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Subject: {ASSM} The Club: From The Outside, Looking In (FF,Sexfight)
Date: Mon, 27 Mar 2000 16:10:05 -0500
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The Club: From The Outside, Looking In
They are the beautiful women. You see them in
exclusive jewelry stores and quiet, understated dress
shops where a handkerchief can cost twenty-five
dollars. You see them in the more specialized liquor
stores, buying Chivas and Macallan and Boodles. They
are always elegantly clothed and perfectly coifed.
They don't really acknowledge you. They are perfectly
unattainable. Their husbands work in dark paneled
offices downtown. They themselves rarely work. Their
career is being what they are.
And any one of them could be the woman with a hint of
darkness, that whisper of sexual violence that finds
release in The Club.
On one of the quiet streets near downtown, where the
broad elms shade the concrete and the real estate
starts at two million plus, a large conservatively
styled home sits. No one lives there, but it has an
eclectic series of temporary inhabitants. It is known
simply as the Clubhouse, and it is owned (through a
network of three dummy corporate fictions) by Holly
Cavanaugh. Holly is pretty woman with a merry smile
and corrupt tastes.
The women who are members of the Club meet there at
irregular intervals and do battle. They fight to
establish sexual dominance and for the sheer thrill of
erotic combat. The bouts can last for hours.
Clothing is often destroyed. So are illusions.
Orgasm is the reward and the signal of defeat. The
crying, spurting climax comes at the end of furious
embraces. The kiss is a weapon. The breasts are
fists. The cunt is a juggernaut.
These women test themselves and their limits in
tangling growling catfights, and find aching release
in wet and heated sexual wrestling. Straining
together, with breast flattened against breast, and
swollen cunts in intimate bruising kisses, they
achieve physical pleasures that nothing else can
deliver.
And sometimes, in the end, a kind of love.
* * * * * * *
Here are some pictures.
Holly Cavanaugh reclines naked on a large four-poster
bed in one of the upper-story bedrooms of the Club.
She is with Laura Stanton, one of the first women
inducted. They are close friends and have known each
other for years. Laura is redheaded, with a tangled
mane of helter-skelter curls. She is wearing a long
purple skirt, thin with soft folds. It has a long
front slit. Other than that, she is naked. She has
large breasts and jutting nipples.
Holly has light brown hair and a face best described
as pixyish. Her eyes are very pale and they look right
through you. Her breasts are at the size of fine
teacups, with puffy nipples. Her pussy is absolutely
hairless, the plump lips open slightly.
Laura has several white roses in her arms. She walks
around the bed and lays them down on Holly. The stems
have thorns. Soon the roses rest on Holly's abdomen
and breasts and thighs.
Laura gets up on the bed and kneels between Holly's
open legs. The redheaded woman opens the split in the
skirt. She is wearing a harness over her hips that
sports a ten-inch dildo of lifelike appearance and
texture. The rear of the plastic penis has a knob
that is inserted into Laura's vagina.
Laura leans down and pushes the head of the dildo past
Holly's shaven lips. The pink bud of the clitoris
shines wetly as the lips part.
Holly reaches up and pulls Laura down on top of her.
The rose blossoms are crushed between them. The
thorns poke into the skin. One punctures the flesh of
Holly's belly.
Laura starts to fuck her.
* * * * * * *
Karen St. James and Tracy Ford are again in the
catfight living room at the Clubhouse. The thickly
padded carpet and furniture are backdrop for the
raging naked warriors as they wrestle furiously.
Karen is five-foot-seven with sandy-blonde hair,
slender with perfect breasts. Tracy is dark-haired, a
little taller and heavier, with larger, softer breasts
with smaller darker nipples.
They back up and slam into each other, breasts
colliding. With sharp gasps and yelps, they pull the
other's hair and bring their faces into close-up.
They stare at each other, then mash their lips
together for an anything-but-tender kiss.
Their nipples are erect. The cunts are wet and
dripping. Soon the fight becomes horizontal. Tracy
is on the loveseat and Karen throws herself on top.
Tracy grabs Karen's ass and pulls it down until their
pussies connect. They grind their cunts together and
duel with their clits.
When they come, they scream in a keening cry of female
animalistic release.
* * * * * * *
Trinidad DeVries is pumping iron. Naked, she reclines
on the weight bench as she flexes her biceps and
bench-presses 200 pounds. Trinidad was born in Peru.
She is a golden-brown creature of lustrous dark hair
and brown eyes. Her waist and stomach are firm and
flat. Her breasts are firm, dark-nippled globular
beauties. She has wide, womanly hips and a round ass.
Dark pubic hair, trimmed closely, barely hides the
cleft between her thighs.
Giselle Francon is black, born in Jamaica and raised
in Paris. She has an athletic figure and satin skin.
She is built like a runner, with small firm breasts,
and long, superbly muscled legs. She is spotting
Trinidad on the weight bench. She is equally as
naked.
When they have finished with the weights, and both
figures are covered with a sheen of moisture, they
will proceed, with little grunts of effort, into a
peculiar erotic battle. They will press against each
other, hand to hand, face to face, body to body, for
long slow counts. They will not say a word.
They move in opposition. At first they are standing,
pressing hands against each other. Then arms. Soon
their legs will strain together.
When the breasts are slowly flattened, they're eyes
will flutter as sensitive nerves become eroticized.
When they are horizontal, and belly pushes against
belly, and finally, the flowing centers of sex touch,
their breath comes faster. They come in short, sharp
shocks. At this point, Giselle has been known to
mutter French obscenities.
After the brief yips of orgasm, they kiss.
They will repeat this six or seven times. First
weights, or some other exercise. Then the slow
pushing contest. Finally the pressure of cunt and
clit.
* * * * * * *
Sarah Beckett and Anne Walker hate each other. They
despise each other. The source of their animosity is
an incident that occurred fifteen years ago, at
college. Sarah had broken up with a man, so Anne had
thought he was fair game.
Anne fucked him in the room she shared with Sarah.
Sarah was not pleased. She found another roommate.
They went their separate ways and married. The winds
of their lives blew them together again as their
husbands moved to the same city.
Now Sarah and Anne contrive to run into each other all
over the city. They belong to the same tennis club.
They shop at the same stores. They have the same hair
stylist.
And they belong to the same Club.
When they meet about town, they bump into each other.
When they go to the bathroom, they squabble and push.
If the bathroom is vacant, they've been known to slam
their breasts together. They call each other
slut-bitch-cunt-whore.
They are both fairly short women, just a hair over
five feet. Sarah has fine blonde hair and high, small
breasts. Anne has dark hair and rounder breasts that
hang a little lower.
Their constant contacts around town have reved up
their battle lust to the point that when they do meet
at the club, the fight is on immediately. They have
yet to move beyond the meeting room, and on one
memorable occasion experienced a clothes-tearing
catfight in the mud room.
When they are naked and torn, they grind their cunts
together and snarl. They have sexfought to the point
of exhaustion, fallen asleep cunt-to-cunt, and
awakened to renew their spitting battle.
It is a kind of co-dependence.
* * * * * * *
There are other women and other battles. The struggle
continues.
= To Be Continued =
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Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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