1 comments/ 90448 views/ 18 favorites Primal Urge Ch. 01 By: aviendha33 An earlier version of this story was submitted elsewhere. I retain all rights. * Primal Urge: My Surprising Entry Into the Sorority of Catfighting Wives Chapter 1: The Initiation A lot of my acquaintances whisper that I married for money. I didn't. I married for security. I grew up in circumstances that led me to appreciate comfort, safety, and a man who looks forward to coming home at the end of the day. When I met Paul, he was welcoming a group of people onto a yacht at an exclusive club. He was dressed in frayed khakis and old, scuffed topsiders, and I assumed he was a deckhand. Impulsively, I walked onboard with the group, hoping to crash the party and maybe meet an eligible doctor or lawyer. Paul stopped me, introduced himself, and generously welcomed me to his party as a bonafide guest. It turns out it was his yacht. When I told him my plan, he said, "What's wrong with me?" We've been together, ever since—married now for almost a year. Paul is in his mid-50s and still fit, but I confess it was the stability he offered that wooed and won me. Not that I bring nothing to the table! I'm a leggy 5'7" and, at 26, one of the most attractive women my husband has ever laid eyes on. He tells me just that, almost every day, and, in return, I shake my red hair and pout my lips into a kiss for him. Despite the difference in our ages, we have a terrific relationship. We're good friends, and he's a natural mentor, patient and gentle with my endless questions about life and the world. And as for sex? We have a good time. Paul is passionate, and I'm tolerant; and, most of the time, I genuinely enjoy myself. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like with a younger man, but, above all, I prize loyalty in my man, and I'm a loyal wife in return. Our lives are so busy and full that it was almost a year after our wedding before I wondered aloud with my husband why we never see many of our wedding guests socially. He dismissed the question with a wave of his hand, but I knew that he had many friends from his first marriage who had been important to him. When I asked why he seldom showed any interest in seeing them, he just said, "They're old friends, and we don't share so many interests anymore." I worried that perhaps his old friends were being harsh or judgmental for his having married such a young second wife, but he assured me that it was simply a matter of his having less in common with his old crowd now and little interest in seeing them. Then, a few weeks ago, while searching for a set of Paul's cufflinks to wear with a French blouse, I found some photographs of my husband with his old friends. I confronted him, but all he would say at first was that they were old pictures he'd saved. When I pointed out that he was wearing a sport coat and tie in the photographs that I'd just had made for him, a month previously, I could see his resolve beginning to waver. He's not a natural liar, and, even more importantly, he's a good man and a good husband and would have trouble not being completely truthful with me. "What's up, Paul?" I asked. "Why would you meet with your old friends and not include me?" "I arranged to meet them for an evening on that weekend you were visiting your sister at her school," he said. "It was really no big deal." I sensed that he was dissembling and pressed forward. "But why would you see them and then not tell me? We tell each other everything, don't we?" That struck a nerve, and Paul turned to face me, his eyes slightly downcast. "Not everything, Kerry. To be honest, I haven't wanted to involve you with my old friends, because...well, because they have interests that I'm sure you don't share." "What!" I interrupted. "Interests that you share with them but not with me? Paul, how can you say that! I've always tried to share your interests. Even in those antique cars you love restoring." "Classic cars," he gently corrected. "But Kerry, this is different, trust me. It's something Carolyn and I did with the group that I doubt very much would interest you. In fact, I guess I'm a little ashamed of it, or I wouldn't have tried to conceal it from you." "Paul, that's unfair!" I protested. "You and your first wife shared something with your friends, but you want to keep me out of it? If it's something you like, then I want to be a part of it, too!" "Kerry, this really is different," he said softly, holding me by the shoulders. "It's...well, I was afraid you'd think it was perverted." "Perverted?" Now I was a little fearful. "You're not involved in infidelity, are you darling?" I couldn't keep my voice from quavering. "No, sweetheart, it's nothing like that...I'd never be unfaithful; you know that...but honestly? It is sexual." I began to feel my stability toppling. Was my husband having some sort of an affair? "I know I haven't always been the most passionate woman, Paul," I interjected, "but I've always been happy to give you whatever you want." "No, Kerry, stop it! Sweetheart, I love you. You mean the world to me, and I love our lovemaking, every moment of it." "Then what do you all do together, you and your friends? What is it that you like? Paul, please tell me." My husband settled me gently onto the loveseat in our dressing room and then sat on the floor in front of me. "Okay, I hadn't planned to tell you this way, but maybe this is best. Kerry, the women in the group of my old friends...well, they enjoy catfighting." After a moment, I said, "You mean they like gossiping and saying vicious things about each other?" Paul laughed. "No, darling, they're not mean. In fact, they're all loyal friends and acquaintances. But they enjoy a good catfight. Both watching them and participating in them." My face must have been a blank. "Kerry, they like to wrestle and fight each other physically. You know, pull hair, rip clothes, that sort of thing." He made a choking motion with his hands. I was stunned. "You're joking. You mean they...they actually fight? But why?" Paul shrugged. "Well, I guess the simplest answer is 'because they like it.'" When I didn't respond, he added, "It turns them on, and it turns their husbands on." "But don't they get hurt?" I asked. "Doesn't it end up with grudges and hurt feelings?" "No, it's not like that, Kerry. In fact, it's pretty heavily ritualized and rules-oriented. The wives challenge each other in prescribed ways, and the object isn't to hurt each other but to humiliate and sexually dominate each other." "And the husbands like this?" "Are you joking?" "And the wives don't find it demeaning? I mean, why would they do it?" "You'd have to ask them, I guess," Paul said. "But I'm sure some would say—maybe they'd all say—that they do it to excite their husbands. Really, it's better than Viagra," he winked. "And I think many would say they enjoy the intensity and sexual contact with another woman. And they enjoy watching each other. The fact is, the wives themselves are in control. They make up the rules to suit them, and they're in charge of the gatherings. We husbands are merely the grateful recipients of their largesse. And really, Kerry," Paul added, after a moment, "if you knew in advance that no one would be hurt, don't you think you'd enjoy watching a good, sexy catfight between two women?" I smiled, digging my toe into the carpet. I had enjoyed watching my sorority sisters mud wrestle for charity at college, and I'd wished I'd had the courage to try it myself. When I confessed this to Paul, he raised his hands as if to say, "Well, of course." "But wait," I said. "Why do your friends' wives try to humiliate each other? And how do they humiliate each other?" "Probably the same way you'd want to humiliate a woman who wanted to humiliate you in a fight." "Oh. Like tear her clothes off and strip her naked in front of everyone. So the winner is the first to strip her opponent?" "Well, it could stop there," Paul replied. "But would you stop there? Picture yourself standing across from another attractive woman. You've challenged each other to fight in front of the rest of the group. In front of all the other wives. In front of your husbands and all the other husbands. She wants to embarrass and humiliate you until you submit, so she can make you do whatever you've agreed the loser will do. And you want nothing more than to do the same to her." "Oooohhhh," I said, suddenly appreciating the full range of possibilities. "So it can get pretty nasty." "The fights can get nasty. That's actually the hope," Paul smiled. "But the wives seem to have come up with a formula for remaining cordial and friendly. Some of them are even very close friends." "I see," I murmured, suddenly picturing myself, standing across from an irritable woman whom I'd accidentally bumped at a political fundraiser that Paul and I had attended, the previous week. In my mind's eye, we'd kicked off our shoes and were circling each other on the dance floor. The crowd made a noisy amphitheater around us, as we lunged for each other and went down to the floor, rolling over and over, pulling each other's hair and trying to tear the tops of each other's dresses down. I didn't have much of an idea of where to go with this fantasy or what was supposed to come next, but I was aware of feeling sexually excited. Paul tugged at my arm. "What are you thinking?" "Umm, Paul, would you like to make love?" Without a moment's thought, my husband scooped me up in his strong arms and whisked me to our bed, where the next several hours seemed to pass in a blink, leaving us both sublimely satisfied and completely exhausted. After a few sips of the sports drink I habitually keep on my nightstand—one has to keep hydrated on these long afternoons!—I rolled over onto my spent husband and casually began to massage his now flaccid member. He chuckled, saying, "I think I may be down for the count, at least until after dinner, my love." I kissed his ear and, screwing my courage to the sticking place, offered uncertainly, "Paul, if you'd like me to be a part of this...this thing with the wives...I mean, I'd want to do it, if it's something that's important to you." "The question is whether it would interest you, Kerry," Paul responded. "I don't want you involved in anything that doesn't interest you and make you happy. I don't need anything other than what I have with you." I became quietly thoughtful, as my imagination played with the possibilities, until my reverie was interrupted by my husband's sudden and surprising tumescence. "Well," I grinned, as I fondled his now erect penis, "I certainly like what the idea does for you." "If you're serious—and only if it's something you'd really like to do—there's a party this weekend that we can attend. At the Farrells'. You remember Penny and Harry?" I lazily climbed atop my husband and slowly lowered my womanhood onto his throbbing shaft. Running my fingers languidly through my hair, I thrust my breasts forward and said, "The idea does seem to have its positive side. All right, give them an RSVP." Matching my breathy voice to our rhythmic movements, I continued, "So if you'd like to watch me...in a fight with another woman...pulling each other's hair...ripping each other's clothes...stripping each other...slapping each other's faces...grabbing each other's breasts...pulling each other's nipples...well, maybe I can do this for us." Paul groaned, and I knew that dinner would be delayed, while we explored this new twist in our erotic fantasies. The following Saturday evening, we arrived at the Farrells' home for their weekend house party, ascending the front veranda simultaneously with another couple, whom he introduced as Sol and Rachel Steingold. They were an attractive pair, in their late 40s, and obviously well turned out. We'd just finished shaking hands, when the Farrells' butler opened the door to admit us. The maid took our coats and wraps, and we were ushered into a large open room—part great room and part conservatory—where several other couples were already gathered. We were offered champagne, and our hosts, Penny and Harry Farrell, came over to greet us. Penny was perhaps 50, deeply tanned, and what many men would call a very handsome woman. A little horsey-faced but well coifed with an ample bosom bursting forth to greet us from a low-cut, silver-sequined cocktail dress. Harry was a little portly and maybe five years older but had a winning smile and charming demeanor. The Farrells, like many of their guests, had been guests at Paul's and my wedding, and I remember liking them and wanting to get to know Penny better. "You are just as precious as I recall, Kerry," she exclaimed in her cultured Southern accent, "and I'm just so glad you're here, tonight. When Paul called us and told us you wanted to participate, I said to Harry, 'I knew that girl was game from the moment I saw her.'" "Well, I guess you could say 'game but a little nervous,'" I offered. "Honey, you just enjoy this evening," Penny said, "and if you want to get involved, that's just fine, and if you just want to watch, tonight, why that's just fine, too. You just make yourself at home." "Thank you, Penny. I guess I'll just wait and see what the evening brings." "I'm sure you'll find it an interesting experience, Kerry," Rachel said as she joined us. "Did Paul tell you about tonight's rules?" "Well, he told me to wear a cocktail dress, thigh-high French stockings, and silk thong or bikini underwear, but that's all he said." "That's all he needed to say, shoog," Penny laughed. "You just watch and see what happens and you'll get the idea. When things get started, I'll find you and fill you in on the finer points, while we watch." "Of course, things could get started sooner rather than later," Rachel said, as she stepped forward, pushing her bosom softly against Penny's. The two women quietly and subtly rubbed their breasts into one another for a moment, and their breathing became perceptibly louder. After another moment, Penny stepped back and said, "Why, Rachel, I do believe you're still upset about what I did to you at the Ellisons' party, last month. But all in good time. I need to play hostess for a little while longer, and I need to make Kerry and Alex Crandall's new wife comfortable. Besides, what I did wasn't nearly as humiliating as what Cecily did to you at the Stones' party, two months ago." Penny smiled wickedly. "And I do believe Cecily and her husband have just arrived." "Well, one thing's certain," Rachel returned the smile, "it's payback time and either you or Cecily can look forward to a dose of your own medicine, tonight." Rachel turned on her heel and, waving to a blonde woman across the room, called out, "Cecily, there you are." Turning to Penny, I asked, "What's the medicine she wants to give you a dose of?" "Oh, Kerry darlin', you'll just have to wait and see. Now go mingle and get re-acquainted with these good folks, and I'll be sure to take you aside for a full commentary, when things get exciting." While Penny made her way through the other couples, hugging and offering kisses as she went, I turned to look for Paul, only to find that he'd joined a conversation with several other men, by the huge open fireplace. I decided to leave him to it and find a conversation of my own. Wandering toward the bar for a fresh glass of champagne, I surveyed the room. There were maybe ten or twelve couples—mostly in their late 30s, 40s, and early 50s, with only one other woman as young as I. "Alex Crandall's new wife," I said under my breath, and the bartender nodded and dropped a fresh bright red strawberry into my cold glass of bubbly. All of the women were fit and attractive, but most were showing the inevitable signs of wear: a few extra pounds and lines, a bosom not as high as it once was, and a slightly wider version of a once tighter derriere. "Classic derrieres," I laughed quietly to myself, and a woman who had materialized beside me said, "Classic what?" "Oh, I'm sorry. I was just thinking about my husband's hobby. He restores old cars." "Oh, you must be Paul's wife, Kerry. I'm Camilla Reston." Camilla was a drop-dead gorgeous woman, probably in her late 30's, with a shock of golden hair, down to her shoulders. She was around 5'6", I guessed, and wearing a variation of the uniform-of-the-evening—a spaghetti-strapped, electric blue cocktail dress that hugged her shapely hips and dropped to six inches above her knees. The bust was cut deep, giving a full view of her cleavage and hinting at the delicate upturned roundness of each breast. We shook hands, and I offered Camilla a glass of champagne from the bar. She complimented my own black silk cocktail dress, and asked where I'd gotten my stockings, which had an unusual floral-patterned seam along the outside of each leg. I remarked what a lovely room we were standing in, and she gave me a visual tour of the room's decor and the beautiful plants. Camilla was clearly a fan of Penny's decorator and told me that Penny had added many of the finishing touches herself. "Of course, the room-sized Persian carpet is a nice touch, too," she said. "I noticed that," I said. "There's so much padding, I'm almost falling off my heels." "The better to cushion your fall, my dear," Camilla raised her eyebrows, laughing. "Let's grab a couple of those cushions and have a seat so we can talk more comfortably." "Oohh, I see about the carpet," I said, sitting down next to her. "That makes sense on those less than dignified landings." Then I asked, "Camilla, how long have you been, um, doing this?" She smiled and replied, "I guess going on five years now. Of course, my husband Tom and I don't get together with the group as often as we'd like, since we live in Zurich, now. But we try to visit, half a dozen times or so, each year." She leaned into me, conspiratorially, "It does wonders for us, when we're able to attend these little gatherings." "Paul said that's why many of you participate. Is that why you're here?" "That alone would probably do it," she said. "I love what it does for Tom's and my sex life. Whether I win or lose, it charges our lovemaking with electricity. But truthfully, Kerry? I love the sense of excitement. That part, I do for myself." "You mean the competition?" "Well, sort of. But 'competition' is too tame a way of putting it. This is wild. Elemental. It's like a primal urge. I've had the feeling before of wanting to get into a fight, but I never did, because I was afraid of getting hurt. And I'd never want to hurt anyone else; that would just make me feel terrible. But this way...the stakes are just as high. No one wants to have another woman get the better of her in front of crowd of onlookers, but no one gets hurt." She smiled, "So, even when you lose, you live for the thrill another day." "And how does that happen? How does one woman get the better of another?" I asked. "There are lots of ways," Camilla said. "Submissions, pins, and we make up a lot of different rules and games, just to keep things interesting. But personally? I favor the high stakes of a facesitting submission." "You mean you actually?" I didn't know how to finish the sentence. "You've got it, Kerry," Camilla smiled. "How can I describe the thrill of it? Two women, face to face, each realizing that the other wants to humiliate and degrade her as thoroughly as possible. If you don't do it to her, then she'll do it to you." "So, basically, you're trying to get the better of her by..." "By rubbing my ass crack in her face, yes," Camilla offered with a cheery grin. "Has any of these women ever gotten the better of you?" I asked. "Oh, my God, yes," she laughed. "Most of us are pretty evenly matched, so we give as good as we get. If your opponent thoroughly degrades you, one time, chances are you'll get her back, the next. Without really fixing the match, so to speak, I'm sure that most of us even get into some fights with the idea that it's the other woman's turn. A few women have gotten too competitive, and they're not invited back, after a while. Don't get me wrong. The fights are always tough, and nobody wants to lose. But I wouldn't have the heart in me to do to Allison, next time, what I did to her, last time. So the next time we meet, there's a good chance she'll even the score." Primal Urge Ch. 01 "So, really, the show's the thing?" "Well, the show's an important thing," Camilla laughed, "but, for me, the excitement's the thing. This may be more than you want to know, but sometimes? I fantasize I'm a French whore in a fight with another whore over a man. This way, nobody gets a bottle broken over her head or her face all scratched up." "That's not more than I want to know," I said. "That's exactly the sort of thing I want to know." "Oh, a lot of us have fantasies about what we do. Wife vs. Mistress. Mistress vs. Wife. Inmate vs. Inmate. Upstairs maid vs. Downstairs maid. Schoolgirl vs. Schoolgirl. I remember a girl from prep school I dearly wanted to pay back for a mean trick she played on me. Well, thanks to the other wives in our group, I've paid her back in my fantasies a bunch of times. And truthfully? When she pays me back? It's every bit as exciting." "So losing is almost as good as winning?" "Almost," Camilla smiled seductively. "And there's no wife-swapping or trading partners or anything like that?" "Oh, no at all! The wives make up the rules, Kerry, and we'd never stand for that. The bonds of fidelity in marriage are unbroken in this club. The men understand this, and, believe me, they're not complaining. They get to see all the other wives naked and humiliated, and they can hardly wait to get their own wives alone, afterward. Sometimes, the rules include or allow sex between the wives, but that just seems to get them even hotter." "Sex between the wives?" "We have a lot of different rules for our games. Sometimes, the fights are explicitly sexual. Sometimes, the focus is more on humiliation and degradation. As long as it's safe and both women agree, well...we're always looking for new and interesting variations." "Yes, we are," Penny stage-whispered, coming to sit between us. "And, if I'm not mistaken, there's a particularly interesting variation brewing in the center of the room." I looked at my watch and realized that the party had been going for more than an hour. When I followed Penny's gaze to the middle of the room, I saw two women facing each other, talking quietly, hands on hips. We couldn't hear everything, but a pretty blonde was pointing her finger at Rachel Steingold's chest and saying, "If you're not careful, sweetheart, I'm going to pull those beauties out of your dress, so everyone can take a good look at them." Penny whispered, "That's Cecily Kemper in the green silk cocktail dress, closest to us, with Rachel Steingold in the dark red. This should be good. One of tonight's theme rules is that you can't dress again or fix your hair or makeup after a fight. Whatever you look like at the end, that's how you go to our midnight buffet and finish the evening." Rachel was now pointing at Cecily's bosom and saying, "Cece, I'm going to separate your bosom from your bodice...and I'm going to show everyone your pale, pretty bottom, too. But the one who's going to get the best view of my gorgeous bottom is you, sweetheart." Penny was whispering again. "Unless there are specific rules to the contrary, we don't insult each other's bodies. We can call each other names, but we can't insult each other's bodies. It keeps things more cordial." I nodded, as if I thought this was a good idea; and, when I turned back, Cecily Kemper was reaching beneath her dress to tug down her green silk bikini panties. When they were down to her knees, she let them drop to the floor and stepped out of them. Then she kneeled to pick them up and stood with them dangling from the end of one finger. Just as I was about to ask what would happen next, she gently tossed them into Rachel's face. "There's the challenge," Camilla whispered. "If Rachel wants to fight, she'll do the same." Cecily's panties slid down Rachel's bosom and then onto the floor, and Rachel reached underneath her own dress and pulled a bright red thong down to her knees. As she stepped out of it, she straightened up and tossed it lightly into Cecily's face. Both women smiled. Then they turned to the nearest chairs and removed their high heels and jewelry, handing them to their obviously aroused husbands. Both women were wearing nude, incredibly sheer stockings, and I sighed at the thought of what would be happening to them in just a few moments time. It looked like an even match to me. Both were about 5'4" tall and just bordering on the chubby side, maybe 10 or 15 pounds overweight each. Rachel was darkly complexioned, with black hair, while Cecily was pale and blonde, with softer features. Gazing around the room, it was clear that all of the men had picked up the scent, so to speak, and were straining at their trousers. None of them was making the slightest attempt to conceal it either, and I caught Paul looking at me and smiling. I smiled back and realized that it wasn't just the men who'd become aroused. I was definitely experiencing a tingle of anticipation. As Rachel and Cecily took their places back in the center, there were a few restrained and refined cheers. "Go to it girls!" "Rip that dress off!" "Go for it, gals!" Penny whispered, "Only the wives are allowed to cheer, and we don't usually cheer for one woman over another. We do offer encouragement, though, when one gal gains the upper hand." I turned back, startled, as Mrs. Kemper and Mrs. Steingold had come together with surprising ferocity, and each was trying to fend off the other's hands as they struggled for a hold on each other's hair and dresses. "Slapping is sometimes allowed," Camilla whispered, "but they're apparently not going to do that in this match. It depends on what the fighters agree to and want." The two frenzied women pushed each other in a circle, vying for control, as the crowd opened to give them room. Their language, so genteel a few moments ago, had become vulgar and provocative, as their grunts and squeals were punctuated with taunts. "You're gonna kiss my ass, you whore!" "Suck my pussy, you cunt!" The sound of fabric ripping became more pronounced, as Cecily suddenly pulled Rachel's dark red dress straps off her shoulders, revealing Rachel's flesh-tone strapless d-cup brassiere. But before she could extricate herself to admire her work, Rachel managed to rip Cecily's straps completely off, and we watched as the top of her green silk dress cascaded to her waist, revealing a sheer lime green c-cup brassiere. The two separated and circled, just a few feet apart. "Get her bra!" one of the wives yelled. "Show us her titties!" another laughed. The onlookers were clearly enjoying the spectacle, and the men, who weren't allowed to cheer, showed their enthusiasm with their broad grins and raised champagne flutes. Rachel faked to her left but then went low for Cecily's mid-section, probably trying to wrestle her down. Instead, Cecily folded herself over Rachel's back and worked furiously on her adversary's bra clasp. Rachel's arms encircled Cecily's waist, as she raised Cecily off her feet; but, when the blonde felt her feet leave the floor, she shifted her weight defensively, causing both women to topple to the well-padded Persian carpet. Cecily landed on her back, clutching Rachel's brassiere in her hand, while Rachel continued to hug Cecily's mid-section. As Cecily struggled to scoot free with her prize, Rachel held on to her adversary's dress, until it slipped past Cecily's hips. Suddenly it was down around her knees, and, with a quick jerk, Rachel slid it off altogether. The two women stood up quickly, glaring at one another. Rachel was covering her breasts with Cecily's dress, while Cecily tried to cover her exposed pussy and ass with her hands. "Looks like you're a little short of clothing, Mrs. Kemper," Rachel teased, waving Cecily's dress in front of her. Then she raced several paces over to the large hooded firplace and, parting the grate, tossed it into the flames. Returning to the center of the room, she said, "And that's the way it's going to stay for the rest of the evening!" The blonde looked incredulous. "I can't believe you did that, Mrs. Steingold! That red dress hanging off your hips is history, you whore!" The blonde launched herself at Rachel's mid-section, clutching at the torn dress, but she'd left her back exposed, and Rachel managed to tug Cecily's bra up in one quick move, shoving the blonde back onto her ass. Rather than press her advantage, though, Rachel paraded around the room, swinging her opponent's lovely brassiere above her head, her arm covering her own nipples. This time, she chose the lovely fountain in one corner of the room to dispose of the blonde's lingerie, and, wiggling her bottom to an appreciative audience, sauntered back to within a few paces of where Cecily was picking herself up. Naked now, except for her tattered stockings, we could all see how pale the blonde was, with lovely translucent skin and not even the hint of any tanning lines. Her nipples were pink and fully erect, while her face was flushed and several shades pinker, but it was impossible to tell whether this was the result of exertion or embarrassment or anger. Tears had begun too glisten in the corners of her eyes, though, and I was guessing that shame and anger were the dominant emotions. "C'mon, bitch, I'm not done with you!" she hissed, and she shook her breasts provocatively in Rachel's direction. Rachel walked to within a few inches of her opponent, her dress still clinging to her hips. Her own breasts showed the tan lines of someone accustomed to afternoons by the pool, but even the lighter skin that would be covered by her swimsuit was darker than Cecily's pale whiteness. Her nipples were larger than Cecily's and brown, and they stood out half an inch from her mounds. Both women's bosoms sagged slightly with age and gravity, but they were obviously proud of their endowments, as they took turns shaking them at each other, their nipples brushing and slapping against each other's breasts. Penny whispered again, "I wonder if they're going to titfight." I must have looked puzzled, because Camilla added, "They'll grab each other in bear hugs and try to mash each other's breasts, until one of them can't stand it any longer. I'm surprised Cecily would do this. I happen to know how sensitive her breasts are." Camilla was right, because, when I turned back, Cecily had faked a bearhug and then wrestled an off-balance Rachel to the floor. They struggled briefly for control of their hands, but Cecily managed to climb on top of Rachel and straddle her chest. Pinning Rachel's left arm under her right leg, she fended off Rachel's free hand, while starting to pinch and tug at her opponent's exposed nipples. Rachel squealed with pain and horror at this turn of events, but she couldn't get her other hand free, and Cecily pressed the attack. "The rules are that you can't kick with your feet or knees, and you can't use a scissor, so Rachel's legs are basically useless, when she's on her back, unless she can use them to push herself out," Penny said. The raven-haired beauty's legs were indeed thrashing, but she wasn't strong enough to throw Cecily off, and now her other arm was pinned, as well. Cecily wasted no time in a full assault on Rachel's nipples. I could see that she was being very careful not to injure Rachel, but I could only imagine the pain and irritation she was inflicting on her hapless foe, tweaking and pulling at her nipples like that. I could see the tears forming in Rachel's eyes, and I whispered, "Will she give up?" Then I wondered, "How do you give up, and what happens when you do?" Camilla responded, "All she has to do is say 'I give,' and then Cecily will let her up. Then, of course, she has to do whatever it was they agreed to, before the fight. I couldn't hear that part or the rules they discussed, because we were too far away, but it's usually some form of humiliation or domination by the winner." Penny added, "The safe word is always 'Stop,' by the way. If you get hurt or need to stop to feel safe, just say the safe word. And if one woman inadvertently breaks the rules, the whole group will say, 'Stop!'" Just when I thought I couldn't stand it any longer, Rachel shifted her weight under Cecily, freed one of her arms, and managed to push her tormenter off. She'd probably led Cecily to believe that she was more helpless than she was, but it had been a costly strategy, and her nipples looked redder and even more swollen. The two women were rolling across the floor now, neither able gain the top position for long before the momentum of her opponent overturned her. Their stockings, once beautiful, were shredded and full of gaping holes, and both of Cecily's feet had popped through the sheer nylon. One of Rachel's feet was exposed, too, but the opposite stocking had slid down her leg, trailing off her foot like a comet. In the commotion, her dress had also slid down to mid-thigh, revealing her "classic derriere"; and, as the two combatants rolled past us, I noticed that Rachel had a neatly trimmed but full bush, while Cecily was completely clean-shaven. Rachel's asshole was brown and as big as a silver dollar, while Cecily's was pink and quarter-sized. As they struggled, their pussies came together with little wet smacking noises, and I was suddenly aware of how wet I'd become myself. The two wives' complete lack of concern for covering themselves, at this stage, was making me incredibly hot, and I realized that both were so intent on humiliating each other that they were giving no thought at all to their own modesty and propriety. Their heavy breathing was punctuated with unfeminine grunts and yelps, and their sweat, mingling with the more pungent odors from between their legs, occasionally wafted over to us in tantalizing whiffs. The two fighters were struggling to face each other, sitting on the floor, leg over leg, their crotches grinding together in the traditional posture of mutual tribadism. Both were gasping for air, and both had tears in their eyes, as they rubbed their breasts and pubic mounds into one another. Each grasped one of one of the other's hands by the wrist, and neither could gain control "First one to beg is the loser," Cecily panted. "I'll have you crying for sweet release, you bitch!" Rachel growled in Cecily's ear and then, out of frustration, their noses practically touching, she spat in the blonde's pretty face. This began a battle to see who could work up the most saliva and deposit it on her adversary's face and chest. They continued to grind into each other and spit, until both were nearly breathless and covered with clear, stringy spittle. Looking at the other wives and husbands in the crowd, I noticed that almost everyone was holding or rubbing her or his crotch unconsciously. Beside me, Penny and Camilla both were breathing hard, and Camilla's hand had disappeared beneath her dress. I was amazed that neither Rachel nor Cecily had been forced to orgasm yet, when Cecily suddenly cried, "Oh, you bitch!" and leaned back, trying to pull away with all her might. I guessed that she was close and had decided on a tactical retreat. They held tightly to each other's wrists, though, which meant that their crotches remained locked together. Leaning back, Cecily managed to bring one of her feet up and began to rub it in Rachel's saliva-slickened face. Realizing she could do the same, Rachel brought her bare foot up to Cecily's face and began to curl her toes around Cecily's nose. This was apparently a variation not frequently seen, and the women hooted with enthusiasm. "Make her smell your feet!" "Stick your toes in her mouth!" Since both women were fighting for breath through their open mouths, this last suggestion quickly led to two mouths full of toes, which both women were forced to suck, as they gasped for breath. In the process, they were also destroying each other's makeup, and Cecily had a burnished shade smeared all over her face, while Rachel's bright red lip gloss appeared to be giving her a clown mouth. The onlookers were gleeful. "Smear it all over her!" Without warning, Rachel suddenly pulled her trapped hand free and succeeded in rolling Cecily onto her back. On top but now upside down, Rachel pushed her head into Cecily's stomach in an effort to keep her foe trapped. Reaching down between her legs, she pulled one of Cecily's arms up and pinned it beneath her, while frantically searching for the other. Cecily squealed but could barely move, with Rachel's dead weight on her and one of her arms rendered securely immobile. With a grunt, Rachel finally located the second errant arm flailing at her side and pinned it fast under her thigh. Then she grabbed Cecily's wrists and pinned them to the carpet, rising to a sitting position on Cecily's stomach and straddling her in reverse. Breathing heavily, she paused to look back at Cecily's face and smiled, as Cecily began to sob quietly with frustration and visions of what was to come. I was concerned and whispered, "She looks done, should we stop it?" Penny whispered back, "No, she's fine, Kerry. There's often crying during our fights. It's a welcome release of tension, and the tears usually mean it's been a great match. Besides, the loser should cry, and Cecily knew what she was risking from the beginning." I was about to ask what the stakes had been, when Rachel slid her ass further up Cecily's torso, past her breasts, until it hovered over her face. The two waited in that position for another minute, allowing their breath to slow down. Cecily continued to sob quietly; and, when Rachel was satisfied that her opponent's breathing had settled to a slower rate, she lowered her wet, glistening bottom onto the blonde's face. While Cecily wept beneath her, Rachel gave her what I can only call a face massage—never cutting off her air for long but definitely burying her adversary's face between her ass cheeks. The subtle sucking and slurping noises were punctuated by Cecily's moans, and the pale blonde's face—what we could see of it—was screwed into a grimace of dismay and disgust. "Why doesn't she just give up," I whispered. "That wouldn't be sporting," Camilla replied. "She's lost, and she's honor-bound to let the winner have her fun. Besides, these are the high stakes that make it all so exciting. Those two knew when they were facing each other at the beginning that this was going to happen to one of them—that each wanted to be the one to do it to the other and not let the other do it to her." "And, of course, the men love it," Penny whispered. "Just look at them. They encourage us to challenge each other with face-sitting submissions and humiliations. And, it's true, a big part of why we do this is for them." "But we also do it for this," Camilla added, "touching my lips with a slick, wet finger, the scent of which left no doubt as to where it had just been. Impulsively, I snatched her hand and gently guided her finger into my mouth, where I sucked it and slowly twirled my tongue around it. Watching the two of us, Penny said, "Hmmm, that gives me an idea for another party. But let's give Kerry a chance to get comfortable with us, Camilla." Reluctantly, Camilla reclaimed her finger and said, "Don't worry, Kerry, Cecily and Rachel will be friends again tomorrow, and, tonight, they and their husband's will have terrific sex. Last time they fought, it was Rachel who got the facial, by the way. What goes around comes around." Both Penny and Camilla laughed. After a few minutes, Rachel raised her ass off Cecily's face and asked, "Had enough, sweetheart? Ready to give?" Cecily nodded yes, and Rachel dismounted. Cecily's face was a mess of smeared lipstick, Rachel's juices, and sweat. Her hair was matted and slimy in places, and she smelled a lot like Rachel's ass. The two husband's came over to congratulate and console, and the whole crowd erupted into cheers and applause for a terrific and highly arousing match. Both fighters smiled, accepting the applause, and Rachel raised Cecily's arm in a gesture of joint victory. Primal Urge Ch. 01 Penny stood up and announced, "That was a wonderful beginning to what I'm sure will be a great weekend for everyone! Now, let's turn the music back up, get back to partying, and see what else develops, tonight. And let me remind the wives of the agreement we all made. No dressing or bathing or fixing hair, until the party's over for the evening." Cecily smiled coyly and said, "I suppose I'll have to ask for volunteers to sit by me at supper, later." This got a rousing laugh, and the party was underway, again.