“I don’t know what waves you surf these days, but I hope they are bitchin'”To AmberHurtsU2
“Come on, Mrs. Marshall!” the boys all chanted.
I stood off to the side, hiding my excitement so that the boys could all concentrate on Janet—Mrs. Marshall to the group of 5 teenage boys and me. She looked around a bit embarrassed, but also seemed pleased. It wasn’t appropriate, but there was a certain kind of compliment involved in their rowdy enthusiasm. And who knows, I thought, hoping against hope, maybe she was even into the idea. My heart started to beat a little faster. She still hadn’t said no.
“Don’t worry, I’ll take it easy on you,” I finally said, laughing and playing it off as a joke. The boys all whoo’ed at my challenge.
For just a split second her face darkened. She flicked a glance at me glance that made my skin tingle. There was something burning under the surface for her. Then she looked at her son, and there was a sort of melting, a sadness. Then her bright smile returned and she looked around at everyone.
“Well… if you promise to take it easy on me,” she said, exaggerating her concern as a subtle jab back at me.
That was it! I turned away and grabbed my towel off the lounge chair. Looking down, I forced myself to calm down as I wiped sun block from my arm and shoulders. It was finally on!
I had felt that there was a little private rivalry between Mrs. Marshall and me, something that had been building ever since my cup size surged from a very full C toward a DD that rivaled her own. Now I had finally reached the stage where she was willing to be teased into acting out on it. She couldn’t pretend I was just a little girl any more if she was willing to face me in a chicken fight.
“Jacob,” Mrs. Marshall said, reaching up to put her hand on her son’s shoulder. “I’m expecting you to lead me onto victory here.”
I reached up and put my hand on Mike’s shoulder. “Let’s go, big boy,” I giggled.
Both boys had to get into the pool before either of us could get on their shoulders. Jacob is 6’3” and Mike is about 6’4”. Mrs. Marshall is probably 5’ with impossible boobs and a tight, slim body. I’m a bit over 4’11”. If I cheat. Even with them in the 3 foot level, they needed squat down a bit before we could scramble up onto their shoulders.
I held back for a second, watching Mrs. Marshall climb onto Jacob’s shoulders. I had to admit—again!—that she was amazing for her age. She wore a fairly modest black one piece, but filled it out and gave it a workout with every move she made. Despite the modesty of the suit, her large boobs jostled and jiggled under the top that hid her cleavage. Her hips were a little wider than mine, but her ass was not old, white lady flat. It curved and bounced with a life of its own when she walked. During the party, Jacob punched a couple of his friends for staring just a bit too long when she moved by them. Her skin was a beautiful alabaster color without a blemish, and her long blonde hair was pulled back in a tight bun that showed off a union of neck and shoulders that begged to be kissed. Blue eyes sparkled with an energy and confidence and her petite Betty Boop lips let loose a wild giggle as she waved her arms and shifted to keep her balance when Jacob straightened up and headed out further into the pool. She was 38 and we were celebrating Jacob’s 18th birthday. Her marriage and Jacob’s birth came a bit early for her prim southern family—and definitely too early for her husband’s stuck up northern blue bloods—but as years went by, even the worst gossips learned not to dare utter the word tramp. She was a throwback to the petite southern belles you read about in romance novels, and as hard as Stone Mountain when she needed to be.
“Come on, stud,” I yelled as I enthusiastically clambered onto Mike’s shoulders. “Let’s go kick some boo-tay!”
I was careful to keep my mouth in check. I knew my choice in bikini wear grated on Mrs. Marshall. That had been intentional. What I didn’t need was my potty mouth pushing things too far too early and ruining my plan. There were better ways to get under her skin, I reminded myself.
My name is Mala. My parent’s are immigrants from Bangalore. It was a little dicey when we moved into the neighborhood when I was seven. My dad’s pediatrician practice earned us the money to be here, but we definitely stood out from everyone else in this exclusive part of town. There was never any official welcome wagon for us, but when Mrs. Marshall brought over a casserole as a welcome home present and insisted that my family had to have dinner at their house, the rest of the subdivision fell into step. My mom idolized Mrs. Marshall, and I grew up idolizing her as well.
While my mother managed to view me as her delicate little doll and fretted about whether or not my non-traditional attitude would doom my chances of a successful arranged marriage, my dad quietly and thoughtfully watched me grow and prepared for other things. In some ways, he seemed to understand me better than mom did. As everyone watched me scamper up Mike’s back, they noticed that my butt was a bit rounder than Mrs. Marshall’s, and—if forced, I’d admit that my boobs were just a touch smaller. Still, my petite body and dark, exotic looks exploded into a curvaceous eye trap that always seemed to grab attention. Except when I was around Mrs. Marshall! Jacob and I had been friends since we moved into this neighborhood. Our experience here was wonderful. Mrs. Marshall would not allow her neighborhood to not be neighborly. And this was most definitely her neighborhood. From the first days when she graciously decorated her husband’s arm at social events; through their messy divorce a few years ago when he tried to humiliate her with a younger lover; and the icy, serene time after she destroyed her husband and claimed his fortune in court, Mrs. Marshall was a goddess. She was fair, always striving to be pleasant with everyone. “I’m just as nice to folks as they let me be,” she would always say in her slight southern accent. All the neighbors whispered that it was in everyone’s best interest to let her be nice.
As Jacob and Mike waded out further into the pool, I watched her. She laughed, shivering as she splashed water up over her arms and torso, but there was a tinge of sadness to her face. I caused a ripple of disquiet when I went away to college last fall, the first warning sign to her perfect world. The boy’s “older sister” moved on. Now I was just home from my first year at university and they were entering their last summer before they would follow. Mrs. Marshall’s blissful life was about to change. In many ways, I whispered to myself.
“You’re going down, bro!” Jacob shouted as he turned and he and Mike began to circle each other like battleships. Mrs. Marshall and I raised our hands, feinting toward each other as the two boys brought us closer together. Everyone was laughing and shouting, excited by what they were seeing. My heart was pounding, mostly because I loved that—despite what everyone would insist—this excitement was not entirely innocent any more. Eyes watched Mrs. Marshall’s huge white and my large brown boobs jostle around in our swim suits as we tried to keep our balance and hand fight. The boys shifted their hips and subtly “arranged” things. She suddenly wasn’t just a mom and I wasn’t just the girl next door.
We grabbed each other’s upper arms, twisting and trying to pull each other as the boys moved to keep under us. I felt my nipples stiffen as my boobs brushed into Mrs. Marshall’s, and noticed hers responded.
“I’m going to kick your ass,” she gleefully hissed, letting herself lost in the moment.
“Bring it on,” I hissed back. This was everything I wanted. Almost.
Then it was over.
Jacob accidentally stepped on Mike’s foot. As Mrs. Marshall jerked me to the right, Mike could not move and we toppled like a falling tower into the water. My body felt a shock from the sudden dousing, but my mind received a bigger shock. I’d lost! Mrs. Marshall had beaten me.
Mike and I surface, sputtering as I tread water. My left hand hand wiped water and long black hair from my dark eyes. Then I got to see Jacob and Mrs. Marshall, hands raised above their heads, shouting as they celebrated.
“No fair, bra!” Mike yelled after wiping his eyes clear. “You tripped me!”
Jacob shrugged, his easy grin spreading across his casually gorgeous face.
“All’s fair in love and chicken fights, dude,” he said.
“I demand a rematch!” I shouted, keeping my tone playfully offended. You could never look like a sore loser in our neighborhood.
That drew a chorus of “Rematch!” from the other boys until Mrs. Marshall and Jacob finally agreed.
Mike bent his knees and reached out his hands and I clambered up and around to his shoulders, giving everyone a good view of my barely covered ass and earning loud whoops from the boys standing along the side of the pool. We were all venturing into a different territory now. I just hoped that Mrs. Marshall was going along with us. As we started to circle each other again, I thought I detected a bit of jealousy in her expression. It had probably been decades since someone stole away attention from her. I gave her a reckless grin and we locked up again, the two boys moving in close so that we were able to actually bearhug each other. I knew Mrs. Marshall was a bit of a legend at the local gym, pounding out Pilates and SoulCycle sessions that left younger women gasping in her wake. Up close I felt her strength and was glad that I’d been punishing myself in the gym all school year. Our girls mashed together and there was no mistaking the stiff nipples that were digging into our soft flesh. Pressed cheek to cheek, we both grunted, squeezing each other with our arms and twisting.
“I think you’re getting a bit too big for your britches,” Mrs. Marshall hissed. That was music to my ears.
“I think you might need to cool off with a refreshing dunk in the pool,” I hissed back.
I’m not saying I planned my next move. It just sort of happened. My right hand—the one that the boys at the edge of the pool couldn’t see—suddenly grabbed Mrs. Marshall’s hair and yanked. Hard. It was over in a second, but it was enough to make her lose her balance. I was able to push her away and let her topple over to the side. Her and Jacob both fell into the water with a huge splash.
As they came sputtering back up, Mrs. Marshall wiped her blonde hair from her eyes and fixed me with a glare. She was breathing deeply and her magnificent boobs bobbed and jostled together as she angrily treaded water.
She forced a smile onto her face and looked at the wildly cheering boys at the edge of the pool.
“I don’t know, boys, I think we need a tiebreaker, don’t you?” she said.
They were shocked for a second, then the boys all roared their approval. I felt a huge surge of excitement as Mrs. Marshall turned and looked at me. There was no mistaking her expression. I wasn’t just the little girl next door now. Now it really was on!
Then it was suddenly snatched away. Chris—steady, reliable, always afraid of making a mistake Chris—looked down at the alarm chiming on his phone.
“Oh man, we gotta get going if we’re going to make the movie,” he said.
There was a groan, and—for a moment—I hoped that plans might change. But they didn’t. I slipped off Mike’s shoulders and even a dramatic dunk and re-emergence from the water that sent my boobs into a serious down, up, down jiggle barely made a dent on the group of boys moving toward the outdoor shower. They all quickly washed off, laughing and joking, hands sliding over young bodies. Mrs. Marshall was relegated back to being a mom and I was back to being the friend who lived next door that everyone had known forever.
I looked over at Mrs. Marshall and caught the tail end of a look of frustration. She put a disinterested, pleasant look on her face and swam to the edge of the pool without a glance toward me. With a towel wrapped around her chest, she began to gather the napkins and plastic cups, dumping them into the trash bag she already brought out as the boys all piled into the small cabana at the edge of the pool. They were loud and laughing, and we were completely forgotten when they came out in shorts, shirts and flip flops. Mrs. Marshall ignored me as I put on my wrap. Jacob came over and kissed her forehead.
“Thanks mom, this was great” he said. “Remember, after the movie we’re going over to Mike’s and playing Destiny 2.”
Mrs. Marshall smiled and gave Jacob a hug. “I remember. I haven’t quite gone senile yet. Give me a call and let me know you’re ok.”
Jacob tilted back his head and rolled his eyes.
“Moooooommmmm,” he groaned as he pulled away, totally oblivious to his mother’s half hearted attempt to hold him close just a moment longer.
“Call,” she said in a voice that all the boys instinctively recognized as the “don’t sass me” mom mode.
The boys all headed out toward the gate. For a moment it was just me and Mrs. Marshall. I felt a flutter of excitement, but it was destroyed when she looked at me with blank eyes. All the fire that I saw earlier was gone. We were back to our former roles.
“Well, thanks for coming over, Mala, I know the boys enjoyed seeing you again,” she said. “Although I imagine high school boys must seem a little boring to you these days. Say hi to your mom for me, ok?”
I stood there, stunned and rooted to the ground, but my mind and ego were crashing in flames all around me. I had just been totally mommed. She grabbed the trash bag and left me watching the towel wrapped around her toned back and ass as she walked toward the sliding glass doors leading into her house. Completely crushed, I headed out the back gate and went home.
My flip flops echoed on the expensive stone tiles leading to the backyard gate. The way that our houses were laid out, I could get to our backyard and go in through the sliding backdoor to our patio without being seen from the street. My parent’s were both working today, dad seeing patients and mom working doing her accounting stuff on his books. I face a whole afternoon and early evening of chilling to Netflix. Alone.
Or, I thought as my hand gripped the handle to the wooden gate to our backyard. I could do what I really wanted to do. I set my jaw and turned around. Our families had been very close friends, with few boundaries. I knew where Mrs. Marshall hid the key to the backdoor. Taking a deep breath, I turned it and opened the door that led into the family room. The security light still blinked green on the keypad next to the door. She hadn’t set it.
“When Coronado landed on the coast of the New World, he ordered his men to burn their ships,” I heard my high school history teacher’s voice echo in my head. “He wanted them to understand that there would be no way to go back.” I swallowed and started into the house. There would be no way to explain this, no excuse that would make any sense. All I could do now was go forward.
The house was silent. Creeping from room to room, I finally went up the curving stairs and moved like a predator down the carpeted hallway. As I neared the master bedroom, I could faintly hear the sound of the shower through the partially open door. Mrs. Marshall knew she would be alone and was not being completely proper, I thought to myself. That made my heart beat just a little bit quicker. When I entered the bedroom, violating yet another taboo, I saw Mrs. Marshall’s black one piece laying on the floor. My heart was pounding by then. I had broken into her house, snuck into her bedroom. That was a wild thrill in itself. But the fact that Mrs. Marshall liked to walk around naked, sent an unexpected surge through my mind. I let my wrap slip down to the floor next to her suit and stepped out of my flip flops. Padding silently on bare feet, I headed toward the bathroom. When I reached the door, the water turned off and I froze. It was only partially closed, thin wisps of steam fogged the mirrors and made the room even more humid than the outdoor air. I covertly watched Mrs. Marshall’s hand reach around for the towel hanging next to the shower door and I saw her outline of her body rub herself through the frosted glass. I waited until she stepped out, the towel now wrapped around her chest and tucked into place before I stepped into the room.
“Mala,” Mrs. Marshall gasped, clutching at her towel in shock as she saw me. “W…what are you doing here? Is everything alright?”
I smiled as I slowly closed the door behind me.
“Everything is fine, Mrs. Marshall,” I said. I tried to let it amuse me that she fell immediately into concerned mom mode, thinking that the only reason I would be here was to ask for help. Maybe she would learn that I didn’t need her help anymore, I thought to myself.
“Then… I don’t understand… Why are you here?” Her pretty face was concerned, confused. I didn’t care about that. I cared only for the hints of anger hovering around the edges of her expression.
“We didn’t get a chance to finish,” I said, slowly undoing the top of the bikini I had chosen so carefully that morning. It had a fastener around the neck strap. It wouldn’t do to be struggling with a knot and having long strings tangling in my wet hair. Instead, hands raised, shoulders pulled back, I simply unhooked it and let my large, dark boobs bounce out. It was much more effective that way.
“Fin…finish what?” Mrs. Marshall looked very concerned now, but her anger was rising as well. There was a flash of the cat in her expression that appeared as she watched my big boobs bounce defiantly into view right in front of her. Her gaze darted down, instinctively checking my tits as they bounced and jostled each other, my thick, dark nipples pointing like chocolate kisses toward her, then flashed back up.
“Our chicken fight,” I replied, stepping closer to her. I was pleased to notice that she did not back up, refusing to surrender ground to me. The shock was wearing off. She wouldn’t let anyone back her ass up until it pressed up against frosted glass of the shower. “We’re tied, remember?”
“Ho…..how can we do this?” Her tongue flicked out and moistened her lips. “The boys are gone.”
I smiled. Her chest was rising and falling. Her hands rubbed against her thighs. She didn’t say we wouldn’t do it. She just asked how we would do it.
I helped her.
My hands slipped down and undid the knots holding up my bikini bottom, twisting them just enough as they came loose so that the wet material unstuck itself from my damp skin and fell to the floor.
“Woman to woman,” I said. I bit my lower lip and waited. This was the moment, the split second of time when I had to brace myself for instant rejection or heated acceptance.
Mrs. Marshall looked me over. Her pretty, petite lips parting slightly as she began to pant. She shivered ever so slightly.
“I’ve known you since you were a child,” she weakly protested. “How could we ever explain this to your parents? Your mother?”
I stepped closer, scant inches separating my dark boobs from her alabaster.
“We can’t,” I whispered. “We don’t.”
She stared into my eyes for a moment. Then all the indecision melted away. Sparkling blue eyes flashed as her hands slid up and undid the tuck that was the only thing holding her towel in place. She let it go and stepped into me. We both shivered as we felt bare breasts meet.
“You little whore,” she panted.
“You filthy slut,” I replied.
Stiff nipples met stiff nipples. I noticed that we were almost exactly the same size. I felt rather than heard the groan that rumbled in her throat. All those instinctive, primitive emotions, I thought to myself. Forced down by the need to protect her reputation. Suppressed so that she could enjoy the status of being the goddess of the subdivision. She could use her money; her determination; devise schemes; indirectly force others to do her bidding. But this! The primal feeling of another body confronting hers. The enticing promise that she could just allow herself to lose control. I had secretly assumed that it had been a long time since Mrs. Marshall had felt this. Women our size don’t usually have a situation where they can be physical. I told myself that I was probably doing her a favor. But was just an excuse, and—at that moment—nether of us needed one.
“You pulled my hair like a cheap whore,” Mrs. Marshall hissed as her hands moved up toward my wet hair. Her large breasts slightly shifted. Our semi dried skin was slightly sticky, so our boobs stretched a bit, then popped apart and rubbed together.
“The way that you are dying to pull mine now… BITCH!” I hissed back as my hand skimmed along her side and shoulder.
Fingers slid over blonde and black hair. Our eyes locked as we pressed a little tighter together, full tits mushrooming out until my taut belly met hers and our belly buttons kissed.
“You little cunt!” Her pretty lips savored that final word. “I treated you as if you were my daughter!”
“But you have been dying to treat me like a slut,” I hissed back. For a moment guilt battled with desire in Mrs. Marshall’s eyes. I needed to force her back to thinking about what she really wanted. “You’ve wanted it. Here I am. Go ahead! Prove that those big tits of yours can flatten mine!”
Her scream of rage broke the spell holding us in check. Fingers turned into claws, digging into my scalp as they burrowed through thick black hair. I yelped in pain, slapping back at her face with my right hand as my left dug into her long, wet, blonde hair. My head jerked from side to side, sending me stumbling backwards as Mrs. Marshall bore into me. I straightened out my arm, jerking her head back, then swept my foot into hers. She stumbled to her knees, pulling me down with her. Arms wrapped around each other as we came together, squeezing and twisting, pelvises bumping until we fell to the floor and our naked bodies struggled on the expensive marble tile.
“You’re whole spoiled life your mother thanked me for everything I did for your family,” Mrs. Marshall growled as she slapped me across the face.
“Just once I wished she would have gotten up off her knees and stop kissing your ass!” I grabbed her right tit and twisted.
Mrs. Marshal screamed in pain, her pretty face twisting in agony until I let go. “Is that what this is all about?” She demanded. “The spoiled little girl being ashamed of the sacrifices her parent’s made for her?”
I forced my thigh between those alabaster thighs, pressing up until I felt her plump vulva mash against it. Rolling her over onto her back, I ground my hips down into hers, feeling the wetness smear over my skin.
“It’s about whatever we want it to be about,” I cooed in a nasty voice. I wouldn’t allow this to keep my rage in check. This would not sudden veer into some sort of guilt driven reconciliation. “We’ve both been wanting this for a long time. Now we can finally have it!”
I listened to Mrs. Marshall moan. Perfect mom that she was, I bet she’s been deprived for years. For a second confusion flickered across her face. The wave of sensations caught her off guard. Then her expression hardened, became hungry. She twisted her fingers deeper into my hair, her claws digging into my scalp hard enough to bring tears to my eyes.
“You disgusting little pervert,” she hissed. “I HATE feeling your body on mine! Get the fuck off me!”
Her denial was followed by a savage twist of my head that made my neck pop louder than the Chiropractor could ever manage. She thrust up with those Pilates toned legs and tight ass and managed to roll us over. I grunted as I felt her land on me now. Tits mashed together again and the humid room, still steamy from her long, hot shower, sent sweat spreading over our compressed bellies and thighs. But even when she was on top, she didn’t pull away. Instead she lifted up her chest and pounded down into me, driving the air out of my body. Her pale, taut thigh pressed up into my mound, mashing and rubbing over my sex until she got a thick smear of my juices on her flesh. I had managed to control my emotions pretty well so far, but she forced a lusting, slutty moan from my lips. For a moment my eyes fluttered closed and my body screamed for me to just give in. Let her be the goddess. Let her have her way with me. I would be just like all the others.
But then anger flooded my brain. The idea of this being some catty little slut fight where we didn’t give into the rage we really felt burned away in the fire of the passion she awoke in me. I let go of her hair and let my left hand ball up into a fist. Throwing a short punch up into her exposed ribs, I growled in pleasure as I heard her gasping shudder of pain. That wave of pleasure fed years of hidden jealousy and gave it a voice as an angry, aroused moan slipped from my lips.
“Bitch,” I hissed as we rolled over again. Mrs. Marshall glared up as me as I rocked my hips, taking my time as I ground my thigh over her swollen folds.
“Get off me you dyke,” she panted. “I’ll fight you, but I don’t like women!”
“You sure seem to like me,” I grunted back. “Are you begging me to get off so that I don’t see what a lezzy slut you really are?”
My next grind was met by an upward grind from her. Our eyes locked and the mix of loathing and desire in her face matched the emotions tearing my mind apart. Lost in these feelings, I didn’t see her hand until it cracked against the side of my head, rocking it to the side as her palm smacked right over my ear and all the strength in her tight body. Dazed, my body went limp long enough for her to roll us over again. This time she really worked her hips, grinding into my sex until she forced a moan from me.
“I knew you that you were a dyke,” she panted. “You think you’re the first sick slut to come at me?”
I pulled her hair, jerking her head down so that our lips plastered together. For a second neither of us moved. We teetered on the edge, both refusing to give in; prolonging the agony of waiting until we finally fell into the kiss we could not resist. Tongues started to lick together and then wrestle as our saliva flowed and mingled.
“Don’t try and tell me that you didn’t want to give into those sluts,” I whispered back. “Don’t you dare try and pretend that you are any better than me!”
I braced myself, but don’t try to block the punch she threw into my ribs. I deserved it, I thought as I grunted in pain. I wanted it!
Mrs. Marshall pushed away from me, getting to her feet and glaring down at me, breathing hard. “Get up off your fat ass, Mala. Fight me!” She growled.
I slowly climb to my feet, giving myself a moment to try and get my breath back. I could see the same wildness in her expression that I felt in my heart. Trapped in small bodies, petite ladies who could never really be physical due to our height and weight, we were finally set free. As we raised our fists and started to slowly circle we gave ourselves permission to fully let go. We were enemies. Two women built too much alike to ever be comfortable around the other. We were built to fight each other, but we were also partners. As Mrs. Marshall threw her first punch into my left tit, smashing it back into my breastbone and making me gasp in pain, causing my legs to nearly buckle. She was extending an invitation. When I gathered myself and landed an answering blow that sent her staggering back two steps, I accepted.
Neither of us were really trained to fight like this. There was no strategy. There was no defense. But there were arms that had been through long boxing aerobic classes. There was rage that needed to be quenched. Instinctively, the punches stayed shoulder level and below. This needed to stay our secret. It had to be just ours. The fact that it was so wrong just made the lust for battle even stronger.
“I watched you graduate from elementary school,” Mrs. Marshall grunted in my ear as she hooked her left arm around my neck and threw an uppercut that caught the underside of my left tit.
“And you have been watching my tits grow for years,” I huffed back, as I twisted us around by grabbing her hair and pulling. We stumbled into the bedroom, staggering a bit as our bare feet moved from slick tile to thick carpet. I slipped my head out from under her arm and bobbed on the balls of my feet as I twisted my hips and threw a left that slammed head on into her tit, bending back her nipple as the fatty flesh mashed painfully against bone and muscle.
Mrs. Marshall staggered back two steps, then fell down on her ass. I wanted to stand over her, proudly thrusting out my chest, but my ribs ached and my tits were battered and bruised. My hands sunk to my knees as I gasped for air, each breath hurting as I glared down at her. Blonde hair was matted against, her alabaster skin no longer damp from a shower but covered by red blotches and sweat. Panting for air, she returned my hatred with her blue eyes. We didn’t need to hide the cat hate that we felt. Her mouth was open and she panted for air like an animal.
I stared at her, waiting for her response. For a moment I feared that she would stay on the carpet, concede defeat to me. It would be humiliating for her, but my body needed so much more.
She did not disappoint.
Slowly she rolled up to her knees, putting her hands down on the carpet as if she would push herself back up to her feet. Mrs. Marshall had to steady herself, gathering her feet under as she raised her fists again.
“You ready for round two?” Her tone was mocking, dismissive. My lips curled back into a sneer as I lifted my fists and we started to circle each other again.
“Did you get some skills while you were on your ass?” I replied.
Her eyes flashed and, for a second, I braced myself for a furious rush from her, but it didn’t come. Bouncing on the balls of her feet, she circled to the right, her pale skin gleaming with sweat, chest rising and falling as she controlled her breath and those huge globes bouncing with each step. Her hair was wild, the clean dampness of the shower replaced by the dirty effort she was being put through.
I watched her carefully, suddenly unsure what to do. I hated being on the defensive, but there was something about the way she was moving that hinted a warning to me.
Her right hand flashed out and I jerked away from it, my arm swiping through the air to try and block the punch. I felt my boobs bouncing and jostling as I nearly stumbled on the thick carpet. My right hand lowered as I prepared to fire a punch back at her. That’s when she struck. She lunged into me, wrapping her left arm around my neck as her shoulder crashed into my chest. I grabbed wildly at her, but she turned into me and I felt my body being lifted up until I was on my tip toes. She turned, and the soft warmth of her hip and then ass rubbed across my pelvis as she dipped down and tightened her hold around my neck. My breasts pressed into her back, mushrooming against her flesh, a radiating sense of pleasure shooting through my upper body as my stiff nipples were dragged over her skin.
Then Mrs. Marshall straightened her legs, hoisting me into the air, and snapped my body down hard onto the carpet. All the air was forced from my lungs in a loud gasp and I was stunned for a moment. The thick taupe carpet provided some cushion, but the jarring jolt drove all my strength from my body and the slam of my shoulders and head shook me to the core. I felt her body scrambling above me, and tried to push her away, but could not. Her hips straddled my middle and I felt the weight of her ass pressing on me. I caught a glimpse of her face as she looked down at me. Her expression was wild, her plump lips—usually appearing so gentle—were twisted back into a sneer. She grabbed my forearms and held them as she shifted from side to side, trapping my arms under her shins. I was forced to helplessly watch as her right hand rose up, fingers spread. I noticed for the first time how her fingernails were trimmed and painted a bright red. They flashed in front of me as she slapped my tit, claws digging in and leaving marks that made me howl. I writhed under her, gasping in pain as she lifted up her ass and slammed it down on my belly.
Gurgling in agony, I writhed under her, but was unable to move as her left hand rose. Fingers spread and curved as she flexed the claws on that hand. It slashed down and I screamed again as she left red marks across my other boob. Then both hands plunged down and dug into my tits, thumbs and forefingers clamping into my nipples, tugging them. My heels pounded the floor as I twisted and turned under her, my head thrashing back and forth as I screamed and she continued her attack.
“You wanted to show off those fucking tits to me?” Mrs. Marshall screamed. “Stick them in my face and and taunt me with them? Well! How do they feel now, you little slut?”
“Let me go, you bitch!” I howled. My voice was ragged and tears blinded my eyes.
“Fuck you, Mala!” Mrs. Marshall’s voice was wild and crazy. Her large boobs shook above me as she alternated between slapping and then clawing at mine. The pain radiated through my body and it felt as if she was burning my flesh.
“Let me up so that we can really fight!” I desperately hoped that some sort of dare might awaken her competitive spirit. But it did nothing. My back was pressed deeper into the plush carpet as she periodically lifted herself up and slammed down into my belly. I struggled to get an arm free trying to twist and buck as she rose up, but was unable to move her.
“Admit that my tits are better!” She screamed at me. “Tell me that you’re just a jealous, flat chested little girl!”
Sobbing, I screamed what she wanted to hear. When she finally stopped her attack, she rose up above me, fists clenched as she glared down. I rolled to my side, curling up into a ball between her legs. I was humiliated beyond anything I had ever experienced, and sobbed for a couple minutes as I cradled my wounded tits. My plan had been destroyed and that hurt even more than body.
“Get out of my house,” Mrs. Marshall growled. I looked up and saw her face twisted into a mask of hate now, and that look actually made me feel proud. Even though I was laying on the floor, I broke through her carefully crafted image and exposed the angry cat that dwelt in her heart.
Unable to control that angry energy, Mrs. Marshall began to pace around the bedroom, fists clenching and unclenching. Her magnificent boobs bounced and jostled. Her ass shook with a primitive energy as her breathing gradually slowed. I lay on the floor, still curled in a ball. My clawed tits pulsed with pain. They were swollen and marked and shuddered as I breathed. For the first time I was ashamed of them, and that burned me through to the soul.
“I said get out,” Mrs. Marshall shouted again. The crackling anger that fueled her attack still sounded in her voice, but as I looked up at her, I also saw a burning frustration in her eyes.
I sat up, cradling my boobs with my left forearm and balancing myself with my right arm.
“We’re not done,” I replied. I spoke quietly, but felt a twinge of pride as I heard the defiance in my voice.
“What do you mean,” Mrs. Marshall snapped. She halted her angry pacing and glared at me. “You gave up.”
“You cheated,” I answered, standing and facing the older woman.
“It’s a fight, you slut. What are you going to do, little girl?” She hissed back. “Go home and tell mommy?”
We both shivered as that taunt hung in the air. The wrongness of what we were doing came back to me and I could see a physical reaction in Mrs. Marshall’s body as we both gave into the sick thrill over the shame. It would be impossible to live here if anyone found out what we were doing. Mrs. Marshall could never explain it to her friends, her son. I could never look Jacob or my parent’s in the eyes again. But we wanted this. We both surrendered to desires we could not admit to anyone. And as we glared at each other, I slowly got back up to my feet. My jaw set and I slowly lowered my arm. We were not done yet!
“No,” I said, my voice cold as ice. “We’re still tied. We’re going to settle this.”
There was a faint, rumbling growl of satisfaction from Mrs. Marshall as she heard my words. It was as if a light clicked on in her head and she realized that the frustration she felt was that neither of us could accept this ending to our fight.
My chest still ached, but I told myself that I submitted to the blonde quickly enough that I could still continue. The humiliation was tempered just a bit with that thought. That was a strategy. I was being smart. I survived and could still fight her. And the shame fed my anger, my lust to defeat this proud women and show her that she wasn’t a goddess after all.
“What do you suggest,?” Mrs. Marshall asked, a real curiosity showing in her voice.
I forced my myself to smile. Spreading my feet as my hands went to my hips, I looked around her bedroom. My eyes paused for a second on Mrs. Marshall’s unmade king sized bed. The fact that it was unmade sent a small chill of excitement along my arms, making the fine hairs stiffen and my skin prickle. It hinted at a nasty, messy side of her that her public image never suggested. Sneering evilly, I looked back at the blonde woman, rolling my eyes to her bed and then bending my knees and obscenely thrusting my naked cunt toward her.
A look of utter disgust flowed like a wave over Mrs. Marshall’s face. “You really are nothing more than a sick little girl,” she hissed.
But I didn’t look away. I didn’t even blink at her insult. My dark eyes locked with her brilliant blues and we stared at each other for long moments as a private duel of wills was waged. Finally, her lips twisted into its own copy of my sneer. Every pore of her body exuded disgust and anger, but she squared up her body to match mine. Hands slid down to her hips as she bent her knees and she returned the same obscene thrust back to me.
“You can’t turn me on,” she growled. “No woman can. I’ll beat you in my own bed and then throw your naked ass out of my house! Out of my life!”
Both of us were breathing deeper as we turned and headed toward the bed. My nipples, despite their battering, stiffened. I noticed Mrs. Marshall’s pointed like coral colored bullets and her areoles were puckered and tight. We climbed up onto opposite sides of the bed and faced each other on all fours. I arched my back, my wounded tits bouncing slightly as I moved and my round ass thrust brazenly up in the air. Mrs. Marshall matched my pose and I growled as she rolled her hips, working her pale ass as she stalked me.
“You’ve already lost,” she hissed at me. “Don’t think you are the first slut to want me.”
“I’ve been watching you for so long,” I hissed back. “I watched your expression change. I saw the sick thoughts you were hiding behind a friendly face. You’ve wanted this just as much as I did, Mrs. Marshall. Maybe even more!”
I gambled that the last statement would force a pause, an angry denial from her. Without even making sure it happened, I lunged. My body crashing into hers. She did pause, she was only partially reared up as my body slammed into hers. My belly hit her side and I was able to wrap my arms around her shoulders from above. Twisting her as my weight sent her backwards, I drove her down with its force. I pinned her shoulders to the bed, but her hips were still turned, giving her some leverage as she tried to slip out from under me. Grunting with effort, my left leg thrashed as I tried to wrap it over hers while she struggled to get onto turned onto her knees. We grunted and strained for a moment, then I felt her legs moving, her ass up in the air as she started to scoot our bodies across the bed. My shoulders started to turn and I had to let her go and push away to keep from being driven off the bed. My heart was beating faster and I was feeling a bit of panic. The older woman was dominating me, taking control of this fight. My mind was furiously trying to think of a way to turn things around.
I kicked my leg up and twisted around, pulling my body around so that I was facing the same direction as Mrs. Marshall. I shifted my arms around so that my left arm slid under her throat and my right hand gripped her hair. I tugged hard, pulling her head up, which slowed her progress and gave me a chance to mount her from behind, my right leg hooking hers. I tugged on it, trying to widen her stance as I let go of her hair and snaked my hand down between her legs, slapping her spread vulva. There was a loud, wet sound and her body convulsed as a loud yelp came from her lips. That stopped her enough for me to get my left leg hooked around her left leg as well. I lay on her back now, my battered breasts rubbing against her sweaty back as I slapped her mound again. Then I curled my middle and ring finger, probing between her swollen lips. Her pussy was so wet that they easily slid in and I felt her legs tremble as I started to work her over. As I pulled on her legs with my rear grapevine, she shuddered and fell to the mattress. Laying on her back, I bit her earlobe.
“I’ve gotten you awfully wet, Mrs. Marshall,” I hissed in her ear. “I don’t think I believe that a woman can’t turn you on anymore.”
“Fuck you,” she groaned. In spite of her rage, I could feel her hips start to rock as my fingers were slipping in and out of her hot sex hole. “You’re the one cheating! You’ve been cheating all along! This was supposed to be a pussy fight!”
I licked her ear, leaned in and breathed on the sensitive skin, which made her shudder again.
“What are you going to do?” I laughed. “Go complain to your son? Tell him that the girl he’s known almost his entire life cheated during the sexfight she had with his mom?”
“You fucking whore!” She groaned again, almost sobbing as she spoke. “You fucking, cheating bitch!”
“Maybe Jacob would like to know,” I panted. I hardly noticed that my hips were rocking as well. My sex ground into Mrs. Marshall’s ass and my juices were soaking my thighs. We could both smell the thick scent of our aroused, sweaty bodies. This was dirty, nasty. And we loved it! “Maybe he lays in bed at night, naked, jerking off to the idea of you and I doing this.”
“Oh God! Oh fucking God!” Mrs. Marshall’s whole body shuddered under me and I felt a building tightness in my mound as I hungrily humped against her ass, my pussy now begging for release.
“Stop it!” Mrs. Marshall screamed, her left elbow clumsily hitting my side. Then again. And again. “Fucking stop it!”
The pain radiated through my body, my ribs already sore from the wild fistfight we inflicted on each other earlier. Moaning, I unraveled our legs, pushing against her back as I scooted back. Breathing hard, I sat on my ass with my legs spread. My pussy throbbed, demanding the relief only a hard fuck could provide. Mrs. Marshall collapsed onto her side, thighs pressing tight together and her right hand shielding her crotch.
“Come on, you fucking bitch,” I gasped. “Or are you afraid to face me? Does the little girl scare you now?”
She groaned, slowly rolling up and facing me, her legs spread and her bare pussy, still leaking juices, shifting into view as she leaned back and shifted her hips.
“Bring it on, you filthy bitch,” she hissed at me. “My pussy will eat yours!”
We scooted together, legs scissoring each other and hands reaching out to grip sides as we pulled ourselves together. Sweaty skin rubbed over sweaty skin. Leaning forward, our upper lips met before our lower. Our tongues engaged in a little wrestling match as hands drifted up to grip cheeks, fingers curling around the backs of our heads. We did not close our eyes. This was a war. The kiss was filled with hate and we battled until thick ropes of saliva started to join our lips together and then drip down in streaks to our heaving chests.
“I hate you,” Mrs. Marshall panted, the hot breath flowing over my cheeks.feeling like an expression of her emotion.
“Not as much as I hate you,” I replied, shivering as we clenched again.
I don’t know how long this battle continued. Our lips were bruised and swollen before we suddenly shoved each other away. As if a command from our aching pussies finally was spoken at the same time to both of us. We leaned back, our large breasts sprawling out to the sides as we looked down into the valley our legs created. The bare, thick folds of her sex, pink and swollen, spread out before me. The small nub of her enraged clit poked out like the ramming spike of some ancient ship of war. It was faced by the dark chocolate of my unfurled folds, the dense fur I could grow removed by a harsh Brazilian wax so that nothing could separate us. My own sex spike poked out like a pearl surrounded by a dark sheath. Both panting in unison, we guided our sex ships of war toward each other, feinting slightly, trying to lure the other into a mistake as our asses shifted and moved over the soaked sheets of Mrs. Marshall’s bed. Then we both screamed as all attempts to fool or deceive were cast aside and we rammed together.
“Fucking cunt!” We both screamed.
Hips worked. Legs shifted and sweaty skin smeared our musk over each other as we ground and mashed. Leaning further back, our asses lifted up off the sheets and drips of sex juices dripped from toned legs clenched together in battle. Breaths came in shuddering, gasping moans as the heat between us grew. Our eyes locked in a furious war of wills. I am not even sure if we blinked as our fingers knotted, pulling the sheets into a strangling death grip.
The strain grew. The clenching, angry, mounting arousal grew. Spasms rippled along our bodies, disrupted our minds as our legs trembled. A loud cry burst from my lips as my trembling legs gave way and my ass slapped back down to the mattress. Suddenly Mrs. Marshall crawled like a crab until her hips we facing down on mine and her huge tits were dancing like thick globes of meat above my face. I felt her weight. I felt her sex. Grinding down onto me, I felt her sex energy flowing down, dominating mine. The spasms flowing through my body disrupted more and more. My ability to respond weakened and her will, her sex pounded into me. Screams of ecstasy and shame echoed through her bedroom as my body thrashed and the orgasm I fought to suppress exploded through my body. Wave after wave of joy and shame pulsed along my body, my soul as she rode me!
The waves calmed, slowly came to a halt. Mrs. Marshall lay on me, her hips still instinctively grinding into me. Then with a hiss of disgust, she started to push herself up, wanting to break the contact between us. I grabbed her, wrapping my arms around her back and twisting us to our sides. My right leg slipped between hers. Summoning energy I didn’t know that I possessed, I kissed her roughly, forcing my tongue into her mouth. Her eyes widened in shock.
“Stop it, Mala,” she panted. “It’s over. I told you that I didn’t like women.”
I growled, a new fury awoke and I twisted us around until I was on top. Our tits mushroomed out and my belly compressed hers. I dragged my thigh against her swollen folds and she groaned. The arousal she tried to suppress bloomed like an evil flower and her breathing turned into ragged gasps.
“This… won’t… prove anything,” she gasped. “I… beat you.”
My spiteful kiss hushed her. Soon her arms snaked around my back and she squeezed me tighter as I felt her body respond. Punches looped weakly against my back as I muffled her protests with my lips. She slapped my ass, but then groaned and squeezed my jiggling cheek as I rode her with my thigh, driving her past a point where she could contain herself. Her entire body shuddered and she tore her mouth away from mine as a ragged, moaning scream shook her. I felt my own arousal beginning to stir again, but she was the one forced to ride wave after wave of forced pleasure.
“You bitch,” she whispered. “You fucking bitch.”
“We’re going to fight until we’re done,” I hissed back. “This doesn’t end just because you say so.”
We wrestled on the bed. Our mouths became weapons, moving from furious kisses to licking and sucking on neck, tits and any other part that became available. Our bodies dripped sweat as we panted and twisted around each other like snakes. Fingers sought out pussies and we moaned as they teased and forced another orgasm from each of us. I grabbed the wild mass of matted, sweat soaked hair and tugged, twisting us around. She glared down at my oozing mound with disgust, slapping my engorged folds and spitting on me.
“I’m not afraid of you, Mala,” she hissed, but her neck tensed and she strained to resist this next part of our journey.
“Prove it, you fucking slut,” I hissed back. “I’ve already made you admit that a woman can turn you on, that you’re just a filthy lesbo whore underneath your so perfect image.”
Her fingers dug into my hair, pulling my mouth toward her pussy, but I did not resist. I slapped her ass, my hands cupping her slim cheeks and pulling her soaking fuck hole toward me. She groaned as my tongue first tasted her and I felt the shudder that ran through her body. Realizing the danger, she wrapped her hands around my hips, pressing her lips to my folds and I gasped as her tongue tentatively darted out. She angrily slapped my ass, which made me moan from the mixture of pain and pleasure. I felt her hatred that I had forced our battle to this stage. Even grinding pussy to pussy kept her detached in a way, separate from the fight going on below. Now her eyes, her nose, her lips pressed against me. Her very being was part of this fight. All the sweat and thick juices coating my thighs smeared into her hair and face as I tightened my legs around her head. Her nostrils were overwhelmed with the thick, nasty smell of my body just as mine was filled by hers. This fight became even more humiliatingly personal than ever as we furiously licked and sucked each other’s pussies. As my fingers slipped in to work her, she gasped. She shuddered when my thumb flicked her swollen, raw clit. My tongue traced along the sweaty expanse of her ass crack until it poked and prodded the puckered star. The quick thrashing of her legs and stiffening of her back told me that this had never been touched before, and I took the attack further. Her body clenched me tighter and her tongue and fingers faltered. Rhythmic spasms of groans came from her lips and I felt her thighs tremble. Finally, a light scream came from her lips and she bit my thigh as her body was rocked again and again by the orgasms she never wanted. I felt her shame filled gush of fluids coating my neck and upper chest as she writhed around me.
When they subsided and my mouth returned to her red, battered folds that could no longer shield her enraged pussy, she moaned “No! No more!”
She unwrapped her arms and legs, using hands and feet to push my body away.
“Stop, Mala,” she sobbed. “I surrender.”
I rolled onto my back, stared at the ceiling. In those first few moments I tried to understand what had happened. The secret urges that we exposed tore us apart and I knew that we would never be the same. I finally gathered myself and slipped off her bed. For a second I was not sure that my legs could support me. But they did. I stood. I looked down at Mrs. Marshall, laying defeated in her own bed. She had curled into a fetal position, quietly crying as her mind and body tried to reconnect. Wiping her eyes, she looked up at me and I was happy. Her face and hair were smeared and matted with sweat and my cum. She looked older. She was no longer the goddess. We both knew that fact. An anger welled up in her expression, and that made me happy as well.
“This isn’t over, you fucking little brat,” she panted. “This proves nothing.”
Somehow my lips twisted into a smile as I looked down at her.
“That’s fine… Janet,” I replied, using her first name as like a whip lash to prove just how far she had fallen. “But… next time… you have to come to me.”
I turned and walked into her bathroom, gathered my bikini and then my flip flops and wrap laying on her bedroom floor. I staggered out naked, my tight ass and back being the last thing my victim was allowed to see. I dressed by the door I entered through, turning the button lock on the door knob before I left. I groaned as my top, still damp from chlorine dosed water from the pool, touched my wounded tits. The bottoms chafed against my swollen mound. The walk home was painful, but I did not allow myself to cry until I showered in my own house. The soap stung as I cleaned the scratches on my breasts and body. I applied Aloe Vera and then put on a loose shift. I fixed myself an egg and toast in the kitchen, wrote a note saying that I didn’t feel well and asked my parents to please just let me sleep.
I heard my door open that evening. My mom tiptoed in first, followed by the cautious tread of my dad.
“Mala, you ok baby?” My mom’s voice was calm. She did not panic.
“I think I’m just overwhelmed from the last semester,” I said quietly. “It just sort of hit me this afternoon.”
I felt the gentle touch of my dad’s hand on my forehead. Then a light kiss.
“Just rest Mala,” he said. “You worked so hard and we are so proud of you.”
I did not turn to them.
“Thank you,” I said, real emotion boiling up and making my voice choke in just the right way.
They left me alone in the darkness of my room.
My whole body ached the next day. The long, steamy shower helped with the aches, and I told myself that the liberal application of Aloe Vera would heal the still angry scratches to my boobs. They didn’t look quite as raw and ragged after the second shower and more of the magical healing plant juice.
My parents were gone for the day again, not getting home until after dark. I made a very brief appearance and accepted many hugs. I again claimed that all the built up pressure of the semester had worn me out and I just needed another night of sleep. My promise of knowing that I’d be better tomorrow satisfied my mother. My father watched me with those cautious, observant eyes, the ones that never seemed to miss anything. He kept his opinion to himself, however, and I knew I had one last night to recover.
The next morning I really did feel better. I felt the occasional twinge from the battering I’d endured, but Aloe Vera was performing a miracle on the scratches. I carefully examined my breasts and felt hopeful that the red marks would fade without leaving scars.
I was forced to dress that day. My bra was a torture device, but my hair didn’t look too bad as I pulled it back into a ponytail. I left at 10 and made it to the mall food court early for my appointment. There was a tingling excitement prickling along my body, and I was happy to feel that as well.
Dr. Li and her daughter, Chiling, arrived right on time. Dr. Li was about my height, and her curvy figure—especially the large breasts that her charcoal grey blazer could not hide—suggested something else than a pure Taiwanese heritage. We shook hands formally and they sat down opposite me. Chiling, a sweetly nerdy girl with an awkward prettiness that she did not know what to do with, sipped on her smoothie and listened as Dr. Li and I chatted. And by chatting I mean I was formally interviewed.
“Thank you for meeting with me, Dr. Li,” I worked to balance open friendliness with a degree of obvious intelligence. “I shouldn’t say this: I was able to look over the applications to the program, and I really hoped I could have a chance to meet Chiling. You’re daughter is very special and would be an outstanding addition to the university’s ‘Asian Women in Technology’ group.”
Chiling blushed and accidentally sucked too hard on the straw of her smoothie, making an awkward sound for a second. Dr. Li was an iceberg. Her face revealed nothing.
“I’d love to tell you a bit about myself, if you would not mind,” I continued, refusing to get rattled by the older woman’s expression. “It would be an honor to be Chiling’s mentor.”
What followed was a detailed grilling of my background and what my major was as well as my future plans. The combination of computer science and psychology was puzzling to Dr. Li. As a renowned neurosurgeon, she felt psychology was a soft science with little value. When I outlined the statistical elements of psychology and how I felt it could inform my research into AI, there was a slight thawing in her expression. I got the impression that I had passed a test as the conversation went along.
“If it is ok, I brought a little present for Chiling,” I said, placing a small wrapped box half way between myself and the mother and daughter. “Sort of a welcoming present.”
Dr. Li shifted in her chair, conflicted by her instinct to say no and the Chinese tradition around presents. She nodded and Chiling quickly ripped the present open. She held up the small porcelain donkey with a somewhat confused look.
“It’s a simple present,” I explained. “In my culture the donkey is prized for its humility, its obedience and how hardworking it can be when correctly guided. My parent’s have taught me to approach school like a faithful donkey, and I’ve felt honored to accept that role. It would be my honor to hopefully show Chiling that path as well.”
Chiling squealed and hugged the donkey between her fingers. Dr Li shifted in her chair again. The urge to disapprove was confronted by the perceived humility and earnestness of my present.
“I feel that a mother can provide all the guidance a daughter should need,” she finally said.
Ready for that, I bowed my head slightly, and replied. “I would only view myself as an older sister to Chiling,” I replied. “I would always respect her mother and—if permitted—would be honored to receive any guidance she could offer me as well.”
A slight spasm of shock rippled across Dr. Li’s face. There was a slight nod as she acknowledged that she had been outflanked and defeated. We look into each other’s eyes and I realized that the seed between us was planted. With nurturing, I could grow the twisted, evil flower of rivalry between us.
When I got home, the package I had been waiting for arrived. I brought it in and opened it. Staring at the contents, I smiled.
It was perfect.
My parents did not get home until after dark. I fixed a simple dinner that I could keep warm in a covered pan and served it to them. We talked around the table and I assured them that I was feeling better.
“You work too hard, Mala,” my mother gently scolded. “You are too young to study all the time.”
“But I love what I do,” I replied. I felt my dad watching me, but he only smiled and hugged me as we cleared the dishes.
My mom knocked on my door before I went to bed. She came in with a brush in her hand and insisted on our ritual of sitting on my bed and brushing out my long hair while I sat on the floor. I hid the pain as the bristles ran over my still tender scalp.
“Mala, your hair is a mess,” she clucked. “Have you been conditioning it with sand paper? We need a spa day! I’m going to schedule something next week!”
I sighed and leaned back against her, enjoying being home.
“Oh my god!” My mom shrieked. “What is that?”
She pointed to the present I bought myself. It rested on a small chair in the corner of my bedroom, half hidden behind my desk.
My dad poked his head through the door.
“Everything ok?” He asked.
“It’s fine,” I laughed, getting up from the floor. “Mom is just easily spooked.”
“No, I’m not! It looks like something from a horror movie, Mala! Where did you get it?”
I smiled and walked over to the corner, picking up the doll I purchased from its chair.
“It’s a doll. I bought it as my present for my first year at university,” I said. “I think it’s beautiful!”
My parents walked over and looked at the porcelain doll. It’s delicate head was painted with a small, bow like mouth, blue eyes and long blonde hair cascaded down its back. The stuffed body was covered in an old fashioned dress from the southern plantation days. The blonde hair was partially covered by a fanciful hat held in place by a long ribbon that wrapped around the doll’s fragile chin.
“It’s… something,” my dad finally said. He looked at me with those large, thoughtful eyes. I never could really hide anything from him. “Good night, Mala. Sleep well.”
He bent down and kissed my forehead and left the room, taking my mom by the hand and leading her to their bedroom.
That night I kept the small lamp beside my bed on. Wearing only a long t-shirt, I slipped my hand down and rubbed the knuckle of my middle finger against my still tender labia lips while I stared at the doll. At first I imagined the pleasure I would have shopping for an Asian doll, but that would be too far in the future. I bit my lower lip as I imagined Janet—she would never be Mrs. Marshall to me again—and I wrestling in the bed I had slept in since I was a child while the delicate doll watched us from the corner. I moaned softly, decreasing the pressure of my knuckle so that it merely teased.
Porcelain dolls never made sense to me when growing up. They were expensive, somewhat disturbing looking, and far too delicate to play with. All you could do was stare at them, I thought back then. Now, as I looked at the doll, I realized what they were truly for.
You owned them.