Back at the Beach House by BCW8

Marcy’s First Fight

Two months had passed since the fight between Dana and Holly at the beach house, and Marcy was obsessed.  That might have been annoying if it didn’t mean that she wanted sex constantly and wanted to talk catfights while we fucked.  I was not complaining.  In a way it was good for her.  She seemed to go into training, if that makes sense.  She ate leaner, ran every day, even started lifting weights.  Always a tight body, she got tighter.   Near-constant sex is a great fitness program.

She wouldn’t say it, but I think she wanted to fight Dana.  I wasn’t ready for that.  Marcy didn’t know that I had been fucking Dana for years behind her back, and a catfight between them would surely include her finding out.  Plus, Dana was still recovering from the brutal beating and strangling Holly had put on her.  I knew that because even with Marcy on high fuck-me status, I couldn’t resist Dana’s fine pussy whenever my work took me to the town where she lived.  No, a Marcy-Dana match-up was not in the cards for now.

I had someone else in mind for my wife.

Sara was a work colleague of mine.  She was maybe thirty, a year or two older than Marcy but otherwise could be her twin, in terms of physique.  She wore her honey-colored hair up most of the time, and black pencil skirts and white blouses.  Corporate sexy.  Sometimes, when she crossed her legs, I’d see the top of her stocking.  Sometimes, when she turned, a gap in her blouse would form, and I’d see the white lace of her bra.  I think the only thing sexier than that was when the gap was lower and I’d see her belly button in the center of her tanned flat stomach.  Yes, belly buttons do it for me.  They do it for a lot of guys.

I had long thought Sara at times would flirt with me, but if she was, it was subtle.  Workplace flirting, with lots of plausible deniability.  But three months ago, we had a joint business trip.  End of the day, after a drink in the hotel bar, she wasn’t that subtle.  She liked it rough.  The harder I squeezed her tits, the harder I hammered my cock into her, the harder she came. 

But you know what she did?  She talked dirty the whole time about fighting my wife.

This was a delicate matter.  I knew Marcy would go for it.  But maybe Sara just liked to talk and not do.  A wrong guess could get me fired.  Finally, on a Friday afternoon, I closed Sara’s office door behind me and just asked.

She unbuttoned her white blouse and went down on me.  I took that as a Yes.  I came on her tits and watched my cum trickle through her cleavage and down into her belly button.

Marcy couldn’t wait.

But, some things had to be negotiated.  I took charge of wardrobe. 

For Sara, white, of course.   White lingerie.  A push-up bra, matching lace panties, thigh-highs with a lace band at the top.  White stiletto heels.  A double strand of white pearls.  For Marcy, I finally settled on red.  A bra that cradled her sweet 36C breasts.  Panties cut high up her hips. Matching heels.  A gold necklace and hoop earrings. 

Sara wanted two things.  First, to bring her friend David just to make sure she stayed safe.  He was gay and had no interest in a catfight but he was big and strong.  I agreed, no problem.  Second, that I was the fight prize.  Marcy said No at first, but Sara called her a fucking coward and told her she’d fucked me once already and the entire reason she was in this was because she wanted to fuck me again and this time do it after beating the shit out of my wife.

It was an uncomfortable call, but it made Marcy furious and she said Yes.  Then she slapped me and fucked me raw.  The fight was set for Saturday night, ten p.m.

Marcy and I got to the beach house about nine.  She kissed me hard and disappeared into the bedroom we shared there.  I went to the main room and moved the wicker furniture out of the sunken area.  After Dana and Holly, I’d had to replace the carpet.  Blood doesn’t come out well.  I adjusted the lights about ten different ways.  Pulled the drapes.  Fuck, I hated waiting.

Sara and David arrived at 9:45.  He showed me he had a gun but looked bored and said he had no intent to use it unless something was seriously fucked up.  He liked Sara fine but she had told him that so long as it all remained between her and Marcy he was to stay the fuck out no matter what.  Cool, cool.

Sara waited out that little preamble.  She was wearing a tan raincoat.  Her hair was up.  Her make-up was flawless and a little exaggerated, like the theater.  Red lips, dusky eyes, cheekbones sharpened to knife blades.  She opened her coat and shrugged it off her shoulders with an amazingly sexy compact motion.  She was stunning in her white ensemble.  I’d gotten the lighting perfect.  She was breathing heavy already.  She caught her lower lip between white teeth.  “Where’s your bitch wife?” she said.

“Right here, you whore,”  Marcy said from the door across the room.  Jesus, only two moments rivalled how she looked in that moment:  the first time she took her clothes off for me when we were both twenty, and our wedding night when we were twenty-three.  At twenty-eight, I think she was at her peak now.  She’d spent the hour well.  She’d run oiled hands through her dark curls so her hair gleamed in the light.  Like Sara, her make-up was perfect.  Her eyes flashed.  I found out later she’d even deepened her cleavage and accentuated her abs with a slight edge of blush.  She was just incredibly erotic.  She came towards us with a runway strut, her hips flashing.  Two stairs down into the sunken circle, and waited with her hands on her hips.

It was an entrance designed to seize the psychological edge, and it worked until Sara reached over and ran her polished nails along the obvious erection under my slacks.  She kissed me hard, aggressively pushing her tongue into my mouth and then licking my jawline.  With a hand on my chest she pushed me away and took the two stairs herself.

Marcy met her head on.  Or I should say tits on.  Chest to chest.  She knocked both of Sara’s boobs up and out of her bra cups.  Sara gave a step and Marcy tit-butted her again.  Sara’s heels were at the pit edge now.  It was like a fucking amazing sumo match.  Sara put a foot on the first step and lunged back.  Marcy staggered.  Sara hit her again.  Now Marcy’s tits were up and out, the red bra squeezing them together.  Sara hit her again.  Marcy fell on her ass as the front clasp of her bra gave way. 

Sara crowed.  “You want to titfight,  bitch?”  Pinned up by her bra, her brown nipples were nearly pointing at the ceiling and bulged an inch from her areolas.  Marcy bounced up and tossed away her bra rather than fix it.  Sara’s hands cupped her breasts, pushing them up and together even more before unsnapping her own front clasp.  “My girls will beat your girls, you little cunt.”

They banged together again, this time neither giving ground.  Spike heels dug into the carpet.  Sternum to sternum.  Their stomachs slapped together as they fought for leverage.  Their tits rolled back and forth.  Then Sara thrust forward.  Marcy cried out.

“I hurt your little wifey just then, Ron,”  Sara said. They were slowly turning in a circle as they ground their tits together.  Marcy’s back was to me when Sara thrust again and Marcy’s black curls snapped back.  The impact made her tight ass jiggle.  Their tits flattened enough that their outer edges were visible on either side of Marcy’s back.

Sara twisted and Marcy lost her balance and spun off one side.  She landed on her knees.

“You’re fucking pathetic,”  Sara said.  “Are you as bad a lover as you are a titfighter?  No wonder your husband fucks around.”  Clearly, Sara liked to trash talk.  From her knees, Marcy lunged up and at her.  With impeccable timing, Sara caught her on the side of her jaw with a knee.  Marcy pinwheeled sideways and landed hard.

“Damn,” David said.  I’d fucking forgotten he was even there.

Marcy lay on her back, dazed from that knee to the head.  Sara strutted over her.  Her ass looked amazing in her little white lace panties.  With her hair up, her back was bare.  She put her foot on Marcy’s chest.  Marcy’s boobs are firm and perky, but the tits of any woman on her back angle out.  Sara turned her foot sideways, slid her toe to the inside curve of Marcy’s right breast.  The white stiletto heel poised an inch above the swell of Marcy’s nipple.

Sara looked at me and smiled.  Her heel came down

Marcy shrieked in pain.  She bucked and twisted.  Sara kept her balance with difficulty but she kept it.  The white spike was set in the dead center of Marcy’s breast.  Marcy rolled and shoved Sara’s leg aside but those few seconds were devastating.  The stiletto had torn open her nipple. 

Sara grabbed two handfuls of Marcy’s curls and pulled her up to her knees and flung her back down.  Marcy’s temple bounced on one of the stairs.  Sara did the same thing and this time it was Marcy’s forehead that hit the edge of the stair.  Thank God the carpet was thick.  Still, Marcy had taken three brutal head shots in the space of a minute.  Plus a sadistic spike heel to her breast.

“That’s enough!” I shouted.  “Fight’s over!”

Sara stood astride my sobbing wife.  “Are you that anxious to fuck me, Ron?” she said. 

“Just get out,” I said.  I moved towards Marcy but Sara put her hand up.

“We have a deal,” she said sharply.

“The deal was for a fight!  You fucking win!”

“No,” she said.  “The deal was for you to fuck whichever woman beat the shit out of the other.”

Behind me I heard David cock his pistol.

“I love the way you thought I was bringing him for my protection,” Sara’s smile was brilliant.  “Like I needed protection!  I brought him just for this.  To keep you on the sidelines until I have all the fun I want with your stupid little wife.  And then to make sure you come through on fucking the winner.”

I looked over my shoulder.  David made a little motion with the gun barrel.  I stepped back out and sat down heavily.

“Now where was I?” Sara said.  But before she could turn her head, Marcy’s fist flashed up between her thighs from behind.

To recap briefly, Sara, whom I had fucked once and then arranged to fight my wife Marcy at the beach house because Marcy had been so aroused by watching Dana and Holly fight there that she had fucked me on the spot and hardly stopped fucking me since, had turned out to be an outstanding catfighter and in the space of five minutes, looking incredibly hot while doing it, had beaten Marcy down hard and torn up one of her tits by sadistically twisting her spike heel into it, and then refused to let me throw in the towel to save Marcy, a refusal backed up by the enforcer guy she’s brought along and his gun.

Whew.  Well, Part Two always starts with a momentum shift, right?

Marcy screamed in rage and punched Sara in the pussy with every ounce of strength she could summon.  The shock of the impact rippled up Sara’s belly.  Her bare breasts went up and out as her spine arched and her head snapped back.  Her knees buckled.  Marcy lunged up, caught two handfuls of her pinned-up hair, and came down with her, so that the combined weight of them both slammed Sara’s face into the floor.

Marcy was on her in an instant, straddling her.  Sara’s arms were pinned under my wife’s legs.  Marcy’s thighs framed Sara’s breasts, squeezing them together.

“Fucking arrogant whore bitch!  You fucked my husband?  You call me fucking pathetic and say I must be a bad fuck?”  Marcy’s fury was white-hot.  She punched Sara in the face literally with each word she spat.  Sara’s heels drummed on the floor during the barrage.  Her head snapped left and right as Marcy alternated fists. Twenty-one fucking undefensed punches in the face. 

Sara choked on the blood that filled her mouth, spraying it on Marcy’s belly when she coughed.  Both her lips were shredded.  Her nose was broken.  A cut in her right brow dripped blood into her eye and down her cheek.  A cut – no, a fucking gash – across her left cheekbone streamed blood down into her ear.  Her honey-brown hair had come undone, now fanned out on the floor around her head.

Marcy held Sara’s face, checked that her eyes were clear enough to see what Marcy wanted her to see.  She held her crimson-lacquered fingernails up, curled into claws.

 “No …”  Sara wailed. 

“Oh, yes, bitch,” Marcy said.

She stabbed her thumbs into Sara’s engorged nipples.  She sank her fingers into the bulging outer curves of her tits.  And then she clenched her hands.

Sara screamed.  She bucked and twisted. She bridged, her head flung back like she was the subject of an exorcism.  Marcy rode her.

Then Marcy let go with her right hand.  Her left still dragged Sara’s right breast.  She shook it.  Stretched it out from Sara’s chest as far as she could.  She twisted her torso, reached behind her.  She put her right hand on Sara’s belly button, and slowly slid it down and into her white lace panties.

Marcy spit in Sara’s face.  “You fucked my husband,” she said again, and tightened her claw in Sara’s pussy.

I’ve known Marcy for ten years.  I’ve been her lover for eight, her husband for five.  I knew she was strong, and tough, and determined.  For the last three months, since the brawl between Dana and Holly, I’ve known she had a deep-seated kink for fighting.  And now I knew she was capable of savage cruelty, at least against a woman who had fucked her man and then taunted her about it.  Jesus christ did this make me hard!

Marcy finally let go.  Her entire time astride Sara was probably two minutes, but in that two minutes she had utterly destroyed her.  Marcy’s arms hung limp at her sides.  She tilted her head back and dragged in a deep gasp of air.

“Ask her if she’s had enough,” Marcy said to me without looking at me.

“Baby, you’ve beaten her,” I said.  “You – “

“Not until she says it,” Marcy interrupted.  “Not until this fucking bitch herself says that she does not want to fight me any more because she knows I am the fucking better woman.”

I stood up.  “Sara.  Say you’ve had enough.”

“That I am the fucking better woman,” Marcy said. 

Sara stared up at her.  Her words were a little slurred by her battered mouth, but clear enough.

“I will never fucking say that.  I will never submit to you.”


Sara’s long, white-stockinged leg whipped up, her foot curling around Marcy’s neck and hooking under her chin.  She wrenched it back down, arching Marcy’s spine.  Marcy’s head was nearly to the floor – something had to give, and what gave was her dominant position atop her opponent.  She twisted off of Sara, rolling away.

Sara rose up.  She spat a mouthful of blood at Marcy and . . . smiled.  I thought again of an exorcism.  How the fuck could she take that kind of punishment and not quit?  What was she, some kind of fucking terminator?

David spoke from the chorus.  “S and M.  She likes pain, I’m telling you.  The more you hurt her, the more she wants.  She won’t quit on her own.  You have to fucking put her down.  If you can.  The sadist part of her is pretty fucking strong too.”

I looked at Marcy and for the first time I saw fear in her dark eyes.   Sara saw it too, and her smile widened to a bloody grin.  “Well put, David,” she said.  She lunged at Marcy.

Marcy braced her feet and met her. 

From what David had said, Sara was no novice to fighting like Marcy.  Her experience was obvious now.  Marcy swung, but missed often.  Sara almost never missed.  Her balance on her high heels was smoothly athletic.  Her fists slashed, and slashed with weight and power behind them.  In the space of a minute, Marcy’s mouth was bleeding.  And Sara was sure to pump every third punch or so into her injured breast.

I love Marcy.  I really do.  But she had wanted this.  And Sara was a fucking erotic avenging angel now.  She hurt Marcy.  She paid her back with interest.  She beat her face to bloody pulp.  She knocked her down, over and over.  Every time, Marcy struggled back up, but each time it took longer.  I was sick to watch it but god help me Sara was so dominant I did want to fuck her.  I wanted to grab her fucking slim waist and plunge my cock into her from behind.  Slap my stomach against her ass until she came as hard as she was hitting Marcy.

Almost without realizing it, I took my cock out.  It was as hard as diamond.

You might think two women in a brutal fist fight might not even notice that, but they did.  Marcy sobbed, a heartbreaking gasp, because she knew she was losing.  Sara licked her lips.  Her last punch twisted Marcy at her waist.  My wife fell.

“Now ask her,”  Sara said.

“Marcy, it’s OK,” I said.  “No more.  Just say no more.”

“Oh no,”  said Sara.  “Not that.  Say please.  Say please suck Ron’s cock.  Say please fuck my husband because I am a weak little girl.”

Marcy was lying on her side.  I couldn’t see her face.  She shook her head.

“I’m ready to fuck him,” Sara said.  “You hurt my pussy, you bitch, but like David said that just made me want Ron’s cock buried in me even more.  For him to fuck me as hard as he can no matter how much it hurts me.  But you know what?  I’m just as ready to keep beating you, you fucking amateur.  You got the drop on me and you hurt me but now you know you were lucky and that you are no fucking match for me.”

“I won’t quit,”  Marcy sobbed.

“Then don’t,” Sara said.  “Fine with me.  I’ll break you while he watches.”

She could have choked Marcy out, or knocked her unconscious.  But that would mean relief from pain.

Sara kicked Marcy onto her stomach.  She dropped heavily onto her back.  She jerked Marcy’s head up by the curls.  Draped Marcy’s arms over her thighs.   Laced her fingers under Marcy’s chin.  Wrenched back.

A strangled sound rolled out from somewhere deep in Marcy.  Her body bent, more than I thought it could.  Sara’s heels dug deep into the carpet, and she bent Marcy more.  She bent her until the pain in her spine and the pressure on her rib cage stopped her breathing.  Then she carefully eased back, an inch at a time, until Marcy drew a shuddering breath again.  Sara held her, right there.

The centerline of Marcy’s bust was the apogee of the cruel arc of her body.  Her tits pointed out at an angle, stretched tight as drums.  Her chin pointed straight up.  Her hands clenched and unclenched helplessly as thin air whistled in and out of her chest.

Sara’s shoulders and arms were corded.  Her battered tits were squeezed together between her biceps.  Her bloody face was alight with sadistic glee.  “How long . . . do you think she can . . take this?” she asked me.

“Fuck you, Sara,” I said.  She laughed.  She knew I wanted to.  “Soon enough!” she said.

It was a cruel trick question, anyway.  The real question was how long could Sara hold her like that.  The answer was three eternally long minutes.  Marcy screamed when Sara released her. 

Sara flipped Marcy on her back.  She gripped her ankles and lifted her tanned legs until they pointed up in a vee.  She slowly slid her hands down Marcy’s calves, widening the vee as she went.  Marcy sobbed as the muscles in her thighs and groin stretched to the tearing point as Sara split her completely.  Sara was leaning over her, her tits dripping blood onto Marcy’s belly.

“I doubt your pussy was very good to begin with,” she said.  She slammed her knee into it.

This bitch had some kind of supernatural instinct for Marcy’s pain ceiling.  She kept her hovering just under it, under the point where she would pass out.  Marcy’s body jolted every time Sara’s knee crunched into her pubic bone, her battered tits shuddering with each impact, but she didn’t lose consciousness. 

Marcy’s agony made Sara stronger.  It aroused her.  When she beat a scream from my wife, she moaned herself.  Her nipples, cut by Marcy’s nails, incredibly got harder and longer the more Marcy sobbed.  Sara was wet with sweat and gasping from the effort of the unrelenting punishment she dealt out, but also, I realized, because she was about a half-inch from a fucking orgasm.  God, my cock throbbed.

She finally stopped. 

“Ask her again,” she said.  I did.

Marcy’s voice was a broken whimper.

“Please,” she said.  “Please suck his cock.”  She sobbed, a harsh sudden cry.   

Sara gripped Marcy’s damaged breast, the one she’d driven her heel into at the very start. 

“What else?” she said, breathing hard.

“Please fuck him,”  Marcy whispered.  “Just don’t hurt me any more.”  Her eyes were closed.

Sara stood.  She slid her panties down her thighs until they fell around her ankles and she stepped out of them.  She still wore her heels, and stockings, and pearls.  Her pussy was smooth-shaven, reddened from the mauling Marcy had given her, and visibly wet.  A droplet of her juices ran down her inner thigh.

“You can go now, David,” she said.  “Drop that cunt in an emergency room parking lot somewhere.”

She spoke to him but she looked at me.  I belonged to her now.

The End

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