,” I wept and was promptly rewarded with a delicious stroke of her finger.  As the sensations slowly built again and I felt my orgasm gathering, I worried that she might trick me and stop, once more, but the uncertainty seemed to propel me faster, and I came with a rush, squealing in ecstasy.

After a few moments, Devon dismounted, and I turned onto my side in exhaustion.  I must have lain there recovering for several minutes; and, when I finally sat up, Devon was kneeling on the floor beside my husband’s chair.  She had discarded her tattered pantyhose and was gently fondling Eric’s manhood, while smiling at me.

“Devon, that was amazing,” I complimented her somewhat begrudgingly.  “Now get your hands off my husband’s cock, because I’m going to win the next round and throw your ësweet rosebud’ out of my home.”

Devon crawled toward me and sat with her knees up, across from me.  “Let’s rest a moment,” she said, “since, after that last orgasm, you won’t be ready for another until a few minutes have gone by.”

Eric brought us two fresh drinks, and we sat, sipping quietly for a few moments.  As I was idly tearing off what little remained of my pantyhose, Devon broke our reverie, tilting her head with an observation.  “You’re not like Eric’s first two wives, Janey.”

I didn’t know whether this was a compliment or an insult.  “What do you mean?”

“Under different circumstances, we could be friends, you and I,” she replied.  Then she brushed the hair from my eyes, and I didn’t protest.  “You’re willing to fight for Eric–to establish your place and prove your love for him–but you’re not threatened by me, I can tell.  You’re secure in his love, and that’s an enviable position.”

“And what are you fighting for, Devon?  Security?”

“Oh, I’ve got the security I need with Eric,” she said, sliding forward until her left leg was over my right, while gently pulling my left over her right.  “I suppose I’m fighting for the security I need with you.  The freedom to ride in Eric’s car without risking a tack in my ass,” she laughed.  “My life will be a lot easier, if I don’t have to worry about you constantly undermining me and threatening Eric with separation or divorce.”

We pulled together, until our mounds were touching and the scent of our mingled womanhood was thick in our nostrils.

“I assure you, I have no intention of giving my husband up,” I replied.  “And I’m secure enough and realistic enough to know that I’ll only wreck things for myself and Eric, if I make demands or try to interfere with his relationship with you.  But, Devon, I’m going to do my best to insure that he never leaves this house with an erection meant for you.  And I want you to know that, when you wrap your lips around his firmness, it’s me you’ll be tasting.”

“You really are a worthy opponent, Janey.  I’m definitely looking forward to having your face in my ass.”  Almost without thinking, we had begun to rub and press our slick pussies together, and Devon asked breathily, “Shall we settle things then?”

“The sooner, the better,” I kissed her ear, and we began a contest of tribadism to see who could bring the other to orgasm first.

For the next fifteen minutes, we alternated between gentle rubbing, while kissing and caressing, and grinding with abandon, while reclining backward, mouths open and eyes closed.  Our breathing had become quick and feverish, as we embraced each other yet again to kiss each other’s mouths and faces.  Remembering how sensitive her nipples were, I began to rub and gently tug at them, and Devon’s response was immediate and gratifying.  “No,” she whispered in protest, but her breathing became ragged, and I sensed her orgasm was near.

Suddenly, she grabbed my forearms, pushing me back, and began to grind with purpose and passion.  I was on my back and, once again, helpless, as she smiled down at me and pressed her advantage relentlessly.  Our grunts were punctuated by the wet little smacking noises of our pussies coming together, and I felt my back and pelvis tensing with the inevitable.  I came with a loud grunt and a low growl, with Devon’s own grunt and moan, just seconds behind.

After a few moments of hard breathing, she collapsed beside me, and we both stared at the ceiling in a daze.  When a few more minutes had passed and our breathing had slowed and become more regular, Eric complimented us both and offered to get us fresh drinks.  “Not yet,” Eric darling, “we’re not quite finished,” Devon said; and, rolling toward me onto her side, she asked, “Are you ready, Janey?”

Despite how pleasurable our fight had been from one perspective, I had lost and lost in front of my husband.  This woman who had invaded my home and beaten me in a fight was now proposing to collect her prize in our high stakes agreement.  I was definitely not looking forward to this, but I’m a good sport and, well, a bet is a bet.

I sat up and said, “I’m ready.  Do your worst, Devon.”

Devon said, “Give us five minutes on your watch, Eric” and instructed me to lie on my back.  I watched as her feet appeared above me and slowly descended onto my face, her toes curling around my nose and mouth.  I could smell her floral foot lotion, mixed with the sweat of our exertions.  “Now lick them and compliment them, Janey.”

“Your feet are beautiful, Devon,” I said between licks, “and they smell as lovely as flowers in spring.”  After a couple of minutes of this, she rose to straddle my face, pulling me into her pussy and massaging me, until I was slick with her thick, pungent juices.  “Now kiss me , Janey.  Kiss me and lick me.”

Under different circumstances, I might actually have enjoyed this, but being forced to do it to my husband’s lover in front of him was a humiliation I was decidedly not enjoying.  Devon, by contrast, was clearly having fun and, if I wasn’t mistaken, beginning to respond to my ministrations in the expected manner.  I was hoping she’d forget the time and that Eric would announce the end, but she suddenly asked, “How much time is left, Eric?”

“About 50 seconds,” came the reply, and Devon smoothly reversed her straddle to bring her ass down on my face.  After nearly half an hour of fighting, this was not the pleasantest of environments, and I moaned in protest, as she gyrated onto me.  “Oh, good, Janey, I was afraid you’d like it.  Now kiss my rosebud with your lips and tongue, until Eric tells us to stop.”

When Eric announced the end, Devon promptly got up and politely pulled me to my feet, as well.  Maybe it was the thought of how I must look to my husband or maybe it was just the idea of another woman’s degrading me in this fashion, but I couldn’t keep myself from bursting into tears.  I covered my face with my hands and, after a few seconds, felt Devon’s arms comforting me, pulling me into her.  “It’s okay, it’s okay,” she said soothingly.  “This was just the first time, and I know we’ll have lots of decisions to work out in the future.  You’ll have plenty of chances to re-establish yourself, Janey.”

After a few more minutes of Devon’s taking care of me and my composing myself, Eric brought us fresh drinks, and we all sat on the floor.  It wasn’t easy, watching my rival give my husband a very satisfying blow job; but, on the other hand, she’d given me two orgasms, and who was I to be stingy?

When Devon waltzed out of our house, half an hour later in my best Anne Paley dress and Tumi heels, I knew she’d be the alpha female until we fought again and I won.  Hmmm, I thought.  Wonder what she’s doing next week.

The End (for now)