Want More from Aviendha33?
Well, we’re in the same boat! I absolutely love this tale and would be begging Aviendha to let me post it if she were reachable. But, she hasn’t posted a story in more than a decade and hasn’t logged onto his Literotica page for seemingly 6 years. Not only that, she didn’t leave a way to message her on Literotica or any of the forums most writers frequent.
Best practice would probably be to not post the without his OK, but I am going to. Only because it is one of the absolute hottest stories out there. And anyone who is interested in this form of fiction should read it.
Now, she has two other stories on his Literotica page, My Husband’s Catfight Fetish Ch. 01 and Primal Urge Ch. 01, so certainly go read those tales, which I will not post here.
But, should Aviendha return from the ether into which she has vanished, and ask for a link to some page or for the story’s removal, I will absolutely comply. Until then, enjoy her wonderful, sexy ass work.
Finally, if you know how to contact her, please message me so we can have a chat. Thanks!
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 had seemed—after all, Eric had won a bride almost half his age—but I knew that he was possessed of 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 our mutual 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, therefore, to begin to receive those little warning signals of infidelity—a waft of strange perfume from his suit jacket, an excuse for being late that doesn’t sound completely convincing.
His devotion to me hadn’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 seat. 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 platinum 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 had not 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 act.
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 with one another. 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 a photograph of her bending over, her backside toward the camera and her pinkish 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 stall. 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. Later, in the middle of the night, I awakened with the unmistakable scent of my rival in my nostrils. I smelled the sheets—they were clean—looked under the bed, looked under my pillow, and finally found a pair of her sheerest, silk bikini panties, smoothed out between my pillow and pillowcase. I had lain on them for hours, the warmth from my face restoring their pungency, until even my hair smelled like her pussy.
I doubted that Eric would have taken her to our bed, but she had clearly been inside our home. She had 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—again, 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 following day was a Sunday, and Eric gave me a present of the sheerest silk panties—lavender, my favorite. Since he was jet-lagged from a business trip, I knew he wouldn’t be seeing “her” for at least another day, so I took a chance and investigated his car. Under the front seat, I found what I was seeking—a gift box of sheer silk panties, sea foam green. I congratulated myself as I went inside to don them, along with my running togs and shoes. After a sweaty two-mile run, I returned home and decided to do a little gardening, before carefully returning the panties to their tissue paper and box and restoring them to my husband’s car.
The next evening, after a passionate afternoon, Eric told me he had some business in town and not to wait up for him. While he showered, I pleasured myself mercilessly with a small French vibrator, covering my hands with my own juices. Just as he was leaving, I ambushed him at the front door with a goodnight kiss and blowjob, sucking him dry and leaving him with the unmistakable scent of a satisfied woman on his cock and balls.
I did not wait long for a reply. A perfumed envelope arrived for me by Wednesday’s post with the now familiar return address. Inside was a single sheet of paper and a smaller sealed envelope.
On the sheet of stationery, a brief note was penned in a woman’s hand: “Congratulations, Janey. Of course, he insisted I wear them, and I was treated to the scent of you on me for the entire evening. Your second message was received, as well, and I suppose I should be glad you didn’t make him bugger you before sending him to me. The insult remains an unpleasant taste in my mouth, nevertheless, and I would like satisfaction. If you’re interested, the terms of the duel are enclosed in the accompanying envelope. If you’re a coward, then return it with the seal intact, and I’ll not mention it again. If you accept, then let me know what terms are agreeable. Regards, Devon.”
My god, I recoiled in horror, what was this woman proposing? Had I become embroiled in a triangle with a sociopath? What if she wanted to fight a duel with pistols or swords?
I supposed that I could always tell Eric I needed a vacation and quietly leave the country. But, in the end, the alpha female overcame my anxiety, and I decided at least to look at my rival’s proposal. My hands were shaking, as I broke the waxed seal of the envelope and unfolded the one-page, word-processed document:
Rules of the Catspat
The catspat is a physical duel between consenting feminine sexual rivals. The goal is to dominate and humiliate, not to inflict severe pain or injury. At any time, either woman may call an immediate halt to the duel by saying “submit,” if she wishes to capitulate, or “stop,” if she wishes to disengage with a penalty or with the loss of a round.
NOT Allowed
(1) No intentional injuring, scarring, or causing gratuitous pain. (2) No biting. (3) No scratching. (4) No kicking with the feet or knees, and no punching. (5) No gouging of the eyes. (6) No scissors holds. (7) No locking of the arms or wrists around one’s adversary.
These rules help to insure against injury. Any violation of them results in an automatic submission or loss of a round.
Allowed
(1) Stripping and tearing the clothes of one’s adversary. (2) Hair-pulling of the head for control—not for injury. (3) Face slapping while standing.
Optional
(1) Face-sitting. (2) Breast-grabbing. (3) Nipple-“torture” with the lips and tongue only. (4) Face-licking. (5) Forced kissing. (6) Genital-fondling and forced orgasm.
Attire is negotiated in advance. When on her back, the woman in the subordinate position cannot use her legs or feet to dislodge her adversary. The winner is declared when the loser submits OR by one woman’s having won the most rounds of a pre-determined time period OR by audience acclamation or voting OR by an agreed upon system of awarding points.
I was both relieved and amused, and I found myself quietly amused, as I re-folded the letters. She wasn’t a sociopath, but she was definitely creative. I shook my head as I briefly imagined the two of us rolling around on the floor. “This is preposterous,” I said aloud. “How can she believe I’d agree to something like this?” On the other hand, I mused, the idea of humiliating her is an attractive one. More to the point, was this a challenge I could afford to ignore? I mean, what was next in our little exchange? I did not relish being in the predicament of having to look over my shoulder all the time.
As I tucked Devon’s notes away, I decided to do the simplest thing: ignore her for the moment. I would sleep on it, I said to myself, and not do anything until I felt more convicted.
After my initial anxiety, it turned out to be easy to suppress my worry for a few days; and, when I received an invitation from a friend for a good old-fashioned sleepover, I accepted without a second thought. That weekend, I told Eric that my college roommate Karen had asked me to visit and that I’d be spending Saturday night at her home in Connecticut.
After an exhilarating day of shopping at Karen’s favorite galleries and boutiques and an elegant dinner for two at one of her favorite restaurants, we settled into drinks at her club. It was then that I told her about Devon and my weeks of painstaking investigation and sleuthing, culminating with challenge to a duel.
“You’re making this up, aren’t you?” was Karen’s first response.
“No, honestly, I’m not,” I replied. “Here, I’ll show you the letters.”
Karen read silently and, when she looked up again, her eyes were sparkling. “My god, Janey, what’re you going to do?”
I shrugged my shoulders. “I haven’t made my mind up.”
Nodding, Karen sipped her drink thoughtfully. Then, leaning forward, she said, “You know, you have to do this, Janey.”
“What?” I was astonished.
“You have to do it,” she repeated, and, leaning even closer, she said, “Remember when Alan was having his affair, last year?”
I nodded, completely drawn in. I had always wanted to know more about that but had been too delicate to ask.
“Janey, I would’ve given anything to have gotten a challenge like this from the woman he was seeing.”
“You would?”
“You bet! Think about it,” she said, taking a somewhat larger sip of her drink and leaning back. “It’s a chance to fight with virtually a guarantee of not risking injury. Do you know how many times I nursed that fantasy before Alan saw the light and dropped that bitch?”
“I suppose,” I offered, somewhat uncertainly.
“Well, it was a wonderful fantasy—pulling her hair, stripping her naked, and sitting on her face.”
“Karen!” I squealed, a little too loudly, judging by the looks from the tables around ours.
“I mean it, Janey,” she whispered. “I’d write a check for $10,000, right now, to any charity you like, just for the chance to sit on that woman’s face.”
“And what if she sat on your face?” I asked with a little grin.
“Then at least I would have tried,” Karen hissed. “Anyway, she had her way with my husband for several weeks. That’s pretty much like sitting on my face, if you ask me. Besides,” Karen leaned forward, smiling mischievously, “I think I can take her.”
“You know who she is?” I asked, surprised.
“Oh, it’s Carol from his company’s law firm. She’s a blonde attorney with pointy tits. I gave her husband a blowjob at the corporate banquet, just to get back at her. Left a ring of my lipstick on his cock, too. I make an effort to wear the same shade, whenever I think I’m going to run into her.”
“Hmmm. I’ve seen that trick before. Has she noticed?”
“I’m not completely sure,” Karen said, “but I think she at least suspects. I followed her into the club’s restroom, once, and let her catch me applying a fresh coat in the mirror. She said, ‘That’s an interesting shade. I think I’ve seen it before.’ I just smiled. But, you know what? I should’ve handed her a note like this.”
I nodded but was lost in thought.
“Janey, what are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking I won’t spend the night, after all, Karen. In fact, if you don’t mind, I want to get back to Eric, right away.”
“Oh, sure, I understand. I hope I didn’t upset you. I’ll get the check.”
As we kissed goodbye, Karen whispered in my ear, “Janey, if there’s any way you could invite me to this, I’d come in a moment’s notice.”
“You mean you’d want to watch?”
“Are you kidding?” Karen held onto my shoulders. “Of course, I’d want to watch! How sexy would that be!”
“Tell you what,” I said, as we parted, “bring Carol, and we’ll make it a tag team match.”
Karen’s laughter was still ringing in my ears, as I began the two-hour drive home. On the way, I was assailed by images of two faceless women, struggling to dominate each other, alternating with images of a faceless woman making love to my husband.
I shook my head—not to keep awake but at my own stupidity. Eric was either with Devon, in which case I probably would not see him, tonight, or else he was already asleep, in which case I would not want to waken him, just to calm my paranoia.
Pulling into our circular drive, I retrieved my bag from the hatch and let myself inside quietly through the side door. Only the usual overnight lights were left on, downstairs. In the warm, dim glow from the hallway, I paused and considered making myself a snack, before going up to bed; but when I opened the refrigerator, I noticed a note on the kitchen table, propped up by a gift bag from Victoria’s Secret. Oh, I thought with a little tingle of excitement, maybe my husband anticipated my returning, tonight, after all.
Opening the folded note, I read, “Dear Janey, Eric doesn’t know we’ve been in touch. We’re upstairs in his study, if you’d like to join us. Regards, Devon. P.S. The attire is for you. I’m wearing the same, and fair is fair, so put them on.”
Devon, I growled to myself. How did she know I’d be back? I supposed that she must have gotten tired of waiting for an answer.
Exhaling finally, I sat down heavily at the kitchen table. So many thoughts were racing through my head, but the one that kept returning was Karen’s saying, “At least I would have tried.”
“Too bad you didn’t come back with me, Karen,” I whispered in the semi-darkness, as I opened the gift bag and dumped the contents onto the kitchen table. Sheer black bikini panties, bra, and thigh high stockings, with a black silk teddy and half-slip. “At least I’ll be hot,” I whispered again, as I removed my own clothing and bundled it into the adjacent laundry room. Then I spent a few minutes refreshing myself in the guest bath, next to the kitchen, and running a soapy facecloth between my legs. I could only hope that Devon had been considerate, too.
In the hallway, I quickly donned my lingerie suit-of-armor and paused by the floor-to-ceiling art deco mirror. Not bad, I thought, saluting myself; and then I tiptoed to the staircase to listen. 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 doubt very much that she’d play games. There’s no reason she should see this as a threat to our marriage, after all. Ouch! Careful! 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. You’re sure she won’t be coming home?”
“She’s visiting a friend in Connecticut,” Eric whispered hoarsely. “A hundred miles away, and she won’t be home until tomorrow afternoon.”
“You never know, Eric. If I were Janey, I might just surprise you by coming home early. Especially if I’d begun to suspect you have a mistress.”
“Really, darling, she’s just not the suspicious type. Not at all like Ellen and Amy.”
“Perhaps,” Devon said. I could hear her making little smacking noises with her lips; and judging from Eric’s moans, there was no doubt what she was doing.
“Oh, God,” Eric groaned.
“Mmmm, not so fast, lover. I want you on the edge a while longer,” she said.
“Whatever you say, darling. Just don’t stop kissing me there. I’m on fire.”
“Does Janey kiss your balls like this, sweetheart? If you were blindfolded, could you tell whose tongue and lips were tickling and gobbling you?”
Eric mumbled something, but it was lost in a gutteral moan of pleasure.
“Maybe we’ll have to have a contest,” Devon said between kissing sounds. “Of course, we’d have to decide who goes first, and that would be the real fun, wouldn’t it darling? Ah, and judging from your response, I can see you think so, too.”
“The thought is definitely arousing, Devon, but I can’t see Janey settling things with you the way Ellen and Amy did. They were more naturally competitive. Janey’s, well, she’s more kind and generous—more innocent, if that’s not too cliché.”
“Oh, I think any woman can muster a little competitive spirit, Eric. Especially if she sees another woman doing to her husband what I’m doing to you. Besides, didn’t you invite me over, tonight, with the idea that she just might catch us in the act?”
“I just don’t think Janey would play that game, darling.” “From what I’ve seen,” Devon said, “she can play the game even better than your first two wives, Eric. And be honest. Wouldn’t you love to watch the two of us going at it for the right to take you for the evening?”
Going at it? She really did mean to enact our duel, tonight.
“The thought’s arousing, I admit it,” my husband said. “But I doubt she’d fight for me. I just can’t see her making a fuss.”
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, but the woman rose slowly and with surprising dignity, given the activity she’d been doing. “My god, Janey!” my husband croaked. Devon was barely suppressing a smile.
Eric at least had the good grace to look nonplussed and ashamed, finally stammering, “Janey, it’s not what it looks like!”
There was an uncomfortable, silent moment, after which my rival and I both exhaled decidedly unfeminine snorts, trying to keep our composure—partly from nervousness, partly in response to the ridiculous cliché contained in the moment, and partly in reaction to the unintended humor in Eric’s startled 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 mistress. If ever anything was exactly what it looked like, this is it!”
Eric was dumbstruck; the woman was now frankly grinning; and I was trying to decide what to feel. It was not anxiety exactly, nor anger, but a number of emotions, all at once. More than I was used to, anyway.
I looked at Devon. We were indeed dressed alike, except that her lingerie was burgundy and she’d shed her teddy, revealing her lacy, sheer bra. She smiled outright, now, 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 up, puzzled. He’d been attempting to stuff himself back into his trousers, but without success.”
“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 hissed. “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 were revealed in their sheer brassiere. A c-cup, I was guessing, like mine. She was an inch shorter than my 5’5″ but perhaps a few pounds heavier. She wore it well.
My breasts were slightly smaller but higher, and my legs, just slightly longer, judging from the tops of our stockings. My shoulder length dirty blonde hair and blue eyes were assets in comparison, I thought, but something about Devon’s attitude told me not to underestimate her.
Eric brought us drinks—we both drank scotch and ice, no big surprise—and we pulled two chairs together so we could sit closer to one another, our knees almost touching. Dismissed, my husband 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, reaching down to massage my toes casually, “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 crossed her legs, and, in turn, casually massaged one of her stockinged feet. She had made no attempt to reclaim her teddy, and, as she leaned forward, the message was plain: “In your face, girl.” 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.”
“Whatever sordid pleasure Eric pursues to amuse himself when he’s not with me is entirely up to him, but this is my home, and I don’t want you here ever again, unless I invite you.” Retrieving her teddy from the floor, I tossed it to her, and said, “So why don’t you just put this on, get dressed, and leave quietly by the back door.”
“Hmmm, well, we do seem to have some differences,” Devon murmured. “But, actually, I won’t be needing this for a while,” she said, tossing the teddy on the sofa near Eric. With that, she raised her arms over her head in a slow, luxurious stretch, accenting her lovely pale bosom through her sheer bra, along with the slightly darker rings of two incredibly hard nipples. Thrusting her breasts toward me, again, she smiled, “Perhaps we should consider settling this, woman to woman.”
I gulped, probably audibly. “I never had the chance to reply to your challenge,” I said.
“What you’re wearing is sufficient reply, Janey. I’d say 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 stage whispered, “Don’t you want to throw me out? Admit it, Janey, wouldn’t you love to slap my face and get your hands in my hair? To show me who’s on top, as you so quaintly put it?”
My mouth fell open, but, before I could say anything, Devon continued, “I’ll tell you what, sweetheart. Take that teddy off, and, if your nipples aren’t as hard as mine are, then I promise you: I’ll get dressed and leave.”
I hesitated briefly, swallowed, and then slowly, with a smile appearing on my face, pulled my teddy over my head. As the silk rippled over my breasts, my already hard nipples got incredibly tight, and I thought they might actually burst through my bra.
Instinctively, Devon and I both stood, as my teddy drifted to the floor, and I thrust my breasts right back at my adversary, until we were actually touching nipples. The sensations were electric; and, for several moments, we rubbed into each other, lightly and slowly, as our breath mingled.
She broke the spell by stepping back, just an inch, and whispering again, as we stared into each other’s eyes, “We’ve definitely got Eric’s attention. His poor cock is dribbling in anticipation.”
I glanced at my husband, who was making no attempt to hide his erection. “I’ll take care of you, darling, as soon as I’ve thrown this tramp out,” I said. “And as soon as I’ve bathed you,” I added, noting Devon’s shade of lip gloss, up and down his shaft.
Devon leaned forward, until our breasts were touching again. Our lips were only an inch apart, and I could feel and smell her hot breath, as she said, “I’m so glad you’re entering into the spirit of this, Janey. Because, frankly, I’m tired of tasting your saliva and juices, whenever I want a taste of Eric. I want you to keep your nasty mouth off him, when he’s coming to see me.”
She reached up to my shoulders, as if to embrace me, but instead hooked her fingers into my bra straps. I was afraid, for a moment, that she might pull my bra down, but she adjusted her fingers for a good grip and then simply rested her hands on my shoulders. I slid my fingers through her straps, as well, and we began a slow, tight dance, still gazing intently into each other’s eyes. The tension was building inexorably, like a storm, and the first droplets were already forming in my panties.
“And I want your lipstick off his cock, Devon. Permanently. I can still smell the cheap whore scent, even after he’s showered.”
“Oh, that was beneath you, Janey. I’m going to enjoy humiliating you in front of Eric.”
“Play nice, girls,” Eric interjected, raising his glass to us.
“We’ll be careful, darling,” Devon said, as we continued moving slowly in our tight circle. “We’ll observe the rules, and no one will get hurt, except the loser’s pride, of course.”
“Eric knows about the rules?” I asked.
“He even thought of some of them, Janey. You think you’re the first of his wives to settle things, woman to woman, with me? I’ve been his lover for fifteen years.”
Now it was my turn to be nonplussed. “You mean you fought with Ellen and Amy, too?”
“Of course. Whenever there was an issue to be settled.” Turning to Eric, Devon said, “Why don’t you get things set up for our little spat, darling, so we can get started.”
Eric obediently rose and began pushing the furniture to the walls.
I looked at my husband and asked, “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 finish what I started, tonight.”
Grrr! That did it! “I’m going to love putting you in your place, while my husband watches, Devon.”
“And I’m going to enjoy wiping that smug smile off your face, Janey,” Devon replied. Then she winked at me and said, “I’m going to do to you the most humiliating thing a woman can do to her rival.”
I must have looked puzzled, prompting her 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. “So . . . optional rules are in,” I said. “Looks like the metaphor is about to become a reality. You’re going to get a fresh taste of what you had, earlier this week,” I said, offering her my best heavy-lidded smile.
“We’ll see who ends up with whose end where,” she replied with that same self-satisfied, annoying grin I’d seen several times already.
Eric had finished clearing our makeshift arena and was busy setting up his digital camcorder. “This’ll just take a minute, you two,” he said and continued his fiddling. Suddenly, images of Devon and me flashed on our big plasma wall screen.
As my husband retired to an overstuffed leather chair by the fireplace, Devon let go of my brassiere, and I followed suit, as we moved back to face each other, six or seven feet apart. Instinctively, we both crouched, and 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, dressed only in lingerie and prepared to enter a humiliating contest with her.
Even more puzzling and outrageous, I was beginning to feel the unmistakable symptoms of intense sexual arousal, and I wondered if my adversary was as turned on as I was.
“Just for the record,” Devon said, “this will decide guest privileges in Eric and Janey’s home. If Janey wins, I can visit only when she invites me. If I win, I come whenever Eric says it’s okay. And the winner,” she smiled lasciviously at me, “gets to finish what I started, tonight.”
“Agreed,” I nodded.
“Oh, and if I win, no more surprise blow jobs, before Eric visits me. And . . . I leave wearing whatever I like from Janey’s closet.”
“What!” I started to protest, just as Devon moved forward and landed a stinging slap across my left cheek, sending me sprawling backward several steps. I recovered quickly, but she pressed her advantage, and we exchanged slaps furiously for nearly a minute—mostly landing blows on each others’ arms but occasionally connecting with one on the face or breasts, as we thrashed wildly about the room. I finally landed a solid one on Devon’s cheek, and she staggered backward, raising her hand to her face.
We began to circle each other slowly, our breath coming in little gasps now, and I said, “Looks as if we’ve started.”
We were both massaging our cheeks and breasts to relieve the sting, and Devon answered, “May the better woman have the drier face at the end.”
As our circle grew smaller, we both reached for handfuls of each other’s hair and began to struggle in an awkward dance, trying 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; but, seconds later, she pulled away, popping my beautiful breasts free with a jiggle.
“First blood!” Devon whooped, swinging her lacy trophy over her head. “Let’s see them, Janey!”
I had covered my bosom with my hands, feeling embarrassed by the sudden nudity, but now I cupped my breasts and pointed them toward my rival, saying, “Take a good look, Devon. Eric dreams about them.”
We came together, again, each with two handfuls of hair and wrestled each other to the soft room-sized Persian carpet, rolling over several times before Devon managed to wind up on top. She scooted forward, quickly, trying to pin my arms with her legs in what I knew was called a schoolyard pin; but I pulled her head down and got my arm over her neck in a front headlock. We grunted a few times, and then I felt her hand reaching between my legs to snatch at my panties.
Before she could get a good grip, though, I popped her clasp and pushed her off. As she rolled away, I scrambled to my knees, bearing my own lacy trophy, which I tossed to Eric, who raised his glass to me with a grin.
Devon scrambled to her knees and turned to face me, just out of reach. We both struggled to catch our breath and glanced momentarily at the plasma screen to see two bare-breasted combatants, chests heaving, hair wildly askew. The erotic nature of our fight was palpable, and I had felt another wave of wetness in my panties, as Devon had tried to pull them off.
Turning our faces toward each other again, we eyed each other’s breasts in a jealous comparison. Devon’s nipples were pinkish, large and erect, a perfect complement to the classic teardrop shape of her breasts. My nipples were just as erect, but just slightly smaller and pinker, with a gentle upturn that made my own pale 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.”
“They’re nice enough, Janey,” she hissed, “but Eric 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 powerful sensations in them, radiating all the way to my loins. 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, 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 and by degrees, as we began to pull and pinch and twist with increasing ardor.
Our breathing had become ragged, and Devon suddenly grabbed my hair and pulled me down all the way to the floor. We lay there, side-by-side, faces to breasts, and I felt her hugging me to her, as her mouth explored my bosom for a nipple. Suddenly, her lips found their prize and closed over me, and she began to suck and flick her tongue expertly. In turn, I hugged her tightly with my free arm and found an exposed nipple to torture with my lips and tongue. The room was quiet, except for our licking and sucking noises and the occasional moan, as one of us experienced a moment of sensitivity, whether pleasure or annoyance.
I did not want to be the first to pull away, but I knew I could not last much longer. Then, I noticed that I could work my other arm—the one I had been lying on—up to Devon’s crotch. I could not get her half-slip or panties down, from that angle, but I could get my hand past the waistbands of her slip and panties and between her legs. She was soaked, and I gave myself a moment to fondle and get to know her pussy. She seemed to lose her concentration for just a second, but then I felt her hand sliding down, past my own waistbands, until her fingers were exploring my own wetness.
We were both clean-shaven—my husband has an aversion to hair in his mouth—and I suppose we could have clenched our legs together in an effort to keep each other out; but instead we each parted our legs slightly, allowing the other free rein. I could only guess that her reasons were the same as mine: It felt so incredibly good! Still, I was in a fight for alpha status, and I wanted her to be the first to orgasm, so I massaged her button gently with my thumb, while working my middle finger in and out of her pussy in search of the elusive Graefenberg. We lost interest in nipples, as we grunted and panted; and the little sucking noises were ultimately displaced by little squishing sounds, as we each massaged with one hand while trying to roll her adversary onto her back with the other.
Just when I began to feel I could not tolerate the sensations any longer, Devon pushed me away with all her strength, covering her breasts with one hand and holding her crotch with her other, contorting her face with her eyes squeezed shut and her mouth slightly open. I stared, alarmed that I had somehow hurt her, until a rush of breath emerged and her eyes opened. Then I realized I had just given her an orgasm.
I crawled toward her, hoping to press my advantage, when her hand came up and she said, “Stop. Your round,” her breath still ragged.
I sat down, cross-legged, and watched her slowly regain her composure. After a few minutes, I asked coyly, “Does this mean I’m winning?”
With her breathing now under control, 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 scrambled to her knees and sprang at me, and we rolled several times, back and forth, until she succeeded in pinning me, face down, with my arms pulled behind my back. Then she threw a leg over me and sat, riding me with her backside straddling mine. She dropped one of my arms in favor of a handful of my hair, and I felt my head being pulled back. I raised my chest off the floor with my free arm until my back arched uncomfortably, and I kicked the floor in protest as I grunted.
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 swiveling on mine, behind me, and without warning her thighs appeared on either side of my head, pinning my face to the carpet, once again. She was straddling the back of my head, and I could feel her wet panties on the back of my neck and smell the pungent sweetness of her aroused pussy. I grabbed the backs of her legs but could not budge them, so I tried sliding my knees upward and under me. This succeeded only in bringing my backside up higher, however, and I felt Devon’s hands grabbing the backs of my thighs to keep my ass in the air.
Helpless to budge her, I was trying to catch my breath and considering my next move, when Devon rasped, “You can’t see this, Janey, but the plasma screen is full of your big bottom.” I struggled to roll her off me, but her hold was too stable, and I grunted with effort, feeling extremely vulnerable. Then, I felt my half-slip sliding down my buttocks and thighs to the backs of my knees, where it could go no further.
“And there’s your big butt in all its glory, wiggling in your wet panties,” she teased.
I tried to reach up and pull her slip and panties down; but, from my angle, I could pull them only an inch or so. In frustration, I shredded the feet of her stockings, but she was unconcerned.
Whimpering involuntarily, I felt my panties slowly sliding down, as the cool air greeted my bare ass and tears collected in my eyes. I did not want to cry, but I had never felt this humiliated.
“And there it is!” Devon whooped. “On the big screen, shown ten times its actual size! Probably not the most flattering perspective, Janey, but what a sweet little pink rosebud you’ve got back here. And how wet your pussy is!”
I felt her fingers slowly exploring me externally, violating my most private of places, gently tugging my ass cheeks apart, kneading my labia, and finally invading my pussy, slowly and sensuously. I moaned and struggled, but she had me trapped. I ripped and shredded the legs of her stockings but could not push her off, as she circled my clitoris with a slick finger and began to stimulate me with purpose. Tears streamed out of 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 did not know whether I wanted her to stop or go faster. The thought of my husband watching and recording all of this was almost more than I could bear. “I was almost to the point of yelling “Stop!” when my body began to respond, and I could feel my orgasm beginning to build like a thunderstorm on the horizon.
Sensing the tension 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, 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 could not 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 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 stockings 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 fat ass out of my home.”
Devon crawled toward me and sat with her knees up, across from me. “Let’s rest a moment,” she said. “After that last orgasm, you won’t be ready for another until a few minutes have gone by, and I want you as aroused as I am, when we fight.”
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 half-slip, Devon broke our reverie, tilting her head with an observation. “You’re not like Eric’s first two wives, Janey.”
I did not 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 rival, 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. Devon still wore her panties and half-slip, but I was reduced to stockings, which had definitely seen better days.
When she noticed me responding to our little tribaduel with deeper breaths, she asked breathily, “Shall we settle things then?”
“The sooner, the better,” I hissed, and we moved apart and got to our knees. Simultaneously, we closed the distance, and I felt a stinging slap to my left cheek. I slapped her cheek in return, and we traded face-slaps for another six or seven turns, until she snatched at my breasts with both sets of fingers, pulling the nipples. I snatched back at hers, and the exchanges continued, each of us rewarding the other with little yelps of pain and irritation. With every turn, the nipple-pulls and squeals were a little more pronounced, and I finally covered my breasts with my hands in frustration.
Devon sprang at me, and we toppled again to the floor, rolling over several times, as we struggled to gain the upper hand. I grabbed at her slip and managed to get it down to mid-thigh. When she tried to roll away from me on her back, her slip came down past her knees; and, as she reached down in a vain effort to retrieve it, I climbed on top of her and slid into a schoolyard pin. We tussled with our arms, and she got a good handful of my hair and went for my nipples, again, trying to force me off.
I retaliated by pulling at her own exposed nipples, and she instinctively let go of my hair and tried to cover. Pulling her hands down by her wrists, I slid forward, again, and managed to get my thighs over both of her arms.
Now she was helpless beneath me, with her legs flailing behind me and her chin, tucked into my wet, pungent crotch. Suddenly, I knew the reason for that not-using-your-legs-in-the-subordinate-position-to dislodge-your-adversary rule. It made for a safe and satisfying pin. Catching my breath, I asked Eric to get a close-up of Devon’s face. When the big screen captured her distressed expression, I said breathily, in my best Marilyn Monroe imitation, “Time for her close-up, Mr. DeMille.” Cupping the back of her head gently with my hands, I pulled her face slowly and sensuously into my slick, fragrant pussy.
Devon moaned and gave me a very gratifying “eeeewwwwww,” as I covered her face with my slime.
I was careful to give her a few breaths between these “facials,” but, after several turns, I could see that she was completely demoralized and had begun to cry.
“Devon, you can say ‘stop’, you know,” I offered.
“I’m not going to give you that satisfaction,” she spluttered, “so do your worst.”
“With pleasure,” I countered and reached back to rip her panties off. This turned out to be a fatal mistake, however, since her panties were a little stronger than I had guessed; and I unbalanced myself, as they came free. Devon needed only a second to slide down, her face wiping my ass as she popped out behind me and rolled to the side.
I sprang back, trying to maintain some control, but managed only to grab her ankles. We were feet-to-face, and she grabbed my ankles, as well. We each tried to roll the other onto her back, but, this time, it was Devon who prevailed. As she threw a leg over me, I could see her ass scooting up to my breasts. I tried wriggling out, but she grabbed my wrists and held my arms down firmly, until, one at a time, she pulled them under her legs, pinning me as surely as she had just been pinned.
I don’t think I had, at that exact moment, completely appreciated my predicament, as we gasped for air and rested briefly; but it dawned on me with horror, as I saw her lift her slick bottom slowly over my breasts and bring it down with my chin cushioned between her ass cheeks. Her slimy face appeared over her shoulder, as she looked back at me with a grin.
“I suppose you know what comes next,” she taunted. “And, Janey, remember . . . I didn’t yell ‘stop,’ right away, so you should let me have some fun, too. Fair is fair.”
With that, her ass hovered over me for a few seconds and then plunged downward onto my face. Immediately, I was covered with her juices, and I worried about breathing, but she very considerately gave me time to get air between each sitting. Each time her pink pucker of an asshole descended, I held my breath, but her scent was overwhelming—both sickening and arousing—and I tried not to gag. Then, she began to alternate, pussy and ass, and I could hold back the tears no longer.
“Tell you what, Janey, I’m a sporting gal. Shall we agree that the first to come is the loser?” She leaned down and gave me a long slow stroke with her tongue, and, in spite of myself, I vibrated with pleasure and frustration. In what must have been the intended irony, I pushed my face into her crotch and probed with my tongue, but her clitoris was an elusive prize, and I succeeded only in producing more slime, which formed strands between my face and her ass.
Meanwhile, she was licking me with purpose, and my breath was coming in ragged gasps, again. When my back finally arched involuntarily in an unbelievably powerful orgasm, I squealed with passion and outrage.
Moments later, I whispered, exhausted, “Stop . . . Stop, Devon . . . You win.”
My alpha rival sweetly kissed my pussy, wriggled her bottom on my face one last time, and climbed off.
Still breathing hard, I glanced at Eric, who was smiling his approval. Then I glanced at the big screen and saw what I looked like. Oh, my god! My face was glistening with Devon’s sweat and fragrant juices; my lipstick was smeared all over my mouth and chin; and my hair was matted with slime.
As a consolation, Devon did not look much better, and she smiled at me from where she was seated on the floor, next to Eric.
“Janey,” she said, “that was the most fun I’ve had in a long while. Since Eric was married to Amy, in fact. She promptly got up, walked over to me, and politely pulled me to my feet. Maybe it was the thought of how I must look to my husband or maybe it was just the idea of another woman’s having degraded me so thoroughly in front of him, but I could not 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 settle 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 trying to compose 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 blowjob; but, on the other hand, she’d given me two orgasms, and who was I to be stingy?
“Remember our deal,” Devon said, leading Eric to our bedroom. “You can have him back in a little while, but I want you to send him to me clean and eager, from now on. At least until our next catspat.”
When Devon waltzed out of our house, half an hour later in my best Anne Paley dress and Tumi heels, I knew she would be the alpha female until we fought again and I won. Hmmm, I thought: Wonder what she’s doing next week.
The End.