On the morning of her title fight Helen Brodie woke early, feeling bleary eyed after an interrupted night’s sleep: yesterday’s incident with Susan Walkerburn was clearly playing on her mind which was bad news indeed in the run-up to such a critical contest.
Examining her face and body critically in the full length mirror Helen mostly liked what she saw: apart that is from the unwelcome dark, puffy rings that had appeared overnight around her eyes. She would have to use her best cosmetic concealer today in case the other girls noticed and wondered if the stress was all becoming too much for Cardugan’s reigning sex-fight queen.
Helen’s refined facial features would not have looked out of place on the cover of a fashion magazine: the exotic, dark eyes; pale, luminously healthy skin; her straight nose that was exactly the right length but somehow managed also to be slightly retroussé and cute; her full, dark red, very kissable lips. Her young woman’s breasts were creamy white and unblemished and had perfect shape, weight and tone which meant she often went without a bra as she had no need of further support.
In fact Helen was an image of such feminine perfection that her opponents frequently were blind-sided as to how big, hairy, and strong her pussy actually was until it was way too late, and they were being ridden helplessly to orgasm submission beneath Helen’s legendary top-grinding attack.
In her early teens, Helen had watched the cult SF film Blade Runner and had become fascinated by the character of Rachael, played by Sean Young, whom she somewhat resembled facially. At times she even modelled herself unconsciously on the ice cold, ethereal replicant who thanks to implanted memories doesn’t actually know that she is one, but eventually captures the heart of Harrison Ford’s cynical, world-weary private investigator, Rick Deckard.
Although not many of the other girls knew, Helen was a Jewess: her maternal grandparents, Ashkenazi Jews, had fled the Russian pogroms in the 1920s, settling in Edinburgh eventually, where their only daughter, Rachel Edelman, had grown up enjoying a hectic life as a beautiful if impoverished socialite until marrying Hector Brodie, a rich Scottish Laird with extensive country estates near Inverness.
Helen had grown up on the estate learning to ride horses and, as she got older, also learning how to ride the spirited local stable girls as well. When she had turned eighteen her mother who, uncharacteristically, had drunk too much wine and brandy one evening confessed in a private moment together that she and Helen’s father had nearly not been married thanks to a rich English heiress, Diana Symington, who also had marital designs on Hector Brodie.
For a time Hector was clearly torn between his beautiful, dark-haired Jewish lover and the stunningly attractive English rose who successfully manoeuvred herself to land in his bed after a particularly debauched society party and then refused to give it up. Fearing that she would lose the man she loved to her blonder, more aristocratic love rival forever, Rachel Edelman confronted Diana Symington in a bitter exchange in the ladies powder room of the Royal Mile Club, where both readily agreed to settle the matter for good in the time-honoured way as only hot-blooded and jealous women can.
Booking themselves into a suite at Edinburgh’s top hotel the very next night, Rachel and Diana met to settle the matter of honour between them: the sex-fight that followed started at ten pm and carried on well into the following day. Although Rachel perhaps sensibly demurred from describing the battle to her daughter in too much graphic detail, Helen was left in no doubt that by the time the dawn rose both women’s ‘nether regions’ were feeling very sore indeed, and, although both had succumbed to massive multiple orgasms many times over, rather inconveniently for both parties the contest still remained messily unresolved as dawn approached.
Rachel still remembered vividly how both women were left laying on their sides, shattered and exhausted while recovering from their last shared orgasm, their congealed pubes hopelessly entangled and their mating pussies as good as cemented together by a drying crust of womanly residue.
As she noticed the dawn light creeping into the room Rachel had felt her bruised, blood-red clit starting to recover from the last attritional battle against its strong pink rival. Although, truth be told, it still felt turgid rather than fighting hard, and Rachel prayed fervently that Diana’s clit, which was still pressing lightly against her own, had been left in a similarly weakened state.
As the raven-haired woman steeled herself for one last desperate attempt to fuck her enemy into submission, her blonde adversary somehow beat her to the punch, rolling on top and pinning Rachel to the sex-slimed bed sheets while grinding into her open twat with a big clit that suddenly felt harder and more reinvigorated than Rachel’s!
“Got you finally, bitch!” Diana Symington had grunted all too smugly as she increased the pace of her gyrations while tightening her grip on Rachel Edelman’s weakening pussy as much as her tired cunt lips would allow. “Surrender to me nicely now, and I might even invite you to my wedding with Hector!”
“Ahh – I -no – uuuhh uhhh!” Although she was desperate to avoid a final shattering defeat beneath her love rival’s thrusting cunt, Rachel had involuntarily grabbed hold of Diana’s full, womanly buttocks at this point, and was pulling her nemesis into herself even more deeply without fully realising it! But then, as her fingertips accidentally tickled the soft blonde hair nestling around her opponent’s pert anus, Rachel understood the way forward with sudden clarity and without further hesitation plunged all four fingers in, all the way up to the hilt, her well-manicured fingernails leading the charge and taking the tight-arsed English heiress completely by surprise.
“So yes, as I was saying to you Helen, once I got the measure of that English woman and defeated her in a fair fight, she agreed to renounce all further claims on your father, and then the coast was clear for us to go ahead and get married!”
Having been forced to fight – and fight brutally as well – for what was most dear to her, Rachel Brodie was naturally keen to impress the importance of this life lesson on her only daughter Helen. However she was much too refined to go into the details of what had led to her final victory over Diana Symington on that fateful day; and she certainly didn’t know that her own daughter had recently discovered a weakness for anal penetration on her own part that had nearly caused her to lose a sex-fight with one of the stable girls.
What Rachel did ask Helen to do however (after first swearing her to secrecy of course) was to keep a careful look out for a certain Laura Symington-Bailey who was now in the sixth form at an exclusive Edinburgh girls school and, it turned out, was in fact Helen’s half-sister, the progeny of her father’s brief dalliance with Diana Symington nearly nineteen years earlier.
Mhairi MacGregor also woke early that morning and spent the first minute or two extracting Susan Walkerburn’s blonde pubes from the puffy folds of her vagina. Then she spread her fingers and started examining herself internally, testing her muscular strength and elasticity in different places. At length she gave herself a grade A-plus report, satisfied that her youthful genitalia had made a full recovery after her gruelling finger fucking duel with Helen Brodie the other day. Withdrawing her fingers, she held them to her nose and liked what she smelt: if that intoxicating musk didn’t put the bitch off then she wasn’t sure what would.
The truth was that Mhairi had a real thing about posh girls like Helen Brodie and that thing was that, most of all, she enjoyed conquering them sexually. In her early years, Mhairi had been brought up on a rough council estate outside Aberdeen where she had to learn to fend for herself from an early age. Her mother was often unable to look after Mhairi and her siblings properly, especially when her father came home often drunk and abusive after weeks spent away working on the North Sea oil rigs.
When, eventually, the father had disappeared out of their lives altogether, her mother still struggled to bring the family up and a life in care beckoned. But help was at hand in the form of one of Mhairi’s teachers who having recognised that the snotty-nosed young urchin was as bright as a button, arranged for her to sit the scholarship exams for an exclusive local girl’s college.
Although Mhairi had passed the entrance exams with flying colours, life didn’t suddenly become easy as the other girls at the college knew an imposter when they saw one, and wasted no opportunity to goad and humiliate the common girl who had been born on the wrong side of the tracks. It was this shoddy treatment that had fuelled Mhairi’s general dislike of posh girls with all of their superior airs and graces, and which had also spurred her on as she climbed all the way to the top of the sex-fight league at her previous school.
As far as Mhairi was concerned, Helen Brodie was the living embodiment of a haughty, spoilt posh girl who (it was rumoured) had been raised on a vast estate near Inverness, where she had servants to dress her and umpteen horses of her own to ride. Well, as far as Mhairi was concerned, the rich bitch was just another obstacle in the way of her continued rise to the top, and tonight she would forcefully remove that obstacle from her path.
Several years earlier, Mhairi had watched the film Working Girl starring Melanie Griffiths, whom she faintly resembled in her brunette phase, and had been impressed by the way in which the working class girl had risen to the top, defeating her more pukka boss played by Sigourney Weaver along the way. Yes, thought Mhairi, that’s my kind of role model all right.
Mhairi looked across at her roommate who still lay comatose on the other bed where she had ended up after they had sex last night. The tousled sheet had slipped down, revealing the dirty state of the other girl’s blonde bush: still matted and congealed with the residue of last night’s hard fucking.
By now Mhairi had grown accustomed to using the blonde as a reluctant sparring partner in her preparations for the crucial title fight and last night had been the final opportunity to practice her best fighting moves before going up against Helen Brodie herself. The fact that she was doing so with her new acolyte, Helen’s former best friend and now very much her own bitch, only added to the frisson of excitement she felt.
At first Mhairi had practised using her stronger fuck lips to spread, stretch and generally weaken Susan’s, while all the time exhorting the frustrated blonde to fight back harder. Then, once Mhairi had achieved the inevitable full cunt lock, she practised her use of anal thumb-spikes, before resorting to two-fingered and, finally, four-fingered anal penetration, to weaken Susan still further before hoisting the blonde’s legs high in the air for the deep-clitting finale that the subordinate girl had very much come to enjoy and expect.
“Ohhhhh! Ooooohhhh! Yes! Yes! P-p-please don’t stop fucking me! PLEASE!”
At this Mhairi had actually ceased thrusting into Susan for a full minute, gently teasing the frantic, pre-orgasmic blonde with her big throbbing clit until she swore her undying allegiance to Mhairi, her new alpha bitch. Once the magic words were gasped out, Mhairi had leaned on Susan until she was almost bent double, her feet grazing the pillow on either side of her flushed, sweaty face before fucking an unprecedentedly loud, squealing, squirting orgasm out of her.
“Yes, Helen Brodie! Now, finally, I am ready to fuck you!”
So caught up was Mhairi in this triumphant coital moment that she was not sure at first whether she had just thought those words to herself, or actually spoken them out loud. But, from the expression of awe and admiration mixed with sexual contentment displayed on Susan Walkerburn’s face, she was pretty sure that she had shouted her challenge out loud enough for the whole school to hear!
To Be Continued in Chapter 11.