They are the beautiful women. You see them in exclusive jewelry stores and quiet, understated dress shops where a handkerchief can cost twenty-five dollars. You see them in the more specialized liquor stores, buying Chivas and Macallan and Boodles. They are always elegantly clothed and perfectly coifed.
They don’t really acknowledge you. They are perfectly unattainable. Their husbands work in dark paneled offices downtown. They themselves rarely work. Their career is being what they are.
And any one of them could be the woman with a hint of darkness, that whisper of sexual violence that finds release in The Club.
On one of the quiet streets near downtown, where the broad elms shade the concrete and the real estate starts at two million plus, a large conservatively styled home sits. No one lives there, but it has an eclectic series of temporary inhabitants. It is known simply as the Clubhouse, and it is owned (through a network of three dummy corporate fictions) by Holly Cavanaugh. Holly is pretty woman with a merry smile and corrupt tastes.
The women who are members of the Club meet there at irregular intervals and do battle. They fight to establish sexual dominance and for the sheer thrill of erotic combat. The bouts can last for hours. Clothing is often destroyed. So are illusions.
Orgasm is the reward and the signal of defeat. The crying, spurting climax comes at the end of furious embraces. The kiss is a weapon. The breasts are fists. The cunt is a juggernaut.
These women test themselves and their limits in tangling growling catfights, and find aching release in wet and heated sexual wrestling. Straining together, with breast flattened against breast, and swollen cunts in intimate bruising kisses, they achieve physical pleasures that nothing else can deliver.
And sometimes, in the end, a kind of love.
Here are some pictures.
Holly Cavanaugh reclines naked on a large four-poster bed in one of the upper-story bedrooms of the Club. She is with Laura Stanton, one of the first women inducted. They are close friends and have known each other for years. Laura is redheaded, with a tangled mane of helter-skelter curls. She is wearing a long purple skirt, thin with soft folds. It has a long front slit. Other than that, she is naked. She has large breasts and jutting nipples.
Holly has light brown hair and a face best described as pixyish. Her eyes are very pale and they look right through you. Her breasts are at the size of fine teacups, with puffy nipples. Her pussy is absolutely hairless, the plump lips open slightly.
Laura has several white roses in her arms. She walks around the bed and lays them down on Holly. The stems have thorns. Soon the roses rest on Holly’s abdomen and breasts and thighs.
Laura gets up on the bed and kneels between Holly’s open legs. The redheaded woman opens the split in the skirt. She is wearing a harness over her hips that sports a ten-inch dildo of lifelike appearance and texture. The rear of the plastic penis has a knob that is inserted into Laura’s vagina.
Laura leans down and pushes the head of the dildo past Holly’s shaven lips. The pink bud of the clitoris shines wetly as the lips part.
Holly reaches up and pulls Laura down on top of her. The rose blossoms are crushed between them. The thorns poke into the skin. One punctures the flesh of Holly’s belly.
Laura starts to fuck her.
Karen St. James and Tracy Ford are again in the catfight living room at the Clubhouse. The thickly padded carpet and furniture are backdrop for the raging naked warriors as they wrestle furiously. Karen is five-foot-seven with sandy-blonde hair, slender with perfect breasts. Tracy is dark-haired, a little taller and heavier, with larger, softer breasts with smaller darker nipples.
They back up and slam into each other, breasts colliding. With sharp gasps and yelps, they pull the other’s hair and bring their faces into close-up. They stare at each other, then mash their lips together for an anything-but-tender kiss.
Their nipples are erect. The cunts are wet and dripping. Soon the fight becomes horizontal. Tracy is on the loveseat and Karen throws herself on top. Tracy grabs Karen’s ass and pulls it down until their pussies connect. They grind their cunts together and duel with their clits.
When they come, they scream in a keening cry of female animalistic release.
Trinidad DeVries is pumping iron. Naked, she reclines on the weight bench as she flexes her biceps and bench-presses 200 pounds. Trinidad was born in Peru. She is a golden-brown creature of lustrous dark hair and brown eyes. Her waist and stomach are firm and flat. Her breasts are firm, dark-nippled globular beauties. She has wide, womanly hips and a round ass. Dark pubic hair, trimmed closely, barely hides the cleft between her thighs.
Giselle Francon is black, born in Jamaica and raised in Paris. She has an athletic figure and satin skin. She is built like a runner, with small firm breasts, and long, superbly muscled legs. She is spotting Trinidad on the weight bench. She is equally as naked.
When they have finished with the weights, and both figures are covered with a sheen of moisture, they will proceed, with little grunts of effort, into a peculiar erotic battle. They will press against each other, hand to hand, face to face, body to body, for long slow counts. They will not say a word.
They move in opposition. At first they are standing, pressing hands against each other. Then arms. Soon their legs will strain together.
When the breasts are slowly flattened, they’re eyes will flutter as sensitive nerves become eroticized. When they are horizontal, and belly pushes against belly, and finally, the flowing centers of sex touch, their breath comes faster. They come in short, sharp shocks. At this point, Giselle has been known to mutter French obscenities.
After the brief yips of orgasm, they kiss.
They will repeat this six or seven times. First weights, or some other exercise. Then the slow pushing contest. Finally the pressure of cunt and clit.
Sarah Beckett and Anne Walker hate each other. They despise each other. The source of their animosity is an incident that occurred fifteen years ago, at college. Sarah had broken up with a man, so Anne had thought he was fair game.
Anne fucked him in the room she shared with Sarah. Sarah was not pleased. She found another roommate.
They went their separate ways and married. The winds of their lives blew them together again as their husbands moved to the same city.
Now Sarah and Anne contrive to run into each other all over the city. They belong to the same tennis club. They shop at the same stores. They have the same hair stylist.
And they belong to the same Club.
When they meet about town, they bump into each other. When they go to the bathroom, they squabble and push. If the bathroom is vacant, they’ve been known to slam their breasts together. They call each other slut-bitch-cunt-whore.
They are both fairly short women, just a hair over five feet. Sarah has fine blonde hair and high, small breasts. Anne has dark hair and rounder breasts that hang a little lower.
Their constant contacts around town have reved up their battle lust to the point that when they do meet at the club, the fight is on immediately. They have yet to move beyond the meeting room, and on one memorable occasion experienced a clothes-tearing catfight in the mud room.
When they are naked and torn, they grind their cunts together and snarl. They have sexfought to the point of exhaustion, fallen asleep cunt-to-cunt, and awakened to renew their spitting battle.
It is a kind of co-dependence.
There are other women and other battles. The struggle continues.