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From: Rino <rino149@yahoo.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Avon Calling (FF,Sexfight,1/3)
Date: Sun,  3 Dec 2000 03:10:05 -0500
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
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Okay, this one is a little bit nastier than my usual
style of sensual sexfighting (and to those who still
might wonder, a sexfight is erotic combat where the
objective is to make the opponent climax first, or to
wear them out sexually).  It was written several
months ago, and for some reason I never posted it.

Avon Calling (Part One)

Mary Harper pulled into the driveway of the Scranton
place.  She worked the column shift, trying to slip it
into neutral before setting the parking brake.  The
gears on the '49 Buick ground a bit.  Mary winced. 
She couldn't afford to have anything happen to her
family's only transportation.

It was a warm spring day in 1956, and Mary was out
trying to make some money.  Her husband was laid up on
half-time wages after an accident down at the plant. 
It would be at least a month before he could get back
to work.  Jim had been upset when Mary proposed trying
to earn a little money selling cosmetics, but a quick
review of the bank balance persuaded him that it was
necessary.  They had two hungry toddlers at home, and
a mortgage.  The money Mary could earn peddling Avon
would definitely help.

So here was Mary, a pretty young housewife with short
brown hair in soft curls.  She was dressed in a light
blue skirt and matching jacket, with a long-sleeved
white blouse.  She was slender, and she took a little
bit of wicked delight in wearing a garter belt to hold
up her sheer stockings instead of a panty girdle.  Her
feet were encased in black high heel pumps.  She wore
a necklace of cultured pearls and simple gold-plated
earrings.  Her hazel eyes were wide under carefully
plucked brows.

She opened the heavy door on the car and moved her
legs to the side, keeping the knees together.  She got
out of the car and turned around to retrieve her
sample case, scuffed pocketbook, and order forms.  The
sample case was heavy, and she shifted the strap to
her shoulder.  There was something new in the case,
something she thought would help cinch some sales.

Thus burdened, she walked up the neatly trimmed
walkway to the front door of the Scranton house.  The
home was a traditional two-story house, much larger
than the two-bedroom place that Mary and Jim shared. 
The yard was professionally landscaped.  "Well," she
thought, "when you're husband is vice-president at the
factory, you can afford something like this."

Carol Scranton was the richest woman that Mary knew. 
When she telephoned to set up a visit, Mary had been
nervous.  Carol had a reputation as a vicious harridan
who could slice you up in the weekly teas she had with
other feminine movers and shakers in the area.  But it
was the money that drew Mary in.  A good sale here
would put food on the table.

She rang the doorbell.  A moment later, the door swung
open, revealing Carol Scranton.  She was a tall woman,
impressively shaped, with hair of purest platinum
gathered up in a tight wave and secured behind her
head.  She wore a tight black dress over sheer
stockings, and her feet were housed in expensive
spike-heeled pumps that matched her dress.   The dress
was long-sleeved, and an expensive diamond bracelet
enclosed the wrist of the hand she now extended to
Mary.

"Mary, come in, my dear!" she said in honeyed tones. 
"And don't you look all dressed up today.  So very
pretty."  Carol's sharp blue eyes glittered, and the
tip of her pink tongue could be seen gleaming wetly
between her plump painted lips as she spoke.

Mary said quietly, "Thank you, Mrs. Scranton.  It's
nice of you to see me."  She stepped into the foyer as
Carol closed the door behind them.

"Oh, no, Mary!" Carol said brightly.  "Let's not stand
on ceremony here, my dear.  Please, my name is Carol."
 

"Well, all right, Carol."  Mary realized that the
shield of formality could not be used in the face of
such open apparent friendliness.  She wondered if her
judgements about Carol Scranton were mere prejudices,
the product of gossip and envy.  But still...she felt it
was wise to be wary.

Carol led the way into the living room, her hips
swaying in the tight dress.  Mary, walking behind her,
noticed that her rear end was not encased in a panty
girdle.  Carol was indeed a voluptuous woman, quite
provocatively shaped for someone in her mid to late
thirties.  Even discounting the torpedo bras of the
time, Carol had a massive bosom.

They entered the quiet, well-furnished living room. 
The furniture was contemporary, low, and sleek.  A
current combination stereo/hi-fi/color console
dominated one wall.  Several abstract paintings (all
originals, as far as Mary could tell) were arranged on
the walls.  An oil painting of the Scranton clan was
over the fireplace, showing Carol, looking demure for
a change, her graying husband, and Carol's teen-aged
son, safely ensconced now in prep school.

A sterling silver tea service was on the low coffee
table.  Carol indicated with a slight movement of her
hand for Mary to sit down.  Mary did so, putting her
bag and sample case on the beige carpet beside her
low-back chair.  Carol sat down on the turquoise sofa,
and made a slight show of tugging the hem of her dress
down to her knees.  She didn't quite make it.  Mary
caught a glimpse of white panties and the pink flesh
of Carol's firm thighs.

"So, Mary, how is your husband doing?"

Mary paused for a second, gathering her thoughts. 
"Well, the doctors tell us he should be able to start
working again in a month.  It depends on how well the
fractures heal.  Thank you for asking."

Carol said, "Well, that's good.  I'm certain you would
love to get back to your house and take care of
children.  Tea?"

"Yes, thank you."

Carol poured the tea into the delicate porcelain cups.
 Mary took the little spoon and added a lump of sugar
and stirred it.  She took the first tentative sip and
murmured, "That's quite good."

Carol smiled, a closed-lip smile of slight
superiority.  "Why, thank you, my dear.  The secret is
choosing the right tea and keeping things scrupulously
clean.  You certainly couldn't just use the Lipton tea
bags from the old A & P, could you?"

Mary felt a brief current of unease flash through her.
 She shopped at the A & P, as did most of the families
in the neighborhood, and she thought there was nothing
wrong with Lipton tea.  But she smiled and nodded.

"So what's new with Avon these days?  Anything
exciting?"

Mary put down the teacup and reached for the sample
case.  She opened it and pulled out a few golden tubes
of lipstick and various other cosmetics.  She launched
into her spiel.

"Just this month, Avon has these new shades of
lipstick.  It seems that paler colors are the coming
thing, and these lipsticks match the colors being seen
in Paris and London."

Carol frowned, pursing her lips.  "I prefer more
vibrant colors."

"Well, we still do have those bold shades, plus a few
more.  We also have some new foundations, and a
longer-lasting mascara."  As she spoke, Mary pulled
items out of the sample case and laid them on the
table.

Carol put her teacup down and leaned forward,
thrusting her impressive breasts frontward.  The black
dress had a scoop neckline, and a slice of cleavage
became well-defined as the breasts became compressed. 
She idly picked up some of the lipsticks, then put
them down.

She looked up at Mary, and said, "Isn't there anything
that's suited for a women of my tastes?  I mean, I'm
not some stay-at-home housewife with couple of brats
hanging around her ankles.  I have social obligations
to attend to."

Mary bridled inwardly.  This snotty bitch was going to
be difficult.  Easy, she told herself.  This is a
customer.  Easy.

Mary smiled, but her eyes were neutral.  "Avon does a
have a line of more expensive cosmetics, including
some colognes that have been well received.  I don't
have them here, but this catalog has a detailed
description of everything, and I would be happy to get
some samples from the main office."

Carol made a dismissing gesture with her hands.  "Oh,
I could always go into Manhattan and check the latest
perfumes.  I guess you don't get much of a chance to
do that, do you?"

Mary said evenly, "No, I guess I don't."

Carol said, "You know, I just thought of something you
should know.  My husband's firm is looking at
purchasing that company where your husband works."

Mary nodded.  She knew that the factory where Jim
worked was ailing financially.  But Jim was a skilled
tool and die man, and he felt confident that there
would always be a place for him there, no matter who
owned it.

Carol said, "It looks pretty definite.  You know, the
right word from me could mean things for you and your
husband.  It could mean big things."

Mary was instantly wary.  What was going on here? 
"I'm not exactly sure what you're getting at, Carol."

"I've had my eye on you, Mary," Carol said.  "For a
while now, I've had my eye on you and some of the
other women in this neighborhood."  Carol looked
steadily at Mary, her eyes a bit hooded.

What was that look?  It was a challenging stare, and
perhaps a bit dangerous.  Mary felt herself on very
thin ice.  The implication was that the wrong word
from Carol could do serious damage to her family.

Carol leaned back.  She said, "I went to college at
Smith.  It's a girl's school.  A marvelous education,
in many ways."  She closed her eyes, and briefly
licked her lips with a tiny pink tongue.  "I learned
many things there, and I developed some, shall we say,
avant-garde tastes."

Mary matched Carol's posture.  She leaned back in her
chair and said, "I presume you're not talking about
cosmetics.  Or music.  Or books."

Carol laughed.  "Oh, you might say that the area was
sports."

"I see."  Mary started taking the samples off the
table and putting them back in the case.  She finished
that, and said, in a frigid tone, "I think we're done
here, Mrs. Scranton.  I don't care where you went to
school, or what you learned there, or what your
husband buys.  I particularly don't care about
whatever perversions you cooked up with other snooty
bitches at Smith."

She delivered the last in a deadly monotone, as Carol
sat on her expensive sofa and listened, an enigmatic
half-smile on her face.  She then stood up and said
softly, "Oh well, my dear, just forget it, then.  No
harm done.  Here, let me see you out."

Mary nodded.  Carol led the way slowly, and Mary
followed, a couple of steps behind.  As they got to
the front door, Carol paused, her hand on the
doorknob.

Mary waited, her face wooden.  Inside she was
seething.  How dare this rich bitch try something like
this?  How could she try this perverse seduction, when
here she was trying to put food on her table?

Carol said, in stinging harsh tones,  "You know, you
are a silly excuse for a woman, going out in that
pathetic old car, dressed in what you laughingly call
your finest, peddling your cheap cosmetics
door-to-door.  Just so you can get another pound or
two of hamburger to feed your broken man and your
squalling brats."

Mary gasped, "You goddamn bitch!  How dare you?  I
ought to...ought to...."  She had half-raised her hand."

"Ought to what?  Do you think you can fight me?  You
are a pitiful little girl.  Go ahead!  You don't have
the guts!  The woman hasn't been born that can beat
me!  Go ahead, you little bitch!"

Mary dropped her sample case on the floor, followed by
her pocketbook.  She stood there a second, mouth open
in shock.  Anger surged through her, anger accompanied
by a dangerous emotion she dared not name. 

She yelled, "Oh, FUCK YOU!" and suddenly her hands
were tangled in Carol's fine platinum hair, pulling it
sharply.  She twisted her away from the door.

Carol screamed back, "OH, YEAH!  I'M GOING TO HURT
YOU, YOU FUCKING CUNT!"  Carol's hands struck forward
and entangled themselves in Mary's brown curls, and
the women started screaming incoherent snatches of
venom.

They tumbled to the carpeted floor like female
wildcats, Carol falling on top of Mary.  The fight was
on.










=====
Be sure to visit my web page:

Rino's Ramblings

http://www.geocities.com/rino149/

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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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