How It Ended

by Dawn

If you haven’t read my first two stories, written in 2007, maybe you should now. Or maybe you shouldn’t. Actually, if I have my wish, you won’t read this one either. However …

The second story I wrote, “Revenge, Step One,” tells of my revenge domination of Jeanne Hinkle, the wife of an executive of the company where I worked. Why revenge? Well, that comes from my first story, “Curiosity Got My Cat.” It tells of how I met Alan, the dreamy older man who I never got to treat the way he deserved, but who did get me a job with his company. Unfortunately, that led to a run in with his wife, Pamela, with consequences you know about (if you did read the story – and because of those “consequences,” I owed Jeanne what I gave her). But since 2007, there hasn’t been a part three. Why not? Because I didn’t want anyone to know about part three.

But somehow, maybe a desire that awakened in my three bitter enemies after our encounter, one of them began to read female fighting stories and came across my 2007 postings. Once Pamela found out about that, I heard from her for the first time in more than two years with a simple demand. Post the story of our second fight (and correct some of the things I wrote in the first two), or the evidence she owns would become public. I couldn’t let that happen, you see … well, that’s this story. So here goes …

First, in case you haven’t read those first two stories, when these events happened I was just past my 23rd birthday. At 5’6” and weighing only 129, dark black hair with very blue eyes (yes, the hair color isn’t natural, but the body is), I was used to having my way. And I assured that I got my way with most men by dressing to show off my body as well as I could in any given situation. I didn’t dress like a slut, but I came damn close a lot. That is how I ended up at Alan and Pamela’s pool party in my red string bikini, a central item in story one.

Now jump forward (did you read the earlier stories?) to the week after I exacted my revenge on Pamela’s friend, Jeanne. I knew I was playing with fire by going after the three of them, but the die was cast. I had to be careful and plan, the next step in my revenge wouldn’t be as easy. How stupid I was. I was 23 and a Customer Service Rep at the company, struggling to pay my bills. They were 40 something, rich and married to three of the top executives of the company. I should have understood my place in the order of things.

On the Monday after humiliating Jeanne, nothing happened. On Tuesday morning, again nothing. No one said anything. No one jumped me from the shadows or put a bomb in my car. Then just before lunch Tuesday I looked up to see Pamela come walking through the office, her path would lead her right past my cubicle. She was nodding and exchanging short greetings with most of the employees, and her tone and expression were exactly the same as she nodded to me and said, “Oh, hi Dawn dear. Love that top!” But then she leaned in my cubicle and dropped a folded sheet of paper on my desk and whispered, “Follow every word exactly, slut, or else!” She strolled on down the aisle, continuing her greetings and small talk.

I headed to lunch alone, and in my car in the parking lot unfolded Pamela’s note. I almost couldn’t breathe as I read:

“First, what you did at Jeanne’s house was, by the Penal Code, burglary (you
forced your way in and stole her property) and assault. You have two choices.
We will either go to the police and District Attorney and file charges against
you, or you can accept the terms below. You have no other options.
You will come to my house this Friday evening at 7:00 pm and you and I
will fight again, this time to settle it all. Jeanne and Denise will be there
as my seconds, but the fight will be just you and me (not what Jeanne
wants). You may bring a female friend as a second if you wish, but I repeat,
the fight is you and me only. If you win, you can stay at the company and
we will promise to never say another word about our first fight or what you
did to Jeanne. But if I win (again), you will suffer the following consequences,
which I think should be better than state prison for burglary and assault:
1. You will be the slave to the three of us from the end of the fight
until 7:00 am Monday morning, and
2. You will have 60 days to find a new job.
See you Friday evening, my little slut slave to be!”

The threat of the police took me by surprise, but it was brilliant. She had me. To defend myself I’d have to tell the humiliating story of the first fight, and even then with their influence in the community and the way a prosecutor could spin the story, there wasn’t a good outcome I could imagine. I had to accept their terms or run from it. I’m no coward. And I knew I could kick her ass.

So on Friday at 7:00, Rhonda, my best friend in the office at my side to be my second, I was back at Alan and Pamela’s house. True to her word, only the five of us were there, Alan away on a golf weekend. We all gathered in the den with glasses of wine all around, a very civilized if cool beginning to the evening. The furniture had all been pushed to the walls, and blankets covered the part of the floor outside the large area rug. On the counter of the bar were several items. My red bikini. Scissors. A roll of packing tape. A red Sharpie. A cell phone (with camera). All things from the two previous fights. As we all enjoyed our wine, Pamela flicked her head sending her red hair flying wildly, gave me an evil grin, and asked, “Ready for the rules, Slut?”

I swallowed my anger, saving every bit of my energy I could, and simply nodded at her. She proceeded to tell me that her rules were a take it or leave it proposition, object to one and I could leave and call a good criminal lawyer. The fight would start with us dressed as our first ended, with me naked and her in her black one piece. No weapons, except the items from our previous encounters were fair play (thus the items on the bar). The rules were no scratching or punching to the face, everything else goes. The fight was to end with submission or forced orgasm (damn her). The consequences for the loser were per her original note, but she made sure everyone understood, and made me tell everyone I understood and agreed. Pamela pulled her top over her head, exposing her black swimsuit underneath. As she unsnapped her shorts, she looked and me and said, “C’mon Slut, strip!”

As I nervously undressed, Pamela continued to take charge, depositing Jeanne and Denise on the couch, Rhonda across the room on the loveseat, telling them all that they were not to interfere no matter what unless someone broke the rules. She did tell Rhonda that when it was over and I had lost, she was welcome to stay and watch or even enjoy “the spoils.” Damn her, I couldn’t wait to put her in her place. “Are you through talking bitch and ready to get your ass kicked?” I spat at her. She just looked me in the eyes and laughed. Double damn her!

I charged her, a slap flying at her face. She stepped aside and swung an arm at my ribs, running me past her, though my slap did make glancing contact with her smirking face. I quickly turned and she was closing in. Remembering what my Dad had told me years ago (“Go for his knee or his balls, whichever you can get at first” – well, balls were out, so …), I twisted and sent a side kick at her left knee. I hit just above my target, but she crumpled a bit with a groan and this time my roundhouse slap made solid contact with her cheek. She stumbled back and I lunged after her alternating slaps at her face and tits forcing her towards her friends on the sofa. As I threw what I thought would be the ultimate slap to her bitchy, stuck up, Botox filled face, Pamela ducked a shoulder and lunged at my belly. OOOFFF is a cliché way to describe the sound that came from me, but probably pretty accurate.

Gasping for air I took a step back, but propelled by four hands from behind her she came flying at me, left hand going for my hair and right fist driving into my belly. I threw my arms forward going for her head and pulling her close to limit how much damage she could do and hold her close as I caught my breath. We yanked at each other’s hair and punched at ribs and threw out knees and tried to trip the other and twisted around the room until I decided it was time to even at least one thing up and grabbed both straps of her swimsuit and pulled them down off her shoulders. My thought was to strip her in order to add a little equalizing humiliation, but because she twisted and jerked I couldn’t get the straps all the way down her arms. Lucky for me, it left her breasts exposed with her arms trapped a bit by the partially removed one piece – arms trapped? Turnabout is fair play! My hands went to those two exposed mounds, my fingers and nails sinking in deeply, squeezing for all I was worth. I was rewarded with a squeal that was music to my ears. I couldn’t resist taunting with, “I would have thought all of the silicone would have made them less sensitive!” I squeezed and twisted for all I was worth, but focusing on humiliating and punishing her meant I wasn’t playing any defense – Pamela threw her upper body forward and head butted me right in the nose.

My hands went to my face and I was seeing stars. Through blurry eyes I saw her pull her arms out of the straps of her suit, leaving her bare to the waist and for some reason I concentrated on that instead of the fight. At least until her fist sank into my belly and then her other fist hit my ribs. That brought me back to reality and adrenalin kicked in. I reached out and grabbed two handfuls of dyed red hair and pulled her hard at me as I slammed my knee up. I was thinking about her belly, but the fact that my knee slammed between her legs was a bonus. For the second time I heard her groan, and again it empowered me. I not only wanted to hurt her and beat her, I wanted to humiliate and destroy her, knock that stuck up, better-than-you attitude from her forever! I yanked down on her hair harder and slammed my knee up again and again and again, sometimes hitting home and other times hitting Pamela’s thighs, but both results were good for me. On my fifth or sixth knee slam she grabbed at my leg and leaned into me, sending me off balance and towards the floor. But I knew I had her weakened, so some ground action wasn’t going to be a problem. We hit down together and scrambled after each other, rolling on the floor twisting, grabbing, scratching, slapping, punching and wrestling for the dominant position.

And after what seemed longer than it probably was, and exhausted but mad and scared and determined, I worked my way on top of her, my right hand holding her left wrist, my left hand in her hair close to her scalp and my left leg between her legs. As I scooted forward and left to extend my control over her, I found my left knee right against her mound – our positions from our first fight reversed. I growled into her ear, “What did you say last time bitch, something about lying back and enjoying it?!” I ground my knee into her and with no pretense of loving affection stuck my tongue into her ear. I had always thought sexual control was a way to get what I wanted, but she had showed me it was a way to dominate, humiliate and control. I started the fight planning on hurting her physically, but the first time the damage she did to me was more mental and psychological. I was intent on returning the lesson.

Too intent – I felt Pamela relax under me, heard her sigh, her right leg wrapped behind my left in more of what I took to be a sign of submission than of fighting back. I remembered how I had surrendered to the sensations of my body when she was on top of me and I was high with the feel of the same acceptance from her. Then her right heel ran down my left leg, then back up, then down and … and she then bent it at the knee, planted her foot on the floor, jerked her left wrist free of my grasp and grabbed my hair and twisted my head. She pushed up and twisted and in an instant our positions reversed and she was on top. Damn this bitch!

“Slut, you’re dead” she spat into my face as she yanked me by the hair and slammed my head into the floor. But going for my head left my hands free, and I again started my attack on her breasts, this time pulling and twisting at her nipples. The next minute was full of cussing, screaming, groaning and whimpering as we did our best to maim and injure each other. I threw and arm up, trying to knock her off of me and caught her flush on the chin with my elbow. She sagged and her grip on my hair released, and with one more elbow aimed at her chin, she rolled to her right and I did the same, separating us.

I pulled up beside the bar. Pamela pulled up beside the love seat (I was happy to see Rhonda didn’t offer any help). I grabbed the scissors off the bar and glared at her. She just glared back. As tempting as it was, I put the scissors back on the bar, but grabbed the roll of tape. “You’re mine now bitch,” I spat at her. Again she infuriated me by just laughing and beckoning me towards her with a gesture. I pulled about two feet of tape from the roll and ran at her intent on choking her out with it. She twisted and kicked out hitting me square in the gut, my momentum aiding the power of her kick. I expelled what wind I had and sank to my knees. Her next kick hit my left temple and I was knocked to the floor on my right side. Her next kick was at my head, and though I avoided the worst of it by rolling away, she followed me kicking at my head and body.

I rolled against the sofa, and though Denise didn’t really deliver a blow, she pushed out with her foot and the heel of her shoe stabbed me in the ribs. I rolled away from that, but unfortunately that was rolling at my main attacker. As I rolled to my stomach away from Denise, a hard stomp from Pamela to the small of my back stunned me in place. She then dropped onto my back and grabbed me by the hair, lifting my head and slamming my forehead into the floor. A second time. A third time. A fourth time.

Somewhere in this I had let go of the roll of packing tape. I don’t know how Pamela ended up with it, if she had help or it was in easy reach, but the first I know of it was when instead of slamming my forehead into the floor again, she held my head back and with her free hand pulled the exposed strip of tape across my mouth. She let go of my hair and my hand flew to my face to pull the tape away. That put my wrists close to the tape and suddenly she was wrapping it a couple of quick times around my right wrist. I jerked my right arm away, somehow thinking that was a good plan because it would remove the tape from my mouth. It did, but it hurt like hell as the tape pulled what felt like layers of skin away from my cheeks and lips. My scream seemed to be coming from somewhere else. Concentrating on the pain and chastising myself for such a silly mistake only took away more of my concentration from winning the fight. Winning? It was survival time now.

She was pulling my right arm back, she had lots of leverage with the tape roll in her hand and my wrist fully encircled. I rolled to my left to get my left arm under me and away from her, my only thought being not to let her get my wrists taped together. I was so worried about keeping my arms separated that I also forced my right arm against my right side. Keeping my body between my arms seemed like the best defense. But with amazing quickness she pulled the roll of tape away from my body (I was helping her, I later realized, by resisting and pulling the other way with my arm) unrolling more of it and then reversing her direction of pull and wrapping the tape around my right thigh, capturing my wrist and arm against my body. I heard her giggle a bit as she quickly added another couple of wraps of tape before tearing the roll away.

My right arm was out of action and panic was setting in. I went wild, energized by adrenalin and fear. Twisting, bucking and kicking was the best I could come up with at the time, but for awhile it was enough. I not onlykept Pamela from getting any more control, I even got in a couple of blows with my left knee, with my left fist and even with the nails of my left hand. But not only was I striking at her with anything I could, I was also jerking and twisting and pulling my right arm, trying to free myself. I was attempting two things at once when I should have probably just fought for all I was worth one armed and worried about my right arm later. Should have, that is easy to think of now, but not with my mind spinning. In short order I was exhausted, lying on my front, Pamela’s body pressed against my back pinning me to the floor. I felt her breath in my ear as she whispered, “Rhonda has never seen me make you cum, think she’ll enjoy it as much as we did?” I barely had time to register what she had said when she lifted off of me, shouted “Slut!” and slammed her forearm into the back of my head. I threw my free left hand back and up to cover my head, allowing her to grab wrist and wrap a couple of quick loops of tape around it.

I went into total panic mode then, and screaming and squirming and kicking and bucking delayed the inevitable, but eventually my left arm was also taped to its corresponding leg. Not as tightly as the right, there was some slack for some movement, but effective all the same. Pamela stepped off of me and raised her arms in the air, reminding me of a steer wrestler showing the judges that the steer was secure. But unlike a steer, no one was coming soon to release me.

As I lay there securely bound, I watched Pamela pull her swimsuit back up over her breasts. She then went the bar and poured herself a glass of wine. She walked past me lying there on the floor, stomping on my belly once for good measure, and then moving over to sit next to Rhonda on the loveseat. “Rhonda, dear,” Pamela asked, “did she tell you the rules of our fight tonight? It ends with a submission or with someone forced to orgasm. You, Rhonda, get to decide how my little slut Dawn gets to lose. Want to see her hurting and crying and moaning her submission, or want to see her quivering and begging and moaning her sexual submission? Your call, Sweetie.”

Rhonda response was surprising both for what she said and for how quickly it came, and how excited she sounded. “Sexual” she blurted out. “Good choice,” was Pamela’s response.

She stood and walked past, and luckily this time I was able to pull my legs up a bit and block part of her stomp. In a second she was back with the Sharpie, the scissors and my red bikini in her hands. She looked down at me and said, “Your choice as to how much pain you endure, Slut. Resist and hurt. Comply and hurt less. But either way you are ours for the next 60 hours or so.” I tried to look confident and brave as I moved to flat on my back. “Good girl,” was her response as she dropped her ass down on my stomach and looked down into my eyes.

Holding the scissors in front of my face, she said “How much hair you lose this weekend depends on how compliant you are. Behave and obey, and it may just look like a new style. Anything else and you’ll be hard put to come up with an explanation for your exposed scalp. But I’m getting ahead of myself. There are rules and you haven’t officially lost yet, have you?”

She stood off of me and reaching down she grabbed me by hair shuffled toward the middle of the room pulling me along. I let loose with a series of bloodcurdling screams as my scalp was on fire. My eyes were closed, trying to keep everyone from seeing me cry from the pain, and that took my focus away from what Pamela was doing, so I didn’t see her nod at Jeanne who reached under the couch beneath her and pulled out a softball bat she handed to Pamela. My left ankle was easy, and despite some kicking and squirming, aided by a few slaps to my face and punches to my belly to remind me who was boss, Pamela used the tape and bat as an improvised spreader bar to lock my legs wide open, my sex exposed to all in the room.

As her left hand caressed by breasts, alternating from one to the other, her right hand ran up and down my thighs. Soon she was rolling one of my nipples and then the other between her fingers and thumb. “Do you remember this as fondly as I do, Dawn dear?” Damn her laugh, and double damn her hands. I bit my lip and willed myself to block the connection between my nipples and my brain. But the connection I should have worried about was the one between my nipples and my pussy. Many a boy, and later many a man, had exploited that connection to open the way towards getting what he wanted. I was resisting, but if she kept working my nipples I knew Pamela would have the same results.

Then her attack became more direct, directly between my legs. But with a twist, in some kind of reminder of the last time, or show of dominance or whatever, she was rubbing my red bikini bottoms lasciviously over my pussy, rubbing and pressing in small circles, then in slow strokes, then harder, then easier, then slower, then faster. As I resisted, I tried to engage her in conversation, both for relief and to distract her, but I was the one more distracted, I’m afraid. My best memory is that our conversation went something like:

“Why don’t you just, I mean, wouldn’t you, uhhh, what I’m saying is ummmm”
“Just say what you’re thinking, Slut, let us all hear what’s in the tiny brain of yours.”
“Please don’t”
“Please don’t do what?”
“Make me”
“Make you do what?”
“You know. Ohhhhhh Like last time.”
“You mean make you cum like the slut you are?”
“Nooo …. Ummm, well, yes, but no…”
“Silly slut, Rhonda has asked to see, and Denise and Jeanne are anxious to get the
the weekend started.”
“Gawd, pleeeease don’t, pleeeease nooooooo”

And then Pamela shut me up by stuffing my bikini bottoms into my mouth. I thought last time was humiliating, and everyone at the office knowing what had happed was even worse. But I realized that I didn’t know the meaning of humiliation, but I was probably about to learn. Worst of all, I could taste my wetness on my bikini, my body was betraying me and Pamela knew it as well as I did. Things began to speed up. Jeanne was on her knees beside me, a strand of my hair in one hand and the scissors in the other. Pamela held me by my chin and looking into my eyes, said, “Here’s the deal, slut. Rhonda chose your form of surrender, so she’s going to be the one to force it. Come here Rhonda sweetie, it is your job to make our little slut cum. How you do it is up to you, you can use your hands or I can get you a handy vibrator, or you can even use your mouth if that is your thing. But you better do a good job. Because every minute beyond two minutes after you start that our little slut here hasn’t had a mind shattering orgasm, Jeanne gets to cut a bit more of her hair. The faster you get her off (and the more you give into being a slut, Dawn dear), the more hair will remain. Understand?”

I was reeling. Surely Rhonda would refuse, so what would that mean to me. But before I knew it, Rhonda was kneeling beside me and running her right middle finger up and down my slit, the base of her fingers and palm pressing against me. Her left hand tugged slightly at the bikini bottoms in my mouth and I heard her ask, “Can I remove this? If I’m going to do this, I want to hear her, I want her mouth free. OK?”

In quick order I was aware of the bikini bottoms being pulled out of my mouth, Rhonda’s finger pressing between my pussy lips and into me, Jeanne pulling out a stand of my hair and asking who was watching the clock, Denise uncapping the red Sharpie and smoothing out a section of skin on my thigh to serve as canvass for whatever she had in mind and lastly, Pamela taking Rhonda’s place on the loveseat, wineglass in one hand and the cell phone camera in the other, enjoying the show.

Ever since the first time in her home, I had wondered how Pamela had made me cum so quickly. Did I really get off on the humiliation or the submission or both? Or was it the alcohol and the events of the day? Surely it was really only the … only the … oh gawd, Rhonda’s hands felt so good, I was so worked up and it really hadn’t been that much stimulation, but it couldn’t be because I liked this, couldn’t be I wanted this. I looked up at the faces above me, from Rhonda to Jeanne to Denise to Pamela, who held my stare. “You love it, don’t you my little slut?” she purred. “It’s ok, we all know who you are and what you are. And you’re so cute and naïve sometimes, Rhonda as your second? The office dyke, really!” and as I heard her laugh someone’s mouth covered mine, a tongue forcing its way between my lips. Rhonda! I squirmed a bit, then less, then ohhhh ummmmm as I began to kiss her back, sucking her tongue deep into my mouth. Make it end, that was my brain talking to me. But kiss me harder was what my body was saying to me (and to Rhonda).

My hips begin to rock as I fell into a rhythm with Rhonda’s hand and fingers. Whimpers and moans filled both our mouths. Whatever the primary desire, my body was responding. Then a dose of reality. “Two minutes and no orgasm, you’re on Jeanne!” I screamed, the scream muffled into Rhonda’s mouth as I felt a tug on my hair and heard the scissors working to remove a strand of my beautiful hair NOOOOOO!

Four more times Jeanne took a whack at my hair. Between those times Denise moved about my body writing who knows what. Pamela sipped her wine, snapped pictures and looked so damned satisfied with herself. And Rhonda worked me over, moving her kisses down my neck to my tits, and back again, finally kissing, licking, nipping at my ears as she whispered to me. “I’ve wanted to fuck you since the first time I met you, Dawn. You’re so fucking sexy, I’ve wanted you now I can tell you wanted this, too. Cum for me, Dawn, be my slut and end this and make us both happy. God, you’re so fucking wet, I can’t wait to taste your hot pussy when this is all over. Beg me to keep fucking you now, talk to me, Dawn. Beg me Dawn. Give it up, give in to it, be my slut!”

I don’t know which if any one thing, desire or sensation it was. More likely it was a combination of all the experiences, all the sensory inputs, all the fantasies, all the humiliation, all the hidden desires, but almost as if I was an outside observer I realized my body was tensing and I heard myself scream, I screamed for Rhonda to fuck me. I moaned and squealed and begged for my release. I became the slut they thought I was, there on the floor beneath my three enemies and one I thought was my friend. But none of that mattered just then, the only thing that counted was the orgasm I wanted, I needed so badly. And it came loudly and forcefully and almost violently, but most of all, it came from deep within me and took me completely, mind, body and soul.

That’s it, this story is for the femfight site, and the rest of the weekend had nothing to do with the fight and everything to do with me paying off the bet, avoiding jail and coming to grips with desires and wishes either previously unknown or long buried. I skipped work on Monday, but by Tuesday morning I was back at my desk with a new very short haircut (I think it’s pretty damn cute). I gave my notice and was able to find a new job just a couple of weeks later. The good recommendation that Alan wrote at Pamela’s insistence helped. But it was Rhonda who found me the new job so quickly. It was the least she could do for her new roommate and lover!