#womens wrestling
It had taken every year between the age of 12, until 43 for Dominique (brunette) and Sandra (blonde) to get to this moment. They had always been rivals. Always been enemies. Going to the same schools. Working in the same offices. Chasing after the same men. Never letting an opportunity pass to insult each other, one-up each other, embarrass the other in the worst ways possible.
Finally, it had all led to this – a catfight on the carpet in Sandra’s living room. A conflict planned over text message, in the two women’s first conversation since junior high school. They each promised that they would hurt and wound – pull hair and scratch – smother and strangle the other … and they will. Of that there is no doubt.
But as their fight begins, they do none of those things – finding themselves compelled by desires they do not understand to hold onto and press into each other – slowly grinding their breasts together – first to the left, and then to the right. And though they have always wished for the other to be gone from their life forever, each cling tightly – clasping their hands around the back of their rival – desperate to keep them there – terrified that they might run. Terrified that whatever their feud has meant, after all these many years – that all the passions and hate they have each felt for each other, will be suddenly stolen away. That this moment, whatever shape it may take, will end without satisfaction – without their demons being purged.
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It had taken every year between the age of 12, until 43 for Dominique (brunette) and Sandra (blonde) to get to this moment. They had always been rivals. Always been enemies. Going to the same schools. Working in the same offices. Chasing after the same men. Never letting an opportunity pass to insult each other, one-up each other, embarrass the other in the worst ways possible.
Finally, it had all led to this – a catfight on the carpet in Sandra’s living room. A conflict planned over text message, in the two women’s first conversation since junior high school. They each promised that they would hurt and wound – pull hair and scratch – smother and strangle the other … and they will. Of that there is no doubt.
But as their fight begins, they do none of those things – finding themselves compelled by desires they do not understand to hold onto and press into each other – slowly grinding their breasts together – first to the left, and then to the right. And though they have always wished for the other to be gone from their life forever, each cling tightly – clasping their hands around the back of their rival – desperate to keep them there – terrified that they might run. Terrified that whatever their feud has meant, after all these many years – that all the passions and hate they have each felt for each other, will be suddenly stolen away. That this moment, whatever shape it may take, will end without satisfaction – without their demons being purged.
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It was the blonde’s first match, one she had prepared for and thought about for months. At first, all went well, and she quickly found herself straddling the face of her opponent, in a perfectly executed school girl pin – excited beyond belief that she was well on her way to a quick and decisive victory. But suddenly, as overconfidence set in, and the excitement within her churned, her opponent, a wily veteran of the ring and mat, did something unexpected. Something the newcomer did not know how to reverse or resist. Namely using her tongue and mouth – to latch on and attack with distraction, the brunette thereby draining all of her blonde opponent’s focus, leaving her lost in lust and imbalanced by impurity, as her moans echoed through the nearly empty gym. Those weaknesses no sooner surfaced, than they were seized upon, as the bottom grappler became top, the brown-haired wrestler quickly mounting and strangling a submission out of the crying novice beneath her. It was then the blonde who was forced to use her own tongue to please, much to her own anger, frustration, and gut-wrenching regret.
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A single comment about who makes better sweet tea, made in the kitchen as their husbands watched football, led these to southern belles to sneak out back screen door, and settle things in the old fashioned way.
And though they fight for honor and pride, neither willing to back down from the other, they must hurry, as to not miss their husbands’ calls for more beer.
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Neither rival must tightly wrap their legs around those of their enemy’s, using calf and thigh muscles to grip and hold on to one another. For they each want this, more than either can say or admit. Needing to feel their tits press into their foe’s, and their stomach flatten against stomach. And though they may push and pull, rolling this way and that, locked together their bodies will stay, not because they cannot escape, but because they do not want to. They have found their heaven - their bliss, and it is in combat, and close-contact with the woman who plagues their every thought, and haunts their every dream.
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It can take only one comment, or a single side-eyed glance, to forever put two women who work together at odds. From the very occurrence of it, tainting every sound made, every word uttered, every action taken, in the mind of the other. Each sitting. Thinking. Hating. Until they resolve it. Until they settle it. When the doors lock, and the supervisors no longer supervise. There they tear and torment one another – pulling hair, and ripping blouses – not just on one night, but on many, on any they can, until one rival can take no more – until one rival quits in tears, their cheeks flush with the red-stains of shame.
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Take her wind – steal it away in a single flash of glove. So that she bends – so that she leans against you, desperate for breath and break. And then as she asks in hitched-whisper for you to stop, strike again, and again, until she screams, or until your punches take her to a sudden sleep.
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